Unto A Good Land Read online

  Danjel and Jonas Petter had bought a jar of the Painkiller, mostly to be agreeable to the seller. Karl Oskar declined; his family was in good health at the moment and not in need of medicines. Landberg kept urging him—it would be well to have a jar handy in case of sickness; there were many fatal diseases in America, neither young nor old could be sure of tomorrow. But Karl Oskar could not forget how the money in his skin pouch had shrunk; he had paid twenty-four dollars for their passage to Chicago; if they were to have any money at all left when they arrived in Minnesota, he must confine himself to buying the food his family needed on the journey.

  Arvid complained of his toothache to Danjel, who bought another jar of Painkiller for his servant. Landberg told Arvid that in case the pills didn’t help the toothache he could have all his teeth pulled painlessly with the aid of gas at only twenty-five cents a tooth. Then he could buy new teeth. A professor here in America had recently discovered how to make teeth of gutta-percha; they were comfortable and indestructible; they cost only ten dollars a row, or a dollar apiece. He advised Arvid to get a whole row, since this was cheaper.

  Danjel again opened his purse with the broad brass lock and took from it a new silver dollar. He looked carefully at the strange American coin before he handed it to Landberg: on one side was an eagle with extended wings and searching eyes; the bird held some silver branches in one talon and some sharp arrows in the other; turning the coin, he saw a bare-armed woman dressed in flowing robes; she held bunches of flowers in her hands and sat there like a queen on her throne, surrounded by a wreath of beautiful silver stars.

  “They have nice money in America,” said Danjel. “It’s decorated with the stars of heaven.”

  “The stars represent the first thirteen states,” explained Landberg.

  “What does the searching eagle represent?”

  “I don’t know. The Americans have no king to put on their money. Perhaps they find a bird of prey more suitable.”

  Karl Oskar also had taken out a silver dollar to inspect; it might be well to familiarize himself with the coin of the country.

  “There is writing under the throne where the woman sits,” he said. “Mr. Landberg, can you interpret it?”

  “Yes, that I can. It says ‘In God We Trust.’”

  “What are you saying, man!” exclaimed Danjel. “Is our Creed printed on the money?”

  “Yes, that’s so. These words are printed on all money in this country.”

  A ray of happiness lit Danjel’s eyes, and he began to examine his silver dollar with renewed interest and wonder: “Can that really be true? They have faith in God, those who make the money in this country. That’s good to hear; no heathenism exists in this country.”

  And Danjel of Kärragärde was pleased and satisfied as he sat there inspecting the shining coin in his hand; at home the coins carried only the picture of King Oskar I and his name; in Sweden they thought it sufficient to serve and worship an earthly ruler. But those in charge of money matters in America knew that no coin could be reliable and sound without God’s name stamped on it; here they put their foremost trust in the heavenly king.

  “In God we trust,” he repeated to himself.

  To Danjel Andreasson this silver dollar had gained a new and greater value through its four-word inscription; he had come into a land where the rulers had imprinted on the country’s coins the uttermost tenet of their faith. Now he knew that North America had a God-fearing government, that it was a Christian land. He understood now that the Americans in a faithful, humble spirit remembered the Lord God each time they held a dollar in their hand. They were thus ever reminded that gold and silver were only dust, to be eaten by worms and corroded by rust, and that they themselves in the presence of their Creator were the like of worms. “In God we trust!” In a land where such coin passed, honesty and confidence between fellow men must rule, and no one could be tempted for sordid gain to cheat his fellow brethren.

  Danjel held the coin up to the window so that it glittered in the bright sun: “Behold! God’s silver dollar!”

  Then he gave the interpreter the coin as payment for Arvid’s medicine, and Landberg collected his jars of Painkiller and walked on to offer them to other passengers.

  Arvid had become very curious about the American coin and he asked Karl Oskar if he might see it. He showed it to Robert and asked who the beautiful woman in the flowing robes might be: “Could it be the queen of America?”

