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ONE WAGON FULL OF BELONGINGS for the people leaving, another wagon full of the people leaving, and the third wagon of people along to see the first two wagons leave. It is such turmoil trying to get everything loaded this morning. Why didn’t we do some of this last night?
Did we get everything out of the house? Anything else from the outbuildings? Where is the food basket? Is it on the bottom of the pile? Don’t put the brudkista in yet! I can’t find Emilia’s shoes. I think Oscar might have put them in the chest. Do we have Hedda’s trunk loaded? Is there still room for the Petterson’s belongings when we stop to pick them up, or will we need to bring another wagon?
Samuel will drive the first wagon, Fader the second with the Pettersons and us. Johannes will drive the third wagon with everyone else who is going to the train station to see us off. But who will drive the first wagon back home? Oh, yes, my brother Johan will be along to do that.
We are fumbling in the dark hours before dawn to load our belongings for the first leg of our journey. It is a frosty morning, but we don’t notice the cold as we trek between house and wagons. But I do know, now that the hour of departure is near, that I do not want the sun to rise on this May day.
No one, except the children, really slept last night.
I continued packing into the night. Clothes were folded into the wedding chest except for the ones laid out to be worn on our trip. The last of the household items were tucked in the big trunk. I had to pull out one pot because we could not get the trunk lid to shut. I saw Moder push something down the inside of the trunk, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was or let me reach in to find out. She said to wait until we unpack the trunk.
I searched each room to see that everything of ours was packed. Trouble was, everything we have was mixed in with Samuel’s parents’ belongings.
And all the while I am thinking, this is the last time I look out this window, feel this door handle, smell the smoke from this fireplace. Several times I closed my eyes and used my other senses to memorize sensations and locations. The hairy side of the milk cow against my cheek as I milk her for the last time. The sixteen steps in the dark of the night from the door of the house to the door of the privy. The sad, wrinkled face of my worried father-in-law.
As the hours continued and the packing was done, we sat in the dark glow of the fire’s dying embers and talked. Sad admissions, childhood tales recalled with laughter, strong advice from parents. Spoken hopes that this will be a prosperous adventure. Fader laughs, “Our children will write back bragging they own a thousand acres of American soil! I expect a new coat each year in my Christmas package since you’ll have so much money, Lotta! And new boots from you, Hedda!”
This is the last chance to speak and listen to all our voices before the frenzy of the dawn. Years from now will I remember my Fader’s occasional snore from this last night? Moder’s advice mixed with words of love? Sister Sofia’s crying? My own?
We must have looked like a group of gypsy vagabonds with our string of old farm wagons piled high with belongings and people as we turned onto the road to Mariannelund to meet our train. It was hard for me to look back at the Kulla homestead one last time, but I think it was worse for Samuel. During my childhood we moved many times, leaving one entrance yard but always pulling into another. But in Samuel’s case, this is the only place he has ever lived.
I put an arm around his strong shoulders and gave him a slight squeeze of support. His gaze stared straight ahead on the road and his hands on the reins, but there was a tremble in his face at my gesture. “Soon we’ll have our own courtyard, Samuel, with a grand entrance to the house. On Sundays when we go to church, you can pull up to the front door in a fancy carriage to collect your family, and we’ll ride to town in high style.”
We stopped at the next Kulla farmstead, owned by Anders Magnusson, to pick up the Petterson family. Anders Peter Petersson is a relative of Samuel’s family who came here from Lönneberga. He and his wife, Carolina, have three children, Augusta, Carl, and Emma that are close in age to our children. Anders is a tailor and does all right—when people have money. He wants to start a business in America. I’m glad to have them as traveling companions.
Trunks, sacks, baskets piled high on the train platform and our belongings have not been added yet. We have tickets on an immigrant train heading straight for the port of Göteborg, so there are many other wagons besides ours unloading this morning.
We climb out of our seats, in awe of the busy confusion we are about to enter. Oscar shouts with delight at the sight of the train and darts toward it. Emilia squeals in a panic because her mormor’s grip has tightened as my moder senses our time together is almost gone.
Blurs of humanity. Young people in new clothes looking anxiously at the train they are about to board. Old people in peasant dress, waiting to see their children leave forever. Train porters trying to get people and baggage on board so the train can leave. Constant noise. The jingle of harness leather and creaking wood as another empty wagon pulls away from the platform. The puff of the train engine as it stokes up to leave. Laughter and cries of goodbyes.
Smells of town and country mixed. Fresh manure dropped by a waiting horse. Coal smoke and ash filtering down from the smokestack. Freshly baked bread from dozens of food baskets. It is starting to drizzle, and people worry about getting their baggage wet and keeping bundled children from catching a cold before they start the journey. Someone snickers, “Now when we’re leaving the farm, it decides to rain!”
Our senses are alert to danger, excitement, and sadness. Everyone is looking forward but also dreading the moment of departure as they prepare to leave home forever.
“Watch out for the falling trunk!”
“Look how many cars this train has, Mamma! Which one do we get to ride in?”
“Keep your money safe in that pouch I made you, Daughter.
And don’t speak to strangers!”
“What needs to stay with us, Charlotta? Is everything marked with our name? Don’t let Oscar get too close to the tracks!” Samuel, red-faced with anxiety, is barking questions and orders at me until his father steps in to help. “It is done, Samuel. You have made the right choice for your family. Godspeed, Son.”
Long hugs, handshakes, kisses, and wet faces. We huddle together in little groups beside the train. The whistle is blowing, and half the travelers have not boarded the train to find their seats.
One last gaze into Fader’s eyes as we both break down and hug again. My bashful brother’s handshake. Mathilda’s surprising vow to follow us to America soon, and Moder’s shocked look as she hears she might lose another child.
