Swede Hollow

by Ola Larsmo

  Then they changed streetcars and rode across the Mississippi. Anna peered down at the frothing brown water. Feeling suddenly nervous, she grabbed Gustaf’s arm. She had never been this far away from the Hollow since they’d arrived in the city.

  “We’re all the way over in Minneapolis now,” said Inga with satisfaction. “We’ll be there soon.”

  They got off at Washington Avenue. From there it was only a few blocks’ walk to the park. Lots of people were out—men wearing suit jackets and straw hats, women in light-colored dresses. Many of them also seemed to be on their way to Elliot Park. The gates to the park were visible at the end of the long street, which was lined on both sides with brown, three-story buildings made of stone.

  Inga and Anna lingered behind as Gustaf and the girls hurried on ahead.

  “I didn’t think there’d be so many people,” said Anna, linking arms with her friend. “And I thought most of them would be Swedes.”

  “They probably are,” said Inga. “It’s called Swede Park, after all. But this is my first time here too.”

  Inside the park a swirl of delicate early spring greenery bordered the open area surrounding a trickling fountain.

  “It’s probably green because it’s a little warmer here,” Inga remarked. “The tall buildings offer a different kind of shelter from the wind. Almost like down in the Hollow.”

  They strolled through the shadows of the tall trees closest to the gate. The crowd of people had swelled now that it was afternoon, and even though everyone was conversing as they walked, a peculiar quiet seemed to hover over the park. Wherever Anna turned, she heard voices speaking Swedish. She closed her eyes and for a moment thought she was back home in Sweden. Then she opened her eyes and swiftly blinked away the illusion. She noticed, much to her own surprise, that the feeling of homesickness was gone from her body; in fact, she felt no sense of longing at all. She sat down on a bench, and Inga sat down beside her. Together they watched the sunlight play across the bright green of the lawn, where a few robins had appeared.

  It was starting to get quite warm. The girls had gone off somewhere. Gustaf came over and stood in the shade near their bench. Then he said that he’d take a walk around the park to have a look at things and come back. They were in no hurry, after all.

  Gustaf had often heard his workmates speak of the “Swedish park.” The younger men went there to flirt with the Swedish housemaids who worked in the posher neighborhoods in Minneapolis. But the girls most often “had expensive taste” and usually “nothing ever came of it,” as the men said. Yet some of them continued to go to the park on the weekends. That was where it was possible to meet the most Swedes in one place, and there was a lot to see. And it cost them nothing.

  All around him Gustaf heard the calm murmur of Swedish voices. A little farther along the gravel path he saw a small kiosk surrounded by men in shirtsleeves. When he got closer, he noticed several familiar faces, including Johnson and Lundqvist from the Great Northern. There were others he recognized, though none of them lived in the Hollow. Lundqvist was a foreman who demanded respect, but he was not the worst of the lot. The railroad men knew who Gustaf was and gave him a restrained greeting.

  “Do you like ice cream, Klar?” asked Lundqvist as he stood there, rubbing his handkerchief over his red and sweaty bald pate.

  “I don’t know,” Gustaf replied truthfully. “I’ve never tasted it.”

  “Then it’s about time you did,” said Lundqvist. “Here, it’s my treat.”

  He placed a nickel on the wooden counter, and the girl scooped a white ball of ice cream into a cup made of biscuit.

  “Here you are. You eat the whole cup too,” said Lundqvist, handing it to Gustaf. The cup felt cold in his hand. He looked at the other men standing in a circle around him; some of them he knew, some of them he didn’t. And he felt as if he were undergoing some sort of test, which made him suspicious. Especially the part about eating the cup as well as the ice cream, although it did feel fairly soft to the touch. He took a bite and his mouth turned ice cold. But the ice cream tasted sweet and good, reminding him of porridge with a lot of sugar.

