Until We Reach Home (17 page)

“I believe that dinner will be served around six o’clock,” Mrs. Bjork said.

“H-how will I pay for all of this?”

“Oh, you don’t have to pay. Everything is provided for you, free of charge. In fact, the cost is billed to the shipping company that transported you here. It’s up to them to make sure that all of the passengers they transport to America are in good health. If someone is refused admission to the country, then the steamship line has to pay for their transportation home.”

“Could that happen? Could they send us home again?”

“If you or your sisters fail the health inspection, then yes. You will be sent home on the next available ship.”

Sofia stared at Mrs. Bjork, uncertain how she felt about this news. Hadn’t she been begging to go home? But the thought of traveling back all that way made her feel exhausted. Fear chased through her when she recalled how sick Elin had looked. What if she and Kirsten died? What would Sofia do then? Everyone else in her family had died except Nils—and he may as well be dead, too, for all anyone knew. He had never written to tell them where he was or what had happened to him.

“Will my sisters get well?” she asked Mrs. Bjork. She was afraid to ask if they might die. “How bad is this disease they might have?”

“I’m not a physician, Miss Carlson, but I will find out for you. I’ll come back in a day or two, when I have more information. Is there someone we should notify about the delay? Someone here in America who is waiting for you to arrive?”

“Yes—my Uncle Lars in Chicago.”

“If you have his address, I can help you send a telegram to him.”

Sofia had to stop and think. Elin had been taking care of them all this time, making all of the decisions and arrangements. Sofia had paid no attention to any of the details and had no idea where Chicago even was, much less where their uncle lived. But she suddenly remembered that Elin had left her bag behind when the nurses took her away. In fact, the bag was growing very heavy in her arms. She set all three bags on the floor and crouched down to search through Elin’s. She found her uncle’s name and address in the packet with their tickets.

“Here it is . . . but I don’t know how to send a telegram.”

“I will send it for you.”

“How much does it cost?” Again Sofia realized how dependent she had been on Elin. She had behaved like a child when she was nearly an adult.

“The Swedish Immigrant Aid Society will cover the cost of the telegram for you. That’s our job—to help travelers like you.”

“Thank you,” Sofia said as the woman copied down the information. “And tell the society thank you, too.”

“You’re welcome. Now, since it is such a lovely spring day, I’ll show you where you can get some fresh air and a little exercise.”

Sofia followed her through a doorway to an outdoor courtyard. She could see the river beyond a retaining wall and the city of New York in the haze on the other side.

Mrs. Bjork turned to Sofia to say good-bye. “I must leave you now, Miss Carlson. I know that waiting is difficult, but you will be safe here, and all your needs will be provided for. I’ll see you again in a day or two.”

She left Sofia standing all alone.

The three satchels were growing heavy in Sofia’s arms. She walked across the courtyard to an empty bench and sank down, dropping the bags at her feet. Hundreds of strangers surrounded Sofia, but as she studied them for several minutes, she saw that they looked frightened and bewildered and lonely, too. Only a few of them had someone to talk to who understood their language.

Sofia couldn’t bear the thought of spending the rest of her life all alone this way. If Elin and Kirsten did die, then maybe she should just jump into the river and die, too. Wasn’t that what Papa had done? Maybe he had felt this aching loneliness after Mama died. And maybe he’d felt this relentless fear. Maybe it had hounded him, too.

Please, Jesus, I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared, and I need your help.

She drew a deep breath and decided to open Mama’s Bible at random again. If it talked about dying again, then that would be her answer: She would jump into the river and end her life. She pulled out the Bible, closed her eyes, and pushed her finger between the pages. For a long moment, she was afraid to look. But when she finally opened her eyes, her finger was pointing to Psalm 66:
Shout with joy to God, all the earth! Sing the glory of his name; make his praise glorious!

Tears blurred Sofia’s vision. She had loved to sing back home in Sweden. People in church had raved about her beautiful voice and had begged her to sing for them. Hadn’t Elin said just this morning that she’d missed Sofia’s songs?