Bulky luggage, dawdling children, a crowded aisle. We’re overloaded trying to get us, our baskets, and our children to our seats. “Keep going, Oscar! Where is Hedda? Is there room for her here or—no, she has taken a seat with someone else she knows. I think Pettersons must be in another car because I don’t see them. I hope everything and everyone in our party are on this train!”
We get settled, then search through the rain-stained window for our family, still standing outside in the mass of people. Just as I see my parents, the train jerks forward. Emilia slips from my lap, and I tear my gaze away from them to grab my child. When I look back out the window, they are gone.
The children finally settle down. The rocking motion of the train has made them drowsy. Before the day is over, they will be awake, bored, and tired of being confined to one place. The rocking makes me slightly queasy. I’m exhausted but can’t seem to sleep myself. Staring out the window, I view the landscape that we have already passed because my seat faces the back of the car. I see what we are leaving and will never see again.
We crossed over nine Swedish miles of country on the first leg of our trip. At first, the scenery was familiar, but it changed as we gained distance. I had never before been outside of our county, so this was the first and last time I would see Sweden. Much of the landscape was the same as ours in Pelarne—hints of green, but not the lush of fresh grass we should see by now. Stands of forests opened up into meadows and closed back again.
Small lakes had low shorelines because of the lack of water. Ancient manors and fortresses of our Viking ancestors flew by. Blurs of homesteads, old barns with thatched roofs, dark red farmhouses, a small herd of cows with new calves. Piles of rocks in the fields. A farmer looking up from his work to watch the train go by. What does he think as he sees this train of emigrants? We saw churches of ancient stone built centuries ago or newer wooden structures. We noticed the style of the steeple change from one province of Sweden to another as we traveled across the country. A graveyard surrounds each church like a protective shield. Underneath the tombstones lie ancestors, we will never visit again. It is customary for the living to take care of the dead’s spot of earth. Who will take care of the graves if all the young people leave Sweden?
As we pass churches, I wonder if people had problems getting their transfer papers to leave the congregation. Unfortunately, many pastors are trying to discourage their congregations from moving to America. The church has a strong rein on its people. It is not a sheltered haven anymore for lost souls. It is a dictator ship and another reason for some to flee.
Villages that we never knew existed passed before our sight. We stopped briefly at Eksö and Nässjö to pick up passengers. You could tell the ones who were leaving their homes for good. Family and friends clung to these people until the last call for departure. Waves and tears good-bye, then forlorn parents left standing on the platform. Just like mine.
How many people had left home and traveled this same track, wondering the same thoughts? All wondering if we could have done something different to stay and if we will ever travel back again if our fortunes turn around.
We had a long stop at Jonköping, on the shore of Lake Vättern. The train followed the water’s edge before we pulled into the depot so we could see the width of the lake. We had traveled out of the rain and now had sunshine. I don’t know how far north the water went because we couldn’t see land on the other end. I have never seen a body of water so big and couldn’t help wondering what the ocean will look like. No trees, land, or hills in the distance. Only water in all directions. The thought makes me uneasy.
Samuel ventured off the train during our stopover to stretch his legs and to check on the Pettersons. I would have liked to have done the same, but I had sleeping children and baggage piled around me. At least fresh air came in because the doors were opened up. The car had gotten warm and stuffy with all the people packed in it.
Hedda came back to me after the crowd in the aisle thinned out. She found that several other young people we know are also on this train bound for Göteborg. Talking to them, she is excited about the venture and hasn’t dwelt on the past, as I have. So-and so is going to a relative’s ‘home in Illinois. Someone else has a job waiting for them in the south because that employer has paid his passage to America. Another plans to go far west to the California gold mines to get rich fast so he can come back to Sweden.
I just sat and listened to her excited talk. My mind kept drifting back to the train depot at Mariannelund.
We traveled another twelve Swedish miles with two more brief stops before pulling into the port of Göteborg this evening. The car had turned into quiet silence except for the crying of an occasional restless baby. Conversations all but ceased among the weary passengers. Everyone is tired from the day’s journey, and thinking about the magnitude of what they have set into motion by getting on and now off this train.
Twilight shimmers off the sea’s horizon as we gaze out at our final stop. The central station is a few blocks away from the water, but we can still see great gray sails of boats gently swaying above the buildings that must line the pier. People are milling up and down the streets, ignoring our emigrant train. I imagine these trains have become so common that the citizens don’t pay any attention to them. However, few men searching into our windows look like they are waiting for this train to arrive.
I hope the ship’s agent is here to meet us, so we know where to go next. We are at the mercy of others to get us across the sea.
Tonight this exhausted trainload of people will be ushered to a hotel to spend the night. I image our accommodations will be sparse, but we’re ready to sleep anywhere, on anything that isn’t moving. I feel like I might rock all night like this car, but I think sleep will find me quickly. I’m exhausted from today’s journey, yesterday’s packing, and last month’s decision.
Samuel is still in a somber mood. He has talked politely to other people but has kept quiet most of the day while sitting with us. I can tell he is lost in thought, thinking about the home and family we left behind this morning. His shadowed eyes reveal that he is still going over the same questions. “Can the children and Charlotta stand the rigors of the journey? Can we find land in America? How will I make a living if we can’t? How much do things cost in America? Do we have enough money stashed in my money belt? What will happen to us if the belt is lost or stolen? Did we make the right decision to leave?”
I can’t help him with these questions, because I don’t know the answers either. We must trust that our faith gave us the right answer and continue our trip tomorrow. We have completed the first leg of our journey to Göteborg, a seaport since the 1600s. Swedes sailed to America during that century from here, so we’re just following their sails.
If they could do it, so can we.