  The other men smiled at his expression, but he still couldn’t determine whether they were merely being sociable and in a cheerful Sunday mood, or whether they were subjecting him to some kind of sly joke. Finally he bit into the biscuit cup. When he was done, he wiped his hands on his pants and thanked Lundqvist for the treat. For a moment no one spoke. Then Lundqvist said, “Are you here on your own, Klar?”

  “No,” said Gustaf. “My wife and children are here too.”

  “Then I think you ought to offer your wife and children some ice cream,” said Lunqvist. “Since they’ve never tasted it before.”

  Gustaf searched his pockets for coins and finally found five cents, which he handed to the girl at the counter in exchange for another cup of ice cream.

  “Best hurry off with that,” said Lundqvist. “It melts fast.”

  Gustaf nodded to the group of men, then turned and left, feeling their eyes on his back. They had not been unfriendly, but he would never be one of them or have access to that mute sense of ease they shared.

  He could feel rather than see the scoop of ice cream melting, so he walked faster, though he had to watch where he was going. Along the path, beneath the trees, he encountered more and more men and women who wore clothes in lighter colors. All of them moved out of his way, though without giving him so much as a glance—the way they might avoid a puddle of water or a patch of mud on the pavement, as their thoughts were on other matters. The men carried walking sticks with silver knobs and the women wore hats. They laughed as they headed in the opposite direction, and Gustaf had to weave his way through the crowd, holding the little, rapidly melting gift in his hand.

  Elisabet was more eager, striding along the gravel path as if she had a clear goal in mind. At first Ellen stayed a few steps behind her sister and walked along with her eyes fixed on the hem of Elisabet’s brown skirt. She wished they’d had nicer clothes to wear. She didn’t want to look up and see everyone else’s lavish Sunday outfits. Elisabet trotted onward until they came to a crossroad, where she stopped to wait for her sister. In the distance they could hear a band playing, though they couldn’t see where the music was coming from. Elisabet stood in the shade, peering across the expanse of lawn.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Ellen.

  “I thought there would be more young people here,” said Elisabet. “There’s supposed to be a dance area somewhere, but I can’t see it.”

  “That must be where the music is coming from,” said Ellen. They looked across the lawn. In the distance they saw a row of five-story buildings towering above the newly budding treetops.

  “Come on,” said Elisabet, cutting across the wide, sunlit space. Ellen followed, wondering whether they were allowed to walk on the grass.

  The music was coming from a small pavilion located on the far side of the park. Lots of people were sitting at the long, white-painted tables that belonged to a little restaurant. A band was playing on the pavilion stage, and below was a simple, eight-sided dance floor made of boards shiny with wear. The young people that Elisabet was hoping to see had gathered at the foot of the pavilion steps. For the moment the dance floor was empty. Now that Elisabet had found the place she was looking for, she suddenly looked shy. She stopped and seemed on the verge of turning around to leave.

  “I have a little money,” said Ellen. “We could buy something.”

  The restaurant served mostly coffee and cookies. They each ordered a glass of lemonade and sat down at the only unoccupied table, which stood in the full glare of the sun. Slowly they sipped their drinks through the red-and-white straws. The sun felt hot, even though it was only April. Ellen vaguely recognized several of the tunes the band played, tunes that her father used to play on his concertina before Carl died.

  Then a few youths who had been hanging around in the pavilion’s shadow came sauntering over to wher
e the girls were sitting. Without asking, a blond boy sat down on the vacant chair. He wore a white shirt with a cheap collar and the sleeves rolled up, and a black waistcoat with a gold chain. He carried his jacket over his arm. His friends strolled around between the restaurant and the pavilion, as if unsure where to go. The boy smiled. He seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen.

  “Samuel is my name,” he said in Swedish. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  His tone was brusque, but he gave them a friendly smile. Ellen thought maybe that was the way people talked here in the park. She told him their names and then added, “This is the first Sunday we’ve come here.” She cast a quick glance at Elisabet, silently telling her, “Don’t say that we’re here with our parents.” But Elisabet had no intention of saying any such thing.

