Unto a Good Land (54 page)

It was a warm, sunny spring day when Ulrika was baptized in the St. Croix River. The following Saturday she was married in the little whitewashed wooden church in Stillwater and became Mrs. Reverend Henry O. Jackson.

She was the first Swedish bride in the St. Croix Valley. She was to be the mother of a flock of children, the founder of a fine new family; a strong, enduring family: One day her great-grandchildren would speak of their descent from the noble family of Västergöhl in Sweden, whence their female ancestor a hundred years earlier had emigrated.

XXV

“AT HOME” HERE IN AMERICA—“BACK THERE” IN SWEDEN

—1—

The sun’s arc climbed, the days lengthened, but the evenings had not yet begun to lighten. The sun departed, darkness came in its place, but no twilight under a pale heaven lingered over the earth. Kristina waited: Spring was as yet only beginning.

April came and brought sun-warm days to the shores of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga, but the evenings remained almost as dark as in winter. Kristina still waited.

And when at last she realized her waiting was futile, her thoughts wandered to a land where the evenings in spring were light.

After the many chores which each day fell to her with their unchanging sameness, her body was tired as she lay down on her bed in the evening. But her mind and soul would not rest, she lay awake with her thoughts. Outside the small log-house windows the night was dark, but she lay with her eyes wide open and gazed into the darkness where nothing could be seen.

As spring progressed, with darkness still prevailing, her sleepless hours increased. She still gazed through the darkness—toward that land where evenings were light in spring.

Memories reawakened, images stood clear. She and her sisters sat “twilighting” at the window; they used to delay lighting the candles, by the light of the spring evening they would sit talking in hushed voices to each other. They never spoke aloud at “twilighting”—the gathering dusk of an April evening called for whispered talk. Outside by the gable the great rosebush brushed against the window, with its tender green growth and swelling buds. Later in summer the roses would be out, and then the bush would cover the whole window with its fragrant blooms. Against the evening sky the young Astrachan apple tree stood out clearly—she had planted it herself as a companion for the lonely rosebush. Each autumn she had dug around the little tree; it had carried its first apples the last fall they were at home—big juicy apples with transparent skin; how many times she had gone out just to look at the apples; and how delicious they had been.

Would her apple tree bloom this spring? Would it bear apples in the fall? And would there be gooseberries on the bushes she had planted against the cellar wall? Those berries were as big as thumbs, and dark red when ripe; their taste was sweet as sugar.

A year had passed since the April evening she had said good-by to her parents and sisters at the gate of her childhood home. She—the departing one—had stood outside the gate, they—whom she would part from—had stood inside. Her mother had said: “Don’t forget, our dear daughter, we want to meet you with God.” Her father had stood bent against the gatepost, he said nothing, he stood with his face turned away, holding on to the post as if seeking support.

She had left, and they had remained; never more in this world would she see them.

That evening had been light, one whole long twilight that still lit her way home on sleepless nights. . . . It had rained during the day, but cleared toward evening. There had been a spring fragrance over black fields and green meadows as she walked away from the farm where she was born.

And since that evening a year had completed its cycle, the year’s great wheel had made a complete turn and carried her far away in the world, thousands of miles away. She had emigrated and now she lived so far away that only her thoughts could carry her back. Here she lay in her bed, next to her husband, in her new home, and peered into the darkness, looking for the land where the evenings were light in spring.

She traveled the way back, she traversed the great waters and the immense stretches of land. She retraced the road that separated her from her old home. She could see that road in her mind, bit by bit, mile by mile. And the mile she remembered at home was a long mile, six times as long as the American mile, it took her two or three hours to walk it. And as she gazed into the dark outside the cabin window she felt the distance increase a thousand times. She measured mile after mile, she counted as she traveled, ten, twenty, thirty . . . until she tired of her journey, and yet she had retraveled so small a part. Her thoughts would never reach the thousand-mile mark, her journey must end, the immense distance stifled her imagination. And after a while she grew dizzy, her tired eyes vainly penetrating the darkness—she was unable to fathom the road that separated her from her homeland.

That road she would never again travel.

Longing for home gripped Kristina in its vise more forcibly as spring came with no twilight. And the evening hours when she lay awake became the time of day she most feared.

—2—

What was the matter with Kristina? What did she long for? Didn’t she live here, have her home here—wasn’t she at home? How could she long for home when she was already at home?

Karl Oskar had said,
“Here at home
on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga I’ll build a large house next time!”
Here at home
—but she felt as though she were away, as though she were in a foreign place. She always said,
“Away here in America—back home in Sweden”
So she thought, so she spoke. But this was not right, and her saying it wasn’t right, when her home would be here forever. She should say just the opposite, exchange the countries: This was home, Sweden was away.

And she tried, she tried to think and say the opposite. She said to herself: At home here in America—back there in Sweden. She repeated this, again and again. Her mouth learned to say it, but her heart wouldn’t accept it. Next time, she forgot herself, again she used the words
back home—away here.
Something inside her refused the change, something she could not force. She still thought and talked as she had when she first arrived. She could not make the countries change place—back home would always remain
home
to Kristina.

What
was
the matter with her? Kristina put the question to herself, and Karl Oskar too asked her. Nothing was the matter with her, she answered. Did she lie when she said this? Did she speak the truth? She was satisfied with her lot here, she complained of nothing; she had husband and children with her, they were all in good health, they had their sustenance, everything essential, everything they needed to sustain life. They could forget their temporary inconveniences, finding comfort in the good promises the future held out for them in the new land.

Kristina lacked nothing, yet she missed something. It was hard to understand.

