Searching for Nora

PEAVINE MOUNTAIN PRESS, Reno, Nevada USA

Copyright © 2019 by Wendy Swallow
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Design by Kathleen Szawiola

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019911151

Paperback edition: ISBN 978-1-7331075-0-1
E-book edition: ISBN 978-1-7331075-1-8

Front cover illustrations: Young woman circa 1889.

©iStock, Beeldbewerking; Minnesota butter y weed in
prairie grasses. ©Shutterstock, Denise Gerdes. /
Cover design: Kimberly Glyder
This book is dedicated to the women of the nineteenth century, who
started everything.

And for Karlsgut.

 PREFACE

Searching for Nora is the story of three quests.

At the heart of the novel is Nora Helmer’s search for herself. It
begins the moment she leaves her husband at the end of Henrik
Ibsen’s iconic play A Doll’s House and carries her to places she could
scarcely have imagined.
The second quest is that of the young university student Solvi
Lange, who is searching for her missing grandmother—and for an
escape from conventionality in post–World War I Norway.
The third quest is my search for both these remarkable women.
Who are they, what will they do with their lives, and why do they
matter?
Nora Helmer has always mattered to me, ever since I rst saw A
Doll’s House onstage in college. My friends wondered how Nora
could be a simpering wife-child in the rst act, then throw o the
chains of matrimony in the third, but not I. I recognized her
manipulations and lies for what they were—the desperate measures
of a powerless woman trying to manage as best she could.
My fascination with Nora deepened years later when I left my
own husband and the home where we were raising two young sons.
Heading out into the world as a single mother, I could only think
how many advantages I had over Nora—a paying job, the legal right
to care for my kids, an understanding community. Nora had none of
that.
When I saw the play again I found I could no longer cheer when
Nora slammed the door and walked out. Instead, my heart ached for
her—so angry, so excited, so naive. I began to suspect that those
who cheered were misreading Ibsen’s play. Nora’s decision feels
today like an act of liberation, but for Ibsen’s contemporaries, her
nal act was far more complicated. It was essential to Nora’s soul,
yes, but it was also impulsive, desperate, even self-dramatizing. For
much of Ibsen’s play, Nora believes her only escape from the shame
and criminal liability of her forged loan is to commit suicide. This is
no small hint. Ibsen knew the world of his day was far from ready
for Nora, that she would face poverty, despair, and possibly the trap
of prostitution on her solo path to self-knowledge. He knew that
what she was doing would likely lead to ruin, even suicide.
Yet, at the same time, Ibsen gave Nora a survivor’s drive and an
adaptable nature. When she stops to think, she can be cunning and
practical. When she gets past her own vanity, she can be thoughtful
and caring. I believed she could gure out how to make her way in
the world, despite daunting obstacles, and I wanted to give her that
chance.
There have been other sequels to A Doll’s House. Most are plays
that ring with the authors’ political persuasions, reducing Nora to a
feminist icon rather than exploring her likely fate in nineteenth-
century Norway. None gave me the story I wanted to read, which
was how a young mother, with convictions and a heart, would take
on her own awed character in the e ort to understand and rebuild
herself.
I decided it was time to get Nora o the stage and give her space
to roam, so I chose to write a novel. I knew she would struggle with
the consequences of her choices, particularly the loss of her
children. One of Ibsen’s core themes is the tension between idealism
and realism; I wanted to see how Nora would face the devils of her
day and gather the courage to give up her masquerades and
manipulations so that she could stand honestly before the world.
To understand her time, I researched Norwegian social and
economic history and read about the scandalized reaction to Ibsen’s
play when it premiered in 1879. I traveled to Norway to interview
Ibsen experts and emigration historians. I read about the Norwegian
diaspora to America and grew haunted by the dark side of prairie
life. Exploring the empty corners of Minnesota, I fell in love with the
wide, quiet land, but also came to respect its rigors and challenges.
Solvi, a lonely girl with a rebellious spirit and erce yen for the
truth, sprang to life so I could view Nora through the prism of time
and turn-of-the-century social change. I had to believe the re in
Nora’s belly got handed down to a female descendant, and I wanted
to know that girl.
For the past ten years, Nora and Solvi have lived in my
imagination. When I started, I had no idea this novel would take me
so far or teach me so much. In the end, I came away with a
profound appreciation for the women of the nineteenth century,
those early pioneers who started to ght—both personally and
publicly—for equality and women’s rights.
And for Henrik Ibsen, who understood what those brave women
were up against.

A Note about Kristiania

The Kristiania of this story is the city known today as Oslo, the
national capital and largest city in Norway. From 1879 to 1920, the
years spanned by this book, the city was named Kristiania (a
modi cation of the earlier “Christiania”). The city’s original
medieval name of Oslo was restored in 1925.
Searching for Nora
 CHAPTER ONE

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

When Anders and I boarded the train in Minnesota back in 1889, we

headed west in search of obscurity.
We rode for days, through the interminable at of Dakota, into
dry Montana, and then beyond, to where the mountains rose on the
horizon and trees appeared again. When the train stopped at
Spokane, with its rolling grassland and forested hills, we got o .
Familiar but not familiar. When we rst saw the orchard, stunted by
drought and neglect, I thought we should continue on to Seattle. But
Anders pleaded with me: I can save this place. He meant that it could
save him, and so we settled, one last time.
There are other Norwegians here but many more Germans and
Swedes, so we manage to keep our distance. The orchard has
thrived under Anders’s care, and we keep a large garden, as well as
chickens, pigs, sheep, and a few docile cows. Anders and Jens tend
the trees, press the apples, and build furniture to sell. Jens married a
German girl named Katrin he met at a dance, and they built their
own small house at the bottom of the orchard. They have four
children, who drift in to delight us every day.
Am I happy? Content, I would say, as I have learned not to wish
for anything more. Over time I found my own small place in the
community, a bit of purpose, and that has kept me from thinking
too much about my past.
Until yesterday.

WHEN I SAW THE ADVERTISEMENT,

I could only stare at it, dumbfounded.
Apparently I was dead, but now I might be alive.
 I was tidying up before dinner, tossing the Skandinaven and other
periodicals into a basket, when I glimpsed something familiar. The
newspaper, published out of Chicago, mixed Norwegian news with
political talk and gossip from the parlors of Kristiania to the docks
of Seattle. Every Norwegian in America read it.
I picked it up again. Had Anders seen it?
No. He would have said something. Because there in the ad, of all
things, was a picture of me. It was a picture I knew, though I hadn’t
seen it in years. In the photo I am young and astonishingly lovely.
I’m clad in my dove-gray silk, the gown luminous in the studio’s
lights, with a froth of lace at my throat. My honey-blond hair is
piled loosely on my head, my eyes level and my chin lifted as I
smile for the photographer. On my lap sits Emma, imperious in her
own billow of lace. Next to me is Torvald, handsomer than I
remembered, in his crisp black frock coat. And there are the boys in
their sailor suits, Ivar standing true and tall next to his father, Bobby
leaning sweetly against my knee.
It was from before, before everything happened.
Before I started wearing black.
If anyone has information about the woman in this photograph, please
send a letter to box 143 at the central post o ce, Kristiania, Norway.
Nora Helmer was declared dead in 1885, but her family has reason to
believe she is alive, perhaps in America. Reward.
I ran my ngers across the advertisement, as if to make sure it
was real. I had lost my own copy of the photograph years ago, when
I fell through the ice one warm March afternoon. I had put it inside
my blouse that day, over my heart. It didn’t survive the water.
I started to tremble. I couldn’t believe I had the picture back.
With shaking hands I ripped the ad out of the newspaper, making
a mess of it. Finally, just as Anders banged in the front door, it was
done—the advertisement safely folded and hidden in the pocket of
my apron, the mutilated newspaper stu ed into the stove.

NORA
December 26, 1879 Kristiania, Norway
I left late one frigid night. Torvald, too stunned to stop me, stood
gaping in the parlor as I clattered down the apartment stairs and
slammed the big front door. I wanted to shake the gossips from their
beds, to send them to the window to glimpse the unthinkable: Nora
Helmer, walking away in her traveling coat, with a satchel!
I did it to leave Torvald in a stew of scandalous talk because it
was what he feared most, more than he feared losing me.
Outside, the cold knocked the air from my lungs. I grabbed the
railing to steady myself and hesitated for a long moment, suspended
between two worlds. Inside the lamps still ickered, and all that had
been my world shimmered in the relight—the chairs pulled up
beside the stove, my embroidery hoop waiting on the footstool, my
darling children asleep in the nursery. It would be so easy to slip
back in and say I was sorry. To beg his forgiveness. To sink back
into the su ocating eiderdown of my life.
But I was not sorry. Sorry would come later, pulling me down like
grass in a mountain lake, but not now. Instead, a surge of
exhilaration swept up from my feet. I was free, as if all the
constraints and rules of my marriage had fallen away with the
slamming of the door. I was just Nora—no longer Torvald’s squirrel,
no longer his wife!
I took a deep breath, then plunged into the icy street.
My boots skidded on the frozen ruts, so I hurried as best I could,
skirting the gaslights and sucking in the electric air. Afraid that
Torvald would come after me, I ducked down an alley, stumbling
past ash cans in the knee-deep snow. I took other alleys and soon
lost my way, but it didn’t matter. I only needed to disappear.
I walked and walked, slipping past stately houses and darkened
apartment buildings. I barely felt the weight of my bag, as I had
taken so little, just a few clothes, my lotions, my pearls. But there
were other burdens. Everything that had happened ickered
through my mind. Torvald’s words, in particular, cut like fragments
of glass.
How had it come to this fevered ight? I knew, and I didn’t know.
It happened at the sad end of Christmas. The overwrought
children were nally asleep, and Torvald and I, limp with brandy,
had lingered in the drawing room. And then he found the letter,
delivered earlier. The letter from my blackmailer.
“What’s this?” he said as he opened it and began to read. Then he
gasped. “Is this true?” His eyes bugged out at me in disbelief, as if
he’d never seen me before. “Did you do this thing he says, forge
your father’s signature, for a loan?” He looked at the letter again,
then back at me, his face going scarlet. “And the man who loaned
you the money is blackmailing you?”
“Yes. I did it to save your life.”
“How could you!” he thundered. “And against my wishes!” He
paced, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea what you have
blundered into?”
“I loved you more than all the world, Torvald.”
But he couldn’t hear that. “None of your slippery tricks, Nora!”
He shouted, he called up my father’s “ imsy values,” and then
said he should have known I would be no better. Hypocrite and liar,
he called me, his accusing nger shaking with anger. Then, when he
thought he was ruined, criminal, disgusting, shameful. And the nal
wound—that he could never trust me with the children again.
And so our marriage cracked open, and the life I’d known spilled
away.

THE COLD FINALLY CAUGHT UP WITH ME. I stopped, lost in a jumble of

weathered cottages, and slumped against a wall to breathe. And as I
did, my circumstances settled gently on my shoulders, like snow. I
had left home to wander the city alone at night, and I had left my
children behind. I thought of them sleeping in their rumpled beds—
Ivar with his long legs sticking out from the sheets, Bobby curled
like a forest creature, Emma snu ing in her crib. She had a cold;
would Nurse summon the doctor tomorrow? She could sicken and
die, and I might never know.
I couldn’t bear the thought of that, so I stamped my feet to make
sure they weren’t frozen and looked about. In the distance I could
see the warehouses along the harbor.
 After everything that had happened, I had come down to the fjord
after all.
I walked toward the water. The big port was unusually quiet,
emptied by the holiday. Darkened ships lined the bulkhead, and
stacks of lumber loomed in the shadows. Snatches of ddle music
echoed across the bay from the drinking houses of Vika, the slum on
the other side. Life went on, apparently, but so far away it didn’t
seem to include me anymore.
Instead, there was the sea, the beckoning sea. As I stepped out
onto the dock, the thick cold of the fjord reached for me, like
ghostly arms. Maybe this was how it should be. Throughout this
awful Christmas, as my blackmailer circled in, there seemed to be
just one way out: down, into this dark water.
At the farthest end I inched my toes out over the last plank. This
would be Torvald’s punishment, then, for all of it—marrying me,
belittling me, accusing me. But it would also be a gift, as I would
take my shame with me into the depths.
I gazed south down the fjord. The deeper water was quiet and
forgiving, heaving gently under the crystalline sky. I could solve it
all with one small step, no more than stepping o the stoop outside
our apartment. I wouldn’t have to crawl home to my aunt or beg for
work. The children would grieve, yes, but in time they would
recover and go on with their lives.
And Torvald? His honor would be restored, but at night guilt
would climb into bed to lie with him.
I swayed, dizzy with possibility.
Then I looked down. Trash and otsam pulsed against the dock;
the water was the color of coal. My blackmailer was right—it would
be an ugly death, sordid and nal.
Not heroic, as it might seem onstage.
I stepped back and shook myself, as if waking from a tangled
dream. What was I doing? I was young, strong. I could have a whole
life ahead of me. Why must the heroine die to redeem the man?
Then, as clear as if an angel spoke: because men write the plays,
Nora, just as they write our lives.
 And with that, the refusal that drove me out the door coursed
through me again. I stumbled away from the edge.
I needed warmth and a bed. I picked up my bag and headed to
Kristine’s.

A CONSTABLE found me crossing the promenade near the parliament

building and insisted on guiding me through the dark streets to the
apartment of my only friend. When we got there, it took several
pulls on the bell before Kristine appeared, disheveled from bed and
speechless to nd me at her door with a police escort.
“Make sure she stays in at night,” the constable said. “She was
wandering down by the harbor.”
Kristine pulled me up the stairs to her small at. My knees gave
out; she helped me to a chair.
“Nora, my goodness, you poor thing …”
I was shivering now, my teeth rattling in my mouth.
Kristine threw a blanket around my shoulders, stirred the re, and
lled the kettle. When she turned back to me her face was wary.
“What have you done, Nora?”
“I’ve left home, Kristine,” I stammered. “I’ve left Torvald.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’ve left Torvald? You can’t do
that!”
“I have, Kristine. I told him everything, as you said I should, but it
came to ashes.” I clenched my teeth to stop their chattering. “My
miracle didn’t happen, Kristine. Torvald will never forgive me, so
I’m going back to Hamar. My aunt will take me in, and I’ll get a job.
I’ll work, as you have.”
“I never suggested you leave your husband!”
“He called me terrible things, Kristine, unforgivable things.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then turned to prepare the
teapot. “This is unthinkable. You have no idea how di cult it will
be, what it’s like to be poor. You’re such a child—.” Her voice
caught, and she spun back around. “Your children, Nora! How could
you leave your children?”
 The thought of my children felt like a stone on my chest. “Perhaps
they’re better o with their nurse right now, Kristine. I’m no kind of
mother. I need to gure out how to live in the world before I can be
their mother again.”
“Nonsense, Nora! They’d only be better o with their nurse if you
were dead!”
There it was again, the appropriate solution. I just looked at her,
speechless.
She softened, taking my bone-cold hands and rubbing them.
“Nora, Torvald will not let them send you to jail for your forgery,
and in time he’ll forgive you. Go back. He loves you; he’ll take pity
on you. Don’t be so sel sh.”
My cheek twitched. I was giving up everything. My future would
probably be a cramped apartment like hers, with handed-down
furniture and stained wallpaper. “How is this sel sh, Kristine?”
“Because you’re acting only on feelings,” she cried, losing her
patience. “You’re being impulsive, as you always are!”
“Is it impulsive to do the only thing I can do? I cannot live with
someone who considers me a criminal and a child. I can no longer
be his wife.”
Kristine poured my tea, and then tightened her robe across her
spinster shoulders. I could feel her distancing herself.
“Go back to bed, Kristine,” I said. “And thank you for taking me
in. I had no one else.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Yes. Could you please go to Torvald’s tomorrow and collect my
things? Have them sent to my father’s house in Hamar.”
“Of course.”
I handed her a card with the address and a handful of coins. “I
told Torvald I would take only what’s mine. If he argues, let him
have his way.”
She lingered, unsettled. “In the morning things might look
di erent. Perhaps you should pray on it, Nora.”
“Perhaps I should,” I said.
She sighed, then left me to God.
I DID NOT PRAY. I waited for sleep, but instead sadness seeped in like
the tide. Sometimes a rift opened in one’s life, a crack that snaked
through everything, dividing before from after. But until the crack
widened into a chasm, you could still see the other side, the life that
was safe, the life that you knew. I had stumbled into territory that
felt as barren as the moon, yet when I closed my eyes, all I could see
was home—my piano stacked high with music, the boys playing
with their tin soldiers on the rug, Cook calling us to dinner.
Precious, known, and now lost. Fading already into nothing but
memory.

THE NEXT MORNING I rose early, anxious to be gone in case Torvald

came looking for me. The gaslights still burned as I crossed the city,
dodging trams and people. I thought of my children having their
breakfast and wondered what their father might have told them, or
told the servants, or the servants their friends. The elegant parlors
would ring with malicious talk of me by noontime.
At the station I managed to board a train to Hamar without
detection, and the city of Kristiania soon vanished behind us as we
clattered north, a welcome relief. Across the small compartment an
older woman traveling with her husband watched me with a
disapproving air, puzzled that a lady in a ne coat would travel
alone, as if I wore my story on my sleeve. I smiled, but it did little
good.
I turned to the window. The Norwegian countryside ickered past
in the slanting winter light, the ghostly snow elds patched in
between heavy walls of forest. The whole world felt black and
white, the blank page of my future rimmed with the dark unknown.
When I took this train south with my new husband, all those years
ago, I had chatted with everyone in the car. Now I kept to myself.
Stripped of my life, I couldn’t think what to say.
Because how would I explain this? What would I say to my aunt,
the only family left to me? She would demand to know why, but I
wouldn’t know where to start. Because it was impossible to say
when unhappiness began. It crept in, like that damnable tide, and
before I knew it, I was in up to my knees.

MAYBE IT STARTEDthe night Torvald began coughing uncontrollably at

dinner. He’d been rasping for months—getting over a cold, he said
—but nothing like he coughed that evening. I jumped up and held
his heaving shoulders. When he pulled his handkerchief away from
his mouth, my world tilted.
Our nurse stuck her head in the door. “The baby is nally asleep.”
“Thank you, Anne-Marie.”
Torvald shuddered. “I should lie down, Nora.”
“That was blood, Torvald. I’m sending for Dr. Rank.”
“No, Nora, it’s nothing. Just a cold, I’ve told you. No need to
waste money on the doctor.” His face glowed with a pale light. He
had always been a hearty man, lled with appetites, for wine and
sport and me, but not recently.
“Go to bed, and I’ll bring the hot-water bottle,” I said.
We’d only been married two years, but I already knew it did little
good to get his permission for anything. I helped him out of the
room, then went into the kitchen to nd the maid.
“Helene, please go for Dr. Rank. I’ll do the washing up.”
She nodded and grabbed her coat.

whispered in the hall.

LATER DR. RANK AND I
“I’m so sorry, Nora,” he said, cupping my hands in his. “It’s
probably tuberculosis. You must take him somewhere warm,
somewhere in the South. As soon as you can, before he gets sicker.”
I nodded, but it was just politeness. We couldn’t a ord to travel
anywhere. We could barely a ord Dr. Rank.
“Italy would be best, as it’s cheap. Go to Rome. There are other
Norwegians there; you wouldn’t be alone.”
I opened my purse, another ruse. “What do we owe you, Dr.
Rank?”
“Nora, for goodness’ sake, put that away. For my dearest friends?
Nothing. Now, here’s a syrup for the cough. Make him rest. Use
your wiles.”
I smiled faintly. “I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

TWO DAYS LATER, Torvald could barely raise his head from the pillow,
but he bellowed nonetheless. “Never, Nora. I will never borrow
money! I don’t care if I shrivel up and die! I will not borrow!” He
stopped to cough. “Only the weak borrow.”
“But if you don’t go south, you could die! Then what of me and
the baby? What will we do without you?”
“I am not going to die, Nora; please calm down. I’ll stay in bed
and recover here. Surely Anne-Marie knows a few home remedies.”
My mind skittered about, like a rat looking for an opening. “I’ll
ask her,” I said, but then thought of something better. “I’ve got to
run to the market, to, ah, fetch the newspapers.”
“Don’t be long, Nora. I hate it when you go out.”
I kissed his hot forehead. Pink roses spotted his cheeks. How I
loved him.

I THREW A SHAWL OVER MY HEAD, but instead of heading for the market, I
walked to the pawnshop lane near the bay. It ran through a
ramshackle neighborhood, where poor children sat on lthy curbs
and questionable women in gaudy hats lingered at the corners. I
asked around and soon found myself begging at the desk of a thin,
bespectacled man in a worn vest. A Mr. Krogstad.
“You can’t get a loan yourself, ma’am, as you’re a woman. But if
you have a male relative who would sign for you, I could consider
it.”
“My father,” I said. “He’ll sign for me.”
“Good,” Mr. Krogstad said, then coughed. “The interest, of course,
because of the risk, would be, well, ahem …”
“I’m sure the terms will be fair,” I said, giving him my most
charming smile. “I’ll speak to my father. Could you draw up the
loan papers?”
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll have them for you.”
 Giddy with relief, I went and bought all of Torvald’s favorite
periodicals. I would tell Torvald my father had given us the money,
and then I would nd a way to pay o the loan. I would take in
sewing or copy documents for businesses, as I had done for my
father.
When I was younger I would never have thought of such a thing,
taking a debt onto my own shoulders, but the birth of little Ivar had
made me stronger. If I had to take matters into my own hands, it
was only to protect my husband and child. It wasn’t as hard as one
might have imagined.
I tucked the newspapers into my bag. With any luck, we would be
o to Italy in a few weeks.
The next afternoon I told Torvald my father was ill, then took the
train to Hamar with the loan papers in my bag. If my father didn’t
like the terms, he might just give me the money, I thought. It would
work out ne.
But when I arrived at my childhood home, I found my aunt
dressed in mourning. My father had died the day before, felled by
his heart. It happened at the moment I was talking with Mr.
Krogstad, as if my father’s soul had refused to cooperate.
“Why didn’t you write and tell me how badly he was doing?” I
said, shocked by this complication, stung that she hadn’t alerted me.
She quivered a bit, and her mouth went tight. “You knew he was
failing, Nora. I didn’t think I had to ask.”
I ushed. “I’m sorry, Aunt, but Torvald is also ill, and there’s the
baby.”
She just looked at me, unmoved. “And you his only child.”
She went upstairs to rest, leaving me to sit with my father’s body
in the dining room. I looked at his marble-like face, considered the
alternatives, then signed his name to the note and stu ed the mess
in my bag. Who would ever know he had already died? Any woman
would do the same to save her husband’s life, I reasoned.
But even then, I knew. I knew I could never tell Torvald.
NOW I GLANCED at the imperious woman on the train, and the elixir of
rebellion began to bubble again in my veins. From this moment on, I
would do my best to stand on my own two feet. I would get a at
and live alone, eating sweets whenever I wanted. I would make
friends and work in an o ce. I would be helpful and clever; men of
industry would come to rely on me. If I earned enough, I might even
take the children to the mountains for summer holidays—surely
Torvald would see the value in that. There was no reason the
children couldn’t spend time with their adoring mother.
Yet beneath these bright dreams, reality crouched like a toad. My
aunt would probably shrink from my company when she heard what
I had done. And how to disguise my recklessness, the fact that I had
left my marriage with little forethought? The truth was, I had
neither plan nor money.
The train pulled into Hamar. Beyond the lights of the platform, I
could see Lake Mjøsa, frozen, stretching to the mountains beyond.
We climbed down; the wind whipped across the ice.
Landing back in the town I meant to leave forever felt like a
reproof from God.
I headed uphill warily.
 CHAPTER TWO

SOLVI
November 1918 Bergen, Norway

Solvi slipped away before dawn, stealing out the servants’ entrance
while her mother slept. It was so easy it scared her, like stepping o
a cli . Simple but cataclysmic. She ran down the alley, her bag
banging against her knees.
At the main street she caught a tram lled with housemaids
bound for the sculleries of the gentry. She dropped into a seat and
tried to catch her breath. The maids watched her with drowsy eyes,
this ne young girl with her fur-trimmed cape and heavy case.
She turned to the window. The tram rattled past rows of elegant
town houses still shuttered in the morning dusk, then headed to the
harbor where the city was coming to life. Ski s and small boats
crowded the wharf, unloading goods as shmongers lled their
market stands. All so familiar to this Bergen girl, so beloved.
Sadness wrapped around Solvi’s heart like a weed.
At the station the early train to Kristiania rumbled with
impatience. There was no time for her to reconsider, even if she
wanted to; she jumped aboard just as it pulled away. By the time
she was settled, the city lay behind her. She turned and, for a
moment, caught a glimpse of the rooftops and steeples, with the
islands and harbor and the gray Norwegian Sea beyond; then it was
gone.
Tears welled in her eyes. Her mother would be rising, would nd
the note. Please don’t come after me. You’re not strong enough, and it
will do no good. I’m sorry to leave like this, Mama, but I’m drowning.
Solvi tried to compose herself. She would not become her mother,
weeping whenever life got hard. She was leaving so that she would
not become her.
She took out a book, but it did little good.
THE TRAIN SWUNG EAST, beginning the long climb up the massif
between Bergen and Kristiania. Solvi set her book aside and
watched the wind-gnarled trees pass by. Snow soon appeared, a
tattered lace ung across the landscape.
When her father was alive, Solvi often hiked these mountains
with him, helping collect the alpine plants he studied in his
laboratory. Because she was young, he would warn her about the
huldra—the beautiful fairy women of the mountains who snatched
children. But Solvi would just laugh and run over the next rise. She
didn’t believe in fairies; she believed in the good green earth.
Even as a child, she was unusually observant and soon developed
an eye for rare mountain owers. When she grew older she fancied
herself his assistant, taking notes and photographing specimens with
his eld camera.
Sometimes her father would cup her face with his gardener’s
hands. “You have a rare mind, Solveig. Don’t waste it embroidering
pillows.” How she missed tramping these hills with him, talking
about the wide and luminous world.
Today, however, the clouds hung low and urries blew past,
scattering, lifting, then dropping again. When her father died just as
the Great War started, Solvi felt like this—as if a winter wind
howled through her. If only she could open the train window and let
the snow swirl around her again, let it strip her clean and return her
to grief. Because grief would be easier than what she felt now.
She could just imagine her mother’s dramatics—dropping the note
to the oor and stumbling back to bed, humiliated and wounded
that Solvi would do such a thing. The maids would hover, applying
compresses and salts but saying little. Solvi felt like a bird that had
wriggled out of the snare, astonished to be free.
She gazed out at the blowing snow. But what if this escape cost
too much? What if her mother never forgave her? I’m sorry, Papa.
Please understand.

A PORTER BROUGHT TEA.

