Until We Reach Home (34 page)

Sofia had tackled the huge desk that must have once belonged to Mr. Anderson. She sang while she worked, neatly stacking all of the papers and placing the ledgers and books on the shelves where she thought they might belong. She would have hidden the papers in one of the desk drawers, but they were all locked, too.

“You can tell this was a man’s room,” she said, pausing in the middle of her song. “It still smells like cigars. And look—a bottle of brandy.” She held up the crystal decanter for Elin to see. “I found it buried under all this stuff. Do you suppose it’s any good?”

“I don’t know. Does anyone know how long ago Mr. Anderson died?” Elin asked.

“Mrs. Olafson thought he died about two years ago. Maybe I’ll ask her what to do with it.”

Sofia set the decanter to one side and resumed her song. Suddenly something bumped against Sofia’s leg, startling her. She looked down at the big gray cat, then turned around to find Mrs. Anderson standing in the doorway. The cat rubbed against Sofia’s other leg, and she bent to lift him in her arms. He felt as heavy as a sack of grain.

“I don’t think we ever asked you what your cat’s name is, ma’am,” Sofia said.

“His name is Tomte.”

Sofia smiled, remembering folktales from her childhood about the benevolent sprites he was named after. “I’ve never seen a cat this big.”

“I would like to speak with you in the morning room, please.”

“Me?” Sofia asked in a squeaky voice. Mrs. Anderson nodded and thumped away with her cane. The cat jumped down from Sofia’s arms to follow her.

“What do you think she wants?” Elin whispered.

“I don’t know. Please come with me, Kirsten. I-I’m afraid of her. She yells at people, and I don’t like to be yelled at. But she likes you.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Kirsten said. “I think she likes all of us now that we saved her house from being sold.”

“Come with me anyway.”

But when they walked into the morning room, Mrs. Anderson waved Kirsten away. “Not you. Just the little one—and stop your blasted curtsying,” she told Kirsten. “I’m not the queen. Come in and sit down,” she told Sofia. “What’s your name again?”

“Sofia.” She perched on the edge of the chair, twisting her hands.

She could understand why Mrs. Anderson preferred this sunny, light-filled room. It was the plainest room in the house, the furnishings the simplest, the windows unadorned with curtains or drapes. Unlike the rest of the mansion, which had dark parquet floors and heavy ornate furniture, the morning room had pale wide-planked floors covered with striped woven rugs. The whitewashed tables and chairs looked well-worn, with faded blue-and-white upholstery the color of Sweden’s winter sky. Everything in the room reminded Sofia of home.

Mrs. Anderson sat on a white-painted divan near the window, the enormous cat on her lap. Sofia could hear the animal purring all the way across the room. “I heard you singing,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You have a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“It cheers me to hear you sing.”

Sofia smiled nervously. “Singing cheers me, too. When I was all alone on Ellis Island, I felt very frightened until a kind gentleman played his violin for me. The music comforted me.”

“Why do you always sing hymns?”

Sofia hesitated, unsure how to explain her reasons. She offered her songs as prayers, pleading with God not to let Ludwig drown in the river or to be sent back to Germany. Hymns seemed appropriate.

“They’re the songs I like best,” she finally said.

“Don’t you know any folk songs or popular songs?”

“Yes, I know some folk songs.”

“Yet you don’t sing them. You’re religious, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. My mother was religious, but I’m nothing like her. I wish I could be.”

“Go on.”

“She always read to us from the Bible and talked about God’s promises. But after she died, I had trouble finding those promises in her Bible. Then the man with the violin helped me find God again.”

Mrs. Anderson frowned. “I wasn’t aware that God could get lost.”

“He wasn’t lost. I-I think I was mad at Him.” Sofia realized the truth for the first time as she spoke. “Have you ever been mad at God, Mrs. Anderson? I was mad at Him for making my sisters and me suffer.”

“You’re a child. What do you know about suffering?”

“Quite a bit, I think. I was only twelve when my mama died. I never had a chance to know her very well or to ask her all the things I’ll need to know about being a woman. I didn’t understand why God allowed her to die. Then my father killed himself. He didn’t love his own children enough to stay with us and take care of us. He left us all alone in the world. And God didn’t help us then, either.”

