Ellis Island: Three Novels

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Mamma opened the back door and called, “I’ve finished the churning. Would you like a cold glass of buttermilk?”

  Exhausted, her arms and shoulders aching, Kristin gulped it down.

  “If you’ll help me with the stove ashes …” Mamma began, but Kristin waved her away. “I can do it,” she said as she pulled the heavy drawer from the bottom of the stove. “Do you need them for soap, or should I sprinkle them on the garden?”

  “The garden this time,” Mamma said. “Some young shoots are up already, and they can use the potash.”

  Kristin couldn’t believe how hungry she was by the time Mamma called her for the noon meal. She tried to be polite and not wolf down her food, but she ate ravenously.

  “You’re doing a fine job with the outside chores,” Mamma said. “I know it’s hard for you to step into your father’s shoes.”

  “I nearly stepped out of them a dozen times,” Kristin said with a grin. “I’ve just begun to realize that the chores I helped Pappa with when I was little were nothing like the job he does every day in running the farm.”

  “Maybe you should take a rest,” Mamma suggested, but Kristin shook her head.

  “The kitchen garden needs weeding, and we haven’t had rain for a few days, so I’ll need to water the potatoes.”

  “I’ll help you,” Mamma said, “as soon as I clean the kitchen and start a pot of soup for our supper.”

  Late in the afternoon Kristin rose from the potato field, stretching and rubbing her back and arms. The cows, bawling because their udders were full, had headed back toward the barn on their own accord. While they drank their fill from the stock tank, Kristin hurried to the barn and scooped a helping of ground meal for each of them into their trough.

  As she opened the large barn door, the cow that had assumed the role of leader pushed ahead, the other two following her. They greedily headed for the food, so it was easy for Kristin to fasten them into their stanchions.

  Kristin pulled up a clean pail and a stool, seated herself at the side of the first cow, and tied her tail to one hind leg to keep from getting slapped in the face. She wiped the cow’s udder with a damp cloth and began to milk her.

  She rested her head against the cow’s warm side and concentrated on the rhythm of the squeeze and tug and the splash of warm milk into the pail. One of the songs she had heard on the ship coming to America popped into her head, and she milked in time to the meter as she hummed “Yankee Doodle.”

  Mamma was delighted with the two buckets of milk Kristin carried into the kitchen. “Your father chose the cows wisely,” she said. “See how rich the milk is. I’ll soon have at least a dozen bricks of butter to trade for Fru Lundgren’s groceries.”

  Mamma’s soup was delicious, but Kristin was almost too tired to eat. Two or three times she noticed Mamma glancing nervously toward the parlor, and it puzzled her, but it wasn’t until after they had finished eating that Mamma leaned toward her and said softly, “Kristin, the woman who lived and died in this house—I can feel her presence.”

  Kristin stiffened as chills wriggled up her backbone. The burning wick in the kerosene lamp sent shadows leaping across the walls, and she tried to ignore them. “This isn’t her house any longer, Mamma,” Kristin said. “It’s our house. She isn’t here.”

  Mamma went on as though Kristin hadn’t said a word. “It’s her sorrow. I sense it as if it were my own. Upstairs it hangs like a cloud, and it hovers in the parlor where the cradle once rested.”

  Kristin involuntarily glanced toward the parlor. “So many people in Sweden believe in spöken, you’ve let them frighten you. Pappa said there are no spöken in the United States.”

  “You and your father may say this,” Mamma insisted, “but I know what I feel, and I know the financial difficulties that have come upon us. Who else is to blame but the spöken?”

  “Why not blame Pappa?” Kristin blurted out. “He’s the one who wanted to leave Sweden and come here.”

  “Kristin!” Mamma looked shocked. “You should respect your father’s good judgment.”

  “I’m sorry, Mamma,” Kristin told her, “but I wish you’d stop believing that the spirit of that woman is in this house to do us harm.”

  “We can’t be sure,” Mamma murmured.