What did she miss? What did she long for? Why did she lie awake so long in the evenings thinking about the rosebush and the Astrachan tree at home in Duvemåla? Did she miss the bushes and trees of the home village? There were enough bushes and trees and plants growing around their new home, they grew more profusely than in Sweden, and they bore quantities of fruit and berries, much richer fruit than the trees and bushes in Sweden. She should be well satisfied with all the good things here.

Why did she long so for home? Perhaps it was weakness, a softness in her. Perhaps some childishness remained in her, had remained in her too long: When she had been a married woman, mother of several children, she had secretly put up a swing in the barn and gone there to play. That had been childish. And now it was childish of her to think of rosebushes and trees she had planted in her parental home—to regret that she never again would taste apples from her tree, never see her rosebush bloom outside the gable.

Now she was a grown woman—and she wanted to be a grown woman, she did not wish Karl Oskar to see how childish and weak she was, she did not want to act like a silly girl. That was why she hadn’t confided in him. Not a single human being knew what stirred within her as she lay awake these spring nights in her bed.

It was only natural that she longed to see her loved ones, that she missed the life she had been born into and bred up in. Everything focussed in those clear pictures of home—the apple tree and the rosebush in the twilight, all that her longing made vivid in the dark: the family gatherings, familiar customs and ways, the Sundays on the church green, spring and autumn fairs, the year’s festivities and holidays, the seasons in the farm-year cycle. Here in the wilderness all was different, here people had other customs, and she lived like a bewildered stranger among people whom she could not reach with her tongue, and who could not reach her with their own speech.

She saw the sunshine, the light of the moon, and the stars in the heavens—it was the same sun, the same moon, and stars she had seen at home. The heavenly lights had accompanied her on her emigration and shone on her here. They were lit at home too and shone over the people she had left behind. Sun, moon, and stars revealed to her that though she was in a foreign land she still shared the firmament with those at home. But she was away, and she would remain away. In this country she would live out the rest of her allotted days, few or many, broken soon or stretching into late old age. Here she would live, here she would die, here she would lie in her grave.

And this was the way it was with Kristina: she could not reconcile herself to the irrevocable. She had emigrated for life, yet it seemed she was still on a journey that would eventually bring her home again.

And night after night she lay awake and measured the road she never again would journey.

—3—

During daylight her chores occupied her thoughts, in the daytime she could defend herself. But when she lay wide awake at night, waiting for sleep to engulf her, she was open and unprotected; and then longing and sorrow stole over her. Her evening prayer sometimes brought calm to her mind and helped her go to sleep. Karl Oskar always went to sleep immediately, usually as soon as his head hit the pillow, and often she said her prayer after he had gone to sleep; she wanted only God to hear her.

One evening she made an addition to her usual prayer: She prayed God that He might once more let her see her home and her loved ones. For God nothing was impossible: If He wanted to, He could stretch out His omnipotent arm and move her from North America back to Sweden.

Afterward she lay awake; in her thoughts she was with those at home sitting “twilight.” No, her evening prayer did not always help her.

She felt Karl Oskar’s hand on the quilt, slowly seeking hers. “Kristina . . .”

“I thought you were asleep, Karl Oskar.”

“Something wakened me. Maybe a screechhopper.”

“There is no hopper in here tonight.” She must have wakened him saying her prayer. “Have you been awake long?”

“No. Just a little while.”

She hoped he hadn’t heard her prayer.

His hand had found hers: “What is the matter with you, Kristina?”

“Nothing. Nothing is the matter with me. Go back to sleep!”

But her voice was thick and disturbed, so sad that it troubled him. Her voice denied the words she uttered. Her voice said: Yes, there is something wrong. Don’t go to sleep, Karl Oskar! Stay awake and help me!

And she was afraid he might hear her voice rather than her words.

“But why do you lie awake this late?” he persisted.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s silly and childish. . . .”

She wanted to be strong, as strong and hardy as he.

“Are you—sad? Is something wrong, Kristina?”

“No . . . I don’t know how to explain. . . .”

He gripped her hand in his own big, hard hand. “Aren’t we friends, the best of friends, as before?”

“Yes, Karl Oskar, of course.”

“But then you must tell me everything. If you fight something, I might help you. Good friends help each other.”

She did not answer.

A silence fell between them.

Then he said—and his words were firm and determined: “If you want God’s arm to move you back, then I’ll hold you here with my arm!”

He meant what he said. So, not only God had heard her this evening.

“Yes. Now you know, Karl Oskar.” She said this with a slow, hesitating sigh. Then she added: “There isn’t much more to say. It was a childish wish that came over me as I said my prayer.”

“I began to wonder that time last fall when you cried at the housewarming party. Since then I have wondered how things stood with you. And lately I’ve felt you don’t like it here. You’re brooding.”

“I like it here. It isn’t that. I don’t know myself what it is. I’ll tell you, and let me hear what you think. . . .”

And suddenly she wanted to confide in her husband, she wanted him to know and understand. It was painful for her to keep such a thing as this a secret, it wore on her mind to suffer a sorrow which she had to hide every moment, had to hide even from her own husband. And hadn’t she and Karl Oskar been joined together in order to lighten life’s burdens for each other, to comfort each other in trouble? Shouldn’t he know why she lay awake nights, what she thought of and played with in her imagination—that she traveled the road back home, bit after bit, mile after mile?

Now he must have the whole explanation: She was not dissatisfied with their new home, or their new country. She felt as he did: They would improve themselves and find security here, if health remained and they managed to struggle through a few hard years. But one country could not be like another country. America could never become Sweden to her. She could never bring here what she missed from childhood and youth in the homeland. She was only twenty-six, and when she thought of all the coming years out here, all the years left of her life, this unexplainable pain stole over her and kept her awake. Only lately had she understood what it meant to move for life. It was something for a soul to ponder. And so at last, this evening, she had prayed for help from the Almighty’s arm—wouldn’t He stretch it out. . . . Yes, that was all.