  “When they don’t have a king, they couldn’t have a queen,” Robert instructed him.

  “Hmm. That’s so. They have a president instead.”

  “And the woman has no crown either.”

  Arvid looked once more at the picture; then he exclaimed in great excitement, “Now I know who she is—the president’s wife, of course!”

  Robert supposed his friend had made the right guess. The bare-armed woman in the flowing robes, sitting on her throne among the stars, with flowers in her hands—she couldn’t be anyone except the wife to the president of the North American Republic.

  —7—

  The children whined for food, and for the third time since leaving Albany Kristina brought out the food basket. By now there was not much left of their provisions from Sweden—a couple of rye loaves, a dried sausage, the end of a cheese, and a piece of dried leg of lamb. But these were precious scraps and must be carefully rationed. They could buy no food in the railroad wagon; those without food baskets must starve.

  From Karl Oskar’s purchase in New York Kristina had saved two wheat rolls for the children, from one of the rye loaves she cut slices for her husband, brother-in-law, and herself, and among them she divided the sausage the best she could. The rye bread was dry and hard, and she had been unable to scrape away all the mildew. But they all ate as if partaking of fresh Christmas bread.

  Jonas Petter also took out his food basket and began to eat. Danjel’s two boys, Olov, fourteen, and Sven, eleven, sat next to him and looked longingly as he chewed and swallowed. And now Kristina remembered that she had not seen her uncle or anyone of his family eat a bite today.

  “Aren’t you going to eat, Uncle Danjel?”

  Danjel looked shamefacedly at the wagon floor and said they had not the slightest crumb left in their food basket.

  This was poor management, thought Kristina, as she remembered what an enormous food basket Inga-Lena had brought along—a score of big breads, many fat cheeses, half a side of pork. Yet, her family couldn’t sit here and eat their meal and let Danjel’s motherless, hungry children look on. She could see the boys following every bite with their eyes and she knew how starved they must be.

  She cut the rest of the loaf in slices and divided them among Danjel and his four children. A piece of the cheese crust she gave to Arvid, to whom Robert already had given some of his portion. But because of his toothache Arvid wasn’t very hungry and stuck mostly to his jar of pain-killing pills.

  Kristina’s hand, still holding the bread knife, fell on her knee: there were two hungry people in her company who had nothing to eat, Ulrika of Västergöhl and her daughter Elin. They belonged to Danjel’s household and had shared his food throughout the journey. But now their food basket was empty, now Ulrika and her daughter must sit and look on while others ate their meal.

  Kristina’s hand, a moment before so busy cutting and dividing the bread, lay now quite still upon her knee. Not for one moment would she entertain the preposterous thought that she should divide her food with the Glad One—no, certainly not.

  Ulrika was looking out the window, gazing at the landscape they were passing as if she weren’t aware that the others were eating. Elin had picked up her little berry basket in which she found a dried bread crust; this she chewed with an expression of contentment, as if she were sitting at an overloaded table. Neither mother nor daughter seemed aware that they were being left out of the meal.

  Kristina reflected that Ulrika had taken charge of the family food basket at Inga-Lena’s death. But she was not
one to save or be stingy with the possessions of others; she had been so generous with the food that already it was gone; she had only herself to blame.

  But it was true that the Glad One’s healthy body required much food, and she never willingly missed a meal. As she had put nothing in her stomach the whole day, she must be thoroughly hungry, must ache with hunger, even more now that she saw the food the others were eating. Kristina could not help feeling sorry for her; as she now shared her food with all the others, could she pass by Ulrika and her brat? It said in the Bible to break one’s bread with the hungry.