  Kristin reached across the table and took her mother’s hands, holding them tightly so that Mamma wouldn’t notice the tremors in Kristin’s own hands. “Mamma,” she said firmly, “you have nothing to be afraid of. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

  Mamma tried to smile. “I just wish your father were here, too.”

  “You should have had big strong boys to protect you, instead of one insignificant girl,” Kristin teased.

  Mamma’s eyes clouded over with pain. For an instant she hesitated, then she said, “Kristin, I’ve never told you. It was too difficult to talk about—too painful even to think about—but you should know. During the years before you were born, I gave birth to three boys—each of them stillborn.”

  Stunned, Kristin stammered, “Th-three babies? Oh, Mamma, I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s why, when you came along—a fine, healthy baby—we named you Kristin, in honor of the Christ, the Anointed One. You were a special gift to your father and me.”

  “Oh, Mamma!” Kristin whispered.

  Mamma gripped Kristin’s hands so tightly, they hurt as she whispered, “Do you understand what I’m saying? Why you’re so important to me? We do not need any more bad luck in this family. If anything should happen to your father or you, I don’t know what I would do.”

  Kristin fought to keep her voice steady. “Nothing bad is going to happen, Mamma,” she said, but her mother looked unconvinced.

  That night, with the moonlight spilling odd lights and shadows across the room, the usual creakings and poppings of the house seemed strange and foreboding to Kristin. In spite of her exhaustion, and in spite of the fact that she tried to convince herself that she did not—would not—believe in ghosts, Kristin found it difficult to close her eyes and fall asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IN the morning there was no time to think of spöken. After a breakfast of boiled eggs and bread Kristin dressed in her cotton work dress, and hurried to the barn to milk the cows again.

  As soon as she had delivered the milk to her mother, Kristin picked up the stick Pappa used as a prod and led the cows out to the pasture. The morning air was cool and fragrant with the sharp tang of the grasses crushed underfoot. A smattering of yellow buttercups lay scattered across the meadow, pink-and-white lady’s slipper bloomed in the shaded dells, and a pair of startled meadowlarks sprang from a deep clump of grass and clover, tossing a ripple of notes into the sky.

  Kristin paused as the cows began to graze. It was quiet and peaceful, and she wished she could fling herself down in the sun-warmed grass and stay forever, but there were so many, many chores to do.

  She strode back to the barn and stopped, startled by the sound of the manure fork scraping against the hard-packed floor. “Mamma?” she called, but as she entered the barn, Johan straightened up, wiping an arm across his sweaty forehead, and grinned.

  “Oh!” Kristin said. “I thought … I mean, why are you here, Johan? What are you—?”

  Johan laughed. “Cleaning a barn is hard work for a girl. I came to help you.”

  Kristin blushed and stared at the ground. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for us,” she said. “I can do the work. I don’t mind it—”

  Johan interrupted. “Kristin, listen to me. I don’t feel sorry for you. Many new arrivals have worked for others as your father is doing. This is common here. I came to help because I want to.”

  “Well … as long as you don’t feel you have to.”

  There was laughter in his voice as he answered, “Can’t you understand? I want to do this for you.” He raised the manure fork, studied it as though he’d never seen it before, and said, “However, there has to be a better way of cleaning the stalls and gutters.” He pause
d, thinking. Then his features began to relax again as an idea came to him. “With water,” he said thoughtfully. “In great quantities.”

  “Great quantities is right. It would take buckets and buckets of water.”

  “Buckets wouldn’t do it,” Johan said. “I’m thinking in terms of a pump of some sort bringing water under pressure from someplace like the river. I’ve read about water pressure used in gold mining to separate nuggets from the soil around them.”

  “But why would you want all that water pressure just to clean the barn floor?”

  “Why not? The work would be done so fast, you’d have time to take care of a dozen cows … maybe one hundred.”

  Kristin laughed. “Who’d have time to milk that many?”

