by Ola Larsmo
Many of the men in the Hollow, Swedes and Irishmen alike, made their living by working for the railroad. At dawn they would head out, a flood of gray figures walking up the stairs or through the tunnels, on their way to the engine sheds and workshops operating under the auspices of companies like the Great Northern, the Soo Line, the Chicago, St. Paul, Minneapolis and Omaha, and the Northern Pacific. The names were always pronounced with great solemnity. Just looking at the tracks, it was impossible tell which ones led to which company. But ever since the Klar family had arrived in the Hollow, the sounds of the railroad, the smell of coal smoke, and the sight of steam streaking above the treetops whenever the Duluth train approached had formed a constant backdrop to their everyday activities. Later in life Elisabet would often say that she had a hard time sleeping at night when she could no longer hear the train going past, either close by or off in the distance. The smell of soot and grease and hot metal always clung to Gustaf’s clothes when he came home in the evening. His handkerchief turned black when he blew his nose, and soot had settled deep inside his ear canals.
Gustaf hadn’t talked much about his work after coming to the Hollow. He would set off early each morning, and sometimes he’d bring home a little money the same day. If he was lucky, he’d find an odd job that would last a couple of weeks. But he did say that when spring came he’d get back to building the porch.
On those days when he wasn’t able to earn anything, it seemed as if he’d lost all gumption. One time he gathered his courage and walked all the way over to the bridge that spanned the river to find out if there was work at any of the big steam mills, which operated day and night. But so far no luck. On another day he’d headed for Wacouta Street beyond the railroad area, trying to talk his way into a job at one of the shoe factories. When he came back home, he said it was hopeless. It was just like in New York, except that here you had to speak either Polish or German even to get in the door.
Occasionally people who lived in the Hollow would bring Gustaf shoes that needed repair, and then a sense of calm would come over him as he got out his tools and a shoemaking last that he’d whittled from an old tree root. But there was no money in it because few people in the Hollow could pay cash. Instead, it was a matter of doing the repair as a favor and later receiving a favor in return.
One evening when he’d gone over to the Schulze shoe factory for the third time, Gustaf came home and sat down at the kitchen table. He didn’t even bother to take off his gray work jacket before he started talking to Anna, who stood at the counter with her back turned. She could hear from his tone of voice that he’d been practicing what to say on his way home.
“This is leading nowhere,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about the matter, and it’s leading nowhere.”
He didn’t sound resigned or sad. Anna turned around and looked at her husband. He seemed perfectly calm as he sat there.
“You always have to know somebody,” he went on. “Somebody you’re related to or somebody who comes from the same place. Otherwise you never even get a chance to show what skills you have.”
He paused for a moment and then said, “I talked to a man outside Schulze’s today. He’s German and works there as a cutter. He’s been there for several years now. And he told me what he earns. A dollar a day.”
Gustaf smiled as he said that, then looked down at his hands. “I can make that much working for the Great Northern,” he added.
Anna didn’t want to upset his strangely calm mood, yet she couldn’t help saying, “But you’ve already done a lot of odd jobs for the Great Northern. The work isn’t steady. Do you really think there will be more work when spring comes?”
He thought about this before replying. Then he said, “As I see it, I’ve never seriously been there. Not really.”
Anna didn’t understand. She sat down at the table across from him, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and waited for Gustaf to go on.
“The whole time I’ve been on my way someplace else,” he said. “I wanted to work at a shoe factory, or at the Washburn Mill in Minneapolis. And I thought then we could have moved over there.”
Anna ran her hands over her arms, which Gustaf knew was a sign of nervousness on her part. He raised his hand, as if to counter her uneasiness before it took hold.
“But nothing’s ever going to come of that,” he told her. “Do you know why?” She shook her head. Again he looked down as he gathered his thoughts.
“A dollar a day,” he said. “You can’t earn any more than that, no matter what you do. Even if I got work at Schulze’s or Gotzian’s and was allowed to make shoes, my wages wouldn’t be any higher. One dollar. That’s all I could possibly make. Do you understand?”
