The soldier Sträng and his family revered America. The word itself sounded big and imposing, and Valter pondered it and wished to know its meaning: A-me-ri-ka. Amer-ika. A-merika. That was it! Mer rika! More rich! Now he knew—those who lived there were richer than others.
And in that country were all the brothers and sisters of Father and Mother and all of his thirty cousins. He could already count to thirty on his fingers.
But he lived in another land, their cottage here in the clearing lay in another country, and as yet he did not know the name of that country. He asked his father.
“It is called Sverige, Sweden,” replied Father.
Soldier-Sträng pronounced the word so that every letter could be distinguished; it sounded almost formidable. Valter spelled the word to himself and found it more difficult to pronounce than America.
“The land of your forebears,” said Father.
Why was it called Sweden? His father did not know for sure, but thought it had something to do with “Svea.” One time at a parade his colonel had spoken of “the Svea of ancient days.” Valter knew that the word sved meant to smart, so he supposed the name came from something in ancient history that still smarted and hurt and made people remember. Yes, Svea and sved, hurt, were much alike; the soldiers must have been badly hurt in some war.
And so Valter knew why it was called America, and why it was called Sweden. In the America-letters that their father read aloud, the question was often asked: How were things in poor old Sweden? And as he added what he had heard, he understood: In America lived the rich, in Sweden lived the poor.
Soldier-Valter’s nature was such that he must know the truth about all things.
One spring evening as he played in the yard, poking sticks into the earth, he stopped still and looked out in deep thought over the world around him, where he was the smallest of all humans. In front of him lay the gray cottage with its sway-back ridge like a huge, hairy animal, pressed to the ground by its hundred years’ weight. Round it lurked the forest, thick and black. High above the yard rose heaven, vaulted above everything like an immense kettle of shiny bluing. In this heaven-kettle, light glittered through in a few places.
And just then, in the falling twilight, a bird came flying over the roof, black as coal against heaven’s blue. It made a harsh, unearthly sound and flew like an arrow shot from a bow; at once it was lost behind the forest’s edge. It could not have been a real bird that flew like that. Next evening it returned and disappeared equally fast, a pair of vibrating wings against the sky. Whence came the bird? And whither did it fly? A touch of fear passed through him, and curiosity about the mysteriousness that surrounded him when the forest blackness caught the clearing in the evenings: Where am I? I—Soldier-Valter—who am I? Where am I now? A demand for clearness possessed his soul, always and ever. He stood still and thought deeply, sucking his right index knuckle while he pondered; that knuckle was badly bitten.
Soldier-Valter opened the gate by himself and wandered out into the world. He walked by the Little Field and the Big Field. His father led him by the hand, and he walked with his father all the way to the village.
His world expanded. He walked all the way to the neighbor village, to Soldier-Banda’s, where he played with Banda’s Edvin. They stood back to back and measured their height; they were equally tall. They made friends and got along well, he and Edvin. They quarreled, and called each other brat and pig. They fought and fell on the ground. They made friends again and got along well. Then they bragged to each other about all their worldly possessions. Valter named the most important he owned—his thirty cousins in America. Edvin said he had three cousins here in Sweden, in Hermanstorp. Valter insisted that this was a lie since cousins existed in America only. Then he bragged about his tall father who was taller than anyone else’s father. Edvin counteracted this undeniable truth by saying that his father was fatter than any other father. But he was not quite sure that this was enough, and so blurted out what must give him final superiority:
“We have a privy. You have no privy!”
This was a murderous blow to Valter. He felt deeply humiliated. It was true, at Banda’s one could sit on a bench in a small house when one needed to. But at home one had to go to a ditch behind the cottage to squat. This was called the dungditch. Edvin would announce proudly: I’m going to the privy! Valter could not say the same, as they had only a dungditch. I’m going to the dungditch. It didn’t sound good at all. And during the winter when the wind swept around the corner it was cold to go out there. During the summers one sat hidden in tall grass, almost as if in a small grove, and bluebells and dandelions and wild chervil grew all about, protected by the cottage wall, which had no window on that side.
Valter’s humiliation lasted only a few seconds; then he found himself.
“Your privy is nothing. You should see the one my uncle has in America!”
“Have you been there to see it?”
“No, but Uncle Jacob has sent us a picture. His privy is much larger than yours!”
In fact, Valter knew suddenly that Uncle Jacob’s privy in Michigan was much bigger than the whole Banda cottage. It had several rooms, and a kitchen, and a veranda. Twenty people could use it at one time.
“Really?” Edvin was suspicious. “You lie!”
“I tell you it’s the truth! We have a picture of it.”
“Let me see it!”
Valter said that his mother had locked the picture in the bureau drawer. She was afraid someone might put finger marks on it.
Edvin could not keep on denying the existence of a house in America. He had to try something else. He went inside and came out with a rabbit skin; his father had shot the rabbit.
Valter found himself quickly. “Only a small rabbit,” he said. “My father shot a wolf!”
“You lie! There are no wolves around here.”
“My father shot a wolf! I’m telling you the truth, as truly as I live!”
Such words were only used to confirm something important which the listener might doubt: As truly as I live! There could be nothing more true. And now Valter suddenly remembered that the wolf had come to their house early one morning and tried to get into the barn to tear the cow to pieces. Then his father had taken the Crown gun from the wall and shot the beast through the window. The bullet had hit the wolf in the throat. The beast fell at the barn door and kicked with his legs, and the blood streamed from his throat. Mother had helped skin the wolf.
“Do you have the skin at home?” asked Edvin.
No, they had sold the wolf’s skin for one hundred crowns.
“You lie!”
“As truly as I live!”
Edvin went inside to his father at the cobbler’s bench and was assured that no wolves lived in the forests near them. It had been more than fifty years since the last one was shot. And Banda laughed until his fat stomach jumped up and down under the cobbler apron:
“Valter lies like a trooper! Next time I guess his father will shoot a bear!”
Edvin returned to Valter with the final confirmation:
“You lie! Everything you’ve said is a lie!”
And he told this to other children, and they