Solvi wrapped her cold hands around the cup.
How did she get here, on this train, leaving all that was familiar?
She knew, and she didn’t know.
Solvi’s father had always wanted her to attend university, but
when he died, that dream seemed to die with him. Her mother also
changed. After his death, she grew anxious and took charge of Solvi
in a way she hadn’t before.
“Time to work on your trousseau, Solveig,” her mother would say.
“No more gallivanting about.” When she discovered Solvi studying
instead of sewing, she called it unseemly. When Solvi asked for an
exam tutor, her mother bought her a ne silk dress instead.
But it didn’t work. Her mother’s hounding only sti ened Solvi’s
resolve to ful ll her father’s ambitions. Besides, he’d left Solvi with
a mission. A few days before his death, he gave her his eld camera.
“Go record this war, darling; whatever comes, take pictures,” he
said. “Someone should do it.”
After his funeral, Solvi started carrying the camera everywhere. It
was the size of a small book, with accordion sides that expanded
when the front was snapped open. All Solvi had to do was slip a
glass plate in the back, adjust the lens, and then press the shutter. It
wasn’t long before the camera became her refuge.
But nding evidence of a war happening far away wasn’t easy.
There was plenty to fear—that the Germans might invade, that
Bolsheviks were in ltrating the shipyards—but little to photograph.
She tried capturing the subtle signs—empty market shelves,
sailors smoking nervously on the wharf, cannons perched on the
breakwater. Then, two years in, the war escalated, and German
submarines began sinking Norwegian merchant ships. Solvi prowled
the waterfront, hoping to spot a crippled steamer or perhaps even
an enemy periscope. But the ships sank out at sea, and the drowned
sailors left no mark, just holes in their mothers’ hearts. Grief was
private, di cult to catch.
Then Solvi thought of a way. In seafaring Bergen, the U-boat war
had grown into a sorrow past imagining—half the eet and two
thousand Norwegian men buried in the cold ocean. One day Solvi
found a knot of anxious mothers gathered at the newspaper stands,
squinting at the lists of the dead, their faces grim. The photograph
was even more powerful than she had hoped. This was what her
father had meant.
But when Solvi showed it to her mother, she gasped. “How could
you invade their privacy this way, Solveig?”
“This is history, Mama! It’s my job to capture this strange time
we’re living through.”
“I don’t know what your father was thinking, giving you that
camera.” Solvi’s mother straightened the frill at her throat and
scowled. She didn’t like her daughter roving about the city and
worried incessantly. Don’t wander by the harbor, she would say, or
Don’t sit with boys in co eehouses; people will think you’re cheap. And
whenever Solvi put on her cape, Don’t go out in the cold and wet !
You’ll catch pneumonia !
“It’s always cold and wet in Bergen,” Solvi would fume, stomping
back up to her room.
And so Solvi started telling little bs, just to relieve her mother’s
mind. That she was only going to Lisanne’s house, that she always
avoided the harbor, that she never sat with boys.
And in that way, a gap opened between them.

BY MIDDAY, the Kristiania train had reached the bleak

Hardangervidda plateau, which it had to cross to reach the Oslofjord
to the east. Solvi ate a roll with salmon paste and watched the
tundra slide by.
In truth, Solvi and her mother had always been at odds. They
were so di erent, Solvi asked her father once if she was adopted. He
just laughed. You are your mother’s daughter, darling. She just had a
di erent sort of father.
He meant Solvi’s grandfather, a retired banker who still dressed
and went to the o ce every day to make sure they weren’t giving
away all the money, as he put it. He had a bearish way about him,
a ectionate but domineering. Solvi and her parents had always
lived with him, as if there were no alternative.
Grandfather adored Solvi when she was young, spoiling her with
treats and calling her little squirrel. But when she matured, he
became protective and critical. Was it just his age? Solvi tried not to
resent his ready disapproval, his concern over her rebellious spirit
and tramping about, but her temper often ared as much as his.
By the time Solvi graduated from her ladies’ academy, he had
become xated on nding her a husband.
No one spoke of university anymore.

ONE AFTERNOON, on a cool September evening, her grandfather

handed her a letter as they gathered in the parlor before dinner.
Solvi opened it, puzzled.

Dear Solveig: Our parents agree you and I would make uncommonly
successful helpmates for the vicissitudes of life. Therefore, would
you accept my hand in marriage? Someday the war will end; it’s
time to think about our future. I’ll call on you tomorrow.

It was from Stefan Vinter, a rich young man from one of the best
families. Solvi scarcely knew him.
Her mother stepped into the parlor. “The Vinters, darling. How
exciting!”
Solvi turned to her grandfather. “I’ll have sherry tonight, as I’m
apparently a grown-up now.”
Her grandfather raised his eyebrows but poured her a glass. She
drank it down and handed it back for more.
“Really, Solveig,” her mother said. “There’s no need to make a
scene.”
“I’m sorry. But I don’t understand why you have to arrange a
marriage for me.”
“Solvi, it’s a great honor,” said her mother, rubbing her hands.
“The Vinters have done well with their shipyard during the war,
thanks to the Germans sinking all those ships, and Stefan’s so
handsome and intelligent. He talks about all the things you like: art,
literature, politics.”
Solvi remembered talking with him once; he spoke only of his
hiking and ri e club. “But I want to go to university, like Papa
wanted.”
 “Well, I’m sure your father would not advise that now, not with
this wretched war,” her mother said. “There are few good men left
in Norway, between those leaving for America and those who’ve
drowned. Your friends will be snatching husbands as soon as an
armistice is signed, mark my words.”
“You don’t know what Papa would advise,” Solvi said. She hated
it when her mother spoke for him.
Her grandfather cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine why you think
you would enjoy university, Solveig. It’s dreary work—all that
Greek and Latin. I took little pleasure in my education.”
“But I loved school, and Papa said I have a rare mind,” she said.
“Besides, I want to work, to contribute in some way.”
Her grandfather grumbled. “Your contribution—and it is no small
thing—is to raise children and care for your husband and aging
parents. Why aren’t you young ladies content with that? Frankly, it
seems ungrateful.”
Her mother took her hand. “Darling, you don’t seem to
understand. The Vinters are very well o . You would have nannies,
even a lady’s maid. You could still take baskets to the poor.”
“I don’t want a lady’s maid,” Solvi said. “I’m not sure we should
have maids at all!”
“Whatever do you mean?” Her mother’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I mean that it’s wrong to hide in this … this luxurious cocoon!”
Solvi said, sweeping her hand around the elegant parlor—the green
damask walls, the brocade drapes, the glowing rosewood furniture.
“Haven’t we learned that from this awful war?”
Her mother’s mouth grew tight. “Once you’re living in a dank
little room doing your own washing, you will sorely miss your
cocoon, Solveig.”
Solvi looked at her. It was maddening how elegant she was, with
her silks and high-collared lace. As if her perfection absolved her
from wrong thinking.
“I just don’t understand why you won’t let me nd my own
husband.”
“Because you don’t seem interested in husbands,” her mother
cried. “You’re too busy taking those awful pictures!”
 “You’re the one who told me not to talk to boys, Mama!”
“There’s no need to shout, Solveig,” Grandfather said, patting her
shoulder. “I understand that love is confusing. When you’re young,
you don’t know whom to love, so you either love everyone or you
love no one. We’re o ering guidance.”
Solvi tried to swallow her anger, so they would stop looking at
her as if she were mad. She nished her second glass of sherry, then
turned to her mother. “Mama, how did you know you wanted to
marry Papa?”
Her mother relaxed; this was the kind of discussion she preferred.
“Well, Solveig, to be honest, I didn’t know. But your grandfather
did, and I knew to trust him.”
“But I want a modern marriage—a marriage I pick for myself, to
someone who’ll treat me as his equal,” Solvi said. “Don’t you want
me to be happy?”
“Of course we do,” said her mother, “but marriage is not just
about what you want. It’s about security and position. We live in
unstable times, Solvi; we’re trying to provide for you.” She gave
Solvi a sly glance. “Besides, you could have a modern marriage with
Stefan. We’ll get you one of those adorable short wedding dresses,
all ounces around the knees and sheer up top. And once you’re
married, all you need do is use your feminine wiles, and you can
have it any way you want.”
Solvi blushed, suddenly ashamed for her.
“All we ask is that you try to like Stefan,” her grandfather said.
“And be polite when he comes tomorrow,” her mother said.
“I’m always polite, Mama.”
Her mother pulled the bell for dinner. “If you say so, darling.”

THE NEXT MORNING Stefan Vinter came for co ee. Solvi’s mother left
them alone, so he could declare his love in private. Instead, he
chatted about his father’s shipyard. Solvi watched him, trying to
make out what she meant to him. Then she saw it; it was as if she’d
already said yes.
Arrogance. It was what she disliked most about her kind.
 When her mother asked later how it went, Solvi just smiled. She
needed to buy herself time.

THE TRAIN TO KRISTIANIA nally started its descent toward the

Oslofjord. Solvi stood to stretch, then pulled her photo album from
her satchel. She had to stop thinking of home. Perhaps this would
help.
Before she left, she had put all her photographs in chronological
order, so that she could see how her technique was developing. She
ipped the album open to the beginning. Her early pictures were
blurry shots of plants and owers, including one of her father
crouching beside a mountain stream examining a fern. Then several
photographs of her parents and grandfather, beside a blazing
Christmas tree, lunching in the garden. Then a shot in through a
door ajar—her father in his sickbed. It was her rst good
photograph, she could see that now, but when she took it she felt
only despair.
Then she turned to her pictures of the housemaids. Solvi had
started with Mathilde, her family’s maid. When Mathilde asked Solvi
for a portrait to give her young man, Solvi told Mathilde to put on
her Sunday best, then she seated her in the parlor. And there was
Mathilde, the woman she could be if she wasn’t a maid.
Soon, Solvi was photographing other young maids in parlors. But
the more time she spent with them, the more she wanted pictures of
them at work, cracking gourds with cleavers and starching shirts in
brimming kettles. Before long the maids let her shoot whatever she
liked.
Solvi paged through the pictures that captured the world of these
young servants. Some were lled with movement and light, like the
picture of several laughing girls pulling sheets o a clothesline in a
windstorm, the linens ying like jibs. Others were dark and sad—a
maid leaning wearily against a door with a heavy basket on her hip,
a scullery girl with her head and shoulders in an oven, a bucket of
dingy water at her knee.
 One particular image always made Solvi feel like crying—a
picture shot from below of a young maid lugging coal scuttles up a
narrow stair, holes in her stockings. It felt like a statement of some
kind, notice of a wrong that should be corrected. The maids she met
worked ungodly hours, often to exhaustion; it didn’t seem right.
But when she showed the pictures to Lisanne, her friend just
shook her head and teased her for turning Bolshevik. After that,
Solvi kept the album under her bed.

SHE GLANCED OUT THE WINDOW. The train had left the tundra behind and
was winding through a forest alongside a river that ran for the sea.
Her heart skipped a few beats. It wouldn’t be long now.
She turned to the last set of photographs in her album. One of the
best was a haunting image of an old schooner tied up at the wharf
shrouded in mist—beautiful but also strange, as there were two
gures being carried ashore on stretchers in the foreground. She
came to realize only later that she had captured the rst evidence of
the terrible illness that swept Bergen in early October.
It was the great in uenza that was marching across Europe, and it
had arrived in Norway by sea. Soon, ships were unloading their
dead before anything else came ashore.
The illness struck quickly and left its victims leaking blood and
gasping for air. Within days of the u’s arrival in Bergen, the city
shut down. Schools and churches closed; stores emptied of goods.
Solvi’s mother tried to quarantine her, but Solvi slipped out one
afternoon and took pictures of the houses draped in crepe, hunched
gures lined up outside the hospital, and nally, sickeningly, a
wagon stacked with bundled corpses. She couldn’t stop herself.
When Grandfather coughed up blood a week later, Solvi’s mother
locked her in her room.
Solvi, frantic to help, banged on the door. “Let me nurse him!”
she yelled, but her mother ignored her. Solvi knew her mother was
protecting her, but she couldn’t help feeling that her mother had
decided to die with him.
As if he needed her more in death than Solvi needed her alive.
 Grandfather’s in uenza soon settled into pneumonia, and several
days later his heart seized. They thought he was abed, but he was
up rummaging through his study when he collapsed. Solvi’s mother
was out searching for bread, so the maids—unsure what to do with
his body—unlocked Solvi’s door. She helped them lift him onto the
polished dining room table. When her mother returned to nd Solvi
sitting beside him, she fainted and had to be carried to her room. By
dinner, she was coughing blood as well.
This time no one thought of locking Solvi away. The doctor came
and told her what to do— uids, cold compresses, and plenty of
blankets. Solvi took notes, trying not to panic.
As he left, he said one last thing. “Handle her as little as possible,
and wash your hands carefully if you must mop up. Many leak
blood from their eyes and noses or vomit blood. But don’t be
alarmed; it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s dying.”
Solvi could only nod.

OVER THE COURSE of the day and evening, Solvi’s mother grew hot to
the touch and slept tfully, throwing o the covers one moment and
crying for them minutes later. That night, Solvi tried to doze in an
armchair in her mother’s room, but it was impossible. Worries, one
after another, rose before her. If her mother died, where would she
live? Who would care what happened to her? How would she go on
with no one to love her?
All she could think was that she would have to marry Stefan
Vinter because she’d have no one else.

THE NEXT MORNING, as Solvi sat watch by her mother, Mathilde handed
her a photograph—an old studio portrait of a couple with three
children. It was singed at one end.
Solvi had never seen it before. “Where did you nd this,
Mathilde?”
“Under the stove in your grandfather’s study, when we went in to
tidy up.”
“Did he try to burn it?”
 “He was burning letters and other papers. We found fragments in
the ashes when we cleaned the stove.”
Solvi peered at the photograph again. The clothes were so old-
fashioned. Then she sucked in her breath—the man was her
grandfather, young, handsome, and proud. But Solvi didn’t
recognize the others. The woman, elegant in gray silk, sat smiling
softly, her chin high. There were two boys in sailor suits, one
standing very straight next to her grandfather, a younger one
leaning against the woman’s knee. And a baby, swathed in lace,
perched on the woman’s lap.
Solvi turned the photo over. There was no family name, just the
stamp of a photography studio in Kristiania: Stenberg’s Photography
Atelier, 365 Mollergata, Kristiania. October 9, 1879.
She slipped it in her pocket.

BY NOON Solvi’s mother tossed with pain, her breath growing labored.
“I’m poison,” she babbled. “Leave me. Let me go with Grandfather.”
“No, Mama,” Solvi said, stricken. “Stay with me! I’m the one who
needs you.”
But her mother just shut her eyes.
Later, the doctor brought medicine. “She must cough to live;
mustard compresses will help,” he said. Then one last admonition:
“Don’t upset her.”
The day passed in a blur. When her mother slept, Solvi puzzled
over the mysterious photograph. Was this a family Grandfather had
before her mother was born, or was the baby her mother? Solvi
checked the date. Her mother would have been two—that must be
her. But who was the woman? Solvi’s mother always said her
mother died giving birth to her, but this woman looked like … Solvi
squinted at the image. The woman looked so much like Solvi’s
mother, it must be her grandmother.
Then Solvi looked more closely at the boys. They would be her
uncles, and perhaps … perhaps … Could these people be alive?
Solvi glanced at her mother, back at the photograph, and then
something shifted. She had always wondered why she had no other
relatives, no aunts or uncles, no cousins. Now—just as she feared
she was losing everyone—there could be other family. Uncles, at
least, and they might be married; perhaps she had cousins!
Solvi peered again at the woman in the photo, her grandmother.
And what if she were alive? Alive and wondering if her daughter
had a child?
Mathilde brought a custard for Solvi’s mother, who opened her
eyes only long enough to push the food away. Solvi took the bowl
into the hall and wolfed it down, then returned to the sickbed and
gazed down at her mother. What other secrets was she hiding?
When the rainy skies nally went dark, Solvi retreated to a
sleeping pallet on the oor. She couldn’t stop wondering about the
people in the photograph. Then it came to her—maybe she could
nd them. They weren’t here in Bergen, or she would know them.
The next most likely place to look was Kristiania. That was where
the photograph had been taken, so they must have lived there at
that time.
Perhaps her uncles were working and going about their lives in
Kristiania right at this moment!
Then, another thought: the university was in Kristiania.
She turned those ideas about in her head until she fell into an
exhausted sleep.

HOURS LATER, Solvi woke with a start. Her mother stood over her,
swaying, clutching a bloodstained cloth.
“Mama! What are you doing?” Solvi jumped up and grabbed her
arm.
Her mother just looked at her, eyes blazing.
“Mama, get back in bed,” Solvi said, pulling her across the room.
“Lie down.”
Her mother plucked at Solvi’s sleeve. “I’m afraid for you, Solvi,”
she said in a rasping voice. “I’m afraid you’ll be alone.”
Solvi’s chest tightened. “I have many friends, Mama. Lisanne’s
family will take me in.”
 Her mother shook her head. “No, now listen. You must marry
Stefan. Promise me.”
Solvi just looked at her.
“Promise!”
“I cannot marry Stefan,” Solvi whispered. “I just can’t.”
“Solvi, you don’t understand; you’ll have no one.” Her mother
started to weep, bloody tears that dripped onto the sheets.
No one? Solvi pulled out the scorched photograph and held it up
to her mother’s face. “Mama, is this your family?”
Her mother looked at it for a moment, then turned away.
“Is that Grandfather?” Solvi said, pointing.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Is that you?” Solvi stabbed at the baby in lace.
Her mother nodded.
“And is that your mother?” Solvi’s voice rose.
Her mother just looked at Solvi, her eyes brimming.
“Are those your brothers? Mama, are they alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are they?”
Her mother closed her eyes. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“How could you not know!” Solvi shouted.
Her mother shrank into her pillows and turned to the wall.
Don’t upset her, the doctor had said.
Solvi stepped back and after a few moments relented. She went to
the window. Outside, a sliver of moon hung above the rooftops,
appearing and disappearing as the wind drove the clouds across the
sky. Family … she had other family—Solvi was sure of it.

THAT EVENINGSolvi’s mother suddenly started struggling to breathe.

Solvi propped her up, ghting an urge to climb into the bed and
throw her arms around her.
“Mama? Can you hear me?”
Her mother’s lungs rattled, but she opened her eyes.
“Mama, please don’t die!”
 Her mother gazed at her for a long moment, then sighed and
turned away.
Solvi started to weep. “I’m sorry I can’t promise, Mama! I’m sorry!
Please don’t die!”

COOK FOUND SOLVI kneeling beside her mother, sobbing. She took her
downstairs and settled her by the kitchen re with a bowl of soup.
They talked of small things—the rain, the larder.
Later, Solvi took her place again beside the bed, but her mother
asked no more of her. Solvi held her hand and waited for death.

SOMEHOW, miraculously, Solvi’s mother did not die. She lay

suspended for several days in a coma that looked like death, then
opened her eyes and asked for a boiled egg.
Two days later she caught Solvi’s hand as Solvi passed by the bed.
“Sit down, Solveig.”
Solvi sat, dread rising in her chest.
“I remembered something last night. I remembered that you
wouldn’t promise.”
Solvi ushed with shame. She’d hoped the illness had erased that
moment between them.
“It was my deathbed request, Solveig.”
Solvi twisted her hands. “I cannot marry him.”
“Nonsense. Of course you can, if he’ll still have you.” She patted
Solvi’s knee. “Go get my pearls from the jewel box.”
“Your pearls?”
“Just get them, Solvi. I want you to see them.”
Solvi went to the dresser and pulled out the string of lustrous
drops. Something felt wrong.
Her mother took them and dangled them in the light.
“Grandfather gave me these when I married your father. I always
meant to give them to you when you got engaged, darling. Aren’t
they lovely?”
Solvi ushed again, but this time the shame was for her mother.
Did she think Solvi could be bought? “I don’t love him, Mama. I will
not marry someone I don’t love.”
“Oh, Solvi, don’t be a child. Love is the last thing. It comes, but
later, after you’ve shared a table and a bed. Early love is a bad sign;
that’s what Grandfather always said.”
Solvi stood up. Something was gathering inside her, and if she
didn’t speak of it, it would wither and die. “I’m going to Kristiania
to take the matriculation exams, Mama, to see if I can be admitted
to the university.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Solvi, no. I need you; I have no one
else!”
“You have the servants, Mama; they care for you. And it’s not
forever. I’ll study and then come back to Bergen, maybe to teach,
maybe to marry.”
“You can’t possibly pass the exams, and you have hardly any
money, only that little bit your father left you,” her mother said,
picking at the blanket in agitation. “Besides, we know no one in
Kristiania, so there’s nowhere for you to live. It’s quite impossible.”
“But my academy teachers said I should try, and there’s a study
house for women. I can live there,” Solvi said.
“Some old matron watching over a house full of young ladies?
That’s not acceptable.”
Solvi just looked at her in stubborn silence. Her mother pulled out
a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t understand why you
must leave Bergen. It will break my heart.”
“I don’t mean to break your heart, Mama, but no one in Bergen
understands me,” Solvi said, thinking of her album hidden under the
bed so as not to o end anyone. “I’m di erent; I’m odd; I want things
other girls in Bergen don’t even think about. I’m not just di erent
from you; I’m di erent from everybody.”
“Solvi, I’m sure you could nd more friends if you put down that
camera and tried. Besides—what would I do without you?”
“Live your life, Mama. This precious life you’re lucky to have.”
“But you’re my life, darling. You’re my everything.”
Solvi picked up the breakfast tray. She didn’t mean to be hard-
hearted, but she was ghting for air.
“Then I’m sorry for you, Mama.”
A FEW NIGHTS LATER Solvi and her mother ate dinner in the awkward
silence that had settled between them.
When she was done, Solvi’s mother put down her fork. “I’ve made
a decision. You may not go to Kristiania. Just put the idea out of
your head.”
“I wasn’t asking permission, Mama.”
“But it’s my job to protect you, especially now that our menfolk
are gone. If you want a job, you can nd something suitable here in
Bergen. Besides, you have little money, and I’m not going to nance
it.”
“University’s only part of it,” Solvi said, pushing her potatoes
around her plate. “I want to go to Kristiania for another reason,
Mama.”
“What, for God’s sake?”
“I want to nd your family, our family.”
Her mother sucked in a breath. “What are you talking about?”
“The boys in the photograph. Maybe we do have menfolk! If
they’re alive, they’re probably in Kristiania. I might have cousins,
maybe even a grandmother!”
Her mother’s mouth dropped open. “No, Solvi. Don’t even think
that.”
“But the photograph of your family was taken in Kristiania. You
must have lived there then.”
“We’ve lived in Bergen as long as I can remember,” her mother
said, turning away and ringing the bell.
“Don’t you want to nd your brothers?”
Her mother looked at her. “Solvi, if you must know the awful
truth, my mother died shortly after that photograph was taken, and
my brothers went o to school the next year and, well, died there.
Of typhus or something. That’s when Grandfather and I moved
here.”
A shadow passed over Solvi’s heart. They died? “But why did you
never speak of them?”
“I barely knew them and did not miss them when they were
gone.”
 Solvi narrowed her eyes. How could she not miss her own
brothers? “And why did you tell me your mother died in childbirth
if that wasn’t true?”
Her mother busied herself folding her napkin. “Oh, I don’t know. I
thought that if you knew my mother died when I was young, you
would worry about losing me. The truth is, I was raised by my
nurse, Anne-Marie. It was as if my mother died in childbirth.”
Solvi sat back in her chair. “So we don’t have other family?”
“No, Solvi, we do not. They’re gone, gone forever. And, by the
grace of God, I beg you to leave them in their graves.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
Her mother blinked. “Why, Solveig Fallesen, of course. Surely you
remember you were named for her.”
“I was? I never knew that. What were your brothers’ names?”
Her mother rose. “I hardly remember. I was a little girl when they
died, and your grandfather never spoke of them.” She gave Solvi a
long stern look and then turned away. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

BACK IN HER ROOM, Solvi sat studying the photograph of her mother’s
family. How could her mother not know the names of those sweet
little boys? If they had died, the family would have been bereft, the
names carried as tender talismans forever.
No, her mother was lying—that was the only explanation. And if
she was lying, there must be a reason.
Solvi gazed at the image of her grandmother. There was
something about her, something bold and open that Solvi felt as
kindred. Her mother didn’t have it—her strength was brittle,
dependent on her comforts and station. Whatever her grandmother
had, it didn’t pass to Solvi’s mother.
But maybe it passed to her.

A FEW DAYS LATER the church bells started ringing and didn’t stop. The
Germans had surrendered; the war was nally over. Solvi ran out
with her camera and took pictures of the crowds that lled the
harbor, celebrating.
 The next morning Stefan Vinter came by for Solvi’s answer. When
she opened the front door, the image of her grandfather as a young
man—self-satis ed and proud— ashed in her mind. No wonder he
selected Stefan for her.
This time Stefan did profess his love, but it didn’t help. When
Mathilde brought in the tray of co ee and sweets, Stefan was gone.
A few minutes later Solvi’s mother peeked around the door. When
she saw her daughter alone, she swept in.
“You didn’t!”
“I did. Stefan Vinter is free to marry someone else.”
Her mother put her face in her hands, as if to weep. “I’m afraid
for you, afraid you’ll never marry!”
Solvi just looked at her, unmoved. “If I marry, I want someone
who’ll run away with me on a grand adventure, not someone who
will just go to work for his father the next day.”
“Oh, Solvi, that’s just childish talk,” her mother sobbed.
“Mama, I’m tired of this,” Solvi said, taking a cake and shoving it,
in a most unladylike fashion, into her mouth. Then she went
upstairs to pack.
 CHAPTER THREE

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

After Anders headed out to do his chores the next morning, I took a
lantern down into the root cellar so I could examine the
advertisement again, in private. I hated keeping it a secret, but to
tell him would only breed worry. I needed time to decide what to
do, or even if I should do anything.
Because what if I had never seen it? Suppose the bundle of
newspapers bounced o the wagon and was never delivered? I
would be none the wiser, and neither would Anders. And we could
have continued as we were, safe in our little vale of solitude.
But it was delivered, and now I faced a di cult question: Should I
tell Anders?
I kept secrets from Anders for many years. I thought they were
little more than shadows, but they came to loom over my everyday
happiness and held me apart in everything I had with him. It didn’t
end well, trying to bury the truth.
I would keep this secret one week, I told myself, to give me time
to gure out what to do. And then I would tell him everything.

