Swede Hollow

by Ola Larsmo

  “I can tell that you think things are hard here,” said Inga as they sat at the table. “But it’s still better here than in New York. And no doubt it’s better that all of you came here instead of staying back home in Sweden. I suppose it’s small comfort that other people have it worse. But this is where we live and not somewhere else. Keep that in mind.”

  Inga’s remark came a bit brusquely, and at first Anna thought it sounded like a reprimand, even though she had never complained. At least not out loud. Maybe she should have been cross with Inga for voicing what seemed to be a criticism, but she didn’t feel angry or offended. Instead her curiosity was piqued. So she asked her friend, “What did you mean when you said that other people have it worse?”

  Inga paused before answering, as if pondering how much to reveal. Then she said, “Surely you know, Anna, that there’s been talk here in the Hollow.”

  She shook her head. Talk about what?

  Inga smiled.

  “You’ve been here a while, and yet you don’t seem to notice anything happening around you. Like the fact that the Lindgren girls left a week ago, on their way to the clinic out in the prairie to be cured of the pox. Unless they die first. I think one of them was very badly off.”

  Anna could hardly make sense of what she was saying. She must have looked bewildered, so Inga explained.

  “The pox, the French disease, that they picked up when they worked as ‘seamstresses.’ Didn’t you have that back in Örebro? There was a lot of coming and going down there for a while. But now the house is empty, and that’s just as well.”

  The younger woman could tell that Anna either had no idea what she meant, or else she didn’t want to talk about it. For a moment Inga sat in silence. Then she went on, “But there’s another matter that is worrying me, and it might end badly. Haven’t you noticed anything? Even though you see Mrs. Lundgren all the time? Hasn’t she said anything to you?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “It’s about David,” said Inga. “He was so quiet during the whole crossing, and I thought he was a good son who had agreed to accompany his mother on the voyage. But now I think it was the other way around, and she was the one accompanying him, maybe for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on him. He seemed to lack all gumption, and he was so quiet that it seemed his very sanity might be in question, the way he kept mostly to himself. Until we arrived here, that is. Then some of us realized that he had his own reason for leaving Sweden. And he wanted to lure all of us to this place, as if we were attached by a string to him and his mother. It was here he was headed, traveling with a single-mindedness that made everyone else in the group follow along without giving the matter proper thought. After a while it turned out that his brother was not the only one who’s settled here in Swede Hollow.”

  Anna listened with interest, almost against her will. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d talked like this with someone. Gossiping.

  “So who else came here?” she asked.

  Inga hesitated before replying, “Everybody knows. It was Agnes Karin.” When she saw that Anna didn’t understand, she added, “Agnes. Horrible Hans’s wife. David came here to look for her. They’re from the same district in Västergötland, and they’ve known each other for ages. And by known I mean in the most intimate sense, and that’s why Horrible Hans finally took his whole family and left Sweden. Then David followed them here. It was his brother Jonathan who wrote home to say they were here. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that. Ever since, everybody has been waiting for the big confrontation. Everybody except you, apparently.”

  There was nothing the least bit amusing about the situation, yet Anna couldn’t help smiling. Here they sat, talking about other people’s misfortunes. As if the cold, the snow, and this hovel of a house were suddenly all part of something so familiar, something she recognized, and no longer a foreign country.

  St. Paul Daily Globe

  The Squatter’s Home

  A Foreign Settlement in the Midst of the City of St. Paul—The Foreign Residents Thereof.

  “Swede Hollow,” Its Quaint Appearance.

  How the Little Hamlet of Shanties and Huts Appears on a Winter’s Day—A Quiet Scene.

  Something of the Legal Status of the Holdings and the Extent of the Flaxen-Haired Population.

  Nestled in a little valley between Dayton’s Bluff and St. Paul proper, right in the midst of the bustling and growing capital city of Minnesota, is “Swede Hollow.” Nature made it the center of an amphitheater of hills. Man improved thereon and by filling up East Seventh Street to the grade, divided the lowlands and still more protected it from the wintry winds and the summer’s sun. A railroad track, cut out from the side hills, skirts along the squatter settlement. Down through the little hamlet of huts, contributing not a little to the foreign picturesqueness of the scene, flows a clear and transparent brook. On either side of the tiny stream, which originates in a bubbling spring in the foot-hills, are ranged in pleasing disorder weather-beaten shanties. No street mars the foreign appearance of “Swede Hollow.” The tracks of wagon wheels and the imprints of horses’ hoofs are visible in the bottom of the pellucid little brook and along its snow-girted banks, showing that the few who desire to bring or carry away such bulky articles as require a wagon must follow up the stream. The sun shines brightly on the

  HOME OF THE SQUATTER.

  Its rays illuminate the quiet little scene at the bottom of the hills, and bring into prominence the many characteristic features of the foreign gathering of unpretentious and humble homes. The sloping hills that rise up all about the settlement are coated with deep snow. The valley itself is covered with the same white mantle. The blue, flowing brook forms a striking contrast to the general whiteness of the winter picture. The general impression, created in the mind of the thoughtful observer of the scene, is that “Swede Hollow” seeks no notoriety but would prefer to go along just as it has been for years without any public notice or alteration. “Swede Hollow” is not deserted on this bright, beautiful winter day, for evidences of its foreign population are visible on every hand.