Sofia remembered, too late, that she wasn’t supposed to tell people about the disgraceful thing her father had done. She wished she could take back her words. She stumbled on, hoping Mrs. Anderson wouldn’t hold it against them.

“My sisters and I are orphans, Mrs. Anderson. We have nobody in the world who cares about us or wants to take care of us—except each other. And we don’t have a home. You told us how much this home means to you and how you don’t want to leave it. Well, we used to have a home, not nearly as big or as fancy as this one, but it was ours. I didn’t want to leave it and come to America. But I didn’t want to leave my sisters, either, because they’re the only family I have left. So I came with them.”

“And that’s why you were mad at God, as you put it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I thought the Bible promised that we would always be happy and that bad things would never happen to us. And when God didn’t keep those promises, I got mad at Him. But now I see that what God really promises is to always be with us, even in the bad times. He promises to love us and always do what’s best for us, even when it doesn’t seem like it. So that’s why I sing—to help me remember that I’m not alone.”

“You find all this when you read the Bible?”

“Yes, ma’am. I haven’t been reading it for very long, but I already noticed that most of the people in the Bible didn’t have a very easy life, either. But God was always with them, using the hard times in their lives to change them. I don’t think the Bible is just supposed to say nice things to comfort me. It’s supposed to tell me how to live. So now I’ve been reading it to find out how to live my life.”

Mrs. Anderson abruptly dumped the cat from her lap and stood. She began pacing in front of the window, her cane thumping with each step. “I didn’t ask you here to preach a sermon.”

Sofia felt as though she were made of wax and melting beneath the little woman’s fiery glare. “Oh. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I—”

“I asked you here because I’m planning a dinner party on Midsummer’s Eve, and I would like you to sing for my guests.”

“Me?” Her voice squeaked again.

“Do you see anyone else?” Mrs. Anderson asked, gesturing to the room with a sweep of her arm. Sofia shook her head. “Do you or your sisters play the piano?”

“No, ma’am. None of us do.”

Mrs. Anderson continued to stare at her, waiting. Sofia realized that she hadn’t answered her question about singing for her dinner guests. “I used to sing in church back home. And for my family, of course. But I-I’ve never sung for people before.”

“Aren’t your family members
people
? Was your church back home filled with
cats
rather than people?”

“No, ma’am. Of course it wasn’t. But I knew all of those people. I-I would be much too frightened to sing for strangers.”

“You just told me how someone’s violin playing cheered you. Aren’t you interested in cheering me and my guests?”

“I-I wouldn’t know what to sing.”

“So you are refusing my request?”

“I . . . I . . .” She could barely speak. How could she sing?

“Fine. Go back to your cleaning, then.” The fairy queen pointed to the door. Sofia feared that she had made her angry.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Go. And take that tray with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Anderson’s breakfast tray lay on the small table near her chair. Sofia hurried to do as she was told. But as she picked up the tray she glimpsed the headline on the Swedish language newspaper lying on the table beside it:
Scenes of Terror at Ellis Island.
Sofia set the tray down on the table with a clatter.

“What in the world are you doing?”

“Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to be nosy . . . but I couldn’t help seeing this headline about Ellis Island.” Sofia set a fallen cup back in its saucer and mopped up the spilled cream with a napkin. “Please, could you tell me what happened on Ellis Island to cause scenes of terror?”

“The place caught on fire last night. Every building on the island burned to the ground.”

“What?”
Sofia backed onto a chair. She had to sit down before her knees gave way. “Was . . . was anyone hurt?”

“The paper didn’t say. The story went to press before all of the details became clear. What difference does it make to you? Why should you be so upset?”

“I stayed on Ellis Island just a short time ago. My sisters and I had to live there for two weeks until Elin got better. I’m worried about all the people who worked there and who were being detained there—”

“The gentleman with the violin?”

“Yes. He was still on the island when I left. I can’t believe it caught on fire! D-did you say that all of the buildings burned to the ground?”

“Apparently. Look, what’s done is done and there’s nothing you can do about it now. How will it help to worry about a fire that took place last night?”