He laughed mirthlessly and went on, “I think the foremen at both the Great Northern and the Northern Pacific can tell, just by looking at me. They can see I’m just showing up temporarily, that I’m actually on my way someplace else. And if that’s the case, I won’t get steady work, because they know I may be gone next week. But if I decide to truly be there, to stay right where I am, then they’ll get used to seeing me and they’ll keep me working steadily. Sometimes you have to give the foreman an extra bribe several weeks in a row, but that could be worth it in the long run.”
“Jonathan Lundgren got hired for a permanent job again,” Anna said, noting how strong her voice sounded.
Gustaf nodded.
“And if that Hammerberg boy can get a job, in spite of his youth . . . Well, then.”
He smiled.
“Now I know what I need to do,” he said. He paused for a moment before adding in a completely different tone of voice, “So I think I’ll see about doing something with the porch.” Today he wasn’t feeling worn out. He’d only gone as far as Schulze’s and back, after all. He left the house, closing the door behind him. Anna heard him start to move the boards that had been lying outside in all kinds of weather during the winter and probably weren’t in the best of shape anymore. She got up and went back over to the kitchen counter, not sure what it was she’d been doing. She sighed heavily and looked down at her hands, noticing how they were shaking. I’m still young. I’m still here. But she could feel a sense of calm spreading inside her. Now they knew what direction to take. When she looked out the window, she saw it was still light.
Great Northern Railway, St. Paul
April 1898
WALKING BETWEEN THE ENGINES on the tracks inside the Great Northern’s repair shop was like making your way between two huge prehistoric beasts: they were tall and dark and at the moment silent. But in an instant they might come to life with a loud hissing sound. Gustaf noticed how tense he felt, as if the black iron monsters might suddenly turn on him. In the distance he heard shouts and the ring of metal on metal; the morning light filtered through the glass roof covered with frost. He shivered. Behind him came Jonathan Lundgren. He knew that for the time being this tall, monosyllabic neighbor of his was his ticket to a job.
Farther inside the repair shop, Foreman Lawson was standing on a stool underneath the ladder to the engineer’s cab of one of the locomotives. Gustaf recognized the man from before. He was tall and dark, and he was always chewing tobacco, spitting out brown streams of saliva wherever it suited him. He spoke a rapid-fire English that was hard to follow. Right now Lawson was focused on what sounded like the lead-up to an argument with several shorter men standing around him. Every so often Lawson would shake the sledgehammer he was holding close to his chest. Gustaf and Jonathan moved nearer. Lawson peered down at them. When he caught sight of Jonathan, he said, “Hey, Lundgren, come over here, will you?”
They joined the other men clustered around Lawson, although still keeping a certain distance.
“Lundgren, can you talk some sense into these thick-skulled Irishmen? They’re refusing to work today.”
Jonathan moved closer, and Gustaf went with him, no longer keeping to the background as he would have done only a few days earlier. He recognized some of the men in the gro
up, including the Gavin boy. Standing behind him was his pal O’Tierney, who still had his hand wrapped in a grimy bandage from the big fight the previous week. All the men stared impassively at Jonathan and Gustaf as they approached.
“What’s the problem, Foreman?” asked Jonathan.
“It’s that fool there.” Lawson pointed at O’Tierney. “He can barely even lift a sledgehammer, because he’s only got the use of one hand. The others say they won’t work if I don’t hire him too. So what do you Swedes say? Can you hold a sledgehammer in both hands today?”
Gustaf saw Lundgren’s back stiffen. Then the tall Swede stepped over to Lawson, and the two men leaned close to exchange a few words. The foreman still pressed his sledgehammer to the front of his shirt as he listened. Then he looked up and spat off to the side. “Awright,” he said. But he didn’t look pleased.
Jonathan came back to Gustaf.
“What did you say to him?”
