Chapter Thirty

 

THE PARISH COUNCIL was about to convene. I was the first to arrive at the schoolhouse and Karolina greeted me at the door. While I kept minutes, she herself would listen from the upstairs landing.

The men sat on top of the children’s desks, their heavy bottoms knocking the slates off their hooks. Gavel in hand, Wikander faced them. Behind him hung a large map of Sweden, with the names of the towns in red.

I sat in the back and was just as surprised as everyone else when Fredrik arrived, stomping the mud from his boots and unraveling his woolen muffler. 

“Holmberg is on his way,” he said. “He asked me to represent him until he’s here.”

One or two men objected. Rammen said nothing but stiffened and raised his head.

Wikander decided to carry on. “You’re all acquainted with the matter before us. Holmberg wishes to buy more land to expand the mill. The land he wants is next to the warehouse and belongs to the parish. He’s prepared to pay in cash.”

The first man to speak owned a small farm down by the river. “The mill takes workers away from the farms. My wife just lost another maid. Barely had time to train her.”

Another farmer concurred. “The temperance group is up to no good. Before we know it, they’ll rally the farm workers too. If we don’t stop this now, we’re surely aiming for disaster. Crops rotting in the fields, cows not getting milked, the poor beasts staggering around with their teats leaking.”

More members shared his concerns. Erik, who now called himself Ombudsman, was said to be getting too big for his breeches. I often saw him outside the inn on his way to visit labor unions in other parts. He would wear a black suit and shiny leather shoes. Holmberg once suggested that Erik and he address each other as du, implying that the two of them might be on friendly terms. Erik, however, smiled his wry smile and said he was looking for justice, not friends. Kristina, while buying herring at the store, told Holmberg he was welcome to say du to her. She would gladly stand in for her son, who nowadays was far too busy standing in for everyone else, but Holmberg did not take her up on it.

Theodor, Augusta’s husband, rarely spoke, but when he did, the men would take notice.

“No one can deny that the mill has done good for the village as a whole. The mill is heated. The large skylights make the place seem less oppressive. Weavers make about three times as much as they did in the past. My only question, and it’s an important one, is how come Holmberg all of a sudden is able to buy this land. As I recall, he’s always been short of cash. Always made sure we didn’t forget.”

Fredrik’s voice came from the back, as he stood leaning against the cabinet where Karolina kept her supplies.

“Whether you’re for it or not, industrialism is here to stay. I see no reason why you shouldn’t sell Holmberg the land. Erik’s brand of socialism is hardly dangerous. Even Holmberg has begun to agree. He would actually welcome a union, rather than have one worker after another traipsing through his office asking for a raise. Told me so himself.”

The men, confined to the children’s desks, tried to turn. One of them, his hands thrust under his suspenders, swung, and tumbled to the floor. Rammen did not move.

I kept my eyes on my note pad, wishing Fredrik had not come. What gave him the right to show up at will and unsettle the council, outsider that he was? And yet, as soon as he spoke again, all I could think of was his voice, the heat burning through me, like a horseshoe emerging orange from the blacksmith’s forge.

“What will happen if you don’t sell Holmberg the land?” he said. “Most likely the mill will close. Holmberg will leave, hardly the worse for the wear. The workers will have to find other ways to feed their children. For all your complaining, there’s not enough work at the farms. Most of them would be forced to move. I’m sure you’ve read about the city slums. That’s the kind of place where socialism grows, where women turn bitter, and men learn to curse.”

Karolina sneezed from the top of the stairs. In the silence that ensued, all that could be heard was the muted snap of Rammen’s watchcase. Fredrik wished Karolina good health.

More stomping came from the door. Holmberg entered, followed by Klas. Holmberg, as dapper as always, escorted Klas to the front of the room. He apologized for the delay and nodded to Klas to speak.

Like Wikander in the pulpit, Klas made everyone wait while he laid in snuff. “Won’t come as no surprise,” he said, his voice raspy with concern. “I’ve told you before, and I’m telling you now. The new cemetery is too small. Got to remove the old coffins to make room for the new. I collect whatever’s left, a skull here, a plait of hair there, some loose teeth. Pour it all into a small hole in the bottom of the grave and cover it with soil. Pat it down as best I can. When they lower the new coffin on top, no one knows the difference. But mind you, I lie awake at night thinking about Judgment Day. For too long I’ve been pouring new leftovers on top of the old. It can’t go on forever. When the day comes for the dead to rise, as the vicar says it will, they’ll have a hard time finding their own bones. Not even Jesus will know who’s who.”

A drop of spit dribbled down Klas’ vest, already speckled brown. “If you don’t believe me, come see for yourselves. In one hole, I’ve seen as many as two or three skulls, a big toe next to a nose, thighbones and kneecaps all mixed together. A man bound for hell may easily get confused with a woman bound for heaven. For all I know, some people may end up in heaven and hell both, being just as happy or miserable as they were on this earth, which ought to be punishment enough but might not meet with our Lord’s approval. Holmberg here says he’s come up with a solution. I say you ought to hear him out.”

Holmberg stepped up and patted Klas on the back. “Thank you, Klas. You may leave.”

Klas sat down on the floor by the stairs. “Seeing that this is a matter that concerns us all, I’d just as soon stay.” Arms around his knees, he grinned up at Karolina.

Holmberg turned to the council members. “Gentlemen, I just returned from a meeting with Wikstrand at Brunnsdal. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that we had a most pleasant visit, made only more so by Wikstrand’s charming wife and daughters.”

The mention of Wikstrand did nothing to alleviate the tension. He was the current owner of Brunnsdal, the farm where Ulrika grew up, the one that Rammen had held up to Gunnar Strid as an example of exploitation and neglect.

“Before I left, Wikstrand insisted on a toast,” Holmberg said. “I couldn’t very well rush off and not oblige him. Say what you will about the man, but he knows he isn’t a farmer. He believes, as do I, that the good of the country can also be furthered through industry and commerce. He’s already lost both his sons to America. That, to him, is the greatest danger, emigration robbing us of our young and our best. We must provide the same opportunities here in Sweden, which is why he’s prepared to help.”

Holmberg pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and held it high for all of us to see. “This, gentlemen, is proof of Wikstrand’s convictions. He allowed me to purchase some of his land, a large chunk that borders on the cemetery. It’s of little use to me, but I happen to know that it would be highly valuable to the parish. I suggest an exchange. I offer my new land to the parish, and in return I get the land adjacent to the mill. The new cemetery won’t run out of gravesites, and I won’t be forced to close the mill.”

Moments later Wikander’s gavel struck the desk. The meeting was over and Holmberg had his land.

The following day Holmberg was greeting travelers outside the inn, pulling his handkerchief out of his breast pocket to give their boots a few well-intended swipes. Soon it was common knowledge that Fredrik was the one who had come up with the plan. Even Wikstrand would admit it. Fredrik and Holmberg had come to see him a few nights before. Fredrik had outlined everything right there in the parlor and it did not take long for Wikstrand to see the brilliance of his proposition. When I confronted Fredrik, he said he would never have sided with Holmberg, had he not believed in the cause.

A few weeks later, construction on the new wing began. Carpenters arrived from Varberg, a boisterous lot but skilled at their craft. Holmberg put them up at the inn.

“My brother-in-law is right,” Rammen said. “Josefsson’s money is involved. This will not end well.”