by Ola Larsmo
Anna recognized the family’s belongings even before she caught sight of Gustaf and Carl. They sat huddled together, turned away so they could look at the island, where flames were still shooting into the air, with the smoke from the fire lit up from below like a distant thunderstorm. She called their names, again and again, and Gustaf jumped to his feet. The girls ran to their father and grabbed hold of his legs. Anna took Carl from Gustaf and burrowed her nose in his white-blond hair. Both of them reeked of smoke.
Gustaf was still nervous about looking her in the eye. He said gruffly, “They wouldn’t let me go upstairs to find you. I did try.”
Then he turned around and pointed. “But at least I was able to collect most of our things.”
Anna didn’t know what to say. She looked at their bags again and burst out laughing.
The early morning hours were chilly, but now they were greeted with great kindness from everyone. An old woman wearing a Salvation Army uniform handed out blankets. Eventually a steam cart was rolled in, and they were all served weak coffee or hot milk in tin cups. A boy carried around a big basket of fragrant bread, freshly baked. They took two and then sat down on their bags once again to watch the sunlight break through from behind the tall buildings that looked like a row of teeth farther along the dock. Gray smoke rose up from the island out in the river and drifted over the lower houses on the opposite shore. Everything out there was black; nothing moved.
The wrought iron gates now stood wide open, and the police had disappeared. The city was starting to awaken. Anna saw a man she thought must be Chinese slowly dragging down the street a loaded cart, which back in Sweden would have required a horse to move. He took short, quick steps, and the cart was a lovely red color. She saw all sorts of people wearing different types of clothing, staring, pointing, on their way somewhere. Most seemed to be smiling, as if almost elated by the nighttime calamity. And she was surprised by her own thoughts: I could simply stand up and walk straight into the city and no one would ever find me again.
She dozed for a while, leaning against Gustaf’s shoulder. When she awoke, she found someone staring at her. The sun was high overhead, and Inga was standing next to them. Her suitcase was at her feet, and her lovely shawl was neatly knotted under her chin.
“We’re leaving now, Anna,” said Inga. “The ferries have started up again, and they’ll take us across the water.”
Anna didn’t know what to say. She squinted at the water.
“And you’re going to be staying here?” said Inga.
“Yes,” said Gustaf. “We are. At least for a time.”
For a moment no one spoke.
“They say that nobody died last night,” Inga then told them. “In the fire, I mean. Everyone managed to escape. Probably because we all stayed calm.”
Anna still had no idea what to say. She thought about the dog and how it had run back and forth, and it occurred to her that maybe it had been looking for a means of escape. Without success.
“I’ve written down the address,” said Inga. “To where we’re going, although I don’t know how long we’ll stay in the same place.” She handed over a piece of paper, neatly folded in half.
When Anna opened it she read:
Inga Norström, Swede Hollow, St. Paul, Minnesota
Anna merely nodded her thanks. Then she stood up to hug her friend. Gustaf stood up too. Inga gave them a quick smile and then went over to join her group waiting farther along the dock. Anna saw streaks of smoke from the fire in the clear morning air. And she recalled the dream she’d been having as she slept with her head on her husband’s shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t so much a dream as an insight. Still dozing, she’d realized why Gustaf wanted to stay here, in the big city. It reminded her of her own thoughts when she’d seen the Chinese man pulling his wagon. In this place you could disappear and spend your entire lifetime without being found. Even if somebody should decide to come looking for you.
This was the morning of their first day in their new country. Anna stood with her back to the city and watched the other Swedes—dark figures among so many others—heading for the ferry boats that were lined up at the dock, waiting to carry them away.
Mulberry Street, New York
October—November 1897
AT THIS EARLY HOUR of the morning the street was a tunnel of stone, the sky as gray as coal smoke above the surrounding buildings. Gustaf walked quickly, stooping forward as his fingers dug into the rough seams at the bottom of the pockets of his blue workman’s jacket. He kept his eyes on the uneven cobblestones, barely visible in the dim light. All around him were the shadows of other men, most of them equally silent at this hour, although a few muttered words in languages that he hadn’t yet learned to recognize.
