Vilhelm Moberg - Unto A Good Land

And she tried, she tried to think and say the opposite. She said to herself: At home here in America — back there in Sweden. She repeated this, again and again. Her mouth learned to say it, but her heart wouldn’t accept it. Next time, she forgot herself, again she used the words back home — away here. Something inside her refused the change, something she could not force. She still thought and talked as she had when she first arrived. She could not make the countries change place — back home would always remain home to Kristina.

What was the matter with her? Kristina put the question to herself, and Karl Oskar too asked her. Nothing was the matter with her, she answered. Did she lie when she said this? Did she speak the truth? She was satisfied with her lot here, she complained of nothing; she had husband and children with her, they were all in good health, they had their sustenance, everything essential, everything they needed to sustain life. They could forget their temporary inconveniences, finding comfort in the good promises the future held out for them in the new land.

Kristina lacked nothing, yet she missed something. It was hard to understand.

What did she miss? What did she long for? Why did she lie awake so long in the evenings thinking about the rosebush and the Astrachan tree at home in Duvemåla? Did she miss the bushes and trees of the home village? There were enough bushes and trees and plants growing around their new home, they grew more profusely than in Sweden, and they bore quantities of fruit and berries, much richer fruit than the trees and bushes in Sweden. She should be well satisfied with all the good things here.

Why did she long so for home? Perhaps it was weakness, a softness in her. Perhaps some childishness remained in her, had remained in her too long: When she had been a married woman, mother of several children, she had secretly put up a swing in the barn and gone there to play. That had been childish. And now it was childish of her to think of rosebushes and trees she had planted in her parental home — to regret that she never again would taste apples from her tree, never see her rosebush bloom outside the gable.

Now she was a grown woman — and she wanted to be a grown woman, she did not wish Karl Oskar to see how childish and weak she was, she did not want to act like a silly girl. That was why she hadn’t confided in him. Not a single human being knew what stirred within her as she lay awake these spring nights in her bed.

It was only natural that she longed to see her loved ones, that she missed the life she had been born into and bred up in. Everything focussed in those clear pictures of home — the apple tree and the rosebush in the twilight, all that her longing made vivid in the dark: the family gatherings, familiar customs and ways, the Sundays on the church green, spring and autumn fairs, the year’s festivities and holidays, the seasons in the farm-year cycle. Here in the wilderness all was different, here people had other customs, and she lived like a bewildered stranger among people whom she could not reach with her tongue, and who could not reach her with their own speech.

She saw the sunshine, the light of the moon, and the stars in the heavens — it was the same sun, the same moon, and stars she had seen at home. The heavenly lights had accompanied her on her emigration and shone on her here. They were lit at home too and shone over the people she had left behind. Sun, moon, and stars revealed to her that though she was in a foreign land she still shared the firmament with those at home. But she was away, and she would remain away. In this country she would live out the rest of her allotted days, few or many, broken soon or stretching into late old age. Here she would live, here she would die, here she would lie in her grave.

And this was the way it was with Kristina: she could not reconcile herself to the irrevocable. She had emigrated for life, yet it seemed she was still on a journey that would eventually bring her home again.

And night after night she lay awake and measured the road she never again would journey.

— 3—

During daylight her chores occupied her thoughts, in the daytime she could defend herself. But when she lay wide awake at night, waiting for sleep to engulf her, she was open and unprotected; and then longing and sorrow stole over her. Her evening prayer sometimes brought calm to her mind and helped her go to sleep. Karl Oskar always went to sleep immediately, usually as soon as his head hit the pillow, and often she said her prayer after he had gone to sleep; she wanted only God to hear her.

One evening she made an addition to her usual prayer: She prayed God that He might once more let her see her home and her loved ones. For God nothing was impossible: If He wanted to, He could stretch out His omnipotent arm and move her from North America back to Sweden.

Afterward she lay awake; in her thoughts she was with those at home sitting “twilight.” No, her evening prayer did not always help her.

She felt Karl Oskar’s hand on the quilt, slowly seeking hers. “Kristina. .”

“I thought you were asleep, Karl Oskar.”

“Something wakened me. Maybe a screechhopper.”

“There is no hopper in here tonight.” She must have wakened him saying her prayer. “Have you been awake long?”

“No. Just a little while.”

She hoped he hadn’t heard her prayer.

His hand had found hers: “What is the matter with you, Kristina?”

“Nothing. Nothing is the matter with me. Go back to sleep!”

But her voice was thick and disturbed, so sad that it troubled him. Her voice denied the words she uttered. Her voice said: Yes, there is something wrong. Don’t go to sleep, Karl Oskar! Stay awake and help me!

And she was afraid he might hear her voice rather than her words.

“But why do you lie awake this late?” he persisted.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s silly and childish. . ”

She wanted to be strong, as strong and hardy as he.

“Are you — sad? Is something wrong, Kristina?”

“No. . I don’t know how to explain. . ”

He gripped her hand in his own big, hard hand. “Aren’t we friends, the best of friends, as before?”

“Yes, Karl Oskar, of course.”

“But then you must tell me everything. If you fight something, I might help you. Good friends help each other.”

She did not answer.

A silence fell between them.

Then he said — and his words were firm and determined: “If you want God’s arm to move you back, then I’ll hold you here with my arm!”

He meant what he said. So, not only God had heard her this evening.

“Yes. Now you know, Karl Oskar.” She said this with a slow, hesitating sigh. Then she added: “There isn’t much more to say. It was a childish wish that came over me as I said my prayer.”

“I began to wonder that time last fall when you cried at the housewarming party. Since then I have wondered how things stood with you. And lately I’ve felt you don’t like it here. You’re brooding.”

“I like it here. It isn’t that. I don’t know myself what it is. I’ll tell you, and let me hear what you think. . ”

And suddenly she wanted to confide in her husband, she wanted him to know and understand. It was painful for her to keep such a thing as this a secret, it wore on her mind to suffer a sorrow which she had to hide every moment, had to hide even from her own husband. And hadn’t she and Karl Oskar been joined together in order to lighten life’s burdens for each other, to comfort each other in trouble? Shouldn’t he know why she lay awake nights, what she thought of and played with in her imagination — that she traveled the road back home, bit after bit, mile after mile?