  Leading away from the bottom of the long flight of stairs that descend from Seventh Street is a well-beaten footpath. It goes directly to the nearest shanty and then divides, one branch leading across a primitive footbridge that spans the running brook, the other leading up the hollow to the next shanty. These divisions take place at every shanty. At some places the brook is crossed by boulders placed at convenient distances for those desiring to reach the opposite shore by stepping from stone to stone.

  SMOKE CIRCLES UP

  from the stove pipe and brick chimneys of many of the shanties. It does not issue out into the keen, frosty air in any volume but rather floats up in scanty quantity, as if from a well-guarded fire where the fuel was limited and the requirements great. It comes up very much as though it was compelled to steal away from some careful housewife, who knew the value of wood and was determined to get all the heat possible out of each stick and splinter.

  Yards there are none in “Swede Hollow.” Fences do not disfigure the quiet little hamlet. Cows and goats and sheep and horses are unknown possessions in that locality. Ducks and geese and dogs and pigeons are visible. Down on the brook the ducks and geese while away their time, occasionally forming into line and waddling over the snow to a convenient shelter. Dogs doze away on the sunny side of the little shanties. Pigeons, in rudely-constructed houses and cotes, fly out and in at pleasure.

  CHILDREN ARE AT PLAY.

  Little tow-headed girls and boys are in sight throughout the settlement. They are dressed in ill-fitting garments of different colors. No child has a suit throughout of the same color or texture. They are at play with the dogs on the sunny side of their shanty homes. One side of the dividing brook is quite a hill. Down its back the children of “Swede Hollow” are coasting. They have a board. This serves as a sled. Five or six of them pile on, as they have dragged or carried it up to the top, and down they go. They make no noi
se about it, however. Even the children seem to appreciate that they must not attract outside attention, and their squatter homes depend on being left alone. They slide in silence; save that now and then they prattle to each other in a foreign language. Even the dogs are not disposed to bark in “Swede Hollow.” If things do not please these canine inhabitants, they will bite. Barking would excite outside attention: they respect their owners’ wishes and follow their example. The ducks are less pronounced in their manifestation of pleasure at reaching the water than is ordinarily the case. The quietness of the scene affects every living being within its surrounding hills.

  DOWN IN THE VALLEY

  you go, prompted by a desire to learn something more of the strange settlement. Far below the surface of the street it rests, a perfect type of a Swedish hamlet. You start down the long flight of steps that lead from Seventh Street to the Hollow. The eyes of the infantile and canine portions of its population are upon you. The children stop their play and watch your descent. The dogs, with heads on paws, take in your coming. Not a sound is heard in “Swede Hollow.” Presently womanly faces are seen peering out windows and doors. They have discovered you. Visitors, especially men who wear a stiff hat and overcoat and gloves, are rare.

  You stop on one of the landings down the long flight of steps and gaze about the great scene. The immense stone archway, that forms part of the foundation for the Seventh Street fill, and through which the St. Paul & Duluth railroad tunnel is constructed, appears in sight. It is covered with huge icicles that have formed from the water trickling down from the surface of the street. The sight has no attraction for the residents of the Hollow. As you stop to view it, several flaxen-haired men and boys pass you on their way down to the settlement. They look at you intently, but give not the ice display on the stone arch a passing glance.

  ONCE IN THE HOLLOW

  you are met by the oldest squatter. He has on a cardigan jacket, with a dirty worsted scarf about his neck. On his head he has a worsted cap. “Is it going fur to sell?” he queries. “Ve pays too much for shanty. A dollar, a half for month. Don’t want to buy, eh? Vaggoner, he owns Svede Holler; pay him rent. Ve be here sex, seben yers—all time de same, dollar, a half for month.”

  He, as well as the other residents of the Hollow, is very deferential to you, although they mistrust you and entertain the belief that you have come to look over the property with a view of purchasing it. While down in the Hollow you observe that the shanties are of the simplest pattern. None of them is over a story and a half high. The majority are but a single story. The shanties are weather-beaten. Paint is a scarce article. A few of the doors are treated to a coat of paint. The brightest colors are used, and the contrast between the weather-beaten boards over the flaming-colored door is very striking. When the shanty is over a single story, the stairs leading to the loft are constructed on the outside. The interiors of these huts is simple from the uneven floors, without a carpet, through the few absolutely essential articles of furniture to the tissue paper curtains at the windows and hanging from the shelves, where the rude chinaware is kept. The tissue paper is cut in points and half circles, and is of many different colors. The occupants of these shanties are many; the rooms are few.

