Mrs. Lindquist jumped in. “Besides, she’s a Lutheran, Lordor. What else do you need to know?”
Lordor was awfully glad to hear the ladies’ opinion. He cared very much about what they thought, but in this case, he hadn’t needed much prompting. The moment he had seen the girl’s photograph, he had been smitten. She was Swedish all right, with her blond braids arranged so neatly across her head and wearing her high-necked white lace blouse with a cameo. And she was very pretty. But it was something else that had captured his attention right away. It was a look in her eye that certain immigrants recognized in one another. A look of hope and determination, almost as if she was gazing past him, far into the future. The day the photograph had arrived, he’d stared at it for so long that when he closed his eyes that night, he could still see her face. He figured that must mean something, but he stopped himself from going too far. First, he needed to have his picture taken and give the girl a chance to get a good look at him.
Oh, Lord. Just the thought of her seeing his photograph filled him with dread. Now he knew how that poor horse he’d just bought must have felt when he had examined every inch of him and looked at all of his teeth before putting his money down. Tomorrow, he was going to give that horse some extra hay as a way of an apology.
November 1865
* * *
VIKEN, SWEDEN
The baby had come much too early. A woman named Ingrid Olsen had just given birth beside a lake next to the potato field where she worked. She guessed, by the weight of the potatoes, that the baby girl weighed no more than five pounds. A friend helped Ingrid wrap her up in a torn burlap sack.
Ingrid had already lost two babies, but if by some miracle this baby should live, she would name her Katrina. She knew that winter was coming. And with so little food and a house with such poor heat, she did not hold out much hope.
Ingrid looked down at the squirming little five pounds of blue-eyed life she held in her arms and cried for the child’s future.
—
IN 1865, SWEDEN WAS A LAND with strict class divisions, with no middle ground. If you did not own land, you worked it for the ones who did, with no hope for a different future for you or your children.
But something had happened. Something called America. And there was now hope in the world. A place where if you worked hard, you had at least a chance for something better. But at that moment, Ingrid’s baby girl was only forty-two minutes old and already hungry.
Katrina had lived, but she had been frail and sickly all her life. When she was seven, she contracted measles that settled in her eyes and caused her to go temporarily blind. Gradually, over the next few years, her eyesight slowly came back, but it was never good after that. When her father died, Katrina had stayed home to tend to her younger brother and sister as her mother continued to work in the fields.
As Katrina got older, she was able to help with the cooking and the baking. Before she married, her mother had worked in the city as a pastry cook for a wealthy family. But that was before she had fallen in love with a tenant farmer.
Luckily, Ingrid still baked with a light touch. And later, when she could no longer work in the potato fields, she was able to sell her pastries to the family who owned the farm for special occasions. But there was never enough money. Many nights, they went to bed hungry. Their only hope of survival was one of them somehow getting to America and finding work. They all thought it would be Katrina’s brother, Olaf, who would go, but Olaf was still too young. Katrina had not wanted to leave home, but she felt she had no choice.
The day she left, Katrina tried not to cry. She wanted to be strong for her mother. They walked to the nearest town and stood waiting for the wagon that would take Katrina to catch a train to Bremen, Germany, where she could take a steamer to Liverpool, then board a huge ship headed to America.
As the wagon approached, her mother reached into her apron pocket and quietly pressed something into Katrina’s hand. It was a small white handkerchief, embroidered in red and blue flowers, a gift from one of the wealthy ladies she had worked for in the city. When Katrina saw what it was, she said, “Oh, Momma…are you sure? You love this handkerchief.” Her mother nodded and held her daughter one last time.
The trip across the sea in steerage had almost killed her. Katrina hadn’t had much money for food, and by the time the ship docked in New York, she was so thin, she could barely stand up.
When the inspector at the immigration depot noticed she was not well, he almost sent her back to Sweden, but he could see she was fighting with all her might to look strong and healthy. The inspector was a tough man and used to having to reject people every day, but he didn’t have the heart to send this girl with the shining eyes back home, so he passed her through.
Katrina had arrived in America and was given a job in Chicago right away. At the time, Swedish housemaids were in high demand, and even preferred. They were known for their cleanliness, honesty, and ability to learn the language. Also, in the newly forming wealthy upper-class society of Chicago, a Swedish servant in the home meant something. The beautiful four-story brick home in Lincoln Park where Katrina was employed had five girls in service.
Four months later, Katrina’s mother in Sweden was handed a letter, and she could finally sleep without worry.
To My Dearest Mother,
I made it across the sea, Momma. I am in America. I have a job in a place called Chicago. I am working in the day, and my friend Anna Lee and I are learning our English at night. The lady of the house told me I do very well in speaking it. I am hoping the money I am sending will help. I do not spend any on trinkets. Oh, Momma, I miss you. I sleep with your handkerchief. I see your face when you waved me goodbye.
Kiss the little ones for me,
Katrina