Until We Reach Home (22 page)

Elin had carried the tattered old journal everywhere, even before they’d left Sweden. The plain unlined notebook looked like something a child might take to school. Kirsten couldn’t remember how long ago Elin had first started writing in it, but she thought it was after Papa died.

She ruffled the edges of the swollen pages with her thumb and saw coffee rings and water stains and places where Elin had erased so fanatically that the paper had torn. She always used a pencil, yet her tiny, precise letters looked neat and prim—like Elin herself. Her handwriting reminded Kirsten of exquisite embroidery—gray thread on white linen. Words filled every page from top to bottom, with barely a pencil’s width of space for margins.

Elin wrote endlessly in this book, often ignoring everyone as she scribbled away.

Sometimes, after they argued, saying hurtful things and throwing harsh words at each other like stones, Kirsten would sit across their attic bedroom from Elin with her back turned, wondering what terrible things Elin was saying about her in these pages. If Kirsten turned her head, Elin would pause and glance up at her with a frown, then bend over her page again, scribbling faster.

Even on their way to America, Kirsten remembered lying in bed in the boardinghouse trying to sleep while Elin stayed awake, writing by candlelight, her pencil scratching across the page. Aboard the ship, Kirsten had begged Elin to come outside on the deck with her for fresh air, but she had waved her hand in that impatient way of hers and remained below, writing.

Now Kirsten held Elin’s notebook in her hands. Elin wasn’t here to stop her from reading it, yet even so, it felt wrong to trespass among her private thoughts. She had always been so careful to keep this diary out of everyone’s reach. But maybe Kirsten would understand Elin better if she read it. Maybe she could finally figure out what made her do the things she did, and how she made the choices she had, and why she was so rigid and unbending at times. Kirsten didn’t understand her sister; that much was certain. They had endured so much together, and she was closer to Elin than to anyone else on earth, yet she felt as though she didn’t know her at all.

She stared at the notebook, unsure why she hesitated. She recalled one winter night back home when they’d sat by the fireplace and Elin had been writing in her stupid diary, as usual. Kirsten got up to poke the smoldering logs, and as sparks leaped up the chimney like wood sprites, Elin looked up at her and said, “Kirsten! Promise me you’ll throw this notebook into the fire if anything happens to me—without reading it! Promise?”

Kirsten had smiled at the drama and urgency in her voice and asked, “Why? What are you writing in there that’s so important?”

“Never mind. You owe me, Kirsten. . . . Now, promise!”

“
Ja
, sure. I promise.” But Kirsten had winked at Sofia and crossed her fingers behind her back, where Elin couldn’t see them.

Kirsten smoothed her hand over the tattered cover. She knew it was wrong to read Elin’s diary . . . but maybe it would help Kirsten understand why Elin had decided to come to America in the first place. And maybe it would help her decide whether or not to tell Elin the truth about the baby and why she needed to return to Sweden.

She opened to the first page.

An hour later, Kirsten slowly closed the diary without finishing it. Her hands trembled as she placed it back inside Elin’s bag. The truth about their uncle Sven astounded her. She didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to imagine Elin suffering in silence for so long. How could Uncle Sven do such a terrible thing, ensnaring her and deceiving her that way?

But hadn’t Tor Magnusson done a similar thing, saying he loved Kirsten and that he wanted to marry her, just to get his own way?

Kirsten was sorry she had read the diary, not only because she had violated Elin’s privacy but because the weight of Elin’s secret felt much too heavy on her shoulders. No wonder Elin looked so old and tired and crippled. No wonder she worried so much. No wonder she was so fearful. If Uncle Sven, a trusted family member, could do such evil things, then Elin had a good reason to distrust strangers.

But what brought tears to Kirsten’s eyes was the knowledge that Elin had loved her and Sofia so much that she had found a way to save them, too, instead of merely running away from Uncle Sven and deserting them the way Nils had. She wished she could thank Elin and explain how grateful she was, but she could never confess that she had discovered the truth. If Elin knew her secret had been uncovered, it would destroy her. The shame and guilt that Elin felt were evident on every page of the diary.

