Thirty-Three

Amalie—June 1920

“Wake up, Amalie.” Someone shook her arm—her mother, leaning over the bed.

“What are you doing here?” Amalie mumbled. Since Solveig had emigrated to America, Britta was spending the summer at the seter.

“Pack your things.”

“What?” Amalie sat up, ashamed to be caught napping. Father would whip her if he knew. But she’d hardly slept the night before. Ever since he had—

“Get up!”

“You want me at the seter?” Amalie pushed away the covers. “But I’m expected at the Utne Hotel—”

“Just do as I say! We’re not going to the seter. I made arrangements for the livestock.”

Probably the boy from the closest farm, Amalie thought as she stamped into her shoes. He’d helped out before. But why was Mother here?

Everything had turned upside-down. Her brother was off on a week-long fishing trip. Yesterday, on Midsummer, Father had disappeared for hours. He’d come home in a strange mood, sometimes sitting morosely, sometimes pacing. Then he’d dropped to his knees and ordered Amalie to join him. He’d prayed at length about the wickedness of women and fiddlers.

Afterwards she staggered to her feet, sending up her own prayer of gratitude. But Father had one more thing to say: “Amalie. You will marry Gustav Nyhus in the fall.”

“Marry Gustav Nyhus?” Amalie stared blankly. Gustav had taken to visiting the hotel lately, but she’d never imagined this. “But—”

“It is decided!” Father had roared. Amalie had cried herself to sleep. The next day he’d left to hunt game in the high mountains—something he’d never done before.

Now this.

Fifteen minutes later she and Britta left the house. Amalie carried her belongings in a satchel—clothes, a hair brush, a lace collar, sewing supplies, her spoon. Britta, carrying a rosemaled tine filled with flatbread, cheese, and a few dried apples, headed for the trail that wound down the steep mountain.

Amalie felt even more bewildered. “When will we be back to Høiegård?” Høiegård—or Fjelland, as Father had renamed the farm—had always been her home.

Britta stopped at the edge of the clearing. “I don’t know when you’ll be back.” Her voice trembled, but she firmed it up. “Please, Amalie. Do you want to marry Gustav, or do you want to come with me?”

They caught a ride along the coast with a fisherman, then another ride from a farmer, and reached Helene’s house by late afternoon. When Britta knocked on the front door, Amalie hung back. She’d been three when Helene married and left home, and they’d seen each other only a few times since.

Sounds came from within, but it took several minutes for Helene to open the door. “Mother! And … Amalie!” Helene looked astonished to see them. “Please, come in.”

Once seated in the kitchen, Britta didn’t hesitate. “I need your help, Helene. But first, a question. Have you seen your sister in the last year? Is she here?”

Amalie shot her mother a bewildered look. Solveig was in America … Wasn’t she?

A ticking clock on a high shelf sounded loud in the silence. Then, from upstairs, came the sound of a crying baby. Helene made a gesture of futility. “Yes, she is. I’ll fetch her.”

Britta sighed with obvious relief before bowing her head, lips moving as if in thankful prayer.

Moments later, Solveig crept down the stairs. Her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she’d been sobbing. And she held a baby in her arms.

“Oh, child. I so hoped I’d find you here.” Britta gently wrapped her arms around Solveig and the infant, rocking them back and forth.

Finally Solveig broke away and kissed Amalie on the cheek. “As you can see, things didn’t happen as I’d planned.” Even her voice was thin, worn out.

“Who is this?” Amalie whispered. The baby had a round face and a fuzz of brown hair.

“This is my sweet Marit.”

Britta cooed at her first grandchild. “She’s beautiful. But I think you should sit down, Solveig. Tell us what’s happened.”

By the time Solveig finished her tale, Amalie felt numb. “Father did this? And Gustav?” The man she was to marry.

“I watched it happen.”

Amalie still couldn’t grasp what she’d heard. “Are you sure Jørgen is dead?”

“Yes.” The word was clipped, brittle.

“But … I saw him just before Midsummer,” Amalie protested, as if that might change everything. “He stopped by the hotel for a meal. He was so happy that day. Excited.” Now she knew why. He’d been on his way to reunite with Solveig.

“I don’t know how Father knew we’d be at the Midsummer dance,” Solveig said dully. “But somehow he did.”

A memory struck Amalie like a blacksmith’s hammer. “Solveig, Gustav was in the dining room the day Jørgen came.”

“Did Jørgen mention me?”

Amalie tried to remember. “He said he was on his way to the dance. And … he’d said he’d written a tune for you. I thought he meant in your honor!”

“That must have been enough to make Gustav suspicious,” Britta muttered.

“I got to hear the tune.” Solveig’s gaze grew distant, as if she heard a faraway fiddle. “At least I have that.”

Amalie struggled to offer consolation. The words bunched in her throat, inadequate.

Solveig looked at their mother. “Something else must have happened. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Yes.” Britta nodded. Solveig’s tale had clearly shaken her, but she was calm. “Your father stopped by the seter yesterday to say that he’s going hunting—”

“He’s afraid the police might be hunting him.” Solveig’s mouth twisted bitterly.

“I expect that’s true,” Britta agreed. “But he also announced that he’s promised Amalie to Gustav.”