  Samuel said he often came to the park with his friends. He worked for the Twin City Lines, in the streetcar repair shop, but he was soon going to be a conductor. He talked as if he owned the whole park as he sat there with one arm draped over the back of his chair. His friends still kept their distance, as if waiting for something. Ellen drank her lemonade.

  “May I offer you another one?” he said suddenly. Ellen politely declined, but Elisabet nodded and smiled. Ellen glared at her sister, who avoided her eye.

  Samuel came back a minute later with a glass for Elisabet and one for himself. He surreptitiously took out a little pocket flask and added a few drops to his lemonade. When he offered some to Elisabet, she demurely declined, much to Ellen’s relief. He quickly slipped the flask back under the table.

  There was something about the situation that Ellen didn’t understand. Samuel seemed sincere enough, and he hadn’t said or done anything rude. Yet he seemed to be fishing for something, and his friends kept casting glances in their direction.

  She told him that she worked as a seamstress in St. Paul.

  “So you’re not from Bohemian Flats?” said Samuel, studying them through narrowed eyes.

  She had no idea what that was.

  “Is that someplace here in Minneapolis?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Under the bridge. The one you rode across on your way here, if you’re from St. Paul. That’s where a lot of Swedes live.”

  Ellen shook her head.

  “We’re from Swede Hollow,” explained Elisabet, mostly to join in the conversation. “Although we’re actually from Örebro.”

  For some reason this last remark sounded quite funny, and the three of them laughed.

  “I think I’ve heard people talk about the Hollow in St. Paul,” said Samuel. “I suppose the streetcar line goes past it.” He narrowed his eyes again.

  For a moment none of them spoke. The musicians had picked up their instruments, and the sun glinted off the brass, casting strange reflections across the ceiling inside the pavilion. Ellen wondered whether the chain on Samuel’s waistcoat was really attached to a pocket watch, or whether it was merely for show. She considered asking him for the time, just to tease him, but decided not to.

  The band began playing again, this time a simpler waltz melody. Some of the couples sitting at the tables got up and somewhat hesitantly headed for the dance floor.

  “Would one of you ladies care to dance?” asked Samuel, looking them in the eye. Ellen shook her head, but to her surprise Elisabet said yes. Samuel quickly stood up and offered her his arm, and together they stepped onto the dance floor.

  Ellen looked up at the sky at the dazzling sun. Dark spots drifted across her field of vision, and for a moment she had the feeling that she was underwater. This was something that occasionally came over her, also at work. But right now she was neither tired nor hot.

  Suddenly Elisabet was back, looking agitated, her cheeks bright red. She tugged at her sister’s arm. Samuel was nowhere to be seen.

  “Come on, Ellen. I want to leave. Let’s go,” said Elisabet, dragging Ellen out of her chair. “Now.”

  The two girls hurried along the gravel path toward the tree-lined lane. Out of the corner of her eye, Ellen saw that Samuel had rejoined his friends in the shade of the pavilion. They were all looking in their direction. Samuel smiled and pointed. All the boys seemed to be laughing.

  When they entered the shade of the trees, Elisabet calmed down. They slowed their pace and strolled along like all the other Sunday visitors. Elisabet glanced nervously over her shoulder a couple of times.

  “What happened?” asked Ellen at last. Elisabet was holding tightly to her arm, but she didn’t look at her.

  “He grabbed me,” she said. “Several times, even though I told him to stop. And everybody could see what he was doing, but they just laughed. They laughed as if it was funny, even though I told him not to.”

  Slowly they walked down the path toward the gates where they’d left Inga and their parents.

  “That wouldn’t have happened if Leonard was allowed to come with us,” said Elisabet, wiping her nose. But her voice was once again calm. That was how Elisabet was—she never seemed to stay upset for long. It was one of the things that Ellen truly envied about her sister.

  Anna had accepted the cup of ice cream, giving Gustaf a look that was half-amused, half-nervous.

  “I’ve heard that ice cream can make you sick,” she said, looking uncertainly at the melting white lump.