  “I haven’t figured out that part yet,” Johan said with a chuckle, “but believe me, if I don’t, somebody else will.”

  “Someone else who shares your dream of farmland stretching out to the horizon?”

  “It will be more than a dream,” he said. “Wait and see.”

  Kristin tilted her head and studied him. “You know so many things. Where did you learn about the gold mining and the water pressure?”

  “From the weekly newspaper, The Messenger,” he said.

  “But that’s a Swedish newspaper! I saw it when we stayed with the Lundgrens.”

  Johan’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Does news have to be written in English to make it right?”

  Kristin blushed and stammered, “This—this is the United States. English is its language. The people who choose to live here should read and speak English.”

  “Some of them do, but it takes time to get used to new ways and new ideas. Change doesn’t come quickly.”

  Surprised at hearing such solemn advice from Johan, Kristin teased, “You sound like such a wise old man.”

  “Not so old, just experienced,” he said. “My father thinks my ideas about farming impractical and impossible.”

  “No, they’re not!” Kristin cried out indignantly.

  Johan beamed at her. He hefted the manure fork, ready to return to the job, but paused and said, “Next time I hear of someone from around here going to Saint Paul or Minneapolis, I’ll ask them to bring you a newspaper printed in English.”

  Kristin didn’t know which made her happier—having Johan close at hand or not having to clean the smelly barn. She fed the chickens and weeded the kitchen garden with renewed energy.

  The time they had together was short because Johan had his own chores to take care of.

  “Your mother told me that your father will return by tomorrow evening,” Johan said to Kristin, “so I’ll come back in the morning to take care of the barn.”

  “You don’t need to,” Kristin said. “I can manage it.”

  “I think you could manage anything,” Johan answered. He tucked a finger under her chin and smiled. “But I’m coming back because I like working near you.”

  Kristin smiled in return and surprised herself by saying, “And I like knowing you are near.”

  Johan took a step forward, but at that moment Mamma opened the kitchen door and called, “Would you like to share our dinner, Johan?”

  “No, thank you, Fru Swensen,” he said. “I have to return to our farm and take care of my own chores.”

  Kristin watched him stride along the path that led down the slope and into the woods.

  “Wash,” Mamma said. “I’ll have the food on the table by the time you’ve finished.”

  Her face and hands well scrubbed and tingling, Kristin entered the kitchen and seated herself at the table.

  Mamma sat across from her and ladled a beef-and-noodle mixture into their bowls. She bowed her head and said the prayer before meals, but she had no sooner straightened in her chair than she remarked, “Johan Olsen is a fine young man.”

  “I suppose,” Kristin said. She touched a forkful of beef to her lips, but it was very hot and she allowed it to cool.

  “He seems interested in you,” Mamma went on.

  Kristin put down her fork. “He’s only a friend, Mamma, nothing more.”

  “Good. You are young yet,” Mamma said. “It would be well for you to wait a year, maybe two, before thinking of marriage.”

  “Mamma!” Kristin said. “I’m not going to marry Johan. He’s a farmer.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. “So is your father.”

  “I know.” Kristin paused to collect her thoughts, then spoke carefully. “Mamma, it’s hard to explain what I mean, but life on a farm is very hard. It’s the same old thing, over and over again, day after day. It’s not like living in the city.”

  Mamma looked puzzled. “What could you possibly know about city life?”

  Kristin shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it. I want to learn more about what Sigrid—Fröken Larson is doing. I want to help work for voting rights for women. I could do that if I lived in the city.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, Kristin gave such a start of surprise that her hands trembled. Had she really been thinking that? Excitement bubbled up into her throat and she realized it was possible. It was actually possible that someday she might move to Minneapolis and get a job.

  Clapping both hands to her head, Mamma said, “You don’t understand what you are talking about. A proper young woman does not live alone in a strange city!”

  “Fröken Larson did when she was young.” Kristin was immediately defensive. “She studied at the university, then became a teacher.”