“I need to find out if anyone died.”

“It will be in tomorrow’s news.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The English language papers might have something in their evening editions.”

“But I can’t read English.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to wait. Please leave now. Take the paper with you and read it for yourself.”

“Thank you.” Sofia laid the folded newspaper on the tray and hurried from the room into the hallway. She was so distraught that it took her a moment to recall what she was supposed to be doing. She carried the tray out to the kitchen and set it on the kitchen table without a word of greeting or explanation to Mrs. Olafson, then snatched up the newspaper and hurried away with it. Her sisters were still cleaning the library.

“Elin! Kirsten! You have to see this!” She waved the paper in the air. “There was a fire on Ellis Island last night and the entire place burned to the ground!” Sofia sank onto the desk chair as her sisters put down their rags and came to peer over her shoulder.

“A fire? What happened to all the people?” Kirsten asked.

“Did the hospital burn, too?” Elin asked. “What about all the patients and the nurses?”

“I don’t know yet. Let me read it to you: ‘Ellis Island is a waste of smoking ashes today, after last night’s conflagration, with here and there a heap of timbers not yet fully conquered by the flames. There is little left in the way of walls or any sort of erect structure on the eleven-acre island to break the desolate expanse of what was formerly a busy immigration station.’”

“Remember that passage from the Bible that we had to read to prove we were literate?” Kirsten asked. “Something about the four corners of the house collapsing, ‘and I am the only one who has escaped to tell you’? It seems prophetic under the circumstances, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t say that!” Sofia begged. “I still don’t know if anyone was killed.” She continued to read the article aloud: “‘Survivors describe scenes of terror in the middle of the night, as they were awakened from their sleep and forced to flee the dense smoke and fast-moving flames. The immigrants who were lucky enough to escape are thankful to be alive, even though they have been deprived of all of their belongings. There was no word this morning on how many survived or the number of fatalities.’”

“You’re worried about your friend, aren’t you?” Kirsten asked.

Sofia could only nod. She felt numb with fear.

“Is that all it says about the fire?” Elin asked. “Let me see it.” She took the newspaper from Sofia and scanned it from front to back before saying, “I guess that’s all there is.”

“Mrs. Anderson says there might be more about the fire in tomorrow’s paper—or maybe in the English papers, if we could read them.”

“It’s hard to wait for news, isn’t it?” Kirsten said.

“Come on, the best cure for bad news is hard work,” Elin said. “You’ll be so tired tonight you’ll fall right to sleep.”

But Sofia couldn’t sleep that night. When she tried to pray, she realized the bitter truth of Mrs. Anderson’s words: The fire was over and done with. It was too late for prayers to do any good. Sofia slipped out of bed and tiptoed from the room, taking her Bible with her.

The house had gas lines and gas lamps in every room, but Sofia was unfamiliar with the layout of the third floor beyond their bedroom. She wandered down the inky passageway and felt her way through a door and into the ballroom. Light bathed the center of the enormous dance floor almost as if a chandelier were lit, and it took her a moment to realize that the light was coming through the window in the center of the ceiling. She stood beneath it and looked up at a full moon and millions of stars.

“It’s so beautiful,” she murmured. She remembered how Elin had pointed to the star-filled sky when they were at sea, telling her that they were the same stars that had shone above their home in Sweden. And at this very moment, those stars and this brilliant moon were shining above New York City, too. Ludwig might be looking up at them and thinking of her.

She tried to find comfort in that thought as she sat cross-legged on the floor and opened her Bible. The moonlight was bright enough to read by. But when a piece of paper fell out of her Bible with Ludwig’s handwriting and the drawing he had made of his family, she began to cry.

God promised never to leave her or forsake her, but what would she do if something happened to Ludwig? What if she never saw him again? If Ludwig died, if she suffered yet another loss in her life, would she still be able to trust in a loving God? Sofia realized how shaky her newfound faith really was, in spite of the confident “sermon” she had preached to Mrs. Anderson. She bent forward until her forehead rested on the dusty floor.
Hang on to me, Lord,
she prayed.
Please, please hang on to me.