IN THE ROOT CELLAR I turned over a bucket and sat down. The dank
coolness of the exposed earth reminded me of the old sod house,
how it smelled of death. And sadness rode in with that memory.
Since the moment I spotted the advertisement the night before,
everything seemed to push me back into the past I had tried so hard
to forget.
I pulled the scrap of newspaper from my pocket. Despite the
ghosts it revived, I felt drawn to the picture. How astonishing to see
it again, after so many years. I had forgotten what the children
looked like back then, how beautiful they were, how much they
were already themselves: Ivar, proper and well behaved; Bobby,
dreamy and excitable; Emma, a tiny princess destined to be a queen.
So which was looking for me? It must be one of my children, as
no one else would care. But did my children even know I was alive?
And, if they did, why seek me now?
I last saw them nearly thirty years ago. By now, they would be
more than grown; they would be middle-aged. Emma would be
forty-one, the boys a bit older. Every Christmas, and on each of their
birthdays, I had tried to picture them marching steadily into their
adulthood, but their images in my head remained childish, as those
were my memories of them. Their grown-up selves could only be
conjured through a haze.
Then, a thought—perhaps there were grandchildren. It was easier
to imagine them, little Ivars and Bobbies and Emmas.
I savored that idea for a long moment. Grandchildren might be
more forgiving. But I shook the notion from my head. It was too
much to hope for.
Instead, I examined the text below the picture again: Nora Helmer
was declared dead in 1885, but her family has reason to believe she is
alive, perhaps in America.
Reason to believe? Ivar knew more than that. Ivar, my perfect
boy.
I picked a few turnips out of the loose soil and dropped them in
my basket. Ivar was the one who proved true, the one who had
believed I was alive, even when Torvald insisted I was dead. Ivar
was the one who had wanted me back.

NORA
December 27, 1879 Hamar, Norway

On the cold night I returned to Hamar and my childhood home, I

stood outside for a long moment, unsure if I should knock or slip
away. But I had nowhere else to go. I rapped gently.
 Aagot, my aunt’s maid, opened the door and quickly smiled.
“What a surprise, Miss Nora,” she said, then led me through to the
parlor.
My aunt rose from her chair. “Why, Nora! You’ve nally come to
visit!”
“For a bit, Aunt. If you don’t mind.” I kissed her powdered cheek.
“Of course. But where are the children? Certainly Ivar’s old
enough to travel with you.”
“Ivar’s in school, Aunt. I thought it best to come by myself.”
She motioned toward a chair, then opened the front of the stove
to let out the heat, a show of civility. “Please, sit. Supper will be in
soon. Tell me why you’re here.”
I sank into an ancient brocaded chair and looked around. The
familiar nery hung heavy with wear; the stale air reeked of rose
water and dust. How little had changed since my father’s death. I
could feel him there, as if he might appear and put his hand on my
hair.
A wave of dizziness swept over me. I leaned back and closed my
eyes. It had been a long time since I’d thought about my father.
“You seem a bit faint, dear,” said my aunt.
I sighed and looked at her, tightly laced into her high-necked
dress. Age had diminished her. She perched on the edge of her
chair.
“Perhaps more hungry than faint,” I said.
“Of course.” She rang the bell, and Aagot appeared with bowls of
parsnip soup. My aunt watched me as I ate.
“Is something wrong, Nora?” she nally said. “Something
between you and Torvald?”
“Why would you say that, Aunt? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
She gave me a puzzled look. “But no one travels in midwinter
unless they must.”
“Well, I, I just …” The room started to spin. I had no idea how to
explain it to her.
“Please, Nora. Tell me what has happened.”
I hesitated for a long moment, old feelings and resentments
swirling in my mind. “Marriage isn’t easy,” I nally said. It was
deeply humiliating to admit this to her, this woman who had so
often judged me more than loved me.
“But I would think now that Torvald has been promoted to bank
manager, now that money needn’t be so tight …”
I put my napkin down. “It’s a long story, Aunt. I will tell you in
the morning.”
She pursed her lips. “You’ve come for help, Nora, and I won’t
sleep until I know what you want.”
I sighed. There was no way to pretend—I would have to tell her
the truth. “Torvald and I cannot live together anymore, Aunt. I’ve
left him.”
She sucked in a breath. “What are you talking about?”
“He was … he was disrespectful to me.”
“Nora, Nora!” Her hands ew to her face. “What do you mean?
Was he cruel? Sometimes husbands are a bit rough with their wives,
I know that, but just go back and tell him you won’t stand for it!”
“No, not that.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“He said cruel things, Aunt. Unforgivable things.” I could only
look down at my hands.
“Nora, dear—I understand if you need a break. But please don’t
say you’ve left Torvald. No one leaves their husband, especially
young mothers. It would be a terrible scandal!”
Of course it was scandalous, but, in a ash, I saw that I didn’t
care. Scandal was better than throwing myself into the fjord. “We
had a terrible ght, about a loan.”
She sat back. “You know I have no money, Nora.”
“I’m not here to ask for money,” I said, reddening. “I paid it o
myself, taking in sewing and copying. But Torvald doesn’t believe in
borrowing, so we fought.”
My aunt let out a small hu of despair. “Oh, Nora … How could
you two let something like that come between you?” Her face grew
stern. “There’s only one thing to do. Go back tomorrow morning and
beg his forgiveness.”
“But, Aunt, he was the one who said I should never have
borrowed, that such a thing made me un t to be a mother!”
 “It doesn’t matter what he said! Go home where you belong, rst
thing, and then behave yourself. Be a better mother!” She jumped
up, as if to get my coat. “Quick, before word gets out that you’ve
left!”
But I sat frozen to my chair. If I stood up, I would be blown back
to Kristiania by the winter wind. “I cannot go back, Aunt. I cannot.”
“Nora, your children need you. There’s no other question.”
“Oh, Aunt, I’m not sure what being a mother means right now.
Their nurse has done a better job mothering the children than I ever
could—.” My voice broke. The thought that I had made a serious
mistake leaving the children behind surfaced in my addled brain,
but I couldn’t tell her that.
She paced about, wiping her forehead with her handkerchief.
“Nora, I would think you, of all people, would understand how
important a mother is.” She reached for a chair, then sat back down.
“This is so worrisome, Nora; I feel a bit faint.”
“I don’t mean to abandon the children, Aunt. I just need time to
decide what to do.”
She dabbed at her face, then called for Aagot to bring her salts.
“And my Bible, too, please,” she said, when Aagot appeared. “I
swear, Nora, you will be the death of me.”
“Forgive me, Aunt, but I am family.” Something in me hardened.
“Would you rather I slept on the street?”
She shot me a piercing look, furious I had trapped her this way.
I stood. “Perhaps it’s best we both go to bed. We can discuss it in
the morning.”
“No, Nora, stay. We must pray.”
It was only after we petitioned God for my salvation that I was
allowed to escape upstairs to my old room.

LATER, I huddled by the stove in the narrow room of my childhood,

shivering with exhaustion and chilled by my aunt’s opposition. If my
father were alive, things might be di erent. Or if I’d been a better
niece, a small voice said in my head. If I had visited my aunt a few
times, surely she would have received me better now.
 I gazed about the room. My drawings still hung from the walls
and my schoolbooks stood on the shelf, but the room felt empty, as
if the schoolgirl had died.
And there, up near the ceiling as if watching from heaven, was
the picture of the angel my father had given me when I was very
small.
He brought the drawing to me one day and told me it was my
mother. She had died two days after my birth, and so I never knew
her.
“She will y down at night to kiss your cheek, Nora,” he said,
hammering in a nail and hanging the picture.
“If I stay awake will she talk to me?”
“No, child. You know that angels come only when you’re asleep.”
Sometimes I lay very still with my eyes barely open, hoping to
catch my angel mother itting around the bed. It never worked. I
knew by the time I was six that no one came down to kiss my cheek.
Now I undressed and washed, memories rising around me as I
stood over the familiar china basin.
Had I been happy here? I couldn’t say. Without a mother, the only
life I knew as a girl was the attention of my father and the care of
my nurse. My sole purpose was to bring light and laughter into this
house. My father loved me dearly, particularly when I spun through
the house like a gleeful sprite. But he ignored me when I was quiet
or—God forbid—unhappy. He bought fancy dresses and ribbons to
set o my axen beauty and refused to talk about anything sad or
di cult, including my mother.
But the more he urged me to forget my morbid thoughts, the
more I wanted to know.
As I matured, he grew anxious, as if he couldn’t bear for me to
grow up. He kept me in braids and pinafores well past the
appropriate age, and when I turned into a graceful young woman
despite him, he struggled to keep me at his side, insisting I stay
home to entertain him rather than visiting friends.
I would wait until his afternoon nap, then slip out of the house to
walk with my beaux among the stones of the old cathedral. He
never knew. By then my nurse, Anne-Marie, who understood what a
girl needed, was keeping my secrets for me.
My father always said we were happy, and so I made myself
lighthearted and bent to his whims. At night, though, I begged God
to send him a wife, to relieve his intense consideration of me. But
God has never listened to my prayers.
When I was fourteen, my father invested in a line of steamships
on the lake, but the business soon failed, and he sank into debt. Still,
he insisted on sending me to an exclusive ladies’ academy, where I
learned French, English, and German, as if I might marry a Danish
count.
Torvald, when he appeared, was not what my father had
imagined, but in some dark way they understood each other.
Torvald, by then a young lawyer, salvaged my father’s reputation.
My father, beholden, o ered Torvald my hand.
It didn’t occur to me to say no. I was already attracted by
Torvald’s dark eyes and his adoration of me. Indeed, I thought he
would be easy to manage, he was so besotted. I thought marrying
would free me.
It all might have turned out di erently if my mother had lived.
She might have sensed Torvald’s aws and discouraged me from
marrying him, or steered me to marry someone else. She could have
advised me, guided me. Perhaps she would have raised me to be a
di erent young woman—one that Torvald Helmer wouldn’t have
wanted, or who wouldn’t have wanted Torvald Helmer.
But she did not live, and there was no one else to caution me. So I
married, and we moved to Kristiania, settling into a good apartment
on the second oor of a new building close to the center of town.
I soon discovered, however, that instead of being liberated, I had
been passed from one man to the next, like a horse groomed for the
parade grounds. Once we settled, Torvald forbade me to do
anything utilitarian; he even brought my old nurse, Anne-Marie, to
tend our babies so he could show me o in the parlors of the well-
to-do.
Torvald also loved the girl in me, so I dressed below my years,
danced the silly peasant dances he found so bewitching, and
pretended to accept his rules. Torvald said we were happy, and so I
made myself lighthearted, laughing when he caught me in a lie,
slipping from his grasp when he lectured. If he chastised me for
eating sweets, I kissed him and denied it, even as I ngered the
package in my pocket. And when he called me scatterbrains and
scolded me for running through money, I told myself it didn’t hurt—
and then counted up what I had for my lender, the hateful Mr.
Krogstad, the next time I met him on a darkened street.
In the end, it caught up with me. All the playacting, all the
cheerful, frenzied e ort to make everything right. The truth had its
own desires, a lust to be known.
I looked at myself now in the mirror. Who would I have become if
Torvald hadn’t gotten sick, if I had never taken on that terrible
debt? I would have been trapped forever as the girl he married.
Instead, my troubles had given me a backbone, something I was not
allowed before. When I saw what I could do, the girl bride fell away
like a husk.

THE NEXT MORNING I woke up angry. Angry that Torvald had allowed
me so little freedom in our life together, angry that I was given so
little authority over anything that mattered. As if he never trusted
me, as if he never understood all I had done for him. And now I was
the one who had to crawl back to my childhood home and beg for a
bed.
I splashed my face with cold water from the pitcher, but it did
little to calm the anger burning in my cheeks. I dressed quickly and
went downstairs to confront my aunt.
When I came into the dining room, she was nervously tying a
small box with string.
“I hope you’ve changed your mind, Nora,” she said, unable to
meet my eyes. “There’s a train at nine-thirty, but you’ll have to
hurry.” She pushed the box toward me. “Your lunch.”
“Aunt, I am sorry, but I’m not going back to Torvald.”
“But the gossips will be talking, Nora! There’s no time to lose.”
She glared at me for an instant, an angry crow ready to chase me
away.
I took some toast, poured myself co ee, and sat down.
She came over to sit beside me, bustling her skirts about as if that
gave her more authority. “Nora, listen to me. You’ll be tarnished,
my dear; tarnished for life. People will think the worst, and it’s
di cult to recover from that. Don’t you understand?”
I ushed deeply. “I understand that gossips will say whatever
distasteful thoughts come into their minds, but I cannot let that keep
me entombed in a miserable marriage.”
She gave me a chastising look. “I hardly think you were
entombed, Nora.”
“You weren’t there, Aunt.” Bitterness welled up inside me, making
me tremble so that I could scarcely keep from spilling my co ee.
She held her breath for a long moment, then sighed and pushed
the boxed lunch away. “I don’t know why I bothered,” she muttered.
I closed my eyes for a moment to calm myself, then looked up and
reached for her hands. “Aunt, please, I know how uncomfortable
this must be for you, but I have no one else. Please let me stay until
I nd work and a place of my own.”
She held my gaze, her eyes glittering.
“Let me stay so that I need not resort to anything we would both
regret.”
At that, she looked away.
“I’ll help with expenses,” I said. “I know coal is dear.”
“You’ve no idea what it means to be alone in the world, Nora.”
“I’m grateful to have you, Aunt. Truly.”
She stood up and sni ed into her handkerchief, then looked back
at me with de ance. “You may stay a few weeks, but rst you must
answer one question and answer it honestly.”
“Of course, Aunt.”
“Swear to me there’s no other man involved.”
Heat rose in my face again. “Is that what you think?”
“Honestly, Nora, I have no idea what to think. Swear to me.”
I tried to breathe evenly. I had never liked having to swear to
anything, but I had little choice. “No, Aunt. I swear; I have always
been faithful to Torvald.”
 “Most women couldn’t a ord to leave their husbands unless they
had a promise from someone else. I daresay you couldn’t either.”
“But I do not have a promise, or anyone else, Aunt. I have no one,
except you.”
“That’s a sad state of a airs, Nora. But, as you are my niece, I
must accept your word.” She stood up, taking the boxed lunch with
her. “Just remember one thing: I’ve little stomach for gossip. For
your sake, I hope it stays in Kristiania.”

my chest arrived. I dragged it upstairs eagerly, but

LATER THAT DAY
when I opened the lid my heart sank. It was only half full. On top
was a note.

Dear Nora: Torvald pulled out most of your dresses and books,
saying you don’t deserve anything but the barest necessities. He’s
furious that you took your pearls, yet he expects you to return any
minute. Your friend, Kristine

I pawed through the meager piles. Three faded dresses I’d put
aside for the maid, a pair of scu ed shoes, a handful of underwear.
None of my favorite gowns, none of my music or novels. A chill
settled over me. The only respectable things I had were those I wore
the night I left—my better traveling dress, my winter boots and
good coat, my rabbit-fur hat.
I pulled out the dresses to examine them, and there, tucked
between the skirts, was a single book, my con rmation Bible. Inside
it—sticking out so I would notice—was a photograph of us as a
family. Me in gray, the boys in their sailor suits, Emma in lace, and
Torvald towering over us. I lifted the picture to the fading afternoon
light, thinking of the day it was taken. How excited the children
were to be together on an outing to the photographer’s studio. We
looked like the perfect family, which explained the victorious
expression on Torvald’s face.
I pressed the photograph to my cheek, squinting back tears. What
were the children doing now? Playing in the park, no doubt. Soon
they would return for their supper and get ready for bed. It was the
hour I loved best. Anne-Marie would bathe Emma rst, then hand
her to me for nursery rhymes while Nurse pushed the rowdy boys
through the tub. Once the boys were in bed, handsome in their
pajamas and slicked-back hair, I would tell them a story. Outside
the nursery Torvald paced, hurrying me along so he could have his
supper.
It was true that Anne-Marie handled most of the children’s care,
but I was the one who understood their hearts. Torvald called Ivar
“little man,” but I knew Ivar hid a tender nature behind this facade
and would feel his father’s shame as much as the loss of me. Bob,
my elf, often spun through the apartment only to fall in my lap and
twist his ngers in my hair. If any of them kicked and cried over my
disappearance, it would be poor Bobby. And then there was little
Emma, too young to be much more than a mystery. My only
consolation was that she preferred Nurse and so would miss me
least.
I tucked the photograph away and took one last look in the trunk.
Ah, my bag of embroidery, stu ed in the bottom. I pulled it out and
released the clasp, and it was only then that my life came surging
back in a wave of despair. All so familiar, the tangle of silk thread,
the little wooden hoops. And there, beneath a knot of ribbon, was a
small linen cap for Emma I’d been stitching with a border of
owers.
I sank onto the bed, overcome. How could I leave these children?
How would I live without them? We shared things no one else knew
—silly songs and games, secrets they whispered in my ear. I could
still feel their arms around my neck. And poor Emma, my little
daughter, just two years old. I wept into the pillow so my aunt
wouldn’t hear.
Yet, at the same time, I knew I could not go back, not even for
them. I felt this more than understood it, like bedrock beneath
everything. I could not live the lie that was my marriage anymore—
pretending not to care when Torvald teased and belittled me,
pretending I was just tatting lace when I was saving the family from
ruin. I could not.
I washed my face and went downstairs to supper.
THE NEXT MORNING dawned cloudy and cold. I rose, brushed my dark
blond hair until it gleamed, and swept it into a knot. As I did, I
studied my image in the mirror—the broad brow, the deeply set
blue eyes, the angled Norwegian cheekbones and strong chin.
Familiar yet di erent, more serious.
I smiled to reassure myself and raised my chin.
The snow whirled in urries as I walked through town. At rst I
just eyed the shops, but soon I began stopping wherever a lady
might work. To a ord my own room, I would need a salaried
position, not the piecemeal copying and bookkeeping I had done to
pay o Krogstad.
I asked rst at several solicitors’ o ces, unleashing my nest
smile. The managers greeted me politely but o ered little. Perhaps if
I had a letter of introduction, they said.
“I can give you references,” I told them, ashamed I hadn’t thought
to bring a letter from someone in Kristiania. They looked at each
other and cleared their throats. If I found nothing better, they said, I
could stop back for piecework.
I soon began sizing up the shops, but the girls behind the counters
appeared far below my station. I walked across the square to the
hotel, thinking it more respectable, and was encouraged when the
matron at the desk recognized me. But when I asked for a job, her
smile faded.
“Don’t you have children, Mrs. Helmer?” she said, her voice tight.
“Yes, but they’re mostly in school now. I’ve come back to help my
aunt for a while. Her health, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Helmer,” she said, shaking her head as if there
was something strange about me. “Give my best to your aunt. Good
day.”
I returned to one of the solicitors for copying work, then waded
home through the snow. Later that evening, when I had nally
nished the tedious documents, I took out Emma’s cap and stitched
tiny owers until the candle guttered. Don’t be discouraged, I told
myself. You are safe tonight, and your stomach is full. Tomorrow
will be better. Perhaps working in a shop would be ne.
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS I visited nearly every business in Hamar. No
one had a salaried position for a lady such as yourself, as they put it.
This covered all my sins: bred too high, overeducated, married but
not wearing a ring. One gentleman inquired hopefully whether I was
a widow, but when I said no, he shook his head. At the end of each
disappointing day, I would stop at the solicitor’s o ce for copying
work, then stay up late taxing my eyes and burning precious
candles. But it earned me enough to help pay for coal and food.
On Sunday my aunt insisted we walk to the Lutheran church,
slipping quietly into a pew in the back. That didn’t stop people from
staring. The pastor, alerted by my aunt, spoke of the sanctity of the
family, the mother as the keel and ballast of the family ship while
the husband, at the helm, steered through storms and troubles.
When we thanked him after the service, he gave my hand a
meaningful squeeze.
In time I ran into old friends, including Sigrid Rorlund, a
schoolmate who invited me to dinner. I remembered her more as
rival than friend, but accepted anyway. Her husband, a local
merchant, might know of work, I reasoned. Besides, I longed to
escape my aunt’s thinning patience, if just for an evening.
The night of the dinner I wore my only presentable dress, a simple
blue wool gown. Sigrid appeared in an elegant ta eta with a bustle
of Belgian lace; next to her I looked like the governess. Still, she
greeted me with warmth and took me around her parlor, showing
o all she had ordered from Copenhagen, then boasting about her
sons, bright boys picked by the dean of the parish for an academy in
Kristiania.
When we gathered at the table with her husband, however, he
gave me an odd look, as if he had heard something.
“Nora, I understand you’re looking for work in Hamar,” Mr.
Rorlund said, handing me a glass of claret while the maid served.
“Are you planning to stay for a while?”
“Oh, I just want a bit of o ce work to keep me busy while I’m
visiting my aunt, which may be some months. She’s not well, you
know.”
 “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sigrid said. “But do you work in
Kristiania?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
“When I can. I enjoy simple bookkeeping and copying. It’s much
more interesting that sitting around the house caring for the potted
plants.”
Mr. Rorlund looked up from his beef. “I wonder that Mr. Helmer
allows it.”
“He’s very forward thinking,” I rattled on, taking another sip of
wine. It was the rst I’d had since Christmas and tasted like God’s
own nectar. “Things in Kristiania are di erent. Women are nding
more to do outside the home.”
“Then what happens inside the home?” Mr. Rorlund asked.
“The servants do a ne job running most households,” I said. “Our
nurse raised me, so I trust her with the children.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Rorlund said, exchanging a glance with Sigrid. They
thought Torvald and I were in debt. Fine—it might make them more
likely to help me.
“Mr. Rorlund, perhaps you know someone who needs an o ce
clerk.”
He coughed in surprise. “There are few o ce jobs in Hamar, Mrs.
Helmer, and there are always honest men ready to take them. Young
men, hoping to start a family—those are the best people to hire.”
“I thought all the honest young men had gone to America.”
He grunted. “It can be di cult, what with the overblown
optimism from abroad, but I hardly think that means we should
employ our wives.”
“Some honest women don’t have husbands to rely on, Mr.
Rorlund. What of them?”
He gave me a sharp look. “The de nition of an honest woman is
one with a husband, is it not, Mrs. Helmer?”
I gave him a faint smile and turned away.
Sigrid coughed, then called for Mr. Rorlund’s co ee to be served
in his study. He bowed sti y and ed.
I spent the rest of the evening nodding as Sigrid boasted about her
sons.
TWO DAYS LATER my aunt returned from visiting and called me into
the parlor. “Nora, I’m sorry I must say this, but I’m angry with you.”
“I’m sorry too. What have I done?”
“You’ve compromised Torvald’s reputation by telling the Rorlunds
you’ve been working.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The only reason a gentleman would let his wife work would be
to save him from nancial ruin,” she said, frowning. “I also hear you
are visiting because I’m in ill health.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry, Aunt. That came out before I could stop it. I
suppose I felt I had to say something.”
“I don’t mean to criticize, Nora, but you struggle with the truth.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me to tell the truth, Aunt.”
Her brow knotted. “Which is why you should return to Torvald
before it gets any worse! I doubt anyone will have you in for Sunday
dinner once this gets around. No more gay evenings drinking other
people’s wine.”
“I don’t need their wine. If I had a job, I could buy my own.”
“That would be a sad life, Nora, drinking alone at your solitary
table.” Then her eyes lled. “I don’t understand why that’s better
than dining with your family. I pray every night you’ll come to your
senses and go home. It breaks my heart.”
I looked at her, scarcely able to breathe. It broke my heart, too,
but I could not tell her that.

THE NEXT MORNING Sigrid Rorlund appeared in our parlor. My aunt

nodded happily, then slipped into the kitchen to gather co ee and
cake.
I was surprised but pleased. “Sigrid! Come in. Please sit.”
She sat on the edge of a chair but didn’t take o her gloves. “I
don’t have long, Nora. I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.”
“Of course.” My aunt appeared in the doorway, but I waved her
away. “What is it?”
“I wanted to tell you I thought it quite interesting that you work,
in Kristiania, I mean.”
 I sighed. This couldn’t be why she came.
“Nora, I thought I should warn you.” She leaned forward, as if we
were children who must whisper secrets. “I heard the most awful
rumor yesterday, and I prayed about it last night and resolved to tell
you.”
“What was it? That I’ve grown donkey ears?”
“No, worse,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s a story that
you’ve abandoned your family. That you’ve left your husband.”
I could only look at her.
“I mean,” she said, wringing her hands, “I’m sure it can’t be true,
but I thought you should know. I can’t imagine why someone would
spread such a story.”
“Well, perhaps it is true.”
Her eyes grew large. “What do you mean?”
“I did leave Torvald. He was cruel to me, and I decided I couldn’t
stay with such a man.”
She pulled away. “That’s astonishing, Nora,” she nally said.
“That must have taken courage.”
“I wouldn’t call it courage. I just couldn’t be his wife anymore.”
Her face darkened. “But what of your children?”
“I’m hoping he’ll let me see them. Thankfully, they’re very
attached to their nurse.”
“Well, I had no idea. So I suppose, then, you must work.”
“Yes. You might be so kind as to explain it to your husband. I’m
sure he would know if a job opened up.”
She gave me a nervous glance, then stood. “I’m so sorry, Nora, but
he told me that if the rumor was true, I shouldn’t see you again.”
I went cold. “Is that what you want, Sigrid?”
She kissed me on the cheek ever so lightly. “Good luck, Nora. I
hope you nd what you’re looking for.”
And then she was gone.
My aunt appeared with the co ee tray, but her face fell when she
saw me alone.
“My truth is out,” I said.
“Oh, Nora!” She shot me a stricken look, turned, and took the tray
back to the kitchen. It wasn’t meant for me.
AFTER SIGRID’S VISIT,
I sent notes to other childhood friends in Hamar,
hoping I was wrong, but they were soon returned with regrets. All I
did was leave my husband, and I knew—from years of chatting over
the tea cakes—that other women had reason to do the same. But no,
they would stand at the water’s edge and watch me slip under the
ice, then straighten their hats and walk away.

