CHAPTER III
The Russo-Japanese War broke out during the winter. The Japanese had made an unexpected attack on the Russian fleet in Port Arthur harbor. Now frequent visits were made to cottages with newspapers. The name of the Russian fortress became Potatur, which was easier to pronounce. Valter was on the side of the Japanese; he had heard that they were yellow, and he thought yellow a beautiful color; he liked the color of the gun belt and the stripes on Father’s Crown pants.
Toward spring two faces vanished from his world. Grandmother in Trångadal no longer came to warm her feet against the stove rail. Her eyes no longer ran—he had seen her in the coffin with her eyes closed. As a memento he kept the funeral candy with its black paper and silvery letters: WORLDLY WORRIES FLEE.
A few weeks later his brother Ivar went to America. Albin had kept his promise and sent the ticket. Ivar left in the company of Miller-Kalle’s Albert and Ture, the son of the railroad section boss. They pooled their savings and bought a deck of cards so they could play blackjack during the voyage.
Those were the emigration years, and many people went to America, from Strängshult as well as from other places. It was a real America-spring. The youths still too young to emigrate sang songs about America’s attractions: hundred-dollar bills grew on trees, and one sat in the shade and let the bills drop into one’s lap.
Valter never got to know his older brothers. He was too small while they still remained at home, and as he grew up they left on the White Star Liners, the fastest in the world.
A few days after the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War he began school, and many new faces came into his world.
He began to understand now, said Mother. Miss Tyra, the teacher, gave him many proverbs from the schoolbook which he must learn by heart: “Early liar, old thief.” “Slow wind will also bring a ship to harbor.” “Too wise is unwise.” “Better poor with honor than rich with dishonor.” “Teach youth, honor age!” These proverbs were supposed to give him much pleasure and comfort later in life. He learned to spell, and read the Catechism and the Biblical History, and began with the four rules of arithmetic. He managed well in everything except arithmetic. To add or subtract was easy enough, but to divide or multiply was an ordeal; he would concentrate until his head ached. Nor could he write the figure eight to please the teacher. One circle he might manage, but never both. Miss Tyra said his eights looked like deformed mice. Once he was told to stand at the blackboard for a whole hour—to write an endless number of eights.
From his comrades in school he learned a great deal: to understand the cards in a deck, which enabled him to play auction, knock, and five-cards. He also learned to fight—the neck hold and the waist hold were new to him. And of course the names of the sexual organs; he had heard the soldiers use these same words at the Christmas parties, but then he had not known their meaning.
Some of the boys already worked in the Ljungdala Glass Factory. They spoke disdainfully about the Catechism and the Biblical History and said that these books were full of lies. Of the young glass workers, few believed in God; Valter was shy among these boys.
Gunnar was said to be the best student, and Valter was proud of his brother. Gunnar could solve the arithmetic problems in his head, and as Valter turned the leaves in his book he knew it would be two or three years before he could do the same. Gunnar wrote so neatly that he could be a bookkeeper, said Miss Tyra. At home he was already writing America-letters since Dagmar had gone away to serve as farm maid; she was now thirteen and would be confirmed next year. Pen and inkstand were locked in the bureau drawer, which was opened only when it was time to write a letter to America. Then Gunnar was allowed to sit with his elbows on the table like a grown-up. Father and Mother stood beside him and dictated what he should write: That they had their health, which was God’s greatest gift on earth, and that they wished the same for those in America. And they hoped someone would soon come home, with affectionate greetings.
Soldier-Hulda could not write or read written text. She had gone to school only three weeks, and after school she had never had any time for further learning. Soldier-Sträng had learned to write in the recruit school, but he wrote badly—grotesque, straggly words, sometimes below the blue line, sometimes high above it. His fingers were so stiff and callous-cracked that he always asked someone else to write for him.
Valter no longer wrote with coal; he had climbed the first step on the writing-ladder and was now on the second: he wrote with slate pencil on a slate. But he was still climbing; he was aiming for pencil and paper. The thought came to him that the Crown which was so rich might help him with this.
“How rich is the Crown, Father?”
“Richer than all others.”
“Richer than Rockefeller?”
“I imagine so.”
Then he asked for the address of the Crown, but Father said it was only officials who got the letters, learned people, like governors and sheriffs. One could, of course, write to King Oscar personally, but probably some lackey would take the letter and read it.
Valter decided that he would not write to the King and ask for paper and pencil; some lackey might take his letter and use it in the royal palace privy.
Instead, he wrote to Rockefeller. He found half of a wheat-flour sack; it was smooth and white and made excellent stationery. He wrote that he was seven years old, that he lived in a soldier-cottage in Sweden. He had only a slate and a slate pencil, and he begged Rockefeller to send him kindly a dollar for paper and pencils. His mother gave him an envelope and he wrote the address: “Herr Mister Rockefeller, New York America.” He gave the letter to his mother, who promised to mail it for him and pay the postage until the dollar came, when she would get back her money.
Rockefeller was the richest man in the world, but a proverb said “the richer, the meaner.” Johannes at Kvarn, the richest farmer in the village, was so penurious that he couldn’t afford to eat; nor could he sleep—he must stay up nights and guard his house against thieves. Rockefeller was said to have a million dollars locked in his safe. He need only open the door to the safe and take out one dollar. He wouldn’t miss one single dollar.
Valter would buy a notebook with part of the Rockefeller money. He had seen notebooks with a pencil fastened to the back. That would look elegant.
He waited some time, but nothing was heard. Had the money perhaps gone astray? But he had printed his address clearly: Soldier-cottage, Strängshult, Uppvidinge County, Province of Småland, Sweden. Or perhaps Rockefeller was busy momentarily. Perhaps he had other payments to meet first. There could be so many things to delay the money. At least Rockefeller had not written that he refused to send the dollar.
Valter waited, but no dollar came. Then he began to have bad thoughts about Rockefeller in America. He must be a thousand times richer than Johannes at Kvarn, and perhaps he was even meaner. “The richer, the meaner.” He wouldn’t take out a single dollar from his safe and give it away. Valter intended to write a second letter to Mr. Rockefeller and tell him the truth. Misers should be told the truth.
Then one day he saw a piece of paper in the dungditch. It was the flour sack with his letter to “Herr Mister Rockefeller, New York America.” Someone had done with his letter what he had feared the lackeys at the royal palace would do if he wrote to the King.
The letter had been lying here in the dungditch all the time. It was not Rockefeller’s fault that no dollar had come.
He reproached his mother for having deceived him.
“You mustn’t be a beggar!” she replied. “Begging is disgraceful! Everyone must take care of himself!