Lundgren glanced at the group of men, now in the process of dispersing.
“I just said that O’Tierney was a real idiot, but Gavin has a newborn son at home and he does good work as long as somebody keeps an eye on him. And if O’Tierney can only work at half- speed, then he can’t expect more than half a day’s wages. It looks like the men went for it. But Lawson wants me to go along with them today. To supervise.”
Gustaf must have given him a surprised look, because Lundgren raised his voice a bit, and for once he seemed annoyed.
“You said you wanted a foot in the door. Well, that’s what we’ve got. Lawson is counting on us.”
Or at least he’s counting on you, thought Gustaf. He offered no objections, but he was not looking forward to standing over O’Tierney and trying to get him to work harder. Gavin had never done him any wrong. On the contrary. Gustaf hadn’t talked to him since arriving in the Hollow, but because they’d traveled on the same ship, they usually greeted each other whenever they met, though without speaking. The Irishman would merely shake his head briefly. Apparently that was how people said hello in Ireland.
“Coming?” said Lundgren. Gustaf lifted his sledgehammer to his shoulder and followed Jonathan outside where a slight wind was blowing. The temperature was still below freezing, but the day was bright, and it wasn’t too slippery. They stayed about thirty feet behind the Irishmen, walking along the track down to the river. They were supposed to break off the coating of ice from the switches and track crossings, which was a significantly easier task at this time of year than even a few weeks earlier.
“Next week you’re on your own,” said Lundgren after a while. “I’m going with the train as far as Grand Forks and back, as a brakeman.”
“All right,” said Gustaf. “Do I dare ask what your pay will be?”
Lundgren smiled. “One dollar,” he said. They laughed and kept on walking behind the dark figures of the Irishmen. The smell of thawing earth hovered in the air.
In the afternoon a squall blew in over the Mississippi. The men took shelter in a grove of alderwood trees but still got soaking wet. The freezing rain formed a coating on the metal, forcing them to go back the same way they’d come to recheck the work they’d already done.
The cold and the damp made all of them work more slowly and put them in a foul mood. Some of the Irishmen passed around a pocket flask, and after a while they grew more talkative. Gustaf couldn’t understand a word they said.
As dusk began to set, he noticed O’Tierney a short distance away, looking like a small insect against the bluish snow as he listlessly bent over a switch and tapped at it with his sledgehammer. He looked like a child playing with grown-up tools, mostly just going through the motions. Gustaf went over and without a word took the sledgehammer from the man’s good hand. Then he swung the hammer three times, hitting the ice so hard that a chunk slid off from the hinge. He handed the hammer back to O’Tierney, who silently accepted it. But the man’s eyes gleamed with hatred from under the wide visor of his cap.
On their way back to the depot, the two Swedes walked side by side with the group of Irishmen ahead of them.
“Watch out for that O’Tierney,” said Lundgren as they neared the barracks. Gustaf was already looking forward to warming his hands in front of the stove in the toolshed.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I was just giving him a hand.”
Lundgren grinned, black spittle dripping between his front teeth.
“I don’t think that’s how he viewed the matter. That man named Gavin told me O’Tierney thinks it’s our fault he’s getting only half a day’s wages today.”
“That’s not true,” Gustaf protested. But Lundgren merely pulled down his cap, too cold to do any more talking, and withdrew into himself.
This time Gustaf took the route through the tunnels, too worn out to take the trouble to go a different way. Lundgren had stayed behind to have a chat with the brakemen on the Fargo line, and Gustaf didn’t feel like waiting for him.
The tunnels were short enough that you could hear if a train was approaching from the other side, so he stopped at the entrance to listen. Both vaults disappeared into the dark, and there wasn’t a sound except for the drip of melting snow and voices up on Seventh Street. So he went in.
O’Tierney was standing just inside the opposite entrance. He jumped out from the wall as if he were a jack-in-the-box, stretching both hands out in front of him. In his good hand he held what looked like a rock from the embankment.