A WEEK LATER, on a cold Sunday afternoon, my aunt and I were

sewing in the parlor when I heard harness bells. My aunt put down
her needle and turned her head, listening.
A horse snorted. I glanced outside—a sleigh had stopped in front
of the house. Then someone stamped on the doorstep and knocked,
hard. My aunt gave me a timid smile and called to her maid.
“Aagot, get the door. Nora’s husband is here.”
I threw aside my sewing. “No. You didn’t.” I jumped to my feet,
but before I could ee Torvald appeared in the doorway. And there,
next to him, was Ivar.
My beautiful boy. He stared at me, wide-eyed, as if I were a ghost.
“Darling!” I said, sweeping him into a hug. He fell against me,
and I pressed my face to his hair, lling my lungs with him. I
glanced at Torvald over Ivar’s head. Such clever cruelty, to bring the
boy.
Torvald smiled and took o his coat, as if he’d come for dinner.
He wasn’t a big man, but his body seemed to ll the room. He
embraced my aunt. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your
letter.” Then he stepped over to me, gripping my shoulders and
leaning in to kiss my cheek.
I went sti . His touch and smell, so familiar, so unwelcome.
“How are you, Nora?” he said. “Are you better?”
I glanced at Ivar, who looked up at me with a worried brow. “Yes,
somewhat, but the fevers persist.” I leaned over, took Ivar’s hand,
and pressed it to my forehead. “Here, darling. You can feel the heat,
can’t you?”
He nodded solemnly.
 “But don’t worry. I’ll get better in time. Aunt’s been taking good
care of me.”
Torvald watched this pantomime. “It’s good to see you, Nora,” he
said pleasantly, playacting himself. “We’ve missed you.” He settled
into a chair and began to chat about the weather, as if nothing had
happened. I sat with Ivar, drinking him in, nodding and listening to
them both, but I could scarcely breathe.
My aunt dgeted, then leaped up and called for Aagot to bring
the soup, though it was still early. She bustled about laying the
tablecloth and silver, avoiding my eye.
“So, Nora, do you think you’re well enough to return?” Torvald
said. “The doctors in Kristiania are prepared for you. Ivar and I
would be happy to take you home tonight.”
Ivar looked at me hopefully.
I gazed at him. Can one weigh love, balance it against other
needs? And, if so, why did I feel my refusal of Torvald more than
my love for my children?
I smiled sadly at Ivar. “Well, this is all rather sudden, Torvald. I’m
not sure I have the strength. Why don’t we have supper, and then
perhaps you and I can talk.”
“Then let’s eat,” Torvald said. “Ivar and I are hungry!”
We sat down—my aunt had ordered a rich sh stew, and Aagot
brought out the best cheeses—but I just nibbled at the bread, my
throat tight as a vice. Torvald talked of the years he worked in
Hamar, glancing and smiling at me as the story unfolded. Is this
how he thought it would be, that I just needed a short holiday and
life would soon be back to normal? I watched him warily.
“Eat, Nora.” He passed me the butter. “You must build yourself up
if you’re to recover.”
I turned to Ivar, who chattered away. He told me he had taught
Emma to draw but had to lock away his drum, as she was making
too much noise. Bob was starting to read a few words but still
needed a lot of help. The family downstairs got a little dog.
My eyes lled. The comforting familiarity of Ivar and his world
beckoned like a glimpse of paradise. I had to stand up to break the
spell.
 “Aagot, would you please take Ivar out for a walk? He needs a run
before getting back on the train.”
She glanced at my aunt, who nodded. I helped Ivar with his coat,
then gave him a hug. “Have her show you the church. It has big
brass doors!”
As soon as they left, I turned to Torvald. “I never thought you
would use the children this way.”
He cocked his head. “Whatever do you mean, Nora?”
“Bringing Ivar, using him as bait.”
“Nora, we’re just trying to do what’s best for you!”
“How can you be so cruel to him?”
“Nora,” he said, moving toward me, “calm yourself. Your aunt
wrote and told me how hard things are for you, and as you can see,
the children miss you terribly. So now your little vacation is over.
It’s time to come home and ful ll your responsibilities to them even
if you cannot ful ll them to me. I’m prepared to wait for that day.”
“Torvald, I’m not going home. If I could go home, I never would
have left.”
“Please, Nora. None of your dramatics now. This is too serious.”
“Yes, this is serious. I am serious.”
“Nora, if you persist in this it will be a tragedy for the children,”
he said. “You must think of them!”
“I cannot return to our life together, Torvald. I know that’s painful
for everyone, but I cannot.”
Torvald leaned toward me. “But how will Ivar feel if you don’t
come home with us tonight?” he said in a hush, as if I’d gone mad.
“How can they survive this? How am I to raise them in the shadow
of this?”
In the shadow of a crazy mother, he meant.
Tears welled in my eyes. “I’m sorry for the children, for Ivar, but
you should have thought of that before you brought him,” I cried. “I
can’t believe you would be so sel sh, to use him for your purpose!”
“Sel sh? To bring my son to see his dear mama? He’s
brokenhearted—as is Bob. If you’re truly sorry for them, Nora, you’ll
realize it’s you who are sel sh and come home, where you belong.”
“I can’t, Torvald. If I do, I’ll … I’ll die!”
 He inched, and in that moment I saw the pain I had in icted. It
made my knees weak. “Was it that bad, Nora,” he said softly, “our
life together?”
“I’ve changed, Torvald. That’s the problem. I’m not your little …
your little squirrel anymore. I’m not your anything! I told you that
night, we’re free from each other now. You must divorce me and let
me live my life.”
“Divorce you?” Then he laughed. “You have no idea what you’re
talking about. The king rarely grants divorce, Nora. And even if he
did, I would never divorce you. I wouldn’t give you that
satisfaction.”
I caught my breath. “You cannot hold on to me, Torvald!”
“Yes, I can. I can make you come home. I can get the police.”
“Then send for the police.”
My aunt stepped forward. “Torvald, really. Not the police.”
He glared at me, imposing and stern. I could scarcely remember
loving him.
“Did she tell you, Aunt, what she did?”
“Do you mean borrowing the money?”
“Yes, but did she tell you how she got the money? That she forged
her father’s signature? I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that.”
My aunt gasped. “Nora!”
“After he died,” Torvald said, his eyes never leaving my face.
“But that’s a crime!” My aunt turned to me. “Nora, did you know
that?”
“I did it to save your life, Torvald. Doesn’t that count for
anything?”
“That’s what you tell yourself,” Torvald said, “but you and I know
how many cunning lies you spin. You …”
I stepped back. “Enough. I’m going to bed. Bring Ivar up to say
good-bye. He needs to see that I’m too sick to travel.”
“I refuse to participate in your little dramas, Nora,” Torvald spat.
“You’re healthy as a horse; anyone can see that.”
I turned to my aunt. “Bring me my son. You owe me that much.”
She twisted her handkerchief but nodded. I swept through the
room and up the stairs. I put on my nightgown and climbed into
bed, though it was barely dusk. I was so angry, heat rose o me as if
I really did have a fever.
Soon my aunt appeared with Ivar, who came and knelt by the
bed.
“Mama! Papa says you’re too sick to travel.”
“Yes, darling. I’m sorry.” I tried to smile. “But I’ll see you again
soon, I promise.”
“When you come back home?”
“If I can, darling. But even if I cannot, I will see you.”
He looked at me, perplexed. This made little sense to him, but I
could not pretend otherwise.
“Here,” I said, sitting up and taking one of my childhood
drawings o the wall—a scene of mountain meadows, with cows
and birds. “This is for you. Someday I will take you and Bob and
Emmie to this valley. My father took me there when I was your
age.”
He looked at it in awe. “You drew this? For me?”
“Well, I didn’t know I would have a handsome boy like you back
then, but I drew it so I would never forget the place. When you see
it, you’ll never forget it either.”
He kissed me. “Thank you, Mama. I’ll show it to Bob and Emma.”
“Go now,” I whispered. “Your train is waiting!”
My aunt pulled him away, and after the door closed, the walls of
the room seemed to fold in on me. I clutched my pillow to keep
from howling. If Torvald came all the way to Hamar to hound me,
would I ever be free of him? Did he really think I would bend to his
will and obey him again, after all this?
But even worse was his face at the end, so stern and unyielding.
As if he didn’t love me anymore.
And then I understood—he didn’t love me anymore. I would
never have thought it possible, but it was true. And with that, a
great void opened inside me. Because we had loved each other, in
our tangled way, a love that obscured everything else. But I saw it
in his eyes. He would never let himself love me again.
And if he didn’t love me, he would never forgive me. And without
that forgiveness, he would never let me see the children.
 Somehow I imagined that when love died, the connections would
die as well, all the old obligations and promises. How naive! Torvald
and I were still bound tight together, like overgrown trees in a
neglected garden. And all those old, knotted memories—the slights
and misunderstandings, the secret pleasures as well as the games
and falsehoods—were still twisted around me. Love didn’t just fade
away. It died and then rotted, but the roots held fast.

THE NEXT MORNING my aunt called me into the parlor. “I cannot allow
you to stay any longer, Nora. I fear I’ve made it too easy for you.”
I had anticipated this but not so soon. “Please, Aunt, just a few
more months? It takes time to nd good work, and …”
“Enough, Nora. I told you I had no stomach for gossip, and I have
even less for those who out the law. It’s time to return to your
husband and children. It was agonizing to see how much Ivar misses
you. By Friday, I think. That gives you time to prepare.” And then
she turned her back and left the room.
I was surprised how much it hurt.

THE NEXT DAY,I got schedules for the trains to Trondheim and Bergen.
I would be damned if I was going to do my aunt’s bidding and
return to Kristiania. I needed a place with more opportunity and
where I wouldn’t be known.
As I walked back from the train station, there was a lightness in
my step. I had no idea how I would manage, but I was relieved to be
escaping Hamar.
A few days later a letter arrived, from Torvald.

Dear Nora, You’ve been gone now eight weeks. If you do not return
in a month’s time, I will have to tell the children you have died. I do
not enjoy these lies, but it’s too much to ask these innocent children
to understand what you’ve done. Ivar’s had a very di cult time
since he saw you and is holding on to hope uselessly. I cannot allow
you to torture him anymore. If you’re ready to return, I will take
you back with the understanding that you’ll live in the maid’s room
 and keep away from the children until I’m convinced you mean to
stay. If you return to your senses and come home without fuss, I will
permit you to see the children brie y on Sunday afternoons, perhaps
more in the future. Your Husband, Torvald Helmer

The world went dark. I had to grab for a chair, I was so overcome.
He would tell them I had died? If he did that, they would never try
to nd me. If he did that, it would rob me of the chance to know
them in the future, when they were grown.
Suddenly, I saw that I had no choice: I had to return to Kristiania.
I must speak to my boys, Torvald be damned. They had to know
that I was alive.

TO PREPARE FOR MY RETURN, I bought two mourning gowns and traded

my rabbit-fur hat for a plain one with a veil. The night I left
Torvald, I demanded we give our rings back to each other. I
considered selling his ring, but now I took it to the jeweler and had
it re tted for my own nger. No widow would be seen without a
wedding ring, after all.
The last morning I packed my trunk, snatching up everything
useful—writing paper, pens, novels, and schoolbooks. They had
once been mine, after all.
My aunt appeared in the doorway of my room holding a wooden
box. “This was your mother’s, Nora,” she said.
I placed the box on the bed and unlocked the clasp. Inside was a
delicate china tea set painted with exquisite red owers. I wondered
that I had never seen it before, but thanked her anyway. As I
examined one of the pretty cups, I felt a faint premonition of death,
as if this was my aunt’s last obligation to me. And in that moment I
understood I would never be welcomed in her home again.
When I appeared downstairs in my widow’s weeds, she squinted
at me in confusion. “What is this, Nora, another deception? You’ve
hardly earned the respect we pay to those who mourn.”
“I mourn, Aunt. Every day.”
 “But, Nora, you’ve chosen this sad path,” she said, pressing her
hand for a moment against my cheek. “Someday I hope you’ll learn
to live without lies and costumes, for the sake of your soul.”
Her touch brought tears to my eyes. I kissed her farewell, then
rode to the station cradling the wooden box in my arms.

AS THE TRAIN HURTLED SOUTH, my aunt’s last words echoed in my head.

I was not proud of my fabrications; indeed, over the years I had
vowed again and again to stick to the truth. But when I was married
to Torvald, I concocted so many little deceptions, I could barely
keep them straight. If I had news that would anger him, I pretended
I didn’t know. If I spent money on something he would disapprove, I
hid it in the house. I did these things, I told myself, to keep the
peace, but at the same time I knew I shouldn’t. It was a relief to
speak honestly to him the night I left, though it turned out he
couldn’t bear to hear what I had to say.
Perhaps that was the problem: no one ever wanted to hear what
was true for me.
Now I smoothed the black crepe of my gown. Who would suspect
this humble lady in mourning, hiding behind her veil, was the
notorious Nora Helmer? If this was deception, so be it. Because how
else could women live honestly in the world? We had so little
authority, so few choices, how could we manage without a bit of
bbing?
As far as I could see, those with little power had to use what they
could nd.
 CHAPTER FOUR

SOLVI
November 1918 Kristiania, Norway

It was late afternoon when Solvi stepped from the train into the
commotion of Kristiania. So many people, all in a hurry. She
checked the address of the women’s study house, then looked
around. Before this day, she had always known where she was
going, always had friends or family waiting for her. Now there was
no one.
She asked an older gentleman for directions, and he pointed her
to a tram; she climbed aboard. It bumped up a grand avenue
between granite buildings lit up like ships in the dark. Solvi eyed
the crowd. So much more sophistication than Bergen. Even in her
lovely cape, she felt like she’d come from some upland farm.
She stepped o at a quiet corner in a residential area. The study
house, when she found it, was larger than Solvi had imagined and
reassuringly tidy. She knocked.
A plump woman in a yellowed cap opened the door. “Lord help
me, another girl with a bag,” the woman said. “You should have
written rst.”
“Well, I, ah, I didn’t know,” Solvi said. “I’ve come to take my
matriculation exams. My teacher in Bergen said I could room here.”
She pulled out an envelope. “I’ve a letter from her.”
“Might as well come in out of the cold,” the matron said.
Inside there were coat racks, a potted fern, and a front desk, like a
hotel. “Solveig Lange,” Solvi said, sticking out her hand. “My
grandfather was a banker in Bergen, and my father was a famous
Danish botanist.”
“Were they now,” the woman muttered, scanning Solvi’s letter.
“Well, I suppose we can give you a room. There’s space because
some of the girls got the in uenza.” She gave Solvi a sharp look.
“Some of them died. Too much traipsing around.”
“I’m so sorry,” Solvi said. “It’s been terrible.”
The matron pushed a ledger across the counter. “It’s forty crowns
a month, due on the rst. That covers your room, board, linens, and
a tutor for the matriculation exams. See that you pay up, Miss
Lange.”
“Of course,” Solvi said, uneasy now as she pulled the bills from
her purse. She hadn’t expected it to cost that much. But she had
enough for several months, so she signed the ledger.
“And see that you study hard,” the matron said. “If you fail the
exams, you must leave. Many girls fail.”
“Yes, Matron.” Failure and death, Solvi thought. But surely, there
must be other endings; her Papa would believe in other endings.
The matron reviewed Solvi’s entry. “Curfew’s at nine; I lock the
door after that. And I expect proper decorum at all times. No
cigarette smoking or sneaking out.”
“I won’t give you any trouble.”
“Well, you’d be the rst,” Matron said. She led Solvi upstairs to a
tight little room that had no more than a bed, a desk by the
window, and a dresser with a washbowl. “Dinner’s at six; don’t be
late.”
Solvi closed her door. What if those poor girls hadn’t gotten sick?
It made her dizzy to think there might not have been a place for her.
She looked around. The wallpaper’s faded, and the curtains need
washing—she could just hear what her mother would say. But Solvi
didn’t care. It was safe, and her rst toehold in the great world.
A drumbeat of excitement trilled in her chest as she unpacked.
She felt as if she was someone else, not Solvi Lange, the spoiled girl
who lived in a ne town house. She felt ready to surprise herself.
When she was done, she pulled out the photograph of her
mother’s family and slipped it in the corner of the mirror. Maybe
they would be surprising, too. Di erent from what she knew, what
she might expect. But rst, she needed to nd them.
Solvi tidied herself for dinner, wondering what the other girls
would think of her. She knew she was not a beauty like her mother,
sleek as a lioness, but then beauty could cut both ways. Solvi had
the same blond hair, but her curls de ed styling, and her clothes
hung on her tall, thin frame. She did have her mother’s deep-set
blue eyes, though, and her Viking cheekbones.
Her mother. Guilt rose again, like bile, and Solvi had to sit down
until it passed. She knew it was cruel, what she’d done; indeed, her
mother might never speak to her again. But if she had stayed, her
mother would have found another Stefan, and another after that,
until Solvi’s resolve crumbled and she stood in a ouncy dress
promising herself to a lifetime of stultifying dinners, talking about
nothing.
She stared at herself in the mirror. She had broken with her
mother, hadn’t she? Motherless girls didn’t worry about what their
mothers would think.
She pulled herself up to her full height and lifted her chin, like
her grandmother in the photograph.
The dinner bell rang.

IN THE DINING ROOM, several girls circled around Solvi in welcome.

Some were already students, while others were more recent arrivals
preparing for the entrance exams in January. They all struck Solvi
as modest and serious, with their serge skirts and sturdy shoes.
Except one.
Solvi noticed her the minute she walked in. She was small and
lithe, with scandalously bobbed chocolate hair and dark eyes. Her
slender skirt fell just to her knees. She had a bundled energy about
her, but also an air of remove.
The girl watched Solvi out of the corner of her eye but didn’t
come to greet her. Arrogance, Solvi thought, and she turned to talk
with the others, asking about their studies, their homes, their
families. When Solvi looked up from her co ee, the interesting girl
was gone.
After supper most of the girls gathered in the parlor to talk and
read, but Solvi went back upstairs. If she didn’t write to her mother,
she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
 Dear Mama: I wanted to let you know I’ve taken a room at the
women’s study house. The matron has strict rules and locks the door
after nine. The older girls serve as tutors, which will help me prepare
for the matriculation exams.
I know you’re angry that I left, and without a good-bye kiss. I’m
sorry; it seemed the only way. I hope someday you can forgive me.
Your Solvi

THE NEXT MORNING Solvi met with her assigned tutor, Marit, a tense,
older girl who wore her hair in a severe knot and seemed to have
forgotten how to smile.
Marit ipped dismissively through Solvi’s textbooks. “These are
too rudimentary,” she scowled. “Where on earth did you go to
school?”
“The best ladies’ academy in Bergen,” Solvi said, trying to keep
her chin high. It was only noon, but Solvi has already received a
bewildering list of exam topics: mathematics, science, languages,
history, and literature.
“Well, there are better references in the library. You’d better use
those.”
“Library?”
Marit pointed down the hall. “At the end. That’s where the serious
girls work.”
Solvi took her books and stepped quietly to the library door. It
was a somber place, lined with bookshelves and crowded with small
desks. The interesting girl sat with her back to the door and a large
tome before her—anatomical drawings, it appeared. Several girls
looked up at Solvi and smiled, but not the interesting girl. Solvi
chose a desk near a window, opened her Latin grammar, and
lowered her head. No one said a word.
A few hours later, the interesting girl pushed her book aside and
left. Solvi, her mind muddled with declensions, did the same,
though the interesting girl had already disappeared by the time
Solvi stepped into the hallway.
 Solvi glanced out the window. The sun was dropping—her
favorite light. She retrieved her camera and cape and at the last
moment snatched up the family photograph, then headed out the
door.
She had hoped to spot the interesting girl, but there was no one
about. Still, the sprawling city glowed in the angled afternoon sun,
so Solvi descended the hill and took a few shots capturing the
hubbub down Karl Johans Gate, the busy main thoroughfare. She
surreptitiously photographed two women in stylish clothes and
short hair pointing at something in a store window, then spoke to a
little girl who posed in her new felt hat. Before long, Solvi had run
out of plates.
She pulled out the photograph and looked at the address on the
back. 365 Mollergata.
It took her a while to nd it, but nally she stopped before a
broad glass storefront. Stenberg’s Photography Atelier was lettered
across the window case. Inside, an older man in a knitted vest sorted
photographs at a counter.
Solvi peered through the window, and her pulse quickened. This
was where her family had come. Her mother as a baby, her
grandmother in her gray silk. Those two little boys.
Solvi opened the door, setting o a bell, and stepped hesitantly
inside. A painted backdrop of Germany’s Brandenburg Gate hung to
one side, an oriental rug in front and a box of props beside it—
parasols, toys, guns. Other rolled backdrops stood in the corner.
“May I help you?” The man pushed his glasses up his nose.
“Yes, please. I …” Solvi hesitated. “I need, ah, an album.”
He pulled out several and spread them on the counter. “That
looks like a ne piece,” he said kindly, nodding at the camera
around Solvi’s neck. “May I?”
She smiled and handed it to him.
He snapped it open, then peered through the view nder and
adjusted the lens. “I hate to admit it, but the Germans do make such
ne equipment.”
“My father gave it to me. He used it to photograph rare plants. He
was a botanist, but he died.” Solvi faltered, embarrassed to have
shared this with a stranger.
But the man just nodded at her with sympathy and respect and
handed the camera back. “It’s always nice to meet another
photographer.”
Solvi picked out an album, then asked for plates.
“Is there anything else?” the man asked.
“Well, yes,” Solvi said, pulling out the photograph of her mother’s
family. “This was taken here many years ago. It’s rather a mystery. I
was hoping you could identify it.”
He studied the picture, ran his nger down the burned edge, and
then looked at the back. “But this was taken forty years ago.”
“Yes, I know. It’s my mother’s family—she’s the baby. But I never
knew she had brothers until recently. Would you have a record of
this sitting, maybe the names of the boys?”
He scratched his head. “Perhaps. My father ran the studio then.
I’ll have to look in the basement.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Oh, I love a mystery,” he said. “Come back Thursday; I’ll know
by then.” He took out a notepad. “Your name?”
“Solvi Lange. My grandfather was Torvald Fallesen.”
“Fine. I’ll need this,” he said, clipping the photograph to the note.
She hesitated. “It’s the only picture I have of them.”
“You can trust me,” he said, bowing. “My name is Anton
Stenberg. I’m always here.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Marit leaned over Solvi’s biology test, checking
her answers. “Well, at least you know something.”
“My father was a botanist,” said Solvi, relieved to get a scrap of
approval. She had tried to make a friend of Marit, but the few times
Solvi said something funny or clever, Marit only frowned in
response.
“Tomorrow, I’ll test you on European history,” Marit said. “See
that you’re ready.”
Solvi sighed, then went to her desk in the library. She hadn’t seen
the interesting girl for several days; perhaps she’d gone home for a
visit. It would be a dull life here in Kristiania, Solvi thought, if this
was what university was like. Perhaps Grandfather was right.

SOLVI WORKED until the afternoon light began to slant again, then
fetched her camera. As she came downstairs, she stopped and pulled
back. The interesting girl was heading out the door in a nursing
uniform, carrying a medical bag.
How odd. Solvi waited a few minutes, then followed her down the
sidewalk, keeping just far enough behind that she wouldn’t be
noticed. The girl, strange in her costume, was easy to track among
the crowd.
For some reason Solvi couldn’t quite fathom, she followed the
girl, past the palace on the hill, through the commercial section, and
down toward the harbor. The neighborhood coarsened. The
interesting girl marched past pawnshops and neglected storefronts,
then nally turned into a maze of rough, weathered cottages—
Kristiania’s slum.
Solvi stopped. Barefoot children huddled on doorsteps, rodents
scurried openly along the gutters, and garbage lay banked like snow
against the decrepit buildings. The interesting girl spoke to a woman
selling apples, then turned down a muddy lane.
Solvi walked to the corner, unwilling to go farther, but the
neighborhood didn’t seem to bother the interesting girl. Solvi took a
picture of her walking away between the listing shacks, like a gure
from another century.
Solvi turned back into town and took more pictures of the city,
but none of them haunted her like the girl in her nursing clothes,
walking toward some mysterious fate.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT,Solvi started awake. There was something

amiss; she heard it again. Pebbles rattling against her window. She
looked out. Down below, at the foot of a spruce up against the
house, a gure waved a handkerchief. The interesting girl.
Solvi raised the sash, the cold night air billowing her nightdress.
The girl didn’t say anything, just hiked up her skirt and climbed the
tree as if it were a ladder, pulling herself onto Solvi’s window ledge.
“Are you crazy?” Solvi whispered. “We’ll get kicked out!”
“Don’t be a prig—help me in before I fall,” the girl said.
“I’m not a prig!” Solvi hissed, but at the same time, against her
better judgment, she grabbed the girl by the elbows and pulled her
over the sill.
The girl scrambled to her feet, yanked her skirt back into place,
and grinned at Solvi. “Thank God it was you up here. I was pretty
sure Matron gave you this room. I’m Rikka Toft, by the way.”
“I’m not a prig, Rikka Toft. I just can’t a ord to get kicked out.”
“Don’t worry. Matron has no idea that tree is so easy to climb.”
“Do you do this often? Stay out late, then wake up some
hardworking student and drag her into trouble?”
Rikka laughed. “Oh, yes. I’ve been friends with every girl who
stayed in this room.”
Solvi folded her arms over her nightdress. “You may nd it harder
this time.”
Rikka cocked her head to one side. “Do you really think so? You
seem so promising.”
“We’re supposed to be asleep! I swear, if I get kicked out because
of you …”
Rikka went to the door. “My apologies, then, ah, what is your
name?”
“Solvi Lange.”
“Thanks, Solvi Lange.” Rikka hesitated, then gave her a sly smile.
“And, by the way, I know you were following me earlier.”
With that, she slipped out the door.

RIKKA was not at breakfast the next day, nor in the library, nor at
lunch. Solvi was both relieved and disappointed. She couldn’t help
but wonder what Rikka meant when she called her promising.
After lunch, Solvi returned to the photography studio, eager to
learn if Mr. Stenberg had found the names of her uncles. She also
brought her new album, which she had lled with pictures of the
housemaids, arranged so that each girl’s formal portrait was paired
with a photo of her working. When Solvi did that, the working
pictures—full of movement and feeling—seemed to jump o the
page. She hoped Mr. Stenberg would be impressed.
“Ah, Miss Lange,” he said when she entered. “I have an
interesting answer for you.”
Solvi sucked in a sharp breath. “What did you nd?”
He patted a frayed account book on the counter. “I had to
rummage around a bit, but, fortunately, my father kept good
records.” He opened the book and pointed to an entry in October
1879. “I think this might be your family.”
Solvi peered at the faded handwriting. Portrait, Torvald Helmer
and family, ve crowns, paid in full. “But that’s not their name. Their
name is Fallesen.”
“Yes, I understand. But is it possible your grandfather changed his
name later?”
“What do you mean?”
“According to this account book, nobody by the name of Fallesen
came to the studio in 1879. There were only three family portraits
recorded in October, and as this entry is for a Torvald, I think this
might be your family.”
“But Torvald is not an uncommon name,” Solvi said, dismayed.
She had wanted something de nitive, a clue to light her way. “Why
would someone change their name?”
Mr. Stenberg looked at her with sympathy. “To escape something,
usually— nancial ruin, scandal.”
Solvi stepped back. “But my grandfather was a ne citizen. He
managed a bank in Bergen.” Her voice cracked. “He just died a few
months ago.”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Lange. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He
handed back the photograph.
Solvi tried to pull herself together. “I guess when you set out to
solve a mystery, you have to expect surprises.” She opened her
satchel and tucked the photo away.
“Is that an album of your work?” Mr. Stenberg said, pointing at
her bag.
 She nodded, then shyly pulled it out. “If you have a moment,” she
said, “I’d like to know if they’re any good.”
“Of course.” He laid it on the counter and turned a few pages.
Solvi watched, nervous. What if he didn’t like them? What if he
didn’t understand?
After a few minutes, he looked up. “These are lovely, Miss Lange,
and quite interesting.”
“Can you see what I’m trying to do?”
“Well, you’re developing your technique and your eye, but you’re
also making a statement—rather a revolutionary one, I think.”
“I’m trying to show their dignity and dedication, how hard they
work under di cult conditions.”
“I especially like this one,” he said, tapping a picture of a maid
washing dishes stacked high to one side, her back to the camera, her
single brown braid fraying in the steam of the scullery. “She almost
looks like a Chinese laborer. Very nice. Few people can see like this,
Miss Lange.”
“Thank you,” Solvi said, blushing.
“You’ve quite a talent. You must keep shooting.”
“I do need more plates.”
He pulled out several boxes and rang them up. “Please feel free to
stop by anytime.”
Solvi smiled. “I will.”

