Swede Hollow

by Ola Larsmo

  Now, up ahead, Johnston the engine driver sounded two signals, which meant he was ready for departure; the train had probably been standing still for only five minutes. Wide awake at last, Leonard straightened up and released the brake with three swift turns. Slowly the train began to move, but he stayed up on the roof for a little longer. He ought to climb down before the train picked up speed, which would make it dangerous to hang on to the side of the careening freight car. Not that he couldn’t handle it, but he might be reprimanded for carelessness. Yet he stayed where he was on the swaying roof, holding his arms out to keep his balance, and feeling the wind tug at his jacket as the morning sun slowly rose above the prairie landscape, so green and desolate. Without beginning, without end.

  II

  OLA VÄRMLÄNNING WAS A YOUNG MAN who seemed to be all alone in the world. Those who had met him described him as tall with a mop of blond hair, broad shoulders, and a big, winning smile. As his name would indicate, he was from Värmland in Sweden. He had also explained where he came from to many of the older people in the Hollow who had actually known him. But if anyone asked these people for more details, they would give differing replies. They might say that Ola Värmlänning was a pastor’s son from a village outside Karlstad; or that he was the son of a log driver who drowned in the Klar River, causing Ola’s mother to die of grief, so that orphaned at a young age Ola had decided to try his luck in America. Ola was also said to be the illegitimate son of a nobleman, perhaps even of royal blood, who had stayed at the main hotel in Kristinehamn and there took a liking to one of the waitresses. It was also said that Ola had managed to graduate from the Karlstad secondary school, and a number of people claimed to have seen him wearing an old and dirty graduation cap. Ola may have even begun divinity studies at Uppsala University, though he was forced to leave town abruptly after getting mixed up in some sort of trouble.

  No matter. Here in the States, he had no family and no possessions other than what seemed to be a boundlessly cheerful disposition and occasionally a goodly sum of money that would be gone the next day. He had apparently lived off and on in the Hollow, though never for very long at a time, yet folks were always talking about him as if he’d been there quite recently. He was big and strong and he’d get sudden bursts of energy that prompted him to do the work of three men in just one day. But he could also be sluggish, with hardly enough oomph to swat away a fly that had landed on his nose. It was said that he’d built at least three of the houses down in the Hollow, and they did look as if they’d been hastily slapped together. People also said that he had single-handedly built the stairs up to Seventh Street in a week. (But an elderly carpenter by the name of Jansson declared that wasn’t true. He claimed, on the contrary, that all the men in the Hollow had joined forces after yet another wagon accident occurred in the Drewry Tunnel up toward Beaumont Street. It had taken the men the greater part of the winter to build those stairs.)

  Yet there was one thing on which everyone agreed. It was the fact that Ola enjoyed drinking. And that may have been the reason why he finally left the Hollow, because it was located so close to the big Hamm Brewery. As he supposedly said, “All it took was a glance in the window to make a man thirsty.” No one knew for sure where Ola had gone. But if anyone talked to Swedes from other parts of the city or from Minneapolis, they all knew who Ola Värmlänning was. He seemed to have been everywhere.

  One of the stories that was still told had to do with his unquenchable thirst. This was during the time when the police were still sending constables down to the Hollow on patrol. On several occasions they had found it necessary to take Ola Värmlänning to the station to sober him up. He always went along amiably, and no one could fault his cheerful temperament.

  One night a constable whom Ola considered to be a personal acquaintance came down to the Hollow. He asked Ola a bit harshly if he’d “thought better of things” yet. Ola said that he had. He’d done his best to get hired for various jobs, since people had told him that a strong young man didn’t need to be idle in this country. And now he’d managed to combine two things he needed most by getting a job at the Hamm Brewery up on the hill. Constable Johnson must have looked dubious. In order to convince him, Ola had invited the policeman to visit him on the job, though he only worked at night.

  It’s hard to say whether Ola Värmlänning had counted on Johnson actually taking him up on the offer, but the very next night the constable happened to come up from the Hollow, and sure enough he found Ola at the Hamm Brewery’s loading dock just below Minnehaha Street. He was busily rolling barrels up a plank and into a wagon bed. Behind him the door to the brewery stood open with a big, rusty key sticking out of the lock. When Ola caught sight of the policeman, his face lit up and he offered a hearty greeting, saying it was good that the constable had arrived at that moment because he found himself in an awful fix. Johnson said it was good to see he’d got a real job and that he was working hard. Then Ola explained that he’d been hired on a trial basis, and if he didn’t finish loading everything before they came to get the wagon, he couldn’t expect to be taken on permanently. “So you’re here alone?” said Johnson suspiciously. “Yes,” said Ola. “The others disappeared and left me on my own. They’re all German and they stick together. So I assume they’re now putting me to the test, and if I don’t get the job done, it will be just one more proof that we Swedes are as lazy as they say we are.”

  This last remark annoyed Johnson, who was born in the Swedish region of Skövde. He asked Ola whether he needed any help. “That’s terribly kind of you, Constable,” replied Ola in his broad Värmland dialect. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you if you have something else to do, but a little help would be much appreciated.”