  Kristina had only one bread loaf left, one single loaf. Must she cut this for the Glad One’s sake? She had a hungry husband, brother-in-law with a heavy appetite, and three small children, lean and pale, who needed regular meals. She did not know when they might be able to buy more food. Could God mean that she ought to take the bread from her own poor children and give it to a person like Ulrika, a harlot, an evil creature? How she had insulted other women, this Ulrika of Västergöhl! How detested and looked down on she had been in the home parish! And how Kristina had suffered from being forced to travel in her company! If she now offered the infamous whore food from her own basket, then it would be as if she invited her as a guest to her own table. It would be accepting her as an honorable woman, and equal. Giving her food would be like taking her hand; it would be a humiliation to Kristina, a debasement, if at last she gave in to the Glad One, as though wanting her for a friend.

  One could hand a piece of bread to a beggar. But Ulrika had never begged; she was proud, she was more than proud, she was haughty. When she was in prison for breach of the sacramental law, she had refused to eat; she had spit in the porridge, it was said. She would accept nothing unless it was offered to her as to an equal. And Kristina did not wish to consider her an equal.

  Her hand with the bread knife was quiet on her knee. Mixed with the rumbling of the rolling wheels she could hear the sound of eagerly chewing jaws; but she who had divided the food had not yet begun to eat.

  Kristina’s heart beat faster, so greatly was she perturbed. Should she cut the last loaf—or should she save it? She had a vague feeling that what she did now would be of great importance to all of them. She had a foreboding that fundamental changes awaited them in this new land, everything seemed different from home, they were forced to act in new and unaccustomed ways. And as they now were driven through strange country, with everything around them foreign and unknown, they were more closely united—it seemed more and more as if they were one single family. Then they must try to endure each other, at least not irritate each other. Otherwise, how would things work out for them?

  Ulrika suffered hunger, and any one able to give her food but withholding it increased her suffering. Could Kristina be so cruel as to let another human being suffer when she could help her? She had many times asked herself why people plagued each other so mercilessly in this world; now she put the question to herself: Ulrika is hungry—why do you let her suffer? You say she is proud—what are you? Is it not from haughtiness that you pass her by?

  Kristina’s hand took a firmer hold of the knife handle—but this was the children’s bread. They were weak and needed every bite. She thought, you cannot take it away from them! To cut that bread is like cutting your own flesh. The Glad One is big and strong, vulgar and forward, she will always manage, she’ll never starve to death. It’s different with your helpless little ones. If there were plenty of food, more than they needed, then . . . Now—never!

  But it couldn’t go on like this. They couldn’t continue to hurt each other. They were all of them poor wretched creatures, lost in the New World; no one knew what awaited them in this new country, no one knew what they might have to suffer. One loaf would save no one’s life in the long run. And if one could help another . . . Help thy neighbor! The Glad One too was her neighbor; she too had been given an immortal soul by her Creator. He had from the beginning considered her as worthy as others; she too was made by God, Who must care for her as for others. Kristina felt He would see to the little children also, so they needn’t starve. . . .

  She took out the last loaf, cut generous slices, and handed them to Ulrika of Västergöhl and her daughter: Wouldn’t they please share her bread? It was old and dry, but she had scraped off the mildew as best she could. . . .

  Mother and daughter accepted gratefully. “Thank you very much,” Ulrika said, and this sounded strange when all she got was hard, old bread. Nor did Ulrika seem surprised at the offer; she only looked grateful, truly grateful. And Kristina also handed them the knife and the smoked leg of lamb that they might cut themselves meat for the bread. They both chewed slowly, with restraint, but it was apparent they did so with effort, trying not to reveal their ravenous hunger.

  Kristina herself began to eat and she wondered: What would the people at home think of this? What would they say, if they could see her cut her last loaf from home in order to share with Ulrika of Västergöhl, the parish whore?

  —8—

  In the evening the twilight was short, and soon it was dark as a potato cellar outside the windows of their railroad wagon. Everything went faster in this country, even the twilight passed more quickly than at home. And the thick darkness which now fell over them on a night so near Midsummer surprised the travelers. At this hour it would still be full daylight at home. But it seemed as if everything American was opposite to Swedish: here they had dark summer nights instead of light, white cows instead of black.