TWO DAYS LATER Solvi set out through an icy drizzle to nd a

cemetery.
Examining the photograph of her lost family the night before, she
started thinking of ways to test her mother’s statements. If her
uncles and grandmother had truly died, the rst step would be to
nd their graves. If they lived in Kristiania, they should be buried
here.
She asked Matron, who told her that most of the gentry of that
time were buried at Our Saviour Cemetery, out past St. Olav’s
Church. Solvi grabbed her cape and headed out.
 When she found the graveyard, however, it seemed an impossible
task. Hundreds of tombstones marched in all directions, and the rain
blew between the old stone walls and hedges. She felt a bit like
Death herself, stalking around in the mist.
She pulled her cape tight and started scanning stones, checking
for Fallesen and Helmer. Could there have been a scandal? It
seemed unlikely, given that her grandfather was so contemptuous of
those with low morals, but she was sure something had fractured
the family. Death would be more likely.
She walked up and down the rows a long time, scraping away
moss when she couldn’t read the inscription. Her hands soon ached
with cold. Then, just as she was about to give up, she spotted
something: Johanna Helmer, beloved wife of Torvald Helmer, 1864–
1889.
Was this the Torvald Helmer who had his family photographed at
Stenberg’s in 1879? Or could the woman in the photograph be
Johanna Helmer instead of her grandmother Solveig Fallesen?
Solvi’s stomach clenched. Please, no, not death. She looked at the
stone again.
Johanna had been born in 1864. But if Johanna was the woman
in the photograph, she was only fteen when the photo was taken,
and a fteen-year-old could hardly have been the mother to three
children. Besides, the woman in the photograph was almost thirty, if
a day, and she looked too much like Solvi’s mother to be unrelated.
No, this dead Johanna could not possibly be her grandmother.
She took out her camera and crouched down to shoot the low
headstone. Poor Johanna. She was only twenty- ve when she died,
most likely in childbirth.
Before standing, Solvi paused. If her mother had been telling the
truth and Solvi’s grandmother lay in another grave somewhere, how
would such a place have appeared to a little girl brought to her
mother’s grave site to say good-bye? Solvi knelt, looking through
the lens from the vantage point of a child, then took another shot of
the misty cemetery, the stones looming in the frame, the trees
bending and reaching in the wind. It would have looked to her
something like that, Solvi thought. Little wonder she had wanted to
forget.

RIKKA WAS NOT AT SUPPER the evening Solvi returned from the
cemetery, but that was no surprise, as she didn’t seem to live in the
study house like the other girls. She must have a life outside these
dull walls, Solvi thought with a stab of jealousy.
She studied until late, and then, as she was about to turn o her
light, someone tapped on her door. Solvi opened it a crack.
“What are you doing?” said Rikka, standing there as if they’d been
friends forever.
“Going to bed, Rikka. What are you doing?”
Rikka gave her a grin. “Taking a break. May I come in and try
again? You weren’t very hospitable the other night when I came
through the window.”
Solvi hesitated. Something about Rikka unsettled her.
“Besides,” said Rikka, “I wanted to know what you were doing at
Our Saviour Cemetery this afternoon.”
Solvi’s mouth dropped open.
“Yes, I followed you. Now you know how it feels.”
“I’m sorry I followed you the other day, Rikka,” Solvi said. “I,
well, I just wondered, you looked so, um, unusual in that nursing
uniform, I was just curious …”
“Look, Solvi Lange, I’m not angry. I just don’t like being
followed.” Rikka elbowed the door open. “Let me in, and we can
start over. If you tell me why you were at the cemetery, I’ll tell you
what I was doing in Vika.”
Solvi pulled the door wide and o ered her the chair. Then she
took the photograph of her mother’s family from her bag and
handed it to Rikka. “I was looking for them.”
Rikka ran her nger over the burned edge. “Are these your
grandparents?”
“Probably, but I’m not sure. What makes you say that?”
“The woman looks like you.”
“Do you think so? She’s very beautiful, not like me at all.”
 “Well, your hair’s di erent, but look at her face—that’s you, all
right. Who are the others?”
“The baby’s my mother, I believe, and this is my grandfather,”
Solvi said. “My parents and I lived with him. He died last month of
heart failure. We only found this photograph then.”
“Are these your uncles?”
“Yes, but I’ve never met them. I’m not even sure they’re alive.”
Solvi sighed. “I’m trying to gure it out.”
Rikka looked at the photograph more closely. “Who tried to burn
it?”
“My grandfather, just before he collapsed. The maids found it
under the stove. I was surprised—my mother had told me her
mother died in childbirth, and she’d never mentioned any brothers.”
Rikka’s eyes widened. “Did you show it to her?”
“Yes, but by then she was sick with the in uenza. I had no choice;
I thought she was dying. She admitted this was her family but said
she didn’t know if they were alive. I got the strong feeling they
were. Later, though, after she recovered, she said her mother and
brothers died shortly after this photograph was taken.”
“So if they’re dead, what’s the mystery?”
“I don’t think they’re dead; I think my mother is lying. She
claimed she couldn’t remember the boys’ names, which can’t be
true. These were her brothers.”
“Did you nd them at Our Saviour?”
“No, but there’s confusion about the last name.” Solvi ipped the
photograph over to show her the stamp on the back, then told her
about Mr. Stenberg, his ledger, the di erent name, and the
possibility of scandal.
Rikka whistled. “Oh, boy. This is getting better and better.”
“Rikka, this is my family.”
“I’m sorry.” Rikka bit her lip. “Can I help?”
“I need to nd them, but I’m not sure where to start.”
“Well, let’s ask around. If your uncles are here, they’re likely
working and have families. You could even talk with the police.
They might have records of who lives in Kristiania.”
Solvi smiled. “Thanks. It’s a relief to tell someone.”
 “So, would you like to know why I went to Vika?”
“Only if you want to tell me.”
“It’s hardly a secret. I’m a nurse; I help nd poor women with
tuberculosis, then try to get them to the sanitarium before they die.”
Solvi nodded, then looked away. “I have a confession, Rikka. I
took a picture of you walking down the lane. I think it will be quite
haunting. I’ll show it to you when it’s developed.”
Rikka cocked her head. “Is that why you were following me?”
“Probably. To be honest, I don’t know why I follow people.
Sometimes I just do.”
“And then take their pictures when they aren’t looking?”
“Yes. I take pictures whenever I see something unusual or
revealing.”
Rikka considered this. “I should be angry, but I’ll forgive you if
we can be friends.”
“That would be wonderful,” Solvi heard herself say. “I’ve tried to
make friends with Marit, but she’s hopeless.”
Rikka laughed, then reached out and tugged one of Solvi’s blond
curls. “You look like Isolde with your hair down. You should cut it.”
Solvi laughed. “Is this how you make friends?”
“Yes,” Rikka said, stepping to the door. “I’m impossible; everyone
will tell you that. See you at breakfast.” Then she slipped out, quick
as a ferret.
Solvi turned to the mirror, pulling her hair back to see what it
would look like short. No, she couldn’t possibly cut her curls; her
mother would be scandalized. She’d never be able to go home again.
 CHAPTER FIVE

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

I waited until Anders left for town with the children, both mules
pulling the load. With Jens and Katrin’s family living with us in the
orchard, it was di cult to nd a moment of quiet. As much as I
adored them, I sighed with relief as they disappeared down the
track.
Once again, I pulled the newspaper advertisement from my apron
pocket, where I kept it. It felt like carrying around a stick of
dynamite.
If anyone has information about the woman in this photograph, please
send a letter to box 143 at the central post o ce, Kristiania, Norway.
Twice already I had tried to write a response, but after a few
sentences I tossed the paper into the stove. I had asked Anders once
before to make a painful choice and was afraid now to bring that
unhappiness back into our lives. In that heart-stopping moment, he
chose to believe me rather than give me up to the whims of justice.
He did it, he said, because he had already chosen me—for better or
for worse—before God. In his eyes, he had no alternative; he was
bound to me and loved me, even as awed as I was. His decision
moved me deeply in ways I still could scarcely explain.
Later he told me he didn’t understand why God had made it so,
but that he would be patient and pray the mystery would be
revealed. This problem seemed to be his only argument with God,
and in that I was jealous, as I had a thousand arguments with God.
I looked out the kitchen window across to the apple orchard that
grew below the house. The trees were in full bloom, each one a pale
beauty quivering gently in the breeze. Such an unholy pleasure, this
view. I ached with the fullness of it. For me, such natural loveliness
was one of the great mysteries of the world. That and our life here
together—the dirt and the labor and the smell of the apple barn and
the grandchildren climbing the trees for the topmost fruit. These
have proved to me that Anders’s choice was for the best.
But I knew Anders still waited for his revelation and, with it,
forgiveness. Sometimes I found him on his knees in the barn.
Otherwise, he didn’t trouble me over his struggle with God. His
argument was never my argument, which we both understood.
I considered the appeal in the advertisement again. Please send a
letter … How desperately I longed to do so, but how could I without
jeopardizing my marriage, my life, my entire world?

NORA
March 1880 Kristiania, Norway

When I arrived in Kristiania from Hamar, I left my baggage at the

station and headed up Karl Johans Gate. It felt strange to walk my
old haunt as a widow behind a veil, but the anonymity was
comforting. With my honeyed hair and graceful gure, I had
attracted too much attention in the past. Now I was ignored. No one
notices those of limited circumstance.
I took a room in a run-down neighborhood lled with factory
workers and forgotten elders. The widow who opened the door took
in my mourning dress and nodded to me in kinship. The tiny
apartment—in the back looking out on the alley—was dingy and
shabbily furnished, but it had all I needed: a stove, table and chair,
and a lumpy rope bed. I could a ord it for a few months, though I
would need steady work to keep it.
I sent a man for my trunk, then bought a few groceries and set up
housekeeping—fetched wood, built a re, cooked my supper—
fumbling through these unfamiliar chores. Until that evening, I had
always had a servant, someone working quietly in the next room for
my comfort. Now I was alone as never before.
I had always tried to be kind to our maids, but I could see now
how much I had taken for granted. My nurse, Anne-Marie, had to
send her own daughter away to be raised by strangers so that she
could care for me. I was just an infant when that decision was made,
but, still, had I ever acknowledged her sacri ce? I blushed to
remember how I hung on her as a child, then grew bossy as a young
lady. And now I had left my own children in her care, without
asking her permission or considering her age or health. I simply
assumed she would step into her role once again: the dependable
nurse sel essly caring for the motherless children.
Perhaps Kristine was right. Perhaps I was sel sh.
I took out my mother’s tea set and washed it gently, then brewed
a few leaves. How di erent my life might have been if my mother
had lived. Sipping from the cup, I imagined my mother’s mouth on
the very spot and tried to conjure her.
Who was she? She must have been beautiful, knowing my father,
but what else? Was she independent and courageous or obedient
and fearful? I wondered if she clung to me after my birth, desperate
as her life ebbed away. My rst few days with each newborn child
were some of my happiest, examining their darling little features
and imagining the fun we would have together. How sad for that to
be the moment of death.
I could only imagine what my angel mother would think of me
now, here in this crabbed room instead of home with my children.
She would think me mad to give up what she was denied—a life
with her child.
I nished my tea and washed the little cup, then climbed into bed
and tried to sleep.
If she swept down from heaven now, it wouldn’t be to console me
but to beat me about the ears with her angel wings.

THE NEXT MORNING, I stopped by the o ce of the solicitors who had

given me work before, anticipating a warm welcome. But instead,
the senior partner went pale when he recognized me.
He seemed befuddled, especially by my widow’s gown. Everyone
knew Torvald, after all. At rst, he could only hem and haw,
peering over his glasses. Finally, he found the words. “We cannot
take you here, Mrs. Helmer; it wouldn’t do.”
 I blinked, then turned away. My reputation, or some gossiped
version of it, must have preceded me. I tried to compose myself.
“Given all the hard work I’ve done for your rm in the past, would
you be willing to write me a letter of recommendation? You only
need comment on the quality of my work. As I’m sure you recall, I
always returned everything on time and neatly done.”
More consternation. “I wish I could, Mrs. Helmer, but that is also
impossible.” Then he reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“You are welcome to take more copying work, to be done at home if
you would like. But as for a letter, well … I’m sure you understand.”
I didn’t understand, but thanked him as best I could and retreated
with my head held high. Outside, however, I lowered my veil in
shame. These had been friends! I thought they would o er
something, even if just to save a good woman from an uncertain
future.
I walked for a long time behind my veil. How could these
reasonable men—people who knew me—treat me like a common
criminal? It wasn’t a crime for a wife to leave her husband;
husbands didn’t own their wives, after all. And as long as the wife
didn’t abscond with someone else’s husband, where was the moral
crime? Countless women lost husbands, to illness or abandonment,
and no one banished them.
Was I too dangerous to let into their o ces and parlors? If I were
old or plain, maybe I wouldn’t be so threatening. Maybe the women
thought I was out to steal their husbands. Or perhaps the fear was
on the other side: the husbands worried I would incite envy, inspire
other wives to do the same.
It was as if I were a wild beast, roaming the streets.

I BEGAN TO CAST ABOUT for lesser jobs, work usually left to women. I
did not relish teaching, having disliked my spinster teachers when I
was young, but now it felt like the only respectable line of work left
to try. Women in my circumstances often taught in the small private
academies held in the homes of respectable widows.
 But when I knocked on their doors, I met similar resistance. I used
my maiden name, Solberg, but ours was such a small society here in
Kristiania that I was soon recognized. I tried at three schools before
I gave up, shamed by the abrupt response of the elderly matrons.
“We could hardly have someone such as you teaching young
ladies,” the last widow sputtered at me. “Surely, Mrs. Helmer, even
you can understand that.”
“I’m not sure I do,” I said peevishly. “Perhaps you could explain it
to me.”
But she just sni ed with impatience and slammed the door.

PERHAPS I COULD WORK as a companion to someone, I thought, or even

a governess if the children were well behaved. But to do that, I
would need a letter of recommendation. And so I went to see my
friend Kristine.
I stopped by during the hour that visitors could expect co ee and
cake. She had written to me before I left Hamar, saying she had just
married into a better life and giving me the address of her new
apartment. I have a marriage of equals, as I’ve always wanted, she
said.
When I read that, I felt as if she had reached out with one of her
knitting needles and pricked my soul. But now I swallowed that
down, along with my pride. Maybe her new perfect husband would
o er me help, given that I was one of her oldest friends.
A maid answered the door, then ushered me into a parlor with
streaming sunlight, padded chairs, respectability. It felt as if the
world had tipped and Kristine and I had exchanged roles.
Kristine glided into the room, clad in a soft green dress trimmed
with lace. “Nora, you’re back,” she said, but her thin smile gave her
away. I was not a happy surprise. She kissed my cheek but did not
invite me to sit.
“Well, there was nothing for me in Hamar,” I said, taking o my
gloves. “It was foolish to think it would be easier there. The gossip
got around, and people can be so malicious.”
 “Well, Hamar has always been like that.” She paused. “I would
o er you co ee, but I have an appointment.”
“Of course,” I said, my heart sinking. “It’s good to see you doing
so well, Kristine.”
“Yes, we’re quite comfortable. Torvald kindly helped my husband
get his new job.”
Clever Torvald. By helping them, he had made them beholden to
him. “How good of him,” I said, my voice tight. “I came today
because I need something now, something I thought you could help
me with.”
Instead of responding, she rang a little bell. Her maid stepped into
the room. “My coat, please,” Kristine said, as if she had bossed
around servants her entire life.
Then she turned back to me. “What do you want, Nora?”
“Do you know anyone who might help me nd work? You’ve had
to do it. Who should I ask?”
“Work?” She took her coat from her maid, then held it against her
chest, like a shield. “No, I wouldn’t know where to direct you. I
can’t help you with that.”
“I mean, as I’m on my own now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Nora, I never suggested you leave Torvald.”
“No, but you did insist I tell Torvald the truth or we would never
have an equal marriage. And now I’m alone, unable to nd a job.
Apparently, I’m tainted.”
She put her coat on, buttoning it slowly and fussing with her scarf
so as not to look at me. “Nora, you made your own bed.”
Bile rose in my throat. “Kristine, when you needed me as a friend,
you said you understood what I was going through. You encouraged
me!”
She looked up with a wooden face. “What do you want, Nora?”
“I need work, and salaried positions are impossible without a
letter of introduction. Perhaps your husband could write a letter for
me.”
“Based on what? He has never worked with you.”
“Based on our friendship, Kristine.”
 She cocked her head, and a strange expression spread across her
face, pity mixed with a strained patience. “I wouldn’t want to
impose on him for that.”
“But if you have a marriage of equals, Kristine, I would think you
could ask.”
Now she pulled on her gloves, carefully snapping each one. They
were ne lambskin, with mother-of-pearl clasps. “I don’t know,
Nora. We wouldn’t want to risk it.”
“Risk what?”
“Torvald’s displeasure, Nora!” Her eyes glittered with anger. “He’s
a powerful man now that he’s manager of the bank, despite your
scandal. Don’t you understand anything? We can’t a ord to help
you!”
I stood there, stunned, then looked down in shame. How scu ed
my boots had gotten with no one to shine them for me. Was I
becoming the poor widow I pretended to be? I wasn’t particularly
fond of Kristine, but as we had grown up together, and because I
had helped her nd work when she was a desperate widow, I had
expected support rather than this rude rebu .
“What would you have me do, Kristine?”
“I would have you go home, Nora. No one imagined you’d do
something this extreme. So go back to Torvald, back to your
precious children. How can you possibly make a life for yourself?
The gossip will get around, just as it did in Hamar.” Her voice
dropped. “In truth, it already has.”
“And what are people saying?”
“Well, no one can quite believe it, Nora. Torvald adored you;
everyone could see that as plain as the midsummer sun, and he gave
you a comfortable home and a piano—everything you wanted! It all
looks rather ungrateful. And then there are your children …” She
paused. “No one understands how you could walk away from your
children. Some have even wondered if you’re in your right mind.”
“I’m not walking away from my children,” I said, my voice
catching. “I’ve come back to Kristiania so as not to lose them. Surely
Torvald will understand they need me in their lives.”
 “He’s a stubborn man, Nora.” She put on her hat. “I’ll see you
out.”
“Just a minute,” I said, pulling out a card with my address. “If
there’s anything you can do, I trust you’ll let me know.”
She looked at the address. “Oh, Nora …”
“It’s ne. Perfectly serviceable.”
“Perhaps you should go see that Dr. Rank of yours,” she said.
“Dr. Rank? But he’s dying.”
“Yes, but not yet. Perhaps he can help you. People tell me you
were quite close.”
I raised my chin. “Torvald and I, together, were close to Dr. Rank.
If people knew the truth, they wouldn’t need to cast judgments.” I
bid her a curt farewell and swept from the room.

IN MY RIGHT MIND—Kristine’s words gnawed at me as I walked to the

corner. The minute a woman made trouble, everyone leaped to that.
Kristiania felt as narrow and claustrophobic as Hamar.
I stopped and gazed down the street, a route I used to take home
when I lived with Torvald. Since returning to Kristiania, I had
longed to sneak past his apartment in hopes of a glimpse of the
children. Now something desperate in me turned my feet in that
direction.
When I got to Torvald’s corner, I lowered my veil and approached
the building cautiously. When no one was about, I slipped through
the entry into the inner courtyard. From there, I looked up. A lamp
burned in the nursery window; I could see shadows behind the lace
curtains. I watched, willing a small face to appear, but no one came.
Instead, the door at the bottom of the servants’ stair swung open.
Torvald’s maid, with the garbage.
I darted forward and pulled the veil from my face.
She gasped when she saw it was me.
I grabbed her arm. “Helene, please. I must speak to you!”
She shook her head and tried to pull free. “No, go away! Mr.
Helmer said we’re not to say anything to you, under any
circumstance!”
 “Helene, calm down. I just want to see Ivar for a moment, or
Bobby. Ask Nurse.”
“Oh, Mrs. Helmer, I can’t do that. Mr. Helmer made us swear!”
“It’s still me, Helene.” Tears lled my eyes. “Wasn’t I always kind
to you? Please, get Nurse. Let her decide.”
Helene hesitated, then softened and turned back inside.
I waited, aching with anticipation. Finally, Helene opened the
door and thrust a bundle into my hands—something wrapped in a
tea towel. “This is all I can do, Mrs. Helmer. I’ll lose my job!” She
slammed the door.
I peered through the glass at the empty stairwell, still hoping, but
no one was coming. My chest tightened. To be here but not free to
race up the stairs and hug my children—it was almost more than I
could bear.
I stumbled into the street, then hurried back to my room, bursting
into tears as the door shut behind me.
I shouldn’t have gone; it was easier not to remember. I gulped air
to stop the sobs. I was just hungry and cold, I told myself. I stoked
the stove, set the kettle, got my supper from the cupboard. Then I
remembered the bundle.
I picked it up—hunks of bread and cheese tumbled out. Helene
thought I needed food. She was probably telling the others that I
came begging.
I doubled over in humiliation, blackness surging over me as if I
might faint. Did I look like a beggar? Was I not wearing a ne dress,
even if it was crepe? Was I not still a lady?
I sat very still for a long time. Who was I, now that I had been
stripped of my position in society? Was I lower than a housemaid,
lower than the lowest clerk? Was I truly un t to see my children?
Finally, I made myself eat. I took a bite of the bread, then grew
curious and tugged on the tea towel again. Out dropped some dried
fruit and nally, with a clink, ve pieces from my familiar silver
service—the pickle forks we never used. Helene thought I needed
money.
I nibbled the bread and cheese, turning the little forks in the
lamplight. How I had taken for granted the comfort of such pretty
things. Was this what I wanted when I walked away? A dreary, coin-
pinching future, dressed in black, grieving the loss of my children,
and skittering about on the fringes of society?
Maybe this was how women went mad.

THE NEXT MORNING I rose with fresh resolve. I wasn’t a crone, and I
shouldn’t need to beg for crumbs. I had every right to see my
children, and so I would.
It was Sunday. I knew that, after church, Torvald would be home
relaxing with his precious newspapers. I shined my shoes and
brushed the mud from the hem of my best dress. Then, at precisely
two o’clock, I returned to Torvald’s building, but this time I went in
the front door, up the stairs, and stood before our apartment door.
The nameplate still said Torvald and Nora Helmer, which made me
want to walk right in, but instead I knocked. No more blundering.
Helene answered. “Mrs. Helmer!” she hu ed. “Not again!”
“Helene, just tell Mr. Helmer I’m here. I know he’s home.”
“No, please go away!”
I heard Bob say something behind her, and my heart leaped.
“Helene, I’m not leaving. Do as you’re told.”
She shut the door and I waited, listening.
Torvald nally opened it, pushing his shoulders into the entrance.
“Nora. Have you come back?”
“No, Torvald, but I need to speak with you.”
“Why are you in mourning?”
“I thought it appropriate.”
He regarded me for a moment. “If you’re not returning to your
obligations, I’ve nothing to say to you, Nora.”
“Please, Torvald. Unless you prefer everyone in the building hears
me.”
At that he grunted and closed the door. Inside, he asked Nurse to
take the children out. I heard their boots clattering down the back
staircase.
Finally, Torvald reappeared. “Go straight to my study.”
 I stepped inside. It was all still there, as if nothing had changed—
the wine-colored drapes, the cozy lamps, the toys scattered on the
oor. A rush of longing overwhelmed me. I moved into Torvald’s
o ce and sat down to steady myself.
He stepped behind his desk. “What have you come for, Nora?
Money? Or perhaps your evening dresses and silk shawls? If you’re
hoping to get back into society, I can assure you that’s impossible.”
“Torvald, I know I’ve hurt you, and I am sorry for that. That
wasn’t my purpose.”
He blinked at me. “I’m, well, I’m glad to hear you acknowledge
that, Nora.”
“I do. But now that I am an independent person, I hope we can
talk reasonably, for the children’s sake.”
“What do you want, Nora?”
“Two things, Torvald. First, you must promise not to lie to the
children by telling them I have died.”
His jaw sti ened. “I cannot promise that. You have abandoned
them, leaving me to provide everything: the roof over their heads,
their education and care, the parental love they desperately need. I
think I’m free to say whatever I like to the children.”
“But Torvald, you always said children who grew up with parents
who lied would turn out to be evil! Yet you are planning to tell
them the worst lie of all! What will they think?”
“Think? What will they think? They will think that their mother is
gone, and once they can grieve and get over you, their lives will get
easier. Right now they’re in hell. They need resolution, Nora. I’ve
spoken with the pastor, and he agrees.”
“But what if they see me again?”
“They cannot see you again, ever. It would be devastating.”
My stomach knotted. “But, Torvald, wouldn’t it be better for them
to see me occasionally? Perhaps on Sundays, and a few weeks every
summer? Just enough for them to know I love them?”
He pulled back. “That would be torture for them, Nora. How
would I explain that you’re alive but don’t want to live with them or
care for them?”
 “Tell them I’m too sick. Then, when they’re older, we’ll explain
the trouble was between us, not with them.”
“Nora, they’re already being ostracized, as everyone’s quite
shocked by your behavior. Your actions, if connected with the
children, will drag them down. I cannot allow that.”
“Torvald, please, I beg you, do not tell them this lie! You may
have them now, but give me a future to hope for, a time—when
they’re grown—that they can choose to know me if they want!”
He gazed at me down the length of his nose. “You look hungry,
Nora.” He shed in his pocket and pulled out several bills. “Here,
buy yourself a good meal.”
“Torvald, please let me see them Sunday afternoons. I could take
them to the park …”
“Nora, it’s time to go. Take the money. I could even have the
kitchen make you a basket.” So he had heard of my foray to the
back door. “But I must tell you that if you come to the house again,
or anywhere near the children, I will have you locked up.”
“Locked up? It’s not against the law for a mother to speak to her
children.”
“And it’s not against the law for a husband to commit his wife to
an asylum if she behaves hysterically. Frankly, Nora, all Kristiania
thinks you quite insane.”
The blood began to pound in my ears. I stood, willing myself to
stay calm so he wouldn’t see how this frightened me. I walked
slowly into the living room, drinking it in for one last dizzying
moment. Suddenly, I wanted something, something to help me
remember. I crossed to the piano and snatched my book of Chopin’s
Mazurkas.
“May I have this, Torvald?”
He hesitated, then acquiesced with a sweep of his hand. “Of
course—your favorite. Though I don’t know where you think you’ll
nd a piano.”
I forced a smile. “Something to hope for.”
He grunted again, then slammed the door behind me.
I RETREATED TO MY ROOM and spent the rest of that day by my stove
knitting furiously, trying to quell my fears. Kristine might betray
me, give Torvald my address so that he could send the police. I had
little doubt he would discuss it with her.
That night I tossed in bed, unable to sleep. All I could think of
was the asylum. I had never been to Kristiania’s home for the
insane, but I could just imagine a hospital lled with jabbering old
men rotted by aquavit and syphilis. Did they have wards for
women? Probably, though good families usually kept their mad
women at home.
The next morning I looked in the mirror. Pale skin and disheveled
hair, but no spittle on my chin, no outward insanity. Could they
con ne someone like me, lucid and polite? Perhaps. Norwegian laws
were written by men; perhaps husbands had such power. I sat by
the re and tried to sew, but Torvald’s threat gnawed at me.
For several days I stayed inside, my world darkening as a great
argument raged in my soul. Perhaps I was mad—if not, why
couldn’t I return to Torvald and the children? I thought of the
familiar minuet that had been my marriage, the coming together
and pulling apart. Happy moments, sometimes, but so many
admonishments, like the ick of a whip overhead, little wounds
followed by regret and the requisite forgiving. So childish—his
belittling endearments, my irting to get what I wanted. But
couldn’t I bear it, to live with my children? If I went back, I might
spend the summer shut in the maid’s bedroom, but soon Torvald
would long to dress me up again and show me o , the rebellious
wife brought to heel. All I would have to do is beg his forgiveness,
and I could return to my children, my comfortable life, my feather
bed.
But then I thought about that bed. If I returned, that was where I
would end up, as that was the central purpose of our marriage. And
Torvald would be master in a way he wasn’t before, now that I was
disgraced. He would call me squirrel and scatterbrains again, make
up new rules, and lecture me on moral behavior. All to keep me
dependent and weak.
 It made my skin crawl.
And I wouldn’t survive it; I knew that now. That was why.

