Berta’s advice had not helped Kristina, but, indeed, the old woman had been careful to add: if she should become pregnant while still suckling her baby, then that might be the fault of Karl Oskar. Some men had seeds so vital that no prevention ever helped.
A few times during the past year Kristina had been seized by an evil temptation. She had wanted to pray to God that He would not make her pregnant any more. This thought had come over her for the first time when she laid Anna in the coffin after only four years on earth; she did not wish to bear children who were to die. But she had been able to withstand the temptation, she had not prayed this sinful prayer. How very sinful it would have been she realized now, when a new life was being created within her.
She must resign herself to the decision of the Highest One. As yet she had said nothing to Karl Oskar.
— 2—
One thought constantly hammered within Kristina’s head during the evening before their departure: Do not forget anything. Up to the last moment she kept finding indispensable objects, things which must be taken along but which she had not thought of earlier. She had forgotten tapers, and pitch splinters — they would no doubt need light sometimes while traveling. The children would want playthings on the ship — for Johan she took a clay cuckoo, and Lill-Märta must have her rag doll — neither one was bulky. The baby Harald, who during the last days had taken his first stumbling steps across the floor, and who handled toys only in a destructive way, could be without anything. She was annoyed with herself when she came across the tripod copper kettle, a wedding gift from her parents; why hadn’t she thought of it before!
Now the only space she could find for the kettle was among the bedclothes in one of the sacks that had not yet been sewn up. As she put her hand into the sack to make room for the kettle she got hold of a pair of children’s shoes, ragged and worn out. They were Anna’s shoes! It was her first pair of shoes — and her last.
Kristina stood, deeply moved, with the tiny shoes in her hand. None of the other children could use them, they were too far gone, they barely held together in the seams; she remembered she had thrown them away. Karl Oskar must have picked them up and put them in the sack that was to go with them to America.
As soon as the girl had learned to walk she had followed her father, in these shoes she had often walked with him, in them she had gone long distances at his side. And as Kristina now found them in the sack they conveyed something new to her about her husband.
For a moment she fought back her tears; carefully she put the shoes back into the sack.
Then she pushed down the coffee kettle, which made the sack look out of form: it stood there on the floor like a hunchback.
The America chest was locked and tied with the thickest ropes they could find; it had already been carried out into the entrance hall in readiness. On its front Karl Oskar had printed in red chalk the owner’s name and destination — there it stood in flaming red letters: Homeowner Karl Oskar Nilsson, N. America. Now the chest would not be lost or mixed up with another.
The Bible, the hymnbook, and the almanac were still on the table; these were the books to be taken along; their place was in the knapsack, they were to be used on the journey.
Karl Oskar came in. He had been to the village to fetch the new high boots which the shoemaker had made for him and which had not been ready until the last moment. No one knew what kind of slipshod footgear they were using in America, and to be on the safe side he had ordered a pair of high boots, to be made of oak-bark-tanned ox leather, the best to be had. The uppers came all the way up to his knees, they could be used in all weathers and on all types of roads. On the boggy roads in the wilds of America one had better be well shod if one wished to get through.
He pulled on the new boots and took a few steps across the floor so Kristina could admire and praise them. They were polished shining black and reinforced at the heels with irons, like small horseshoes. In these boots he could step on shore in America without having to feel ashamed. These boots he could show to the Americans with pride.
But the irresponsible cobbler had almost not finished them in time.
Kristina was brushing his Sunday-best clothes, which he was to put on tomorrow morning. She had put the children to bed and they were already asleep, newly washed and newly combed, in new clean night clothes. Johan and Lill-Märta knew that they were to get out and ride on a wagon tomorrow, that they were to go on a long journey, but the mother felt a sting in her heart as she reflected that otherwise they knew nothing. They had no idea of the long road they were to travel with their parents; it would be long before they were to sleep again in the peace of a home’s protection.
Now, this evening, she ought to speak to Karl Oskar; before they began their journey he must know that still another life was on the way.
“I had better tell you. I am that way again.”
He looked at her, confounded. Before he had time to ask questions she assured him she was not fooled by false signs: they were to have a little one again, he could rely on it.
“Hmm.”
Karl Oskar looked around at the bare, empty walls of the home they were to leave forever tomorrow. At last they were ready, at last all the long, tiresome preparations were over, and when finally this evening he had fetched his boots, which he had worried about, he had felt satisfied with practically everything. Then he was given this piece of news, for which he was unprepared.
A sentence escaped him: “It could not be more ill-timed or awkward.”
“What are you saying?”
“I mean, it is ill-timed just now.”
She flared up. Her voice rose: “I cannot be pregnant to suit you!”
“Now, dear, don’t take it so. .”
“What exactly do you mean, then? Is it only I? Is it only my fault that I get to be with child?”
“I haven’t said that.”
“You have said it’s ill-timed. Can you deny that? But is it not your fault also? Have you not had part in it, perhaps? Even more than I? Is it not you who have put me in this condition? Isn’t it you also who come ill-timed?”
“Kristina! What has come over you? Father and Mother in there can hear you!”
But his wife’s flare-up convinced him of her pregnancy more than anything else; at those times she was always short-tempered and irritable and caught fire at every little word that could be interpreted as an insult.
“Must you take it so hard?”
Her eyes were flaming, her cheeks had turned red. “It sounds as if you accuse me! As if I alone were responsible! I’m to blame less than you! You should feel it yourself! If you for one day, for one hour, had to feel so ill as I. .”
She threw herself face down over the kitchen table, her arms folded in front of her, and burst out crying.
Karl Oskar stood there helpless. He couldn’t understand his wife’s acting thus. He almost flared up himself. But he must keep his head, for he had no indisposition to excuse him. Kristina, besides, must be worn out with all the preparations for the journey.
He put his hand on her shoulder, patting her clumsily: he had used ill-advised words, which she had interpreted wrongly. He regretted them, but he had meant no harm. He had not tried to shun his responsibility in the pregnancy. How could she think anything as foolish as that? He had not accused her of anything. He had only meant that it was bad luck she happened to be pregnant just now, when they were starting out on their journey — which in this way would be harder for her. And perhaps they would barely have arrived in their new home when she would have to go to bed in childbirth; that also wasn’t so good.