At the intersection he caught a glimpse of the pale glow of street lamps from Delancey Street—an entirely different world with curtains behind the windowpanes. Farther away and in the opposite direction was the Chinese district, but that was not somewhere he’d ever gone. Gustaf cast a hasty glance at the narrow alley between the brick walls when he passed Silberstein’s little cubbyhole of a shop that sold tin goods. The Norwegian, a man who usually sat in the alley behind the shop, wasn’t there, although the stool where he always sat was. Apparently no one felt tempted to steal it.
Far too many of the men Gustaf saw seemed to be headed in the same direction. That worried him more and more the farther they went, especially after passing Canal Street. A tension grew among those walking shoulder to shoulder, so close they might touch, though no one spoke to one another. The nearer they came to the waterfront, the greater the distance between the men, even as they all pushed forward. When they finally stood side by side at the gate to the Pike Slip, everyone tried to jostle their way to the front.
Gustaf looked around. Most of the men were older than he was. They wore brown or dark jackets, with their caps pulled down over their foreheads and their hands stuffed in their pockets. But there were some youths among them. When he heard the sound of wagon wheels and horses’ hooves against wooden planks, he stood up straight and fixed his gaze on some vague spot in front of him.
The man in the first wagon was named Mulligan, and Gustaf had had dealings with him before. Mulligan was one of the worst. Thickset and dark complexioned, he was always smoking a crooked, old pipe. But his was not the only wagon today. Two more now appeared, each pulled by a pair of horses. Gustaf recognized the man in the farthest wagon, which was much bigger. His name was Nielsen, and he was Danish. The Norwegian had spoken well of the man, saying he might turn up here. Trying to draw as little attention as possible, Gustaf edged toward the other side of the brick gate so that Mulligan would not be between him and Nielsen. He avoided looking the Irishman in the eye, even as he tried to stand taller. Mulligan was on his feet, sucking on his pipe, as he pointed the shaft of his horsewhip at various men in the crowd. He had no need to say anything. Whoever he pointed at would immediately move to the back of his wagon and stand there.
Nielsen’s wagon was bigger, and he didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. He lit a cigar and then scanned the closest group of men. He called out in a soft, rolling English, “How many of you have children?” All the men raised their hands. Nielsen peered at them, his gaze unwavering, as he said with an amused smile, “And how many have more than two?” Some were honest enough to lower their hands, but most kept their hands raised. Nielsen laughed and pointed with the cigar he was holding: “You and you and you. And you.” The glowing tip of the cigar pointed briefly at Gustaf. He was the last one to clamber up onto the flatbed of the wagon, which was already nearly full of workers. The horses slowly set off. At first Gustaf thought the weight of the wagon would be too much for them. Then the wagon wheels began turning with a plaintive creaking sound. He was crouched down with his back to a big man he didn’t know. He watched as the men who had been left behind reluctantly turned on their heel and walked back the same way they had come. In the narrow opening between the buildings down by the rive
r, a steely gray morning light began filtering through. He ventured a few words in English to his neighbor. “What will it be today?” The man looked up, his expression already weary, and replied briefly, “Sandbags. A barge.” Trying to keep his balance as the wagon swayed, Gustaf tied his scarf tighter around his neck and then stuck his free hand under his jacket and tucked it in his armpit. Yet another day of hard labor. The aroma of fresh coffee suddenly wafted toward him from one of the roasting houses down at the harbor, making his stomach clench.