No, Kirsten would now carry the burden of Elin’s secret along with the weight of her own. And one thing was certain: She could never ask Elin to go back to Sweden. Or Sofia, either. But what if Kirsten returned home to marry Tor, and Sofia insisted on going with her? Sofia had no place to live in Sweden except with Uncle Sven.

Kirsten groaned at the complexity of her dilemma. She needed to go home and marry Tor; Elin and Sofia needed to stay here. But what if Tor’s father still refused to allow them to marry? Then what? She couldn’t possibly stand up to Tor’s father on her own. She had been counting on Uncle Sven to support her and to insist that Tor do the right thing. But now she wanted nothing to do with her uncle.

The only solution that she could see was for Tor to break away from his father and come to America to marry her. She needed to write a letter and explain her circumstances to him. He needed to come over right away. Maybe by now he had missed her so much that he was sorry he had let her go. Once Tor learned about the baby, he would surely do the right thing. She was almost certain of it.

Kirsten needed to find the translator and tell her what she had decided. She knew it was wrong to lie, just as it had been wrong to read Elin’s diary and to have a baby with Tor. She would compound her sins by lying to the immigration officials, but she was desperate. Somehow she had to untangle the mess she had created. She would try to keep her story as close to the truth as possible.

“I know what I want you to tell the immigration officials,” Kirsten said when she found Mrs. Bjork downstairs, outside the Registry Room. “Tell them . . . I-I do have a husband. His name is Tor Magnusson. Tell the officials that we were secretly married in Sweden and that Tor is planning to come to Chicago as soon as he can. We couldn’t afford both of our fares, so I came with my sisters. That way my uncle in America would pay for mine. As soon as Tor earns enough money, he’s going to come over, too, and then we’ll be together.”

“Do you have a copy of the marriage certificate? The officials might want to see it.”

“Tor has it with him. In Sweden.”

The woman didn’t look at Kirsten, as if unwilling to see the lies written all over her face. “I’ll tell the officials about your husband, Miss . . . I mean . . .” She paused, looking embarrassed.

“It’s Magnusson. Mrs. Tor Magnusson.”

“The fact that you and your sisters have tickets to Chicago and a sponsor waiting for you should help matters. I’ll see what I can do.”

Kirsten had committed herself to that decision. Once the immigration officials allowed her into the country, she would have no way to return to Sweden. But what if she stayed here and Tor didn’t come? The baby would have no father. She and the child would both be outcasts. Surely Tor wouldn’t want that to happen.

“Stay well,” Mrs. Bjork said as she turned to go. “I trust that you and your husband will raise your baby to be a fine American.”

Mrs. Bjork’s words surprised Kirsten. Her baby would be American, not Swedish.

She had not only chosen her own future but her child’s, as well.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “We will—God willing.”

Chapter Twenty

S
OFIA SAT ON THE GROUND
at Ludwig’s feet, listening to him play his violin. Ever since Ludwig had learned that he would be deported, he had expressed his sorrow through his violin, pouring his very soul into each mournful song. Sofia had never realized that tragedy could produce such beauty nor that music had such healing power. She listened to each piece with her eyes closed, allowing the sound to envelop her. But when Ludwig finished and she opened her eyes, she saw Kirsten come out of the building.

“Oh no,” she murmured. “Here comes my sister.” She and Ludwig had grown accustomed to talking out loud in their own languages, even though they couldn’t understand each other. She watched Kirsten scan the hundreds of faces in the crowd, looking all around for Sofia.

“Is it wrong to be sorry that my sister is back?” she asked. “I mean, I’m glad that she and Elin are getting well, but that means I will have to leave you.” She sighed and rose to her feet to beckon to Kirsten. Ludwig rose from the bench as Kirsten approached and bowed slightly in greeting.

“Kirsten, this is my new friend, Ludwig Schneider. Ludwig . . . my sister Kirsten.” She pulled the stick-figure drawing from her Bible and pointed to one of the figures, then to her sister.

“What’s this picture for?” Kirsten asked, snatching it from her hand. “And what are all these numbers?”

“Ludwig doesn’t understand Swedish. I drew the picture to try to explain my family to him.”

“Nice of you to cross me off,” Kirsten said with a frown.

“You were in the hospital. I was trying to explain to him that you and Elin were gone and I was all alone.”

“Sofia! Why would you tell a stranger that you were all alone? Didn’t Elin teach you anything?”

