His father and mother learned what he had said.
“What is this story you’re spreading that I shoot wolves with the Crown gun!” said Father.
“How can such a little one invent such lies!” said Mother.
Valter’s cheeks burned red. To his parents he could not insist: As truly as I live! Nothing helped him now.
But his father only laughed and pinched his ear tip, not very seriously. Perhaps he understood the whole thing: Valter had to keep up his end of the bragging with Banda-Edvin. And Valter was convinced that what he had said was true at the moment he said it. But he must not say those things to others, for they only made fun of him. He heard and saw and experienced much that he must keep to himself.
His brother Gunnar, however, kept the secrets given to him. He listened in silence and understood that he must not betray Valter. He never said that Valter lied. Nor did he say he spoke the truth. Gunnar said nothing when his brother told stories, and that was how it should be.
Gunnar had started school and could read and write like a grown person. Valter was not yet old enough to begin school, but he already had learned to read and write, mostly by himself, with a little help from Gunnar. The first letters he recognized were those used in the name of a paper, Svenska-Amerikanaren (The Swedish-American Weekly). Soon he could read passably in the American papers and found the names of the towns where his relatives on the bureau lived: Chicago, Iron River, Duluth, Denver, St. Paul, and Seattle Wash. He saw pictures of tall houses: if all the cottages here at home were piled one on top of another, they would not be as tall as one single house in America. He saw a picture of the world’s richest man, Rockefeller. His mouth was full of gold teeth, and he ate scrambled eggs from a silver plate and slept in silk nightshirts, it said. In America even the poor chewed with gold teeth. Here in Sweden they did not even have the old common bone-teeth to chew with. Mother had recently lost her last tooth, and this pleased her, as she hoped to be rid of the toothache from now on. The sooner one got rid of one’s teeth, the better—they only caused pain and misery. And only upper-class people could afford to buy new ones.
Valter learned to write by copying the printed letters of the America-papers. He picked up pieces of charcoal from the ashes in the stove and printed the letters on board stumps he found in the yard. He had no paper to write on; as soon as a piece of wrapping-paper found its way to the cottage, his mother would fold it and put it away. But the boards could be used over and over; as soon as one piece was covered with letters, he would take a knife and scrape it clean. His hands turned black from the charcoal, even though he industriously tried to rub them clean on his face while writing.
One day in spring, shortly after barefoot-time had begun, his big brother Albin came home to the cottage. He had been to the parsonage for his papers, and now he went the rounds of the cottages and said good-by. An America-ticket had arrived from Uncle Jacob: Albin was going to America.
His brother Ivar, too, was free from his service and had come home. All of Soldier-Sträng’s family were now gathered together, and at mealtime Valter could only find standing-room at one corner of the table. This was exactly like “free week” in the fall when the big brothers came home for visits. Albin and Ivar would then sleep on the attic floor, as there was no place for them in the one-room cottage, even though every wall had its pull-out bed; the kitchen was too narrow to hold a bed. There were nine of them in Soldier-Sträng’s family. Albin and Ivar would return to their respective services after their “free week”; this time, however, Albin would travel far away.
Albin had become the central person in the family. All thoughts and words concerned his America-journey. He had become different, he was more important than before. His brothers and sister looked at him with a new respect, and Father and Mother treated him differently and spoke to him in a different way. Albin was emigrating to America.
He was broad of shoulder and tall, almost as tall as Father. He, too, must stoop when entering the cottage. To Valter the oldest brother was almost a stranger. As far back as he could remember, Albin had only come and gone. Now he was a new, strange being: he had an America-ticket, and he carried his papers in his pocket. He no longer belonged in this cottage, he belonged in another world. In a sense, Albin already was one of those in the frames on the bureau.
All listened when Albin spoke; he commanded almost the same respect as Father.
“I shall go on the White Star Liner,” said Albin.
If anyone was making noise, at these words he would grow silent.
“I shall go to Alaska and dig for gold,” continued Albin.
Now the silence was profound in the cottage where Soldier-Sträng’s family were gathered.
Albin had brought home a copy of Smålands-Posten, from which he read about “Our Countrymen Out There.” One Smålander from a neighboring village had made such a rich strike in Alaska that every spadeful was worth two thousand dollars.
The silence could not grow deeper around Albin. Valter sat oblivious of the fact that his tongue was hanging out.
“Almost eight thousand crowns in one spadeful,” said Albin.
Father pondered this. Eight thousand was Riches. If he were the owner of this place he would be rich, he used to say. The soldier-cottage with its ground was perhaps worth a thousand crowns. But in America one could push the spade into the ground and lift it up again with eight homesteads on one spade.
“I’ll send a ticket for Ivar next year,” said Albin.
The eyes of the family moved to the second-oldest among the children. He had been sitting quietly and solemnly; after his brother’s words he grew impressive. He, too, began to take on stature in the eyes of the others. Part of Albin’s glory reflected on him: I’ll send a ticket for Ivar.
Albin walked from cottage to cottage and said good-by. He carried his “papers” in his pocket.
Valter had spelled through the advertisement in the paper:
THE WHITE STAR LINE
The Favorite Line of the Swedes!
The World’s Largest and Fastest Steamers!
He crawled up into the sofa corner and closed his eyes. He wanted to be alone with himself for a while as he traveled to America. He, too, took the White Star Line, because it was the fastest. At once he was on the ship that sped across the watery sea. It was like the picture ship on their wall, where Jesus calmed the storm. Huge, bearded men sat at the oars and rowed. They were bare-headed and resembled Christ’s disciples in the picture. The storm thundered, the water splashed in furious waves around the ship. Valter was a passenger and need not row. He had his ticket, and in his pocket he carried his papers—a piece of wallpaper he had scraped off and on which he had written his name: America-farer Valter Sträng. All he need do was to sit quietly in the boat until he arrived. During the nights he could sleep in the bottom of the boat while it stormed. He never feared that the ship would turn over in the water. After all, he traveled on the White Star Line, the favorite line of the Swedes.
One morning he awakened and the ship lay still. He had arrived at the shores of America. There grew fig trees and palms and lilies, exactly as on the shores of Lake Genesaret. And on the shore Uncle Frank stood and waved to him, with his big hat, and his pipe in his mouth. And Valter stepped ashore in America and went with his uncle to the mine where he would dig so much gold that he could put teeth of gold in Mother’s mouth; then it wouldn’t take her so long to chew the hard bread crusts. And he would dig a few spadefuls for Father, enabling him to buy their home and all the farms in the village.
Then,