It was dark by the time Gustaf made his way back. This time he took a different route without as many landmarks. The barge had been moored under the bridge construction on the east side. It was a rusty old vessel sitting in the water at a tilt, which determined how they loaded the cargo. If they did it wrong, the barge leaned even more, and the work took longer than it was supposed to take. That, in turn, prompted angry shouts from an invisible foreman up on the dock, standing at a spot hidden by the rusty railing. When the men finished the job and received their wages, there was no wagon waiting for them, so Gustaf began walking, feeling a weariness deep in his bones. It was the sort of fatigue he hadn’t felt since he was a boy and worked as a farmhand in Hammar. He told himself he would walk for fifteen minutes at a time and then pause to rest. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, he felt slightly nauseated. For a while he had no idea where he was. He saw one tall stone building after another and doorways everywhere, along with men wearing fine-looking dark suits. Then he glimpsed the gas street lamps from Delancey Street. Only half-awake he headed in that direction. If he followed Delancey, he would sooner or later come to the Bowery, and from there he could find his way even in the dark.
There were so many people out and about although it was probably close to eight in the evening. Carried on the wind was the sound of horns playing music that seemed as unfamiliar and toneless as the braying of a donkey. Gustaf stopped to lean against a wall to gather enough strength to keep going. He felt as if he’d been walking for an eternity. When he looked up again he suddenly became alert. He knew where he was. Across the street he recognized Silberstein’s shop. Now he could breathe easier.
The Norwegian was sitting outside in his usual place on the stool with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The tip glowed every time he inhaled. He wore a heavy gray jacket and didn’t seem to be cold. Straw stuck up from the tops of his boots, giving him the look of a scarecrow.
“Good evening, Swede,” he said quietly when he caught sight of Gustaf. “How’d it go today?”
“I got hired on by Nielsen,” he replied, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes for a moment. “We loaded sand for the bridge construction. Nielsen had moved to the Pike location, just like you told me yesterday,” he added, nodding his thanks to the man sitting on the stool.
“So what was that worth?” said the Norwegian, meeting his eye. Gustaf dug a ten cent coin out of his pocket and placed it in the rough palm of the man’s hand. Others had told him that the Norwegian had been involved in an accident down at the harbor and could no longer work. That was years ago, yet the man’s hand was still calloused. Gustaf wondered again how the Norwegian managed to get here every morning, since it was said he had trouble walking. And how did he always know what was on for the day? But exhaustion burned in Gustaf’s head and prevented him from asking any questions. Besides, he probably wouldn’t get an answer.
“Did Nielsen say anything about tomorrow?” the Norwegian asked him now after sticking the coin in his pocket. Gustaf shook his head.
“He didn’t mention anything at all?”
“No. He just dropped us off at the work site, as usual.”
“Then you can go back to the same place near Pike tomorrow,” said the Norwegian, pinching the end of his cigarette to put it out. “He’ll be back. And at the same time. Was fat Mulligan there?”
Gustaf nodded.
“Watch out for him. He’s been getting stingy and that has riled the Italians. They’re not the sort you want to play around with. Mulligan’s been in a surly mood, and he takes out his anger on whoever is dumb enough to climb into his wagon. It wouldn’t surprise me if he disappears one day.”
The Norwegian picked up his flask of whiskey and filled the capsule lid, offering it to Gustaf. He never allowed anyone to drink from the bottle, which was probably wise. But Gustaf shook his head, so the Norwegian silently poured the liquor back in the flask.
“See you tomorrow then,” he said.
Gustaf gave him a brief nod and, with a tug on his cap, repeated, “Tomorrow.”
He’d seen how some young boys managed to get inside the building late in the evening. They simply jumped up, grabbed hold of the lowest rung of the fire escape ladder, and pulled themselves up. On a night like this, trying to copy that ploy seemed as possible as reaching for the moon. Gustaf leaned against the front door, hoping to find it unlocked. It wasn’t. He rattled the door handle, not so much in an attempt to unbolt the door as to get someone to hear him.
He was in luck. After a minute the door opened a crack, and in the opening he glimpsed the frizzy hair of the old Russian woman.