  “Did Fröken Larson do this by choice? Would she admit to you that she had never been asked to marry and had no brother whose family could take her in, so there was little left for her to choose? I don’t think so.”

  “How can you say that about her? You don’t know that it’s true.”

  “And neither do you know that what you believe about her is true.” Mamma’s chin quivered as she studied Kristin’s face. “Can’t you see, daughter, that a woman’s greatest happiness comes from her husband and children? There is nothing more precious than new life brought into the world. A woman’s family is her source of strength and love, which makes up for any and all the disappointment and worry and pain that life brings. A young woman choosing to go through life alone … you have no idea what you would miss.”

  “Maybe I could have both,” Kristin said stubbornly.

  “Don’t wish for the whole world,” Mamma answered. “Be happy with only your share of it.”

  Oh, Mamma, can’t you see that I can’t be you? Kristin thought. There was no discussing her dreams with Mamma. She’d never be able to understand.

  On the Tuesday afternoon after Pappa’s return Sigrid Larson rode up to the Swensens’ farm in her sister’s buggy. Mamma, a little wary of Fröken Larson, yet delighted to have visitors, immediately put on the coffeepot. Sigrid had brought a box of pepparkaka, and their gingery fragrance filled the parlor. “A favorite recipe from Kalmar,” she said.

  Sigrid seated herself on the love seat and glanced around the room. “You have made this room beautiful,” she said. “Did you weave that lovely wall hanging?”

  Mamma flushed with pleasure, while Kristin hoped that from where she sat, Sigrid couldn’t see some of the uneven rows. “Kristin wove it,” Mamma answered. “She made the covers for two of the pillows, too. I couldn’t leave them behind. I brought them all the way from Leksand.”

  “Oh, then you come from the Dalarna Province, where everyone seems to be artistic.”

  “Kristin is particularly talented.”

  Kristin blushed, remembering her struggle with those pillows and Mamma’s concern that Kristin was having such difficulty with a task every young woman learned to do well. She was thankful when Sigrid changed the subject. She liked Sigrid, and she was happy to see that Mamma liked her, too.

  Mamma chatted and laughed and poured more coffee until finally Sigrid pulled a small watch out of the pocket of her dress and said, “Oh, my! I have been having such a good time visiting with y
ou, I had no idea it was close to four o’clock.” She reached into her drawstring bag and pulled out a small book. “Here you are, Kristin,” she said. “This is the book I told you about.”

  As Kristin took the book from Sigrid’s hands, Mamma leaned forward with curiosity. “What kind of a book is this?” she asked.

  “It is a book that explains the government of the United States,” Sigrid told her. “I think you’d like to read it, too.”

  Mamma’s cheeks turned pink. “I think I’ll leave that to Kristin. I’m still having difficulty learning to speak the language, let alone read it.”

  “English is a very difficult language,” Sigrid agreed. “I had a great deal of trouble at first in learning it.”

  “I have the same trouble.” Mamma’s embarrassment fled, and she sat back, taking another sip of coffee.

  Kristin could hardly wait until she was alone and could open the book. “Will this tell me more about Susan B. Anthony?” she asked.

  “No,” Sigrid said. “Not this book. I would rather you read this first.”

  “Who is Susan B. Anthony?” Mamma asked.

  “She is a very brave woman who has spent much of her life trying to get voting rights for women,” Sigrid answered.

  “Voting rights for women?” Mamma gave Kristin a pointed look and said, “I don’t think that would be something we would want Kristin to read.”

  Kristin had her mouth open to argue, but Sigrid spoke first. “The book I’ve just given her simply explains the government of the United States,” she said. “It’s used in some of the schools in our state. Please ask your husband to look through it first if you’d like. I assure you he’ll approve of Kristin’s reading the book.”

  “Very well,” Mamma said. She reached for the book, and Kristin gave it up reluctantly.

  “I’d like both of you to learn more about universal suffrage,” Sigrid said.