  THE OWNER OF THE HOLLOW

  is J. Waggoner, whose office is on Seventh Street, directly over his landed possessions. “Swede Hollow” includes ten acres, and is an open, fan-shaped valley that begins in a narrow strip at Fourth Street, west of Kittson Street and the railroad viaducts, and follows up between the immense hills to the north, widening as it goes until at North Street, its northern boundary, when the hills circle around and join one another. It derived its name years ago, before the city reached out that far, from the fact that the Swede laborers occupied it with their shanties. The squatters increased and soon the shanties grew in numbers and a little settlement was formed. The lower portion of it is known as “Connemara,” and is occupied by natives of the Emerald Isle, who emigrated from the County Connemara. The upper portion of it, north of the Seventh Street fill, is “Swede Hollow” proper, although a few Swedes exist on the southern side of that artificial divide. Each shanty owner pays $1.50 per month for the privilege of occupying 20x40 feet of the Hollow with his shanty. This he puts up himself at an expense varying from $15 to $75. He is simply a squatter and has no rights that a new purchaser of the Hollow is bound to respect. There are no stores, a single saloon being the only public place within the valley. The saloon occupies the front room of a little shanty and is kept by a woman.

  Crime is not common among the occupants of the little shanties. They are a rude, simple people and their wants are few. They live quietly and are not given to drunkenness, although beer is drunk as a great luxury on Sundays and holidays. But one murder has taken place in the hollow, and that was the work of the inhabitants of “Connemara.” The health of the denizens of the lowlands is a mooted question. Many contend that the surface drainage is productive of disease. Others maintain that statistics, which have been returned to the health department, show that it is one of the healthiest districts in St. Paul.

  Little care the white-haired men and women and children, far down in the valley, away from the noise and confusion of the city; little do they care for such discussions. They know that the sun’s rays, even in the wintertime, warm the little valley. They know that wood is hard to get. They are content to sit in the little room, where the sunshine comes streaming through the window, and, thus warmed, to smoke their pipes and indulge in day dreams. Their greatest fear is that they will be routed out of their shanties. Their greatest desire is that they may be let alone.

  The sun sets and “Swede Hollow” is at rest. It is silent and at peace for the night. No one will disturb the squatters or their possessions until daylight. Its occupants are happy.

  —GRUNDY

  The Tragic Story of Agnes Karin, David, and Horrible Hans, As Reported in the Court Records of the Blue Earth County Courthouse, Mankato, Minnesota

  1898–99

  DAVID LUNDGREN was considered a tall man. When he was consigned to the Minnesota State Prison in Stillwater, where he would spend the next thirty years of his life, his height was listed as five foot eight. Otherwise there doesn’t seem to have been anything remarkable about him. A quiet man who kept to the background but was not afraid to lend a hand. He had worked on his father’s small farm outside Kinna, in Västergötland, Sweden, until he turned twenty. He then went to Göteborg where he found work as a tobacco roller. After that, things happened in rapid succession. His father died and his older brother left for America, paying for his passage with his share of the inheritance money. When David returned home to the family farm, everything had changed. Agnes Karin, the girl whom he had viewed as his fiancée, had become engaged and was soon married to the nastiest man in the whole district. No one could explain to David how this had happened. He’d been away, that was all, and life simply goes on if you turn your back.

  His father’s farm gradually declined, and it no longer seemed possible to keep it going. As soon as one thing was repaired, something else would fall apart. All the buildings were rickety and ramshackle and on the verge of collapse. And soon all of David’s peers and acquaintances had gone to America.

  He found that he could no longer stay away from Agnes Karin. In the evenings he would find some reason to walk past her house, and if he couldn’t come up with an excuse, he’d simply go over there and stand outside. Agnes Karin would take time to chat with him if Horrible Hans wasn’t around. As David’s mother said on one of the few occasions when she discussed the matter with her son, Agnes Karin seemed happy only when she had the opportunity to talk with him. Otherwise she had become quite solemn and taciturn after marrying.

  So one day when Agnes Karin was pregnant with her second child, it became known that Horrible Hans intended to emigrate. He didn’t share his plan with anyone, but it became widely known nevertheless because he had to go to the county sheriff to get the proper documents. T
wo weeks later the whole family was gone, and their home was left empty. Rumor had it that Horrible Hans wasn’t sure whether this second child was actually his or not, and so he chose to leave rather than live with the shame.

  That’s where the story might have ended if not for a letter that arrived one day from David’s brother, Jonathan, who sent his greetings and wrote that he was living in St. Paul, where he’d found a job with the railroad. There was also something else he wanted to report.

  Six months later the widow Lundgren and her younger son David arrived in the Hollow. Now things reverted to the way they were before, as if nothing had changed. Horrible Hans, Agnes Karin, and their two daughters lived in a little, unpainted house farther down in the Hollow, near the stairs leading up to Seventh Street and surrounded by the Italian and Irish families who lived on both sides of the viaduct and railroad tunnels. Horrible Hans had also brought over his old father, who wasn’t quite right in the head. The man was harmless enough, although he would startle people on those days when he broke into song, singing loudly and off-key.

  Eventually, with the help of his brother, David managed to find various odd jobs working for the Great Northern or Northern Pacific, although the work was temporary and seasonal. But every morning, on his way to the freight depot on Fourth Street or to the coal heap on Third, he headed along a route that took him past Agnes Karin’s house. And he would often stop for a moment, whether anyone was around or not.