Gustaf pushed open the door as he searched for the right words, starting off with “Many—” but she merely waved her hand dismissively and shuffled back toward her own place without even looking at him. She spoke no English at all. And for the most part, neither did he.
His hand found the banister in the dark, and he began climbing the stairs. It was nearly impossible to see anything, but from the surrounding rooms came the sound of footsteps and voices and children crying, even though it was already late. A dim light issued from the little window above the Italians’ door on the second floor, making it easier for him to find his way through all the rubbish they’d left on the landing.
His family’s room was at the very top of the building, on the sixth floor, which he’d initially tried to describe as an advantage, because they would get more daylight through the window facing the street. On the other hand, there was always a lot of noise from the surrounding rooftops. Gustaf knocked quietly, using their agreed signal: four raps with his knuckles, a pause, and then four more. Anna unlatched the door to let him in. She was still dressed. She sat down on a chair at the kitchen table without saying a word. He went over to the stove, holding out his hands to assess the heat in the dark. The stove was still lukewarm, and he saw a saucepan on the single burner. He picked it up and took it over to the table, sitting down across from his wife. He took a spoon from the shelf drawer and started eating. Potatoes with butter, and at the bottom of the pan he found tiny pieces of bacon.
“Was she here again?” he asked. “The Salvation Army lady?”
Anna nodded. He couldn’t see her face, only her silhouette against the lighter rectangle of the window.
“She brought us a piece of bacon,” Anna said. “For the children’s sake. But there was a little bit left over for you.”
Gustaf was about to say something but held his tongue. Now that he’d come home, his appetite had returned. He tried to eat slowly.
“So what was on her mind today?” he ventured.
“She says she thinks we ought to move. We’d be better off with other Swedes. And more of them live on the other side of the river. Up in Harlem.”
“I worked down by the river today,” he said. “At the bridge construction. When the bridge is finished, it’ll be easier to get over there.”
He didn’t know why he said that. It was his fatigue talking.
“But that’ll take years,” she said.
“You know it’s more expensive on the other side of the river,” he replied. “Not to mention in Harlem.”
“I thought we could go to the Swedish church some Sunday,” she said. He could hear the worry and urgency in her voice, the way the words seemed to tumble out, as if she’d been carrying them around for a long time before he came home. He didn’t feel angry.
“But it’s so far to go,” he said. “How w
ould the children manage?”
“It would be nice to talk to people who speak Swedish,” she said.
He let the subject drop.
“How is Carl?” he asked instead. “Was he coughing today?”
She nodded in the dark.
“We were up on the roof for a while,” she told him. “Just Carl and me. That’s when she came. Lieutenant Gustafsson.”
He chuckled quietly. He couldn’t help himself, even though Anna would be annoyed. He thought it sounded so funny. Lieutenant Gustafsson.
“She visits us because of the children,” Anna said.
And there it came, spoken in the brusque voice she used only occasionally. “She thinks we should try to find a different place to live. For the children’s sake.”
Fatigue wrapped itself tighter around Gustaf. Harsh and yet enticingly gentle, Anna’s voice reached him as if from the other side of a curtain. Maybe it grew darker outside at the same time, he wasn’t sure. Only a dim light entered the room. And she kept on talking.
Reluctantly he took the coins from his pocket and placed them next to her hand on the table.
“Here,” he said. “I took only ten cents from my wages.”
She fell silent but didn’t touch the money.
“I have to get some sleep,” Gustaf said. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Then he undressed and placed his clothes neatly on the chair next to the window, which was open slightly, in spite of the cold night air. He tiptoed over to the bed, pulled on his nightshirt, and cautiously slipped under the covers next to the children, feeling the warmth of their small bodies. For a moment he rested his hand on Carl’s forehead. It was neither cold nor hot to the touch. The boy stirred, rolling closer to the wall. The children snuggled together, still sound asleep as they settled as best they could into the cramped space beside their father. Anna remained sitting on the chair in the corner, not moving, her face turned in their direction. Then Gustaf closed his eyes and was gone.