  Together they rolled the last barrels into the wagon bed. Ola thanked Johnson profusely. Then, just as the constable was about to continue on his way up toward the street, Ola said morosely, “Of course, now all I have to do is get the wagon over to the Drewry Tunnel, because they’ll be bringing horses to get it at five in the morning.”

  “You mean you’re going to roll the loaded wagon down the hill all by yourself?” asked Constable Johnson in disbelief.

  “Yes,” said Ola, scratching his head. “You see, I boasted about how strong I am. I think that’s probably why I got the job.” And then he added, “Though I’m not German, just a dumb Swede.” That riled Johnson again, so he set his helmet and billy club down on the loading dock. Together, and with great difficulty, the two men pushed the wagon filled with clattering barrels down the hill. It was a strenuous task, but finally the wagon was in place on the little turnaround area right beside the brewery tunnel entrance. Ola set rocks under the wheels and shook the constable’s hand so hard it felt as if Johnson’s arm would come loose inside his sleeve. “That was unbelievably generous of you, Constable,” said Ola. “And I wish I could offer you something to drink, but these are not my barrels.”

  “That’s all right, Ola,” said Johnson, now soaked with sweat. “I’ll be happy as long as you behave yourself and hold on to your job.”

  Ola followed the constable back up to the loading dock and watched as the man put on his helmet and stuck his billy club in his belt. He waved his cap until the policeman disappeared up the street. Then he put the big key back under the rock where it had been placed by the German worker who was the last to leave for the day, hiding it a bit carelessly so the shaft stuck out. Ola left the key exactly as he’d found it. Then he walked down the hill to where they’d parked the wagon, not far from the low, sagging building of Lame Lotta’s illicit saloon. From there it was an easy matter to roll the barrels the remaining distance to her back door. The old woman was waiting, and she gave Ola a considerable reward for his efforts. The wagon was left where it was. But Ola took one of the barrels with him to his simple home right next to Phalen Creek. He carried it on his back, since he was a big and strong young man. He was so happy that he whistled as he walked, although he did so quietly, because he really didn’t wish
to disturb anyone.

  St. Paul Daily Globe

  MANY SORE THROATS

  Diphtheria, Typhoid and Scarlet Fever Are Prevalent Among Schoolchildren

  IN FIRST AND FIFTH WARDS

  If Disease Spreads There Is Danger of Two Schools Being Closed—Mostly Mild Types.

  Between diphtheria, typhoid fever and scarlet fever, St. Paul is troubled with an epidemic that threatens, if continued, to close at least two of the city schools. Of diphtheria alone it is estimated that St. Paul is now harboring at least 150 full-fledged cases, while typhoid is a close second. Unless it is diphtheria, none of the cases is confined to any one particular district, being scattered all over the city. As for diphtheria, however, the First and Fifth wards seem to be the most seriously affected, fully one-half of the cases being confined to these two districts.

  Fortunately, however, yet in a manner preventing what should be a complete quarantine, is the fact that the majority of the cases are of a mild type, a sore throat and a light fever, which passes away after a few days of home treatment, being the extent of the symptoms. As a rule, the family physician is not called in, and the children affected continue to go to school, with the result that the disease is given a chance to spread.

  Of those afflicted with typhoid and scarlet fever, few fatalities have so far been reported. Like the epidemic of diphtheria, the cases are mild and yield readily to home treatment.

  As a precautionary measure, strict watch is being kept by all the teachers on the schoolchildren, and the least symptom revealing the presence of any of these three diseases results in the sending of the children affected to their homes without delay. Weekly visits are also made by the health inspectors, and suspicious cases investigated.

  Swede Hollow

  April 1902

  THE SNOW RETREATED FIRST from the higher areas. The ground between the trees on the slope was now almost completely brown and gray, covered with mud, trash, and last year’s withered leaves. At the very top, between the bare branches, Anna could see the chimneys of the Hamm mansion. She’d never been up there, but everybody said it was a stately house made of brick. Because the watchdogs ran loose in the yard, no one dared get too close. Looking farther down toward the creek, she saw that the ground still gleamed white between the gray roofs of the houses. And in the very center of her view, the water was a brownish-black streak. The creek never froze completely in the wintertime; the current merely flowed tirelessly between wider or narrower borders of ice. In a month’s time it would be hidden behind the leafy crowns of the trees.

  Anna couldn’t look down at the creek without thinking of death. She found herself turning away or avoiding even a glance at the water if possible, trying to pretend that it simply wasn’t there. And yet the creek ran right through her world.

  If anyone had asked her, she might have said that it was as if death had cut off a piece of her soul. That’s how she thought of it, even though she realized that was a childish sort of image: her soul as a round loaf of bread from which someone had removed a big, wedge-shaped chunk. She thought about his death and felt nothing. It had all been cut off and there was nothing left to feel. Inga had patiently listened to her explanation and then said, “It will probably all come back to you sometime in the future. And then it will hurt. But maybe the present situation is actually merciful. People don’t feel something until they’re able to endure it. And right now you have other things to think about.”