“She mustn’t!” Helene exclaimed.

Britta closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. “Can Amalie stay here for now? I’ll see if anyone I trust might know of a job available in Bergen—”

“I don’t want to go to Bergen!” Amalie protested. She felt trapped.

But she certainly didn’t want to marry Gustav, either. She wanted to go back in time. She wanted to sing with Solveig while doing chores at the seter, and to giggle with friends at the Utne Hotel. She wasn’t brave like her older sisters. They’d both been eager to leave home. The thought terrified Amalie.

“At least stay here while we think things through,” Helene urged.

Britta opened her little purse and dumped its contents on the table. “I brought some money for Amalie’s keep.”

Solveig’s eyebrows rose. “That’s more than a few coins set aside from the milk money.”

“Perhaps.” Britta hitched her shoulders, unrepentant.

Amalie stared at the money. Had Mother raided Father’s purse? How else could she have saved so much?

“We don’t know what Father will do next,” Solveig said slowly. “He might look for Amalie here.”

Amalie crimped her lips together. The thought of Father finding her was terrifying too.

“I’ve a little money set aside as well,” Solveig said. “Added to that”—she nodded at the coins on the table—“it’s enough to get Amalie to America.”

Amalie’s stomach lurched. No, no, no! Solveig couldn’t be serious.

“America is your dream,” Helene reminded Solveig.

Solveig shrugged wearily. “But I’m not well enough to travel. Amalie should go instead.”

“I couldn’t possibly!” Amalie insisted.

But one by one, her mother and sisters whittled away her objections. “You’ll have to travel under my name,” Solveig said. “I have a passport, and an attest from the pastor.” A testimonial of good character was required for passage.

I’m losing my home, Amalie thought. I’m losing my name. Who will I be?

“And Amalie …” Solveig hesitated, then leaned forward. “I want you to take Marit with you.”

“What? No! How would I manage? I—”

“Please.” Solveig went to the cradle, scooped up Marit, and slipped the infant into Amalie’s unwilling arms. “I need to know that both of you will be safe.”

Amalie stared at Marit. She smelled sweet and sour at once. “I don’t know how to take care of a baby!”

“No one does, until they have to.” Their mother’s voice was firm. “You’ll manage.”

Amalie felt the baby’s weight in her arms. She thought of Høiegård, long taken for granted. She couldn’t imagine crossing the ocean on a ship filled with strangers, only to find more strangers in America. She would feel so alone …

Marit waved two tiny fists as if to say, You won’t be alone. I’ll be there.

Those baby fingers seemed to squeeze Amalie’s heart. If Solveig is strong enough to give up her baby, she thought, I must be strong enough to take her.

That night, as Amalie lay staring at the shadows, she heard Solveig and Mother murmuring in the next bed. “Mother, I wish you could go to America as well.” That was Solveig.

“There is not enough money.”

“Perhaps go to Bergen, then? Surely you won’t go back to Father.”

A long silence passed before Britta answered. “I will go back to Høiegård. I have to protect the farm.”

“Oh, Mother …”

“Someday,” Britta said, “one of you girls might need it.”

Amalie didn’t think Solveig was going to answer. Finally she said, “I have judged you unfairly, Mother. I’m sorry.”

At dawn the four women gathered in the kitchen. Amalie wanted more time to prepare, to get used to the idea, but the others had insisted she leave at once.

One of Helene’s neighbors agreed to bring his wagon and take Amalie to Bergen, where a shipping agent would arrange her passage. Solveig gave her the travel documents and wrote down the name of Jørgen’s American friend. “He’ll help you get settled.”

“Amalie, I have something for you.” Britta’s eyes were glassy, but her voice didn’t waver. She pressed a square of white linen into Amalie’s hands. “For your embroidery. Whenever you get homesick on the ship or in America, work on this.”

Just holding the clean new cloth was a comfort. Amalie did love creating Hardangersaum. The precision required would help occupy her hands—and her mind.

“I have a gift for you as well.” Helene held up the embroidered handaplagg she’d used to cover her hands on her wedding day. “Your great-great-great-grandmother received this when she got married in 1765. It’s been passed down ever since. It will help protect you.”

The gifts went into the painted tine, tucked safe in Amalie’s bag. Helene filled her own small bridal trunk with sheets and a blanket, sacks of peas and beans, three loaves of crusty bread. Solveig added the linens and clothes she’d made for Marit. “You’ll need to find another new mother on the ship. Save some coins to pay for milk.”

The neighbor knocked on the door. “All set?”

Amalie clung to her mother and Helene. Then she squared her shoulders and reached for Marit.

Solveig started to surrender the baby but stopped. She’s changed her mind, Amalie thought.

Then her sister began to sing a beautiful lullaby that Hardanger women had sung to their babies for hundreds of years. A salty lump filled Amalie’s throat. When the song ended, Solveig kissed Marit and gently settled the baby in her younger sister’s arms.

I must not fail, Amalie thought. Her mother and sisters had taken risks, made sacrifices, so that she would be safe. That same strength was inside her. She just needed to find it.

“I love you all.” Amalie raised her chin. “And Solveig, I promise to always do whatever I think is best for Marit.”