“Ludwig wouldn’t hurt a soul. He plays the violin and—”

“Yes, so I see. Hey, when is lunch served? I’m starving.”

Sofia looked up at the sun. “In a few more minutes. Would you mind if Ludwig ate with us? He’s been here for a while and he’s very helpful in the dining hall. The biggest meal is always served at the noon hour, and most of these other people have never learned any table manners.”

“I don’t know, Sofia. I don’t think it’s wise to get too friendly with strangers.”

“Well, you’ve certainly changed your attitude! You sound just like Elin. What about those Swedish men you spent all your time with on the boat?”

“It so happens that I have changed my mind. I saw another side of those fellows that I didn’t like at all. And you might see a different side of this man, too, if you spent enough time with him. People aren’t always what they seem.”

“And sometimes they are exactly as they seem. Ludwig has helped me more than any other person ever has. I can’t explain it to you, but I was alone and scared and he became my friend. He showed me God’s promises in the Bible.” Sofia waved the paper with the drawings and Bible verses in front of Kirsten. “That’s what these numbers are, Kirsten. They’re Bible verses.”

“That doesn’t mean you should—”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m going to continue to eat my meals with him and listen to him practice his violin, and you can join us—or not.”

Kirsten stared at her for a long moment as if sizing her up. “You’ve changed, Sofia.”

“Well, maybe it was time I did.”

Sofia did exactly as she pleased. She continued to eat her meals with Ludwig and spent the afternoon and evening hours with him, even though Kirsten stayed close to her side most of the time. When they were in the women’s dormitory that night getting ready for bed, Kirsten turned to Sofia and said, “You’re falling in love with that man, aren’t you.”

Sofia’s heart began to race. She stared at her sister with her mouth open, unable to reply. It had never occurred to her that she was in love with Ludwig until Kirsten said the word—but she knew in an instant that she was right. She couldn’t reply.

“I saw the way you look at him,” Kirsten continued. “And the way he looks at you.”

Again, Sofia knew exactly what Kirsten meant. She had seen the soft, tender look in Ludwig’s eyes whenever he gazed at her. “It’s because we can’t speak to each other with words,” she said. “All we have is our eyes.”

“How did it happen, Sofia?”

“I-I don’t know. . . .” She leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling weak-kneed, wishing she had a chair. “We’ve been together since my first day on this island. Ludwig is so kind and gentle, and when he plays his violin for me . . .” She couldn’t finish. She had no words to describe how she felt about him. The word
love
seemed inadequate.

“Oh, Sofia,” Kirsten said softly. “What are you going to do?”

“Well . . . I mean . . . I’m sure we’ll see each other again when we get off this island and—”

She stopped. Ludwig wasn’t getting off this island. He was being sent back to Germany. He had threatened to swim across the river rather than go back, but how could he swim that far? How could anyone?

To Sofia’s surprise, Kirsten’s eyes filled with tears. She quickly pulled Sofia into her arms as if she didn’t want her to see them. “I should have warned you not to fall in love, Sofia. I should have told you that love always ends in heartbreak.”

How did Kirsten know about love and heartbreak? Had she fallen in love with one of those men on the boat? Sofia was about to ask her when she suddenly recalled a string of events back home that hadn’t made sense to her at the time. She remembered how Kirsten would neglect her chores or convince Sofia to do them for her so she could spend time exploring the woods with Tor Magnusson. She remembered how Kirsten’s cheeks would flush with pleasure whenever Tor walked out to their farm with a letter, how she and Tor always managed to find each other after church on Sunday. And she remembered how Kirsten had leaped off the farm wagon on their last day in the village just to bid Tor good-bye—and it had been such an odd farewell. Sofia pulled free from her sister’s embrace to look at her.

“You were in love with Tor Magnusson, weren’t you?” The pain in Kirsten’s eyes gave her away. “Tor must have broken your heart or you never would have left him.”

“What difference does it make?” Kirsten said, turning away. “I just don’t want the same thing to happen to you. Don’t believe this man’s promises, Sofia, even if he says he loves you. America is a big country, and you might never see each other again.”

“Don’t say that!” Sofia covered her mouth to try to hold back her tears. She couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Ludwig Schneider again.