A KNOCK CAME ONE EVENING, making me jump, but it was only my

landlady. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked. “I haven’t heard you
go out recently.”
“I’m ne,” I said, trying to smooth my hair. I needed to bathe.
“If you care to, I have supper on the table. Might do you good.”
She stood there, not to be refused.
And so I joined her for warm mutton with potatoes and gravy. She
talked of her garden, and I told her of the farm in the Østerdalen
where my father and I summered. We smiled; she poured co ee. It
was an astonishing consolation just to sit with someone.

OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, I pulled myself together. I walked in the
brightening spring light, then found another rm that gave me
copying work, which allowed me to eat a little better. As I got my
strength back, Torvald’s threat receded. He was angry, yes, but I no
longer feared he would send the police for the mother of his
children. It would be unbearably scandalous, and if there was
anything that drove his decisions, it was avoiding the taint of
scandal. He was probably hoping everyone would forget about me.
Before long I stood outside his apartment again, stalking the
children.

I WENT IN THE MORNING, when I knew they would be headed to school.

I stood at the corner across the street, my veil down. After a bit, the
boys burst from the door of the building with Anne-Marie behind
them. They seemed to be just as they always were—their bodies all
elbow and knee, the familiar tug and pull between them. They lled
me with happiness.
Soon, I was spying on them every morning. Usually the boys
seemed ne, but one day Ivar was scowling and Bobby dragged
along, pouting and kicking rocks. Yet Nurse marched on ahead. And
there, in the space between them, I could see the wound I’d left
behind.
The next day I found Nurse alone, waiting for me.
“Anne-Marie!” I reached out to hug her, but she stepped back,
nervous as a nch.
“No, Nora. No good will come of it.” She squared her shoulders.
“If you don’t stop spying, I’ll have to tell Mr. Helmer. The boys are
beginning to heal. Leave them be.”
“I’m sorry. I just needed to see that they walk and breathe.”
“Aye, they do. But it hasn’t been easy for them.”
“Has Mr. Helmer told them I died?”
“Not yet. He says you’re in the South, recuperating. The boys
write you letters, but I throw them away.”
“Throw them away?” I could not hide my dismay.
“I say you’re too ill to write back.”
“Send them to me, please!” I scribbled my address on a card and
handed it to her. “But be careful. Mr. Helmer mustn’t know where
I’m living.”
She looked at the card, then back at me, sadness tugging at her
thin mouth. “Dear Nora, please come home! It’s too hard, watching
them lose you. It’s as bad as when I gave my daughter away so I
could be your nurse.”
I winced. “I am sorry, Anne-Marie. I’m sure it’s a burden to you,
and I regret that. But I can’t come home; it’s just impossible with
Torvald. I’ve been thinking, though, that the children don’t need to
lose me. If you’re willing to help.”
Her brow creased. How I knew that look.
“Anne-Marie, please let me write to you. In case I must get a
message to the children.”
She sighed, then pulled out her own card. “Write to this address,
as Mr. Helmer is so careful with the mail. My daughter’s house.”
“She’s back in Kristiania?”
“Aye, to be near me.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. And how is Emma?”
“She’s ne. Mr. Helmer has made quite a pet of her. He’s changed
—become a better father. Someone had to ll the gap.”
 “Can he, Anne-Marie?”
“No,” she said. “No one can replace you, Miss Nora.”

TWO DAYS LATER an envelope came from Anne-Marie, and inside was a
letter from the children! Someone, Bob probably, had drawn a
gure with yellow hair and a white gown sitting in a chair with
wheels, beneath a window. Outside was a glimpse of beach and sea.
Emma had put a crazy sun in the corner, pink pastel circles. Down
at the bottom Ivar had written: Dear Mama, please get better and
come home soon. We miss you. Ivar and Bobby signed their names,
and Emma scribbled illegibly with her pink crayon.
I slipped the letter inside my blouse, but it didn’t stop the ache.

I STOPPED BY MORE OFTEN, trying to keep myself hidden but lingering

longer. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself. When I nally
saw Emma, I was stunned by how much she had changed. She was
playing on the pavement with a ball, her golden curls pinned up
with ribbons, laughing and tormenting Bob.
Ah, sly girl, I thought, and then my throat knotted. How much
had I already missed. For her brother’s sake, I hoped she would
learn to be kind.
Bob nally grabbed the ball and kicked it to Ivar, waiting in the
street. Then the ball ew into the entry, where I was hiding,
followed by Ivar, who scooped it up and turned around. It happened
quickly, before I could lower my veil.
He recognized me instantly. “Mama!” Then he looked around and
dropped his voice. “Papa said you were in Italy! Are you better?”
I held out my arms to him. “Darling, quick, before Anne-Marie
sees you!”
He fell into my embrace for a precious moment, then pulled away.
“Why are you here? Are you coming back?”
“I’m back in Kristiania, but I’m not well yet, and it’s best I don’t
come home right now. I just wanted to see my little monkeys.”
“Papa says you’re never coming back.”
 “Ivar!” Anne-Marie suspected something; I could hear it in her
voice.
“Go, darling. Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. I’ll be back next
week.”
“Papa will be angry.” He looked around nervously.
“Our secret, then, yes? Now go, quickly.”
He gave me one last anguished look, then ducked his head and
ran back.
“Where did you go?” Anne-Marie said.
“I had to get the ball. Bobby, here,” then the thwack of his kick.
Anne-Marie was rattled, though, and herded them inside.
My children slipped from my grasp.

I WAITED A WEEK before resuming my surveillance, but they didn’t

appear again. Had Torvald taken the boys out of school? I wrote to
Anne-Marie, asking what had happened. I heard nothing for days,
and then nally received a short note. Torvald had sent the boys to
cousins in Sandefjord, she said. Until Easter, perhaps longer.
Ivar must have told his father. The thought of the boys being
shipped o to Torvald’s relatives, sti and judgmental people, made
me sick with worry. For one long afternoon I considered going to
Sandefjord myself, then thought better of it. The family would
surely shield them from me. The boys would have to su er on their
own.

LONELINESS TOOK OVER MY LIFE, the quiet consuming me. More and
more, I longed to sit with a friend, and now that Kristine was in
Torvald’s pocket, the only person I could think of was Dr. Rank.
After Torvald’s bout with tuberculosis, Dr. Rank had visited our
apartment daily, sitting by the stove and chatting with me most
mornings. He seemed hungry for companionship and, over time,
became my con dant. Unlike Torvald, Dr. Rank let me gossip and
chatter about the little interests of my life. We shared jokes and
stories, and because he was a doctor, I could ask about things that
made other men blush. And sometimes—especially on dreary winter
days—I irted with him. Gently, properly. To entertain him and
pass the time.
He came to see me, I was sure of it, but he befriended Torvald as
well. The two men often retreated to Torvald’s study in the
afternoon, sharing port and talking of business and politics, things I
was not expected to understand. I often pulled up a chair and
listened through the door.
Our little triangle stood solid as a three-legged stool until the day
my blackmailer threatened to tell Torvald about my forged loan.
Desperate, I decided to ask Dr. Rank for help. To soften him up, I
showed him my silk stockings and joked about oysters. It was cruel
of me, playing on his a ections that way, and it back red. He seized
my hand and told me he loved me, and that was when everything
crumbled. I couldn’t ask for his help after that, so I punished him
with coldness. It sickened me now to think of it.
I knew he was dying of tuberculosis, so I hadn’t wanted to bother
him since my return to Kristiania. But perhaps Kristine was right. I
should go, to apologize and say a true good-bye.

THE NEXT MORNING I pinned my hair back severely. No coquetting

anymore.
At Dr. Rank’s door, his maid Nancy welcomed me with a smile of
relief. “Hello, Mrs. Helmer. Thank you for coming.”
In the parlor, Dr. Rank sat slumped in a wheeled chair, the
newspaper sliding from his lap. Nancy shook him awake.
“You have a visitor, Doctor.” She helped him sit up.
“Nora,” he said, his eyes widening. “How good to see you! But
you’re in mourning. Did something happen?”
I gave him a polite kiss. “No. I wear this to fade into the
background.”
“Ah, my poor Nora! You look quite the schoolmarm. No longer
our society lark.” He patted a chair.
“Let’s not talk about me, Dr. Rank. I came to see how you are.”
“Oh, not well,” he said. “The illness is eating away at my spine.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
 He peered at me. “You don’t look well yourself, my dear. Where
are you living now?”
“In town, a nice at,” I lied. He didn’t need to know how low I’d
slipped. “Dr. Rank, does Torvald come to see you?”
“Torvald? No. He sent a note last month, but that’s all. I won’t see
him again until my funeral.”
“Oh, Dr. Rank, is it that bad?”
“Let’s hope it’s that bad, as the pain is growing worse. But, come
now, Nora. Tell me how you’re getting on.”
“Well, I do some copying for solicitors, but I’ve had a hard time
nding something more dependable. Do you know anyone you
could recommend me to? Perhaps a doctor who needs help with his
books?”
Dr. Rank studied me for a long time, then sighed. “It’s hard to
imagine our Nora earning her own keep and living in some dreary
room. Clove cheese and eggs most nights, no doubt. You’re pale.”
“It’s not bad. I have a stove and a bed.”
“This is hardly the Nora who hid macaroons all over the house.”
“Ah! I’ve forgotten. Are they delicious?”
He laughed. “Oh, yes. I’ll show you.” He rang, and when Nancy
brought the co ee he whispered in her ear. She soon returned with
a plate of sweets.
“Please,” he said. “Be the old Nora. Put some in your pockets.”
I took one and nibbled, the sugar dissolving deliciously on my
tongue. I smiled to hide my sadness.
“Nora, come stay here with me and be my companion until I die. I
will pay you well.”
“Live with you in your house? But I’m a married woman.”
“Oh, Nora, let’s not get tangled in laws.”
“But, Dr. Rank, I couldn’t. People would talk. Surely you
understand!”
“Let them talk, the buzzards! I don’t care, and I would think you
wouldn’t care either, not anymore.”
My face fell. He meant that I no longer had a reputation to
defend.
 He reached for my hand. “My apologies. I’m being a sel sh old
man. But, come, we can make it respectable. You stay where you are
living, but every morning, you visit and read to me. My eyesight is
failing; my doctor can attest to that.” He gave me an encouraging
smile. “Think of it as a mission of mercy on both sides.”
I felt brittle as an autumn leaf. How desperately I needed the
comfort of him.
“Perhaps I could visit.”
He patted my hand with his palsied one. “Good. Come tomorrow
at ten, and sit with me until evening. I’ll give you dinner and a bit of
supper later. We need to fatten you up. Bring your embroidery. I
always loved watching you embroider.”
“I mostly knit now.”
“How dull, but if that is what we are reduced to, we will soldier
through.”
I smiled and kissed his brow. “Tomorrow, then. And thank you.”

OVER THE NEXT MONTH spring eased into the city, sunlight widening the
day. I tried to make myself useful to Dr. Rank, reading him the
papers in the morning, then playing the piano and entertaining him
until twilight. He still enjoyed conversation, and that, more than
anything, began to restore me.
As my cheeks lled out, however, he grew thinner and more
forgetful by the day. I tried to distract him, chattering about politics,
labor issues, and women’s rights. On his better days, he would tease
me, calling me his parlor radical. I was particularly fond of Aasta
Hansteen, an advocate for women’s su rage, and read him her
articles with dramatic air.
One day I noticed a column titled “The Woman Question,” written
by a man we knew, a professor. It started as a diatribe about
women’s su rage in England but then shifted. These revolutionary
ideas are beginning to spread their poison through Norway. Recently, a
woman of quality and comfort, well cared for by her loving husband,
walked away from her marriage, leaving behind a houseful of
inconsolable children. If that is what the newfangled “feminism” is
bringing us, the abandonment of children, then I propose we legislate to
keep women from stealing jobs from worthy young men. Women will
stay with their husbands, where they belong, if they cannot nd work to
support themselves.
“My God,” I gasped. “He’s talking about me!”
“Where? Read it to me, Nora. It can’t be.”
“He says I’ve left a houseful of inconsolable children!” I read it
out loud, choking near the end.
Dr. Rank let out a soft whistle. “He must mean you, Nora, or
you’ve started a revolution and women across Kristiania are walking
out on their churlish husbands.”
“But why does anyone care, beyond my own family? It’s just
malicious gossip!”
“They care because you’ve done something many women long to
do. Bourgeois ladies often fantasize about independence, but only
from the comfort of their drawing rooms. Few have your courage.”
“I don’t feel courageous, now that I cannot show my face in
public.”
“Well, I’m not sure you’ve lost much. You’re a rebel, my dear, and
in that way you’ve stepped outside your class.” He pulled up the
blanket across his lap. “Truly, Nora, I don’t know quite what to
make of you. Since you left Torvald, you’ve grown full of opinions.”
“Well, I was never as naive as you and Torvald thought. I didn’t
say much because Torvald sco ed at my ideas, but I read the papers
and listened through the door when you two talked politics.”
“I knew you did, but I thought it was because you were lonely.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Maybe you should go to America,
Nora.”
“America? I may have been cast out of society, Dr. Rank, but I’m
hardly a peasant. There’s nothing but farmwork in America.”
“There’s opportunity in America. Especially for people like you,
who have, shall we say, liberated themselves from their past.”
“Really,” I said. “I’m surprised you would encourage me in that
way.”
“I cannot rest until I nd a future for you, Nora. This is all very
enjoyable, but we both know it won’t last long.”
 I smiled sadly and patted his hand. “I don’t like to think of it, Dr.
Rank. But you are right. If you write me a letter of recommendation,
that would help.”
He gave me a sly look. “I will, but I’m working on something
better. I’ll tell you soon.”

SUMMER CAME, and the weeks whispered past. Dr. Rank worsened, and
I feared he had forgotten his promise to give me a letter, but I didn’t
want to ask him again.
One morning, inevitably, I found the household in disarray, a
doctor passing through the rooms with his medical bag.
“What’s happened, Nancy?”
“Dr. Rank had an attack last night; it was terrible to see.”
The doctor approached me. “Hello, Mrs. Helmer. Dr. Rank has
been asking for you. Would you like to see him?”
“Yes, please,” I said, then followed him into the sickroom.
My friend lay motionless in a massive mahogany bed, staring at
the ceiling. It made me ache to think of losing him.
“Oh, Dr. Rank,” I said, taking the chair beside the bed and
reaching for his hand.
His eyes shifted toward me. “Nora.” He said it so sadly.
“I’m so sorry! The doctor says I must say good-bye!” I felt like I
was being hollowed out, as if I could not hold on to anyone.
“Ach, maybe not yet. Only God knows.” He tried to sit up, then
called for his maid. “Nancy, fetch the letter from Mr. Lyngstrand,
the one on my desk.”
He turned to me with a weak smile. “I have something for you.”
Nancy handed me the letter, and I opened it up. Dear Dr. Rank: I
would be happy to meet your friend Mrs. Helmer. Tell her to come by the
Kristiania Theater. Konrad Lyngstrand
“The Kristiania? What is this, Dr. Rank?”
“This is the solution,” he said, pulling himself up against the
pillows. “The thing for you, Nora, is the stage.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he squeezed my hand. “I don’t
have much strength, so listen to me. You’re a born actress. You’re
beautiful, musical, and talented at … well, let’s call it the art of
dissembling.”
I ushed red.
“Oh, Nora, you know you’re good at it. I’ve watched you for years
in Torvald’s parlor. You’re a genius at it.” He held my gaze.
I had daydreamed about the stage when I was a girl, but pursuing
it now, when I was already disgraced, would be a leap into the
abyss.
“Dr. Rank, I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can, especially with this connection. Mr.
Lyngstrand is the director.”
“But Torvald might take o ense. He would use it to block me
from the children.”
Dr. Rank smiled gently. “Nora, dear. Torvald will block you from
the children anyway.” He took my hand. “Think of it. You go
onstage, travel abroad with the new Norwegian plays, conquer
Europe, and return the pride of Kristiania. You would never want
for anything again.”
I could only look at him, speechless.
Then he grimaced, shifting uncomfortably. The doctor stepped
forward. “It’s time for his medicine.”
Dr. Rank squeezed my hand again. “Thank you for our time
together. You can’t imagine what it’s meant to me.”
Tears slid down my face. “You’ve been so kind. No one else
understands me.”
“Mustn’t cry, Nora.”
“No,” I said, taking out my handkerchief. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re kindred spirits, you and I,” he said. “That’s why I loved
you.”
I kissed Dr. Rank’s cheek and whispered into his ear. “I’ll always
remember you.”
He smiled at me one last time. “And I will remember you. I
promise.”
NANCY FOLLOWED ME TO THE DOOR and handed me an envelope fat with
bills. I hesitated, but she insisted. “Dr. Rank’s orders, ma’am,” she
said.
When I got home I took Mr. Lyngstrand’s note and tucked it in the
mirror. Each time I brushed my hair or put on my hat, I thought
about Dr. Rank’s proposition. It was tempting, certainly, but it also
felt like crossing into a dark forest, into a netherworld that would
swallow me whole. Actresses, no matter how famous they were,
lived lives beyond the pale. None that I ever heard of had children
who would admit to knowing them.
It was impossible.

A FEW WEEKS LATER,I stood in a dress shop, weeping.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Helmer, but I cannot put you behind the
counter,” said the manager. “But if you’re clever with a needle, I
need fancywork. It pays better than basting shirts.”
I ngered the lace collar at my neck.
“Good. Bring me twenty like it, and I’ll give you forty crowns.”

THE LINDENS HAD TURNED, and the summer twilight was fading fast. If I
had hoped lacework would pay for my room, tatting all day proved
an odious task—all needle pricks and aching eyes. It also gave me
too much time to think.
By the time I nished the collars, I snatched Mr. Lyngstrand’s
letter from the mirror and tucked it in my purse. Something inside
me had ipped, like a coin tossed a second time. I could not live like
this, eating porridge hunched by the drafty stove and squinting at
my sewing in the gloomy icker of the gaslight.
I took the collars back to the store and, instead of taking cash,
traded them for a stylish black skirt and fresh linen blouse. The
widow emerging from her sorrow. I would meet with Mr.
Lyngstrand and change my fate—one way or another.
THE NEXT DAY I stood before the big doors of the Kristiania Theater.
How many times had I come here, dressed in my best silk and
nodding to the people I knew, entering happily on Torvald’s arm. He
didn’t like theater as much as I did, but it was the place to be seen,
even if we had to give up beef for the month to a ord it.
Now, however, I found the doors locked, forbidding as a troll’s
cave. I slipped into the side alley, not wanting anyone to see me
waiting out front. I wasn’t sure what to do, but then I heard
laughter.
Down toward the back of the theater a couple of stagehands stood
around an open door, smoking. I walked over to them and asked for
Mr. Lyngstrand.
They raised their eyebrows, appraising me. “His o ce is
backstage, ma’am,” the tallest one said, pointing through the door.
“You best go on in.”
I stepped hesitantly into the dusky interior. Giant painted screens,
cobwebbed from disuse, stood against the wall. Dust oated through
the light from the doorway, and I could just make out stacks of
props and tawdry furniture heaped in the shadows. Bits of costumes
—odd hats, an old shawl, even a wig—lay about, as if the company
had ung them aside after the last performance. Then I spotted a
small lighted room, with an open door.
A wiry young man in shirtsleeves sat counting money at a desk
strewn with programs.
“Good day,” I said, smiling. “I’ve come to see the director, Mr.
Lyngstrand. Is he in?”
The young man looked me up and down. “For you he could be
in.”
Heat rose in my face. No one had ever spoken to me that way
before. I gave him a steely look.
“Forgive me, ma’am.” He jumped from his chair. “Mrs. Helmer,
you say? I’ll nd him.” He disappeared.
A few minutes later a well-dressed, trimly bearded man came
through the door. He appeared to be in his late forties and seemed
boldly con dent, a man who knew himself. He took my hand,
scanning my face and my burnished hair, which I had knotted
behind. His eyes sparkled with intelligence.
“Ah, Mrs. Helmer. I’ve been expecting you.” His assistant brought
chairs. “Yes, as lovely as Dr. Rank said. What can I do for you?”
I sat as primly as possible. “Dr. Rank suggested that I might, well,
I might be able to nd employment here, in the theater.” I stuttered
a bit; I didn’t really know what I wanted from this man. “How does
one get a role in a play? Are there openings, auditions?”
Mr. Lyngstrand laughed. “Yes, there are always openings for
people with talent and beauty. But acting is becoming a profession.
Perhaps you have some training?”
“Oh, yes. I see what you mean. I’ve studied singing, piano,
dancing, and elocution. I was often asked to sing or dance in the
homes of Hamar, where I grew up.”
“In Hamar, you say?”
He had measured me a provincial. “Yes, and then here in
Kristiania,” I quickly added. “Once I married and moved here.”
“Yes, I heard about your, ah, situation. You live on your own
now, Dr. Rank said.”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mrs. Helmer. Perhaps we can talk about it over supper. Are
you free tomorrow evening? I could pick you up if you just tell me
where you live.” He gave me a look rich with meaning.
My mind tumbled. I hadn’t expected to be invited to dinner.
“I thought you might enjoy a dinner out, and we could talk about
how the theater works and how you could perhaps get more, ah,
advanced training.”
“Does advanced training cost money?”
He squeezed my hand. “Come now, Mrs. Helmer. I’ll explain at
dinner. I need to get back to my work, but I look forward to
tomorrow night. Would eight o’clock do?”
I nally nodded. “Yes, but no need to pick me up. I’ll meet you at
the restaurant.” I didn’t want him to see how I lived.
“Eight o’clock, then, at the Einhorn,” he said bowing politely.
I shook his hand, sensing the warmth of his grip. “Thank you.”
BACK IN MY ROOM, I turned to the mirror to remove my hat and barely
recognized myself. My eyes glittered; my skin glowed. Life had been
poured back into me. I thought of his hand around mine, his
appreciative gaze on my face.
It had been a long time since someone saw me anew.
But how could I possibly go to dinner with him? I didn’t have an
evening dress and could scarcely a ord one. I sat down, stumped.
Then I thought of my landlady.
I knocked on her door, and when she opened I explained my
dilemma. She listened, smug as a cat. She went to look through her
closet and then returned with an old black ta eta stinking of
camphor and fteen years out of fashion. But it was made of a rich
fabric and well preserved.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “Can I give you ve crowns?”
She sighed happily. “I didn’t know you moved in such circles,”
she said, handing me the dress with a nod of respect.

