Crimson Snow by Jeanne Dams Page B

abated.…
    â€”South Bend Tribune
    January 27, 1904
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    10
    H ILDA THOUGHT IT BEST the next morning to get up at her usual time and do her usual duties before breakfast. They were few, for Sunday was nominally a holiday, but Mrs. George had undoubtedly not yet notified the cook about Hilda’s new status. Mrs. Sullivan was going to lose her temper when she heard about it, and since she didn’t dare take out her outraged feelings on her employer, it was Hilda who would bear the brunt of them. Well, she, Hilda intended to give no offense in the meantime. With luck she’d be out of the house before the storm broke.
    Chores done and breakfast eaten, Hilda hurried to church. The day was bitter cold; her family had not waited outside the church for her. She stopped for a moment just inside the door, to calm her rapid breathing and let her eyes accustom themselves to the relative dimness, and then slipped into the pew beside her sister Gudrun just as the pastor entered.
    Since the congregation was between pastors and was therefore sharing one with an Elkhart church, the service was brief. Too brief for Hilda’s liking. There was going to be unpleasantness afterwards.
    When church was over, no one foregathered around the door. It was too cold. Civil greetings were exchanged, hats were tipped, and then every family hurried back to its own fireside, its own good Sunday dinner.
    The kitchen at Sven’s house, where the family always ate on Sundays, was small, far too small for three women. At last Gudrun shooed Hilda and Mama out to set the table. The three younger girls were huddled around the fire in the tiny parlor, enjoying a little rare leisure. Erik and Sven were outside gathering more wood. Mama and Hilda were essentially alone.
    Mama had said nothing to Hilda all morning, indeed had scarcely looked at her. Now they spread the embroidered Sunday cloth across the table in silence. Hilda set out plates on her side of the table, carefully positioning them over the darned places, and then passed the plates to Mama for her side, all in silence. They laid out cutlery in the same fashion. Hilda knew what was coming, but she was determined not to speak first. Mama was the one who was angry. Let Mama raise the subject.
    When they had folded the last threadbare napkin and set the last glass in place, Mama could no longer contain herself. “So,” she said. “You act like a member of the family now. But you are no longer my daughter.” She spoke in Swedish, and her voice was colder than the air outside.
    Hilda was stung, even though she had thought she was ready. But she had her answer. “Then I will no longer have to go out in a blizzard and look for Erik?” Hilda asked, also in Swedish. “Good. I do not know who else will do it, but if he is not my brother, why should I freeze for him?”
    Mama had expected tears or fury. She changed her tactics. “Why do you break my heart this way? Are there no Swedish boys in this town? I wish I had never come to America. This is a terrible place, where young boys are molested and young women killed, and my daughter chooses to marry a Papist.”
    â€œA Papist who saved Erik’s life last year. Whose uncle paid for you and Erik and the girls to come here, and in luxury, too.” Uncle Dan had paid the passage for the last four Johanssons to join the older siblings, and had done it in style, buying second-class tickets rather than the usual steerage. “Mama, I have no wish to hurt you. That is one reason I have said no to Patrick for years. But he is a good man, and he will be rich, and I love him. This is America. The world is changing. Mama, I hope you will give us your blessing. But I will marry Patrick even if you do not.”
    Tears began to gather in Mama’s eyes.
    Hilda hurried on with the rest of what she had to say. “I have other news, Mama. We will speak of Patrick later, but I have