Sing the glory of his name. . . .

Sofia hadn’t felt joyful for a long, long time. How did God expect her to sing?

She read a little more of the psalm:
For you, O God, tested us . . . you brought us into prison and laid burdens on our backs.
That was where Sofia was now—in prison, held captive on this island all alone.
You let men ride over our heads; we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance.
She read the last phrase a second time. Was that a promise? Would God really lead her to a place of abundance where she would sing for joy again?

She closed the Bible, then closed her eyes, numbed by all the emotions she had endured.
Please help me, Jesus,
she prayed.
Please, please help me. . . .

Chapter Fifteen

A
SUDDEN MOVEMENT
awakened Sofia. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and now a man was sitting on the bench beside her. She gasped and sprang to her feet, but the stranger stood, too, spreading his hands and shaking his head as he babbled in another language. She could see that he was apologizing for disturbing her and telling her to sit down again. He would go away. Sofia glanced around at the crowded courtyard. All of the other benches were taken.

Elin would not want her to sit beside a strange man. She had worried endlessly whenever Kirsten spent time alone with strangers on the boat. But Sofia felt so desolate that she didn’t care what happened to her. Hadn’t she just contemplated jumping into the river?

“No, it’s all right,” she told the man. “You may sit here with me.” She moved to the far side of the bench, making room for him, then patted the seat, gesturing for him to sit.

He nodded and sank down wearily, sweeping off his hat and holding it on his lap. “
Danke, Fraulein,
” he said. Sofia thought he might be speaking German. His deep-set eyes were an unusual shade of golden brown, but they looked kind. He began talking to her in a low, soothing voice as if pouring out his story.

“I’m sorry,” Sofia said when he finally paused. “I don’t understand you. My sisters and I are from Sweden. We were on our way to Chicago, but Elin and Kirsten got sick and had to go to the hospital, and—”

She stopped. Should she tell this stranger all about her family? But what difference did it make? He probably couldn’t understand a word she said, either. And it did feel good to talk to someone. She had barely spoken to Elin and Kirsten for days, and now she was sorry for acting so moody and sullen. “I would give anything to have my sisters back and to be able to talk to them,” she said aloud.

He started speaking again as if they could understand each other perfectly, and his soft deep voice soothed her. She looked up at him, wanting him to know how much she appreciated his company, wishing she could make him understand what she was saying.

“Thank you for sitting with me,” she said.

Sofia couldn’t judge people’s ages very well, but she thought the man was about the same age as Nils, who was twenty-one. She knew the man was tall like Nils, too, because she had to look up to see his face as he sat beside her. He was clean-shaven and strong-jawed, yet his expression was gentle at the same time.

His long legs stretched out straight in front of him, and he was clothed in a shabby brown suit that looked as though it had seen a lot of wear. He had thick dark hair and brows, the same color as the strong coffee that Papa used to drink. His hair was a little too long and could have used a trim, curling over the top of his ears and touching his shirt collar in back. Maybe the Americans had detained him here for such a long time that he couldn’t get a haircut.

He pointed to the Bible on her lap and asked her a question. She heard a word that sounded like
Bible
.

“Yes, it’s my mother’s Bible,” she said, handing it to him. He leafed through it, nodding, then he reached into a tattered leather satchel lying at his feet and pulled out a book, handing it to her in return.

“
Die Bibel
,” he said, pointing to his, then hers.

“Yes, they are the same.” Sofia sighed. “I wish we could understand each other. I wish you could help me find all of the promises my mama used to read to me. But my Bible may as well be written in German or French or some other language, for all the good it does me.”

He watched her closely as she talked, his head cocked to one side as if wishing he could understand her, too. She could confess her fear and her frustration to him and he wouldn’t condemn her. He wouldn’t understand a word she said.