  “No, that’s not true,” said Inga. “They were even starting to sell ice cream in Stockholm before we left, at the big Exhibition. I read about it in the newspaper.”

  Anna hesitantly lifted the ice cream to her lips and cautiously licked it. Then she took a bite and looked up at Gustaf with a smile. “It’s good,” she said. A tiny white streak colored her upper lip, as if she’d been drinking milk. She smiled again, and behind Anna, Inga gave him a big smile.

  The girls approached, walking beneath the shady vault of the trees, two darker patches against all the light. He could tell from far away that they were his daughters, two short figures wearing shawls.

  “Where have you been?” asked Anna, holding the empty biscuit cup in her hand. She didn’t want to eat it.

  “We went over to the dance pavilion,” said Ellen. “But we didn’t really care for it. We wondered whether you’d like to go home soon.”

  “I think we should take a walk around, now that we’re here,” replied Gustaf. Before Anna could say anything, Inga pulled her friend up from the bench and linked arms with her.

  “I’ve heard there’s supposed to be an area in the park with animals,” she said. “Let’s go and have a look at them.”

  Together they walked along the lane on the north side of the park. By now it was late afternoon, and most people were sitting on the benches or at tables that were set with picnic food.

  In the northwest corner of the park they saw a small enclosed pasture with a waist-high fence. The smell of haystacks gusted toward them. Men in shirtsleeves were leaning forward with their elbows propped on a railing as they watched what was going on in the pasture. Three men wearing riding breeches were leading small, fat ponies around and around in a circle. Children sat astride the horses and held tightly to the reins, as if everything depended on maintaining control. Other children were waiting in a long line behind a crude turnstile. Everyone was speaking quietly in Swedish, as if not wanting to disturb the horses, though the animals were perfectly calm and seemed almost bored.

  Inga and Anna stood there, arm in arm, and watched. Then came time for the riders to change. The horses were led forward, and the children were helped down. One of the children who was ready for a turn was a little blond boy about five years old. His father stepped forward to lift him into the saddle and put his feet in the stirrups. Then the ponies began making their rounds again in the pasture. They were tall enough that the children riding them were at eye level with the grown-ups who were watching. The blond boy sat up straight, and he too gripped the reins tightly. When he passed the Klar family, he looked at them with his clear blue eyes and smiled. It was a lovely smile, filled with ant
icipation.

  Gustaf saw Anna turn pale and grip the wooden railing. The big hole in his own chest opened. There he stood, looking down at his hands and wondering how he could endure such an abyss inside him, day after day, through all the daily chores and tasks. An abyss without beginning or end.

  “I think it’s time we go home,” said Anna, almost to herself.

  “Yes,” said Gustaf. “It’s bound to get a bit chilly toward evening, so it’s best we leave.”

  Inga merely nodded. Then they all headed for the park’s tall gates. As they walked up to the streetcar stop on Washington, none of them said a word.

  The next Sunday, for the first time, Anna went with carpenter Nilsson’s family to the First Swedish Baptist Church on Payne Avenue. She did not make much of her decision to accompany them, nor was it something that had suddenly occurred to her. And she didn’t go every Sunday. It was mostly to meet people and to listen to the music. And, as Inga said, it was good for her to get out a bit.

  :: :: ::

  The scream raced up through the stairwell and pierced right through the eternal buzzing insect chorus of the sewing machines. The scream rose and fell in strength but it did not stop. Ellen was deeply immersed in her work, as if she were underwater, inside a warm and closed place where the light was yellow and she consisted of only hands and perfectly straight seams. She heard the scream from a distance through the wall of absence and concentration. Part of her understood at once what had happened but wanted to remain inside the simple world of straight lines stitched through coarse, sheet-white cotton fabric. She recognized all too well the voice that was screaming. And yet she continued to sew.

  Liz poked at her shoulder. “Hey, Ellen, something’s happened to your sister. Downstairs.”