  Their train stopped and remained standing a long time. At least an hour passed, and still they did not move. They could no longer see the landscape outside the windows; perhaps this was one of the towns where the interpreter had said the train stopped for a long rest: Schenectady, Utica, or Syracuse. Those were difficult and unusual names for towns, almost like Biblical names, towns in Canaan. Then some of the company with good eyes reported that they were in the middle of a wild forest—there were huge, thick tree trunks on either side. Their guide had gone to another wagon, and they had no one to ask.

  Perhaps the train couldn’t go on during the night when it was so dark; perhaps they had to stay here until daybreak.

  No light was lit inside the wagon, and the passengers couldn’t see each other’s faces, but they sat close to one another and each knew where his own family and his belongings were. They were not in need of light and they were thankful to have air; those in charge of the train had opened the doors at both ends of their wagon as soon as it stopped; the cool night air refreshed them. But none of the travelers dared step outside.

  One more hour passed, and the immigrant train still stood there. They began to grow restless, they wondered and worried. Outside the windows they could see sparks from the steam wagon, whirling about in the dark like a swarm of fireflies, and this increased their anxiety. They began to fear that some accident had befallen their vehicle, or was about to happen. Why hadn’t their guide returned? Someone suggested that perhaps Landberg had deserted them.

  They could hear the wheezing and hissing from the steam wagon in front, and they saw the flying sparks; they were in the depths of a dark forest, and here they sat clustered together, blind, like chickens perched in darkness, and could not even ask anyone if they were in danger. They knew nothing, therefore they feared everything.

  At last they began to confer with each other: shouldn’t they elect someone to step out onto the ground and try to discover what was the matter with their unmoving train? Even if he couldn’t talk, he might learn something with his ears and eyes.

  They were talking this over when the doors suddenly slammed shut, and the train started up with such a jerk that the passengers tumbled against each other. And suddenly the man they had missed stood among them; Long Landberg had returned, friendly and calm, and he explained: There was a steep, difficult hill ahead of them on the railroad, and one more steam wagon was required to pull them uphill. Their train had been waiting for the extra steam wagon, and now it was added
to the back of their train, and would help push the wagons up the steep hill.

  So their journey continued; the immigrant train pushed on through the night, seeking its way into North America. As yet nothing dangerous had developed, but anything could happen, they did not even know what to fear.

  VII

  VOYAGE ON THE LAKE STEAMER

  —1—

  In the forenoon of the next day the immigrants arrived at Buffalo. That evening they started across Lake Erie on the steamer Sultana. The whole remaining part of their journey was to be on water—across lakes, up rivers, and through canals. Just ahead of them lay three great lakes over which they must pass. They had embarked on a vast, restless, inland water, but on this voyage they at least could see land on one side of the ship. At intervals, the Sultana touched shore to discharge or take aboard passengers, cargo, and firewood for her engines.

  The Sultana was a fairly large steamer with one water wheel on either side; she was overloaded with people and cargo. The immigrants were given quarters below, on the middle deck, and when they were sent to their quarters, they learned another English word, steerage. Cabins were built in three rows in the hold, each one four feet wide, and each one accommodating two full-grown persons of the same sex, or a married couple. Two children under eight years of age were counted as one grown person; children under three years of age were transported free of charge, but no one asked the little ones’ ages, and all children carried aboard by the parents were allowed free passage, however old they were.

  Kristina took charge of Harald while Karl Oskar carried Johan on one arm and Lill-Märta on the other. Johan was four, but tall as a six-year-old. Other parents carried children even larger, never before had such big two-year-old babies been seen. But it seemed as if all Americans loved children: they brightened and smiled as soon as a child came near them, and no one spoke harshly when the youngsters were noisy or caused trouble; children were the most welcome of all immigrants, it seemed.