IT TOOK ALL NIGHT, but by morning I had managed to remove the high
collar and much of the trimming, then lowered the neckline and cut
o the sleeves. I could do little to subdue the cascading layers of the
skirt, though I managed to pull them back into a presentable bustle.
I sprinkled it with cologne and hung it in the window to air.
When I dressed that evening, I brushed my hair until it fell in
glossy folds and pinned it loosely. Then I pulled on the dress. If
anyone looked closely, they would see it for what it was, but I
hoped Mr. Lyngstrand wouldn’t notice. I fastened my pearls around
my throat, then walked to the restaurant through a dense fog. I felt
like a character in a masquerade.
Mr. Lyngstrand greeted me at the door and squired me to a corner
table beneath a painting of a unicorn. The room was lit only with
candles, more romantic than I expected. A waiter poured wine; I
could only imagine what the other diners thought.
Mr. Lyngstrand raised his glass. “You look stunning tonight, Mrs.
Helmer. Or should I say, Nora.”
 I sucked in a breath, startled to hear him use my Christian name
but didn’t protest. Instead, I smiled. I didn’t know where the
evening would lead, but I would never know if I refused to follow.
“So tell me,” he said, “have you seen many of our plays at the
Kristiania?”
“In the past, yes, but not recently, not since I live on my own.” I
coughed. “Tickets are quite dear, after all.”
He smiled. His eyes were deep blue, like the sky on a summer
night. “I’m sure it’s not easy being independent, Nora. Enviable,
perhaps, but it must take courage.”
I swallowed. “It’s harder than you can imagine.”
“Was it a long time coming? The split, I mean.”
“Yes and no. The split was sudden, like a thunderclap, but things
had …” I sipped my wine to steady myself. “It’s di cult to explain.”
“I would like to understand, Nora,” he said. “You intrigue me.”
“But you barely know me.”
“I know more than you might think. Dr. Rank was quite full of
you and concerned for your future. He had me stop by so we could
discuss it. He was very fond of you, Nora.”
I blushed deeply. “Yes, but it wasn’t like that,” I said. “He was
always a gentleman, and a good friend to my husband.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t mean to suggest—forgive me.” Then he leaned
in. “It’s hardly your fault if men fall in love with you.”
The waiter appeared beside us, trying to look as if he hadn’t
overheard. I busied myself with my small bag while Mr. Lyngstrand
ordered our supper—goose liver and venison, pudding and gs.
When Mr. Lyngstrand turned back to me, I was ready for him. “I
assume you’re a gentleman as well, sir. Most likely a married one.”
“I was married, Nora,” he said smoothly, “but my wife died two
years ago, of sepsis. She was never able to have children and was
always weak.”
“Oh, I am sorry. I’m sure that’s been very di cult.”
He sighed, his eyes searching my face for something. “Can I tell
you a secret? I feel like I can tell you secrets.”
I could only nod.
 “My wife’s death was not as di cult as it should have been,” he
said softly. “Our marriage was unhappy from the start. When she
died, I didn’t know what to feel. At long last, there were no more
arguments, no more recriminations. It was impossible not to be
relieved.” He shook his head. “So few of us marry the right person,
don’t you think?”
“I don’t know why others marry as they do,” I said. “In my case, I
was young and naive. Torvald seemed to adore me, and my father
insisted I marry him. I was seventeen; how could I have resisted
them both? I fell in love with Torvald because it was the only way
to make everyone happy.”
“So you did love him.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you love him still?”
I looked away, to regain my composure. “No. He turned out not to
be the man I thought he was, and I doubt he loves me anymore. He
couldn’t forgive me for becoming complicated, for trying to do
things.”
“But complicated people are so much more interesting! My wife
was too simple to make a good partner; her horizons barely
extended past the windowsills.”
“Many women prefer the life of the parlor. I suppose it’s safe. But
it wasn’t for me.”
“Are you happier now, on your own?”
“I, I don’t know about happiness. Happiness is a luxury; I’ve little
money for luxuries.”
“I thought independence was doing whatever you pleased.”
He wanted me to laugh, but my throat went tight. “Perhaps for
wealthy men, but not for me,” I said. “Apparently, it’s some sort of
crime for a woman to choose to live alone.” I stopped. I didn’t want
to sound bitter. “And it’s very di cult to nd respectable work.”
“Which is why you’ve turned to the theater.” He lifted his
eyebrows at me.
“I apologize, Mr. Lyngstrand.”
“Konrad,” he said, with a smile. “Let’s not argue, Nora. It’s rare
that I get such an interesting woman all to myself.”
 I sat, tongue-tied. We were like lovers, in this dark corner, so
close our knees knocked, and I couldn’t help but look into his eyes.
But maybe that was what I wanted, a step into the unknown.
Our food came, and Mr. Lyngstrand turned professional again,
telling me about the new theater and how it had shifted away from
the familiar symbolic dramas of the past. A good play, he said, was
one that made the audience feel like they were peering into intimate
spaces, someone’s home or marriage. And the best actors were those
who could tap their inner knowledge to illuminate their roles.
“But how do they do that?” I asked. “Aren’t they pretending to be
a particular character?”
“It’s less about pretending and more about feeling.” He looked at
me over his fork. “Demons are helpful. I suspect you have demons,
Nora.”
“We all have demons,” I said. Then I thought of my chilly room,
my somber widow’s weeds. Perhaps obscurity was my demon. “How
do demons help?”
“To understand our characters, we dig into our own most di cult
experiences—the things that frighten or upset us, the things that
have destroyed bits of our soul. Spoiled young women don’t
understand this, but for someone like you,” he said, “this would all
come quite naturally.”
It was both attering and unnerving to feel him unwrapping me
in this way. “You presume, Mr. Lyngstrand, yet you are right.”
He reached out and tipped my chin up; our eyes locked.
“Heartbreak and sorrow give a woman depth, Nora. It makes you
beautiful in a way no others can touch. Why, someone might even
write a play about a woman like you.”
I smiled but pulled away, taking up my wineglass again. “To
interest others, Mr. Lyngstrand, my story would have to be
idealized, and then it would no longer be true.”
“But that’s just it, Nora! Audiences are tired of the ideal; they
want real people, with aws and problems. You, with your charms
and contradictions, you could be quite the heroine.”
I looked at him for a long moment. What I would give to go
onstage as myself, just as I was. I had always felt too big for the life
I was handed; perhaps this was what I was made for. “So how would
I get the training you require?”
He leaned in. “You would need someone to guide you, set you up.
I would be happy to do that for you, Nora. I like your intelligence
and you’re quite lovely—even in that dress.”
I reddened. “Perhaps you’re unaware how little women own in
this world.”
“But you have a string of pearls.” He reached out, as if he wanted
to run his hand along the sweep of them where they lay, just above
my breasts.
I shielded the pearls protectively. “These are my insurance, Mr.
Lyngstrand. We take what we can.”
“And you’re a rebel. That makes you even more interesting.” He
sighed and smiled at me. “But if I’m to help, you need to be
willing.”
“Willing?” I knew what he meant, but pretended otherwise.
Propriety was my lifeboat.
“Willing to venture away from here, away from the prying eyes of
Kristiania society. I’d think that might be acceptable to someone in
your position.”
“What, exactly, would be the terms of this arrangement?”
Now he took my hand again, holding it rmly. “Nora, come with
me to Copenhagen. We’ll have a little holiday together, and I’ll set
you up in a nice apartment, then nd someone to give you lessons.
If you do well, we’ll feature you in a play.” Now he turned my hand
over, exposing the vulnerable inside of my arm, and quickly, before
I could pull away, ran a nger up to the sensitive spot inside my
elbow, which he gently squeezed. A jolt shot through me. He
registered my reaction and raised my hand to his lips. “If you’re
willing.”
I slid my hand from his grasp and pulled back to collect myself.
“Why Copenhagen? Is it impossible for me to start here in
Kristiania?”
“Why, Mrs. Helmer, I cannot put you onstage here.”
“Why ever not?”
“You’re too controversial a gure.”
 “Me?”
“I assumed you knew.”
“Well, I had some idea, but too controversial to go onstage?”
“It could disrupt the production; people might boycott the play.”
He nodded at my disbelief. “Kristiania’s a hard town, Nora. What
was it the poet Bjørnson called it? The City of Tigers. All those teeth
and claws.” Now he shook his head. “Trust me—the only
respectable way to do this is to set you up in Copenhagen. The
Danish are so indulgent.”
Respectable. We both knew better. “I will have to think it over.”
“Certainly, my dear. Take your time. I understand it’s a serious
decision.”
“You see, my, my children,” I stammered, despair washing over
me. “I’m not sure I can leave my children.”
“I thought you left your children.”
Such bitter words! “I’m hoping my husband will let me see them
occasionally. That might be di cult if I’m living in Copenhagen.”
“Well, if you return to Norway a darling of the stage, I’ve no
doubt Mr. Helmer would allow his children to visit with their
famous mother. Better to come back the toast of Kristiania than to
languish here in obscurity, Nora.” He looked at me as if he saw right
through me. “If I may be so bold, you’ll nd it hard with only your
integrity to keep you warm at night.”
And with those words, a deep crevasse opened before me.
I stood up. “Thank you for your advice, Mr. Lyngstrand,” I said, as
formally as possible. “I will let you know.”
He turned businesslike. “When you’ve made your decision, write
to me at the theater. I keep my theatrical obligations separate from
my personal life.”
“Yes, your theatrical obligations.” I smoothed my dress. “Thank
you for supper,” I said, then slipped away through the crowded
room.

OUTSIDE I THREW MY COAT ABOUT ME and bolted into the fog, walking
faster and faster. When I got home I slammed the door, horri ed by
both the power of Mr. Lyngstrand’s o er and the fear that I would
give in to it. His touch on the inside of my arm had awakened a
dragon. What would it be like to be loved again, to be the center of
attention and acclaim? What I would give for recognition and the
elevated life that would come with it.
Yet how could I even consider such a thing? How could I have
simpered at him, encouraged him? After all my ne dreams of
independence! After all that had happened and all it had cost!
No. I jumped up and yanked the evening dress from my shoulders,
then grabbed my scissors and stabbed at the elegant fabric, tearing
it in long gashes. I could not. I would not. I stabbed and ripped in a
frenzy, reducing the dress to a mound of black ribbon heaped about
my ankles. I kicked it aside, then sat down and wrote a terse note to
Mr. Lyngstrand. I would not be going to Copenhagen. I could no
more sell myself in such a fashion than I could return to Torvald as
his concubine.
The next morning I posted the note before I could reconsider. No
doubt Mr. Lyngstrand would be o ended by such a quick decision,
but I didn’t care. I had always been able to look myself in the eye
and could not bear to lose that. Torvald was wrong—I was not
immoral. I had my own code, whether it was condoned by church
and society or not. I just wished there was a place for me in
Norwegian society, a safe place, an accepted place.
Perhaps Dr. Rank was right. Perhaps America was the place for
me.

I RETURNED TO THE LIFE OF A SEAMSTRESS, tatting lace collars by the

dozen. On the warmer autumn afternoons, I often took my sewing
outside to work in the natural light, sometimes on a bench up near
the Akershus Fortress, looking out over the fjord. I thought about
Mr. Lyngstrand, who seemed drawn to my mind and my body but
showed little interest in winning my heart. I wondered if I would
ever love anyone again.
A few weeks later, as fall crept in from the north, Dr. Rank’s maid
wrote that he had passed away. His death left me bereft. I could not
attend his funeral, as both Torvald and Mr. Lyngstrand would be
there. Instead, I went down to the fjord, broke o a branch of maple
leaves just beginning to turn, and tossed them into the water as the
bell tolled for my old friend.
I felt like I’d been cast adrift on a windswept sea. How would I
ever be happy again? Perhaps happiness was for others—children
and those too coddled to know about life. Or maybe happiness was
the private purview of men; they seemed happy in the world,
striving in business and bossing others around. But for a woman,
happiness felt impossible. If her spirit expanded, it cracked her
world apart, and who could be happy then?
If happiness came, it would arrive like a stranger, in a form I did
not know.
 CHAPTER SIX

SOLVI
December 1918 Kristiania, Norway

Rikka dropped into the empty chair beside Solvi at lunch a few days
later. “Are you studying this afternoon?”
“Of course, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m taking you on Rikka’s grand tour of Kristiania.”
Solvi froze. Something about Rikka made her feel like she was
being dragged down the street by a wild pony. “I don’t know, Rikka.
I’m behind on my Latin. Besides, you might take me to a den of
iniquity.”
“Exactly! But we’ll see the sights rst.”
Solvi glanced at the other girls, all mesmerized by their soup
bowls. She stood up.
“Great,” Rikka said. “Get your cape. It’s snowing.”

“THE PROMISED DEN,” Rikka said, opening the door of a brightly lit
café. Her grand tour—a dash past the palace and the parliament
building—was cursory at best, but that wasn’t the point. Inside the
café, a fog of cigarette smoke and chatter enveloped them. The girls
shook the snow from their wraps and looked about the room. Young
men sat at nearly every table. This was the point, Solvi thought.
Rikka pushed con dently through the crowd at the counter,
greeting people but steering Solvi to a spot in back so they could
talk. Solvi could feel the boys looking at her.
Once they were seated, Rikka waved to a waiter, then pulled out a
battered tin cigarette case. “My father’s,” she said. “Care for one?”
“No, thanks. My mother would die if I smoked a cigarette. In fact,
my mother would die just to see me here with all these strangers.”
“Isn’t she back in Bergen?”
 “Yes, but she could always tell when I was up to something. She’s
probably getting that tingly feeling right now.”
“All the more reason,” Rikka said.
Solvi glanced about. Everyone was smoking, even the young
ladies. And didn’t she decide she was motherless? “Okay,” she said,
letting Rikka light her a cigarette. Solvi took little ladylike pu s,
coughing delicately, pretending this wasn’t her rst time.
The waiter brought co ee and a plate of pastries. Rikka snatched
an almond roll and relaxed back into her chair. “You’ll have to
inhale if you want to be my friend.”
Solvi drew more deeply. “What makes you think I want to be your
friend?” she said, trying to hold in the smoke. But her lungs refused;
her breath exploded with a loud cough.
“Because you’re smoking!” Rikka hooted, and then they were both
laughing.
“You know everyone,” Solvi said, once she had regained her
composure. She didn’t even try to hide her envy.
“I grew up in Kristiania.”
“So why do you live at the study house?”
“Because both my parents are gone.” Rikka glanced up from
buttering her roll, sad and de ant at the same time.
“I’m so sorry, Rikka. What happened to them?”
“My mother died when I was seven. She was sick for a long time,
and then she was gone.”
Solvi felt another prick of envy. It wasn’t the rst time she’d
wished it was her mother who died, rather than her father.
“I’d give anything to have her here, worried about me,” Rikka
said.
Solvi blushed, ashamed of herself. “My father died some years
ago, as well. Then my mother got the in uenza, and I was terri ed
I’d lose her, even though she’s hardly been the mother I needed. I
couldn’t imagine being orphaned. What happened to your father?”
“He died in the war, just last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, as well,” Solvi said. “Was he on a ship?”
“No, he was a doctor, working behind the British lines in France.
He volunteered as soon as the war started. I’d always been his
assistant, so I went with him.”
Solvi drew back. “You went to the war? Is that where you learned
to nurse?”
“Yes,” Rikka said. “I stupidly believed that if I watched over him,
nothing would happen. Then one day, while I was away picking up
medical supplies, a shell hit our dressing station.”
Solvi stared at her for a long moment. “That’s the most
extraordinary story I’ve ever heard.” She thought of how she had
tormented her mother by threatening to run o to nurse the troops.
Instead, she had stayed in Bergen in her comfortable house,
grumbling about coal rationing. “That must have been awful. I’m so
sorry.”
Rikka sighed. “After he died, I had to come back to Norway. I
wasn’t brave anymore.”
“You seem brave to me, climbing in second-story windows in the
middle of the night.”
Rikka smiled sadly. “Or reckless. I’m never sure which.”
“So you’ll study medicine?”
Rikka nodded. “What about you?”
“History or literature, though right now I’m just trying to pass the
matriculation exams. My mother hopes I’ll fail so I’ll return home
and marry Stefan Vinter.”
Rikka leaned forward. “I knew there was something interesting
about you. What was wrong with Stefan Vinter?”
Solvi smiled, then thought for a moment. “Stefan was perfect—
handsome, from an excellent family, employed in his father’s
shipyard. He scared me to death. When I realized I couldn’t live the
life my mother wanted for me, I had to leave. I didn’t even say
good-bye.”
“You ran away?”
“Yes. I expect her to show up at the study house any day now.”
“Did you always want to go to university?” Rikka asked.
“My father wanted me to go. He was a botanist—alpine plants. He
wasn’t conventional like my mother, but he was often away in the
mountains or the Far North.”
“What did he die of?”
 “Stomach cancer,” Solvi said. “The war had just started. It felt to
me like he was the rst casualty.”
Rikka’s face clouded over. “Our own losses always feel like the
rst casualties.” She lit another cigarette. “At the front I saw young
men die every day, but I didn’t really feel it until Nigel died.”
“Who was Nigel?”
“A young British o cer. I nursed him after he took some shrapnel
in the legs. We talked at night while the others slept. When his unit
moved north, he promised to nd me after the war was over, but a
few weeks later I heard he’d been killed.” She gave Solvi another
dark look. “We don’t see it here in Norway because we’ve been so
protected from most of this war, but terrible things have happened.
Sometimes I can’t sleep for remembering.”
Solvi sensed it again, Rikka’s haunted remove from the world.
How safe Solvi’s life had been; it made her feel a bit stupid and
inconsequential. “What kind of doctor would you be?”
“An interesting question, Solvi Lange,” Rikka said. “I want to treat
women, to help them understand their own bodies and manage their
pregnancies. So many die young out of sheer exhaustion or
complications from childbirth. Tuberculosis, pneumonia—most
could be avoided if women had better nutrition and living
conditions, and had fewer children. It’s a crime how women are
enslaved by childbearing.”
“That sounds rather radical. How do you do that?”
Now Rikka squinted, sizing her up. “Sometimes, when I’m
checking them for tuberculosis, I talk to them about controlling
their pregnancies.”
Solvi raised an eyebrow. “I want to know, but I don’t think I
should ask.”
Rikka shook her head. “It’s not pornography, Solvi. It’s
information women need.”
“My mother will get pains in her stomach, all the way back in
Bergen.”
Rikka smiled. “Good. She’ll have to get used to it.”
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the study house, Matron handed Solvi a letter,
from her mother. Almost as if she had overheard Solvi’s
conversation with Rikka in the café. Solvi took it upstairs to read in
private, her hands shaking.

Dear Solveig: I don’t know quite what to say to you. Indeed, I

considered not responding, but you are my daughter and my only
kin in the world. So I might as well start with the truth. I don’t
understand why you would leave me without a farewell and under
cover of darkness, and so soon after Grandfather’s death. I almost
think you were waiting for him to die and me to be weakened, as I
am. I can scarcely face the world. The scandal of your running o
like this, well, I’ve had to talk very sternly to Cook and Mathilde so
they don’t gossip about your behavior. Lisanne came looking for
you. She was quite hurt you left without a word.
If I felt better, I would come to Kristiania, but in my present
condition I must rely on you to use your best judgment and keep out
of trouble. I am concerned about the study house and hope you are
not tramping all over the city. It’s a big, dangerous place, Solvi. I
can only hope you are taking care where you are seen and with
whom. If I thought otherwise, I would not be able to sleep. If you
need money, just ask. I would rather support you than have you
looking for employment in some common shop.
Your Mother

Solvi stared at the last line. Employment in some common shop.

She should have thought of that herself.

WHEN SOLVIgot to the photography studio the next day, she spotted a
problem even before she entered. Through the window she saw ve
young boys in leather hiking shorts posing before a backdrop of
snowy peaks, but each time Mr. Stenberg ducked behind the
camera, they started dgeting.
Solvi went into the shop and stepped to Mr. Stenberg’s side.
“Now, you little hooligans, stay very still and watch me.” She put
her thumbs in her ears and made a face.
The children laughed; the shutter clicked. A few more tricks, and
then they were done.
Mr. Stenberg herded the children outside to their waiting nurse.
“Thank you, Miss Lange. The young ones can be the devil to shoot.
Did you come for your prints?”
“Yes, but I also have a question.”
“I especially liked your picture of the nurse,” Mr. Stenberg said,
handing her the photographs.
Solvi looked through them. The one of Rikka was just as she
thought—wistful and mysterious. She looked up at him. “Mr.
Stenberg, I’d like to learn to develop photos, and I need a job. Could
I work for you? Maybe as an apprentice?”
He looked at her for a long moment and nodded thoughtfully.
“Things have gotten busier, with the war over. You could be a big
help, especially with the developing and the portraits. Can you work
hard?”
“Oh, yes, and I’m quick. You’ll see.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said. “Shall we say three afternoons a
week?”
Solvi nodded, smiling. The thought of working in the studio—
with someone who understood her—felt like nding a home.
“Thank you, Mr. Stenberg. I’ll start tomorrow.”

BACK AT THE STUDY HOUSE THAT EVENING, Solvi went by Rikka’s room; she
found her sitting in the open window wearing her coat, smoking.
“Rikka, Matron will kick you out!”
“No, she won’t,” Rikka said, throwing the cigarette out into the
freezing rain. “Because she’ll never know.” She shut the window and
squirted cologne in the air. “See? Nothing to worry about. So where
have you been?”
“I got a job. My mother said it would make me common, so I had
to do it.”
Rikka’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’re selling men’s
underwear …”
 “No,” Solvi laughed. “The man at the photography shop hired me,
to develop photos and help with portraits.” She took out the
photograph of Rikka in her nursing costume and handed it to her.
“He especially liked this one.”
Rikka fell silent, then nally cleared her throat. “I had no idea I
looked like that, as if I just stepped o the battle eld.”
“Would you like to keep it?”
“Yes, thank you,” Rikka said. Then she cocked her head, as if
seeing Solvi for the rst time. “Do you have others?”
Solvi pulled out her album of the housemaids and put it in her
lap.
Rikka opened it. After a few pages, she looked up. “Is this what
you do, then?”
“I suppose. I take photographs because I see things I’m not sure
others see.”
“So these are the girls working, and these are their portraits.”
“Yes,” Solvi said. “I love the contrast, rst the girls in dirty
aprons, then the same girls in their church clothes. You can see who
they’d be if they weren’t housemaids.”
Rikka turned more pages. “Why did you take these pictures?”
“I’m not sure. The girls wanted portraits, but I was more
interested in photographing them at work. I felt sorry for them,
working and living in those conditions.”
Rikka looked at her. “You’re going to have to meet Petra.”

THE DAYS SHORTENED and the cold descended, but for Solvi life started
to blossom. Mr. Stenberg taught her how to frame and balance a
photo, how to control the mood with light, and how to make people
relax so they would open to the camera. She particularly enjoyed
the darkroom, moving photographs from one chemical bath to
another as the images slowly emerged. During portrait sessions, he
let Solvi take several of her own shots, and later they compared
their work, discussing the ner points of exposure and character.
She loved that he took her seriously.
 Back at the study house, Rikka wormed her way into Solvi’s life,
saving her a spot at meals, moving to the desk next to her in the
library, coming by late at night for tea and gossip.
Within weeks, Solvi found herself dressed in a white sheet, like an
Athenian goddess, swaying and bending with Rikka and nine other
girls in a dusty ballroom. An aging ballerina played Chopin on a
piano and called out the movements. Solvi, tripping over her feet,
wished she could take photographs instead of dancing, but soon she
was breathless from the exercise and laughter.
“I knew you’d like it,” Rikka said, as they changed afterward.
“Now, next on the Solvi modernization program: we need to do
something about those braids of yours.”
“You have a whole program for me?”
“Of course. Why not just wear your hair loose? I mean, if you
aren’t going to chop it o . And after that, new out ts. A couple of
narrow skirts, a jacket or sweater, and some pale hose.”
“But, Rikka, I won’t know myself.”
“That’s the idea.” Rikka glanced at her watch. “I told Petra we’d
come by tonight. Do you have your photo album?”
“Yes,” Solvi said. “I’ve been carrying it around because I thought
we might run into her. Will she be at the café?”
“No—too many spoiled students at the café for her. We’re going
to her at.”

AFTER A LONG TRAMP through an old section of town, Solvi and Rikka
stopped before a rickety tenement.
“She lives here, in this sad place?” Solvi said, glancing around
with apprehension. It was evening, long since dark. Rikka had told
her little about Petra or why Solvi needed to meet her. Solvi
suspected it was some sort of test.
Rikka checked the street number. “Come on. She’s waiting for us.”
They entered the dim hallway, climbed to the top oor, then
knocked on a door. A tall auburn-haired young woman in a plain
blouse and black skirt opened. She had the bearing of a queen,
imposing and cool. Her hair was braided and crossed over her head.
 “Hello, Rikka,” Petra said, her mouth tight. “Is this your new
friend?”
“Nice to meet you, Petra,” said Solvi.
Petra took in Solvi’s fur-trimmed cape and gave her a brief nod.
“We’d love some tea,” Rikka said, nudging the door open. “Is it
too late to warm the kettle?”
“No, I suppose not,” Petra said, turning to the counter that served
as her kitchen. Rikka pushed Solvi inside.
So this was what her mother had meant by a dank little room,
Solvi thought. The apartment was no more than a tight sitting room
with a narrow bed in an alcove. The wallpaper, hazy from a scrim of
coal smoke, was peeling in places. But there was a small sofa with a
shawl over it, curtains in the window, and a cast-iron stove that
emitted a bit of warmth. An open book lay on the sofa.
“How long have you been in Kristiania, Solvi?” said Petra,
spooning tea into a pot.
“Just a month, but Rikka’s already taken over my life.”
Petra grunted. “No doubt. She says you’re a photographer.”
“Yes, though I’m studying for the matriculation exams right now.”
Petra brought a tray of mismatched cups. “Rikka says you have
some photographs of housemaids.”
Something gave Solvi pause, but Rikka elbowed her, so she pulled
out her album and handed it over.
Petra started paging through it slowly. After a few minutes, she
glanced at Solvi, her eyes narrowing. “Who are these girls? How did
you get these pictures?”
“They’re maids at the homes of friends back in Bergen.”
“Who let you in?”
“My friends. Usually when their mothers were out.”
“Do their parents know you photographed their maids working?”
“No. They might have stopped me,” Solvi said.
Petra leafed through the album again, then handed it back to her.
“Those are remarkable.” She turned to Rikka. “We could use those.”
“I thought so,” said Rikka.
“Excuse me,” Solvi said, holding the album to her chest. “Use
them for what?”
 “I’m writing a newspaper article about the need for housemaid
reforms,” said Petra. “Your photographs could illustrate it.”
“Do you mean publish my photographs in the newspaper?”
“Yes, but rst we need an editor who’s interested,” Petra said.
“Your album might do the trick.”
Solvi could just hear her mother. If Lisanne’s parents recognize their
maids, they’ll re them all. What were you thinking? “I don’t have
permission to publish these in a newspaper,” Solvi said. “What
about their privacy?”
“The housemaids’ privacy? I’m sure they’d be happy to help the
reform movement,” said Petra. “You could write your friends, ask
for permission from their parents and their maids.”
“If my friends’ parents saw these photos, they might re their
maids,” Solvi said. She put her album back in her satchel and
buckled it tight.
“No progress without risk,” Petra said.
Solvi looked helplessly at Rikka.
Rikka drained her cup. “Listen, perhaps we could get other
photographs here in Kristiania, through people you know, Petra. I
mean, if Solvi can’t get permission to use these.”
Petra just looked at Solvi. “Rikka, you have friends who write for
the newspapers,” she said. “Can you introduce me?”
“Sure. I’ll ask around.”
“And Solvi, when I’m ready to talk with an editor,” Petra said,
“I’ll need to borrow your album.”
“I go where it goes,” Solvi heard herself say. “I don’t lend it.”
Petra gave Rikka a scowl.
Rikka rose. “Well, I’m glad you two met.” She pushed Solvi
toward the door. “Thanks for the tea, Petra.”
Outside, Solvi turned to Rikka. “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you yet,” Rikka said. “She doesn’t like the
gentry much and probably doesn’t know what to make of you. Most
well-bred girls don’t go around taking photographs of housemaids.”
A FEW DAYS LATER,Solvi found herself telling a bemused police o cer
that her grandmother, and perhaps several uncles, had disappeared.
“They are named Helmer or Fallesen, I’m not sure which,” she
said. “My grandmother’s husband would be Torvald, who might
have been in some sort of trouble, legal or nancial, perhaps in the,
ah, 1880s?”
The o cer laughed. “I guess we’re not talking about anything
recent, eh?”
“No, but it’s still important,” Rikka piped up. “People are
missing.”
“People alive now, or people from history?” The o cer couldn’t
keep the smirk o his face.
“Possibly alive now,” Rikka said, frowning. “We won’t know for
sure until we nd them.”
Solvi elbowed Rikka out of the way and gave the o cer her
sweetest smile. “Perhaps you could check the police records from
1879 or 1880 or 1881?” She slid a few coins across the counter.
“Please?”
“I’d be happy to, miss. But are you certain they were in trouble
with the law?”
The girls glanced at each other. “Absolutely,” Solvi said.
“Notorious criminals.”
“Well, leave your address, young lady. If I nd anything, I’ll let
you know.”