  Anna thought Inga was right. A year had now passed. She still avoided looking at the water, even though he hadn’t drowned. But that’s how the illness was carried, from the brown water that stank so badly in the summertime. Various thoughts crept closer from the edges of her mind. Recently a memory that verged on a daydream had come back to her: she saw Carl come running down the slope through the trees, his cheeks rosy, on a spring day like this one, warm and happy. He’d been sitting on her lap while she untangled the laundry line. But after running, his cough had slowly come back until he curled up in agony.

  A stab of pain. An ache as if from a never-healed wound. And she wrapped her arms tighter around her under the heavy black shawl she still wore. The widow Lundgren had said she looked like one of the Irish women from the low houses down by the viaduct, but Anna didn’t care. It was the only black garment she owned. Maybe the elderly Irish women were still mourning the fact that they’d left their homeland behind. She didn’t know why they dressed the way they did, but she’d never given it much thought. Whenever she draped her black shawl over her shoulders and pulled it tight, she was allowed to settle into her silence undisturbed.

  Maybe this was how it would be for the rest of her life. On days like today, when she thought that she’d finally recovered, that she’d become reconciled to what had happened, he would again come running through the trees, warm and alive, and come over to sit on her lap in the evening sun. There they would sit together, sharing a brief moment of silence, and everything was as it should be until the autumn again arrived. Better then to keep her gaze averted from the sorrow, knowing that it was there, just beyond her field of vision.

  The other image that sometimes appeared to her was the sight of Gustaf holding the coffin on his lap. They had gone by wagon to the Oakland Cemetery, since the Swedish Lutheran Church did not have its own graveyard. The whole way there, Anna and the girls had sat together on the seat across from Gustaf. He had made the coffin himself, and there was nowhere else to put it, so he held it on his lap. He wore the dark suit he had borrowed from Jonathan Lundgren. The coffin was so small. In Anna’s memory, Carl had seemed much bigger. As if death caused a person to shrink. She recalled how her own mother, who had died when Anna was only eight, had seemed so much smaller as she lay in her coffin.

  People had been saying for years that it was not a good idea for the privies to be situated over Phalen Creek. Someone who had read an article aloud from the Swedish newspaper had used words like sanitary nuisance and disease-ridden gully and added that people should not be dumping all manner of rubbish directly into the creek. Personally, they’d said it was worse for those who lived downstream, thinking especially of the Irish. But during the previous year, the spring floods ran high. For three days in a row, foaming brown water came rushing down through the valley, rising into torrential currents in the middle of the creek bed. And it was easy to see that it wasn’t just the residents of the Hollow who had dumped their waste into the water; many of those living upstream had done the same thing. The force of the current carried off all the trash on that day—and even a few outhouses vanished during the night. Some boys were sent to find where the privies had gotten caught downstream and then carry them back, which they did, except for a smaller one that disappeared altogether, presumably ending up in the Mississippi River. At first Anna had thought this was good, as if the spring had done its own spring cleaning. But when the creek stopped rushing madly along, big pools were left behind in depressions between the houses, and the stagnant water soon began to smell. The first flies of the year hatched, hovering in clouds above the pools and swarming inside the homes. They were everywhere.

  During one warm spring week, a terrible stench permeated the Hollow. Then it was gone. Anna wasn’t sure that was where the illness had come from; in fact, she’d heard it could only be passed from one person to another.

  There was no struggle, and when she thought back on that time, it seemed to have happened very fast. One evening Carl came in as usual, but he didn’t want any food. She coaxed him to eat just a little. Mostly he was thirsty. In the middle of the night he woke up whimpering, and there was nothing she could say to soothe him. He was coughing and sweaty with fever. The next day and night he began breathing as if he had a grater stuck in his throat, and no one in the family slept much during the week his illness lasted. He refused to eat anything and kept saying his throat hurt. He would drink lots of water and then vomit it up.

  A doctor actually came to see them, unsummoned. During the epidemic that was raging, h
e’d been tasked to visit homes in all parts of the city, neighborhood by neighborhood, and the last place he went to was the Hollow. The doctor was quite young, but his face was furrowed and there were big bags under his eyes. He quickly examined Carl, who lay very still, soaked with sweat. Then he had a brief chat with Gustaf in English, saying bluntly that things didn’t look good, and that it was important to continue to get the boy to drink as much water as possible, even though he knew it was difficult now that the disease had progressed so far. He also said that the girls should be kept away from their brother, so they could move in with Inga for a few days. Then the doctor spoke of a vaccination against the sickness, and he said the girls might be able to get inoculated at their school. But Anna had read in the Swedish paper about the girls in Chicago who had died from lockjaw after getting the shot, so she refused to hear any more talk of the matter. Then came the night when she listened and listened in the dark to Carl breathing, with longer and longer gaps between breaths until at last there was only silence. And she screamed.