In some sense Gustaf had actually been prepared for this, even before Lundgren warned him. The threat had been building, and it could just as well have been someone else in some other situation: as long as you kept to yourself and stood at the back of the group of gray-clad men and didn’t draw attention, no one would bother you. But if you stepped forward, you could feel everyone else’s gaze stabbing you in the back.
Without a word, O’Tierney ran toward Gustaf. There was no one else around. At that moment he felt something snap inside his head, like when a switch shifts for an approaching train, and the old rage suddenly reappeared in a wave of heat. He stood his ground, and when the shorter man raised his hand holding the rock, he punched him in the face with all his might, sending him flying into the wall. Before O’Tierney could collect himself, Gustaf grabbed the collar of his jacket and slammed his head against the stone wall. Twice. That was enough. O’Tierney went limp in his arms. He lowered him down next to the tunnel wall until the Irishman was practically reclining at his feet. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the tunnel on the side facing the Hollow.
When he stepped out into the twilight, he heard off in the distance the whistle of the Duluth train somewhere beyond the Hamm brewery. He spun around and dashed back into the dark.
O’Tierney was still out. Even though the man was lying a short distance away from the tracks, Gustaf pictured how he might regain consciousness and do something reckless at the very moment when the train passed through. And then all the old blackness would be stirred up again and descend once more on both him and his family.
Gustaf bent down, grabbed the smaller man under the armpits, and quickly dragged him toward the tunnel entrance. O’Tierney’s boots bounced against the railroad ties, and the man struggled helplessly in his grasp as he began to come to.
Gustaf dropped him in the snowdrift next to the tunnel entrance. O’Tierney rolled over, muttering something into the black snow. Gustaf wondered if the Irishman was pretending to be more groggy than he really was in order to avoid a further beating. Then Gustaf straightened up and left.
The train passed by with its usual sudden burst of wind. The smoke was sucked down into the tunnel entrance, and for a brief time Gustaf was swathed in an eye-stinging haze. He looked up at the illuminated windows of the train cars, catching sight of people holding their suitcases and waiting to get off—gentlemen in dark suits and women wearing hats, all of them focused on their impending encounter with the new city. None of them looked out the window.
The Tragic Story of
Agnes Karin, David, and Horrible Hans, As Found in the Court Records of the Blue Earth County Courthouse, Mankato, Minnesota
1898–99
NOBODY KNEW WHAT HAD REALLY HAPPENED until the police came back and began asking questions. Nobody was even sure where David Lundgren had gone, only that he’d left for “work.” Plenty of men did that, and a good deal of time might pass before they were heard from again.
If anyone in the Hollow had read the newspapers on a more regular basis, they might have found out much earlier what had happened. But only occasionally did they have access to any papers, and then only issues of the Svenska Amerikanska Posten that were several days old. And then the articles that were of greatest interest described events from back home in Sweden. It was mostly elderly people who bothered to read newspapers at all.
Then one morning the police arrived at the widow Lundgren’s place, wanting to talk to both her and Jonathan, although he’d already left for work. Again it was Constable Olsson who was sent, and this time he sat down at the widow’s kitchen table and took off his cap. After a while Mrs. Lundgren decided she wanted Inga to come over and join them. Not because she didn’t understand what the constable was saying—he was born in Kalmar and still spoke good Swedish—but because she was feeling so upset.
When Inga arrived she found Olsson sitting at the table, sweating in his buttoned-up uniform, his hair plastered to his head. She realized at once that the constable was just as liable to tell them what had happened as he was to ask questions, so she kept quiet and let him carry on at his own pace.
Had David been in touch with his mother and brother? The widow shook her head, and Inga interjected that they hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d left, but the constable could ask Jonathan if he knew anything. News traveled faster via the railroad. But Jonathan was somewhere along the line, maybe even as far away as Minot in North Dakota, and he wasn’t expected back until Friday.