“My mama loved Jesus and always read to us from this Bible,” she told him. “This belonged to her. We used to go to church back home, and we’d sing hymns to God, and the music and the minister’s words were always so beautiful. But I can’t find any of those beautiful words in the Bible now that Mama is gone—none of the promises she used to show me.”

He looked at her very intently as her tears began to fall. She saw compassion in his eyes and it made her tears fall faster. Then he talked for awhile, his voice soft and soothing. Suddenly he stopped and his face brightened with excitement, as if he’d just had an idea. He opened both of their Bibles on his lap, comparing their tables of contents, then turned to the New Testament gospel of John in each one. He rummaged in his bag again for a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote down 20:15. Sofia realized that he wanted her to look up the same passage in her Bible that he had found in his.

She dried her eyes and read the verse:
“Woman,” he said, “why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”
She couldn’t help smiling at the humor of it, and at his ingenuity, even if the passage had reminded her of her plight.

“My sisters,” she said. “I’m crying because my sisters are in the hospital and—” She wished she could find a verse that would explain it, but she didn’t know the Bible well enough. Her ignorance shamed her. The only biblical sisters she could remember reading about were Mary and Martha, but she didn’t know where to find them. She leafed back a few pages, reading all of the headings at the top of each page, and stopped when she came to chapter 11 and Lazarus.
Now a man named Lazarus was sick. . . .
She pointed to the chapter and verse numbers and waited for him to find it in his Bible. A little further down the verse read,
Mary and her sister Martha . . .

How could she explain that her sisters were the ones who were sick? Sofia gestured uselessly. She could tell by his expression that he was baffled.

“Never mind,” she mumbled.

She closed the book and hung her head, but the stranger continued to page through his own Bible, stopping when he came to the book of Psalms. He wrote down the numbers 22:1–2 and nudged her with his elbow. She looked up the verses:
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent.

She stared at him, then nodded, laying her hand over her heart. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. How did you know?”

He pointed to himself, to the verse, talking and nodding. He must feel forsaken, too. She wondered why he was being detained there and wished she could ask him. But then he led her to another verse, Joshua 1:9:
Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.

When she looked up at him again, he was smiling.

“That was one of the promises my mother taught me,” she said, smiling in return. And as she wiped away her tears, she suddenly thought of a way she might be able to communicate with him. She took the piece of paper and pencil from him and began to draw a picture of six stick figures. She had never been much of an artist, but she drew her mama and papa at the top, then Nils, Elin, Kirsten, and herself beneath them. She gave beards to the stick figures of Papa and Nils and long skirts and coils of hair to all of the women. He watched her closely, straining forward to try to understand.

“Mama,” she said, pointing to the first figure. She marked an
X
through it. “Papa,” she said, making another
X
. “My brother, Nils . . . my sister Elin . . . my sister Kirsten . . . and me.” She pointed to her stick figure, then to herself. When she finished, hers was the only one without an
X
through it. “So, you see? I’m all alone.”

She pointed to the three satchels lying on the ground at her feet. “Mine,” she said, lifting hers. “Kirsten’s . . . and Elin’s.” She pointed to their bags, then to the crossed out drawings. She held up three fingers, pointed again to the three drawings, then slowly lowered two fingers. He finally seemed to understand, and once again, she saw compassion in his eyes.

He began talking rapidly as if needing to get something off his chest, gesturing to the immigration building behind them and to the city across the river. Then he drew a dark, bold line beneath her pictures and began drawing. He, too, drew figures of a man and a woman at the top.
“Mutter . . . und Vater,”
he told her. Then he drew five stick-figure men below them. He rattled off four names, pointing to each one. But when he got to the last figure—the one he’d drawn smaller than the others—he pointed to himself. He was the youngest of five brothers.

He took a minute to find another verse, Matthew 13:3, and waited for Sofia to find it:
A farmer went out to sow his seed. . . .
He drew a big circle around the figures and pointed to the verse. He hadn’t included himself in the circle. She thought he was telling her that his family members were all farmers and that for whatever reason, he couldn’t or didn’t want to be one.