IT WAS BLOWING SNOWas Solvi and Rikka left the police station, so they
hurried to the café. Inside, Rikka pulled Solvi toward two young
men who were talking intently.
“They look busy,” Solvi said, feeling shy for a moment but then
pushing back her hood and shaking out her curls. Rikka was right,
wearing her hair down made her braver.
“Nonsense. Trust me.”
One boy stood as they approached, then gave Rikka a weak smile
and moved away.
 The other young man, fair skinned with unruly blond hair, turned.
“Rikka! I haven’t seen you in weeks. Come. Sit,” he said, reaching
for extra chairs. “Why, now you’ve frightened Andre away!” Then
he noticed Solvi. “And who’s this?”
Solvi smiled hesitantly. “Solveig Lange,” she said, holding out her
hand.
“Dominik Engstrom,” he said, taking her hand. But instead of
giving it a shake, he grabbed her other hand and held them tight
between his own. “Good Lord, you’re cold,” he said, rubbing them
vigorously. “Can’t let you get frostbite.”
Solvi blushed. He was quite handsome, with a big smile and
mischievous brown eyes.
Rikka watched Andre head toward the door. “I’ll be back in a
minute.”
“Can I get you a co ee, Miss Lange?” asked Dominik, nally
letting go of her.
“I’ll get my own, thank you,” she said. At the counter she tried to
steady herself, but when she returned Dominik gallantly pulled out
her chair, making her blush again. “I realize many young women
prefer to do for themselves these days, but I can’t retrain myself,” he
said. “Tell me if it bothers you.”
“No, of course not,” said Solvi. “I come from an old Bergen
family, and my grandfather would have pegged you a barbarian if
you hadn’t done that.” Then she stopped. “Actually, I thought I
came from an old Bergen family, but I’ve recently discovered that
may not be true.”
“It’s di cult to tell these days who people are and where they’re
from,” Dominik said. “All kinds of barbarians are showing up in
people’s parlors, the skeptics with the religious, the harmless with
the snakes. I think it’s wonderful, but I know some nd it
threatening.”
“My mother would be shocked to see me here, drinking co ee
with someone I hadn’t been formally introduced to.”
“You’re safe, Miss Lange. I’m one of the harmless skeptics.”
“Then you must be a university student.”
Dominik laughed. “Yes. How about you?”
 “I take the admission exams in January, but I may not pass. I had
no idea how much my ladies’ academy was keeping from me. It’s
like a conspiracy to block young women from qualifying for
university,” Solvi rattled on. “I wish they would make you boys
learn to draw and embroider. It would level the eld a bit.”
Dominik leaned toward her. “There is a conspiracy, Miss Lange!”
he whispered. “They want you all to go back to your knitting
needles. If you’re a true rebel, you’ll work day and night to deny
them victory.”
Solvi laughed. “So what are you studying?”
“Philosophy and politics,” Dominik said as he motioned to a
waiter. “The young lady here would like some rolls and butter. With
jam, I think.”
“Yes, jam, please,” Solvi said. “How did you know I was hungry?”
“The look in your eye,” he said, gazing at her. “So what made you
doubt your old Bergen family?”
“A photograph my grandfather tried to burn just before he died,”
Solvi said.
“Burning photographs?” He leaned forward again. “How
mysterious! Who is in this photograph?”
She hesitated. It was all so personal, but there was something
about this boy that made her want to talk. She told him about the
family portrait and then, before she could stop herself, about her
mother lying about it. “She seemed to be hiding something,” Solvi
said. “I’m hoping the people in the portrait are still alive.”
The waiter brought their rolls. Solvi took one and spread it with
jam, a thick raspberry that reminded her of Cook back home stirring
the copper pot.
“Do you think they might be here, in Kristiania?” Dominik asked.
“Maybe, but I’ve little to go on.”
Rikka returned, but not with Andre. With someone new—a tall
young man with dark hair, a trim beard, and kind eyes behind wire-
rimmed glasses.
“Solvi, this is Magnus Clemmensen,” Rikka said. “I found him
outside, looking in the window at you.”
Solvi could only blush again.
 “Welcome to Kristiania, Solvi,” Magnus said, blushing a bit
himself and extending his hand. “Rikka says you’ve only recently
arrived.”
Solvi smiled and shook his hand. His eyes were gray as the winter
sea.
Then Magnus laughed. “Dominik, hello. I didn’t see you there.”
“I guess you all know one another,” Solvi said, as Magnus pulled
up a chair.
“Yes,” Dominik said. “We met in Latin review before our exams, is
that right?”
Magnus nodded. “As I recall, I nally beat you out for the highest
score.”
“You did not!” said Dominik. “You’re just showing o . You know I
was best.”
“Well,” said Rikka, reaching for a roll and smearing it with butter.
“Solvi could use a little help with her Latin review.”
Solvi kicked Rikka under the table. “Really, must you tell all my
shameful secrets right o ?”
“Many people struggle with Latin,” said Magnus. “It’s hardly
shameful.”
“It seems so useless, a language nobody speaks,” Solvi said.
“The Latin exam’s easy,” said Dominik. “Just practice translating
the most famous bits of Cicero.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” said Magnus. “I’d be
happy to tutor you.”
“I think I should tutor her,” Dominik said, putting his elbows on
the table. “Since I got the highest score.” He grinned at Magnus, but
there was de ance in his smile.
Solvi looked from one to the other, then glanced at Rikka, who
lifted her eyebrows. “Thank you both,” Solvi said, “but I have a
tutor. She’s not much fun but quite thorough.”
“Solvi would do ne if she wasn’t running around taking
photographs,” Rikka said.
“I’m too busy running around with you, Rikka,” Solvi said.
Dominik cocked his head. “You’re a photographer?”
“I suppose, though I’m not very good yet.”
 “You should see her work; she’s quite the social critic,” Rikka
said. “At the moment she’s criticizing how we treat our
housemaids.”
Magnus looked at her with interest. “How do you do that with
photography?”
“I take pictures of housemaids working,” Solvi said. “I’m sure you
can imagine. They’re usually surrounded by heaps of dirty laundry
or standing over steaming kettles. I try to show how hard their labor
is, often alone in hot kitchens or dank basements.”
Dominik laughed. “Well, of course their work is hard, but I can
assure you it isn’t as bad as the farms most of them came from.”
“That’s no excuse for overworking housemaids,” Magnus said, an
edge to his voice.
Rikka abruptly turned to him. “Magnus, you write for Dagbladet.”
“Yes. Why?”
“Solvi and I have been talking with Petra Jeppesen, the maid
pushing for housemaid reforms. She needs an introduction to the
editor. She wants to write an article and use Solvi’s photographs to
illustrate it.”
Dominik glanced at his watch and jumped to his feet. “Sorry—late
for class. It was lovely to meet you, Miss Lange. I hope I’ll see you
here again.”
Solvi smiled at him. “Rikka drags me here nearly every day, so
I’m sure you will.”
He tipped his cap, then strode away.
Magnus turned to Rikka. “I’d be happy to introduce Petra to the
editor.” Then he looked at Solvi. “And I’d love to see your
photographs. Are you helping Petra with the article?”
“I, ah, I don’t know. I only just met her.” Solvi glanced at Rikka.
“We need to be concentrating on our exams right now.”
“I’m sure the editor, Mr. Blehr, would be interested in your
photographs.”
“Perfect,” Rikka said.
“That’s very kind, Magnus,” Solvi said, “but I’m not sure I want to
publish my photographs in a newspaper.”
“No progress without risk,” said Rikka.
 “Don’t push her,” Magnus said. “Solvi, when you’re ready, just let
me know.” He put a few coins on the table, then stood. “Rikka, I’ll
talk to Mr. Blehr, and, Solvi, it’s been a pleasure.” He gave her a
warm smile as he turned away.
Rikka laughed.
“What?”
“You’re right,” Rikka said. “You should keep your Isolde hair.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, Rikka peeked around Solvi’s door, then slipped in
and curled up on her bed like an otter. Solvi sighed, pushed her
books aside, and sat down beside her.
“Who is Andre, Rikka, and why are his manners so bad?”
“Just a student, like all of us. His manners are usually ne; he’s
just angry with me.”
“You spurned him, didn’t you?”
Rikka sighed. “I told him not to fall in love with me.”
“Because you’re not in love with him?”
“No, I am not,” Rikka said, then paused for a long moment.
“Honestly, Solvi, love did not serve me well. I think now I’m
immune.”
“You can’t believe that, Rikka. Don’t worry, you will fall in love
again. Maybe an Arctic explorer or a famous surgeon. Someone
bold, someone brave enough to approach you.”
Rikka laughed. “I do seem to scare men. That’s why I don’t have a
Dominik in my life.”
“I don’t have a Dominik in my life.”
“Just you wait. He was quite taken with you.”
Solvi got up and poured her a cup of tea, turning away to hide a
smile. “What do you know about him?”
“Dominik?” Rikka shook her head. “He’s, well, he’s Dominik. He’s
brilliant, with a million ideas, but he can drive you mad. He’ll
contradict everything you say and is usually right. His family is old
Kristiania gentry. He grew up debating his father, who’s a lawyer.”
“And what do you know of Magnus? Is he from a good family?”
“Ask me a better question.”
 “Sorry. Is he intelligent?”
“Certainly, though I suspect Dominik got the better Latin score.
Magnus writes columns for Dagbladet about society and politics. He’s
quite thoughtful; he’s studying history, I think. His father’s in the
parliament.”
“The Storting? You’re joking.”
“No, it’s true; he’s one of the labor leaders. I think he was a
shipwright.”
A laborer, Solvi thought. The kind of man who might have
organized workers in the Vinters’ shipyard, a man her grandfather
would have ridiculed. Solvi could just see him, railing about
Bolsheviks and shaking the newspaper in disgust.
“Do you like Magnus?” Solvi asked, glancing at Rikka.
“I like Magnus very much, but I’m not in love with him, if that’s
what you mean,” Rikka said. “I refuse to fall in love, because I
refuse to marry.”
“Don’t you want a husband?”
“A husband might be ne, but unfortunately they come dragging
marriage along with them.”
“Why are you set against marriage?”
“I don’t want to marry because—from what I can see—marriage
keeps women from becoming powerful. I’d rather be powerful.”
“But don’t you want a family?”
Rikka shook her head. “Not really. I worry about another war. I
couldn’t raise a son and send him to ght, not after what I’ve seen.”
Solvi picked at a hole in her shawl. “I’ve always dreamed of a
string of children. My family would’ve been happier if there’d been
more of us. That’s why I want to nd my grandmother and my
uncles. I long for more family.”
“Don’t you want to be powerful, do something for the world?”
“Perhaps, but I want to be loved, too.”
“Oh, no,” Rikka said, laughing sadly. “You don’t get both—you
have to choose.”
“I’ll never be the rebel you are, Rikka, even if we cut my hair. Can
we still be friends?”
 “Of course. I’m sorry. Sometimes I feel rather black inside; just
ignore me.”
“You’re impossible to ignore, Rikka.”
“Well, then don’t take me seriously.”
 CHAPTER SEVEN

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

I pulled the advertisement out of my apron pocket and examined it

again. Torvald must have died. That was the only way to explain it
—the ad, the photo, the plea.
I was tidying up after supper when this thought came to me.
Anders sat nearby repairing a boot, hammering in nails with quick
taps.
I imagined the hammering as someone nailing down the lid of
Torvald’s co n. But maybe that was just my desire speaking.
If so, it wasn’t the rst time.
I had wished Torvald would die during those frantic days in
Kristiania, when he was blocking me from seeing the children. I
wished he would die when he threatened to drag me to the insane
asylum. And years later, when I nally returned to Norway, I
harbored a guilty hope that I would nd him gone.
But, as I’ve said before, God has never listened to my prayers.
I put the ad back in my pocket, then dried the pots and stacked
them on a shelf. The Church fathers would be shocked if they knew
I had prayed for someone else’s death, even if it might mean my
liberation.
Maybe now, though, it had nally happened. Torvald had died,
and the children found something in his papers—a letter or a secret
will. I thought of Torvald in the photograph, so proud of his family,
so sure of his place in the world. He was still like that when I last
saw him thirty years ago. Only death could silence that resolute
arrogance of his.
But if he had died, what would that mean? Had he left me a
legacy? No, all his wealth would go to the children. Maybe he left
me a note, one last scorching message. Or perhaps he left a letter
begging my forgiveness. Given his life, he might have feared God’s
judgment.
I considered these alternatives but concluded they were equally
unlikely. He would go to his grave without lifting a nger to
communicate with me.
I took the wash basin outside to dump behind the garden. Years of
avoiding church had hardened my heart, I could see that. I hung the
basin on a nail and then walked down to Katrin’s to help put the
grandchildren to bed. Anything to redeem my wicked soul.

NORA
October 1880 Kristiania, Norway

Fall brought rain, and my life narrowed again to my drab room. An

envelope from Kristine arrived with a note from Torvald inside, as if
she had resisted giving him my address.

DEAR WIFE (apparently I was no longer Nora to him): I heard from

friends concerned for your welfare that you recently dined with the
director of the Kristiania Theater. I also know that you’ve been
working as a companion to Dr. Rank. Such behavior is deeply
damaging to your reputation and has served to con rm everyone’s
suspicions. All I can think is that you are su ering from a perverse
hysteria—indeed, that you’ve been su ering since Mr. Krogstad
began blackmailing you. Therefore, for your own safety, I’m moving
forward to have you committed. If you return to my protection,
perhaps we can care for you at home. Your Husband, Torvald
Helmer

My pulse hammered. I crept down the hall of the widow’s house

and peered out the front door. Had Torvald already sent his men?
No, not yet, but they would come.
Back in my room, I paced. My instincts said hide, but where could
I go? North to some windswept shing village above the Arctic
Circle? No; strangers and outsiders were quick to attract attention in
such places, and there would be little work. America? Copenhagen?
I couldn’t a ord passage to either, and how would I manage alone
in such a place? How would I live without seeing the children
occasionally, even if just from the street corner? No, I must stay in
Kristiania.
So I would hide here, in plain sight.
I put aside a simple widow’s dress to wear the next day and then
took my bustle and better dresses—everything that signaled my
class—and rolled them into a bundle. I then sewed my pearls into
the seam of my chemise for safekeeping. I spent the evening knitting
a rough shawl, then threw it to the oor and ground it under my
heel to make it look old and dirty.
The next morning I covered my head with the shawl and tossed
the bundle over my shoulder. Everything disappeared beneath a
shawl—hair, carriage, class. I hunched my way down to the
pawnbrokers’ alley.
I picked the rst store I found and dropped my bundle on the
counter. A weasel-faced man in a grimy jacket tested the fabrics and
the hoops, then counted out a stful of coins. I thought for a
moment, then took o my fashionable coat and put it on the
counter.
“Won’t you need that this winter, ma’am?”
“Something lighter will do,” I said. He brought me an old tweed
misshapen with use. I examined a seam, checking for lice. It smelled
of mold but seemed free of bugs. “This is ne,” I said. “What else do
you take?”
He looked me up and down. “Those are lovely buttons, ma’am.”
I glanced down at my dress, which was plain but well made, with
buttons of horn. I ushed with humiliation—would nothing be left
to me?
“I suppose you have pins,” I croaked.
He pulled them from a drawer and snapped open his pocket knife,
as if this happened every day. I turned away to cut o the buttons
and pin my bodice closed, embarrassed to be so proud, angry to be
so embarrassed. I wrapped my new coat around my mutilated dress
and pocketed the money.
 Out on the street the damp came straight through the thin tweed,
and in that instant I was transformed into one of Kristiania’s poor,
stoop shouldered and sullen. Was this a disguise or my fate? I wasn’t
sure anymore.
I walked a few blocks just to get away from the odious
pawnbroker, then turned a corner. I had come to the edge of the
slum.
Vika, the retreat of the shameless and the dispossessed. The
quarter was a maze of tumble-down buildings, dirty taverns, and
humble huts. Fishermen watched me from beneath their caps;
children in tattered clothes stared. I pulled my purse close but didn’t
shy away.
Few in Kristiania society ever uttered its name, yet Vika was the
secret nightmare of all who perched precariously on the ladder of
civility. Looking about, though, it just seemed forgotten. Was it a
truly a breeding ground for labor unrest and political radicals, as the
police often claimed? I noticed a few students in shabby coats and
some factory workers in overalls waiting for the horse-drawn tram.
On the corner, an elderly woman in a shawl stood beside a small
cart hawking apples. Perhaps it was more of a refuge, a place for
those who had nothing.
Either way, I knew one thing: Torvald would never look for me
here. He couldn’t imagine me here.
At a small market I found notices for rooms and soon stood before
a two-story house with wooden clapboards gone gray from the salt
air. Several young men turned out the door, tipped their hats at me
with puzzled smiles, and headed up the lane.
I took a deep breath and went in.
A pinched-faced woman in a cap sat at one of several tables in the
large front room, making notes in a ledger. Men and boys bent over
books or slouched in chairs, reading or writing. A re smoldered in
an open hearth, but otherwise there was little comfort—no rug or
curtains, just benches and a few rough chairs.
Everyone looked up, caution in their gaze. I felt like I had
stumbled into a wolf’s lair.
 The landlady stood, eyeing me with the same mild suspicion as
everyone in Vika. “May I help you?”
“I, well, I need a room,” I said. “I saw the posting—you let to
students.”
“You’re not a student, I daresay.”
“No, but, well, it seems a nice house.” I could not keep a touch of
irony out of my voice.
Someone coughed to cover a laugh.
The landlady frowned, then looked me up and down, from my
boots to the blond knot at the back of my head, seeing right past my
battered pawnshop coat. “If you don’t mind my asking, can’t a lady
like yourself do better than this, ma’am? I rarely accept women;
they attract the police.”
My face went hot. Is that what she thought? “Since my husband
died, I’ve had to sew for my living,” I said, o ering my hand and my
maiden name. “Nora Solberg.”
She eyed me warily. “The boys are noisy, and some don’t have the
best manners.”
“Perhaps I’ll have a civilizing e ect.”
She laughed at that, then softened enough to take my hand. “I’m
Mrs. Blum. I’ve got a room the maid used, back when I could a ord
a maid.” She led me to a closet o the kitchen, stacked with broken
furniture. The walls were stu ed with rags, but the cold still found
its way in. A narrow window faced into the alley.
“I’ll clean it out. You get a bed, a washing stand, and a chair. The
privies are out back.”
Privies. “Is this your best room?” I asked, faltering.
“I can’t have you upstairs with the boys, ma’am.” She told me the
rent, then watched to see how desperate I was.
I nodded, thinking. I could stay here inde nitely on what I earned
sewing. “I’ll move in tomorrow morning.”
When I got back to my room, I wrote to Anne-Marie. She would
be the only one who would know where I had gone.
AT THE ROOMING HOUSE in Vika the next day, I unpacked my few
possessions. It was strange to consider how much had been stripped
from my life. When I nished, I pinned the drawing from my
children to the wall, but there was no hiding the crudeness of this
place, this living among strangers. The boots of the students
sounded overhead. I sat down to my lacework, nervously waiting for
the dinner bell.
When it rang, the young men thundered down the stairs. I
hesitated, shy in a way I couldn’t name, but their animated voices
soon pulled me from my chair.
When I stepped into the crowded front room, the chatter
subsided. Some were truly boys, with thin shoulders and smooth
faces, but others were older, bearded—closer to my age. Everyone
stared.
“My God, Queen So a has come to live among us!” someone said.
Laughter. I ushed with embarrassment. There was no space for
me. Then a young man at the end of a bench shoved the others
down and stood up. “We can t you here, ma’am,” he said, sticking
out his hand. “Tobias. Whatever you need, just let me know.”
“Mrs. Solberg,” I said, smiling my gratitude. The landlady brought
a bowl of vegetable soup, and someone passed me bread and
nøkkelost, the cheese so common and cheap. Another boy fetched me
a glass of water. The chatter resumed, but softly. They watched me
over their spoons; not all of them seemed friendly.
“Mrs. Solberg, we’re honored to have you with us,” said Tobias,
warming to his role. He had a moon face, dark curly hair, and
spectacles. “Are you matriculating as well?”
That brought more laughter, as women could not attend
university.
Tobias turned to them. “Perhaps she’s the rst!”
“Judging from my performance in school, I would prove a poor
student,” I said. “But maybe university is di erent. For your sakes, I
hope so. Are you all students?”
“Students or hopefuls,” Tobias said. “Some still need to pass their
matriculation exams.”
 “What do you study?”
“The usual—philosophy, Latin, Greek, history,” he said. “After
that, I will read the law.”
“A ne profession, I suppose,” I said, then heard myself add
something that would have shocked Torvald: “As long as the law
protects all citizens.”
“Careful there, Mrs. Solberg,” said a young man across from me.
He was taller than Tobias, with a thick beard and intense dark eyes.
“You could be taken for some kind of revolutionary, saying such
things.” He extended his hand. “Erlend, also at your service.”
“No. Just a humble seamstress looking for respectable work.”
“Then you couldn’t have come to a better quarter,” Erlend said.
“Vika, well known as a capital of commerce. Why, you could scrape
pigskins down at the yard, or sort old sh in the market, or …”
“Shush, Erlend, or you’ll frighten Mrs. Solberg, and she’ll go back
to wherever she came from,” said Tobias. He turned to me. “Where
did you come from, if I may?”
“North, on Lake Mjøsa. I lost my husband and now must provide
for myself.”
They nodded, though I could tell nobody believed that was the
full story. I bent to my soup, and before long the debates resumed—
arguments and joking about all things political, from parliamentary
systems to class reforms. It was both intimidating and exciting.
Tobias noticed me assessing the conversation. “We’re not always
so highbrow, Mrs. Solberg. They’re just showing o .”
I smiled and helped clear the bowls, then returned to my chilly
room, too shy to sit with them into the evening. Not all the young
men seemed happy I was there, but for the rst time in days I had
laughed.

THE NEXT MORNING I shared porridge with the students, then brought
my sewing to sit by the re, as I could barely thread a needle in my
frigid room.
Most of the boys left for classes, but a few stayed behind, reading
or scribbling out essays with pencil nubs. Some of them watched me
out of the corners of their eyes, unsettled that such a strange person
had entered their world. Newspapers lay about; most were unionist
sheets.
Perhaps I had stumbled into a nest of radicals, the kind the police
watched and sometimes arrested. I dgeted, feeling out of place and
wondering if I was safe.
But then Tobias appeared. “Ah, Mrs. Solberg, I’m glad to see you
didn’t ee in the night. I’ve needed a friend with a sewing bag.
Could I borrow a bit of thread?”
“What needs mending?”
He spread his arms wide. “Everything!”
I smiled and gave him a needle, and he started on his coat sleeve,
torn at the elbow. After a few minutes I handed him a patch, a bit
from a ne old jacket of Torvald’s. He examined it, then gave me a
puzzled glance.
“You’d be surprised what people throw away,” I said. “So, tell me
about your studies. If I can’t go to university, perhaps I can learn
something from you.”
He began tacking down the patch with awkward stitches. “Yes,
well, I’m reading an interesting German philosopher at the moment.
He says God is nothing more than a manifestation of man’s own
nature.”
I thought about that for a minute. “That might explain why God
seems so much like men, domineering and easily o ended. Is your
philosopher one of those atheists?”
Tobias chuckled, though he also seemed wary. “Maybe you’re on
to something. As for my philosopher, he’s not an atheist, but he
dislikes the Church and its trappings—the sacraments and such. He
says they lead to superstition.”
I bit o a thread. “Yes. There seems to be either a mysterious God
or an intimate God, but in my experience both ignore the pleas of
women.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps you’re right. I have
three grown sisters, and only one has married, despite many
prayers. I worry about the nancial burden on my parents, but they
insist I continue my studies.”
 “Do you think the law will make you happy?”
“I don’t know. Right now I only want to read philosophy.”
“I knew a man who trained for the law but couldn’t bear to
defend those who had done wrong. He became a banker. Do you
think that made him a better man?”
Tobias shrugged. “Maybe it would be better to defend the worst
sinner rather than a pile of money. I hope to use the law to—how
did you put it last night—defend the rights of all citizens, including
women and workers.”
“So what do you think of the Woman Question? Should we be
allowed to vote?”
He put down his work and looked at me. “I must say, Mrs.
Solberg, you are a conundrum. Everyone’s quite perplexed by you.”
“I had no idea I was a conundrum. In what way?”
“Everyone wants to know why you’re here.”
My breathing grew shallow. “It’s quite simple: I’m a poor widow
down on my luck. Vika was the only place I could a ord. Living
with students seemed safer than the alternatives.”
“Some are puzzled that you have no widow’s pension.”
“Unfortunately, my husband lost his company, and then he, well,
he …” I looked away, so Tobias wouldn’t see how poorly I was
fabricating this story.
“It’s just that you’re obviously a lady, Mrs. Solberg. Everything
about you is, forgive me, of a class most of us only aspire to—your
language, your posture, even your skin. Surely you have family or
friends who could take you in.”
I gave him a sad smile. “Not everyone has such good fortune,
Tobias.”
He nodded, but I could see he was not satis ed. “Let me just warn
you, some of the others are threatening to complain to Mrs. Blum.
They are worried you might be a plant.”
“What you mean by a plant?”
“Someone planted by the police.”
I stared at him, then shook my head with dismay and looked up
to control the tears rising in my eyes. Last night this place felt like a
refuge, a place where I might be accepted, where I could make
friends. Now that was slipping away.
“Why is it so di cult for women deprived of family to nd a
place in this world?” I couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my
voice. “I’m beginning to understand why so many women turn to
the streets.”
Tobias put down his sewing. “Forgive me, Mrs. Solberg. I didn’t
mean to upset you. You’re right. There are few easy paths for
women in your situation.”
“If I can’t stay here, I don’t know where I will go.” We looked at
each other for a long moment. “To be honest, Tobias, I’m trying to
not be found. That is why I am here, in Vika.”
He blinked.
“And I don’t want to see the police any more than anyone else in
this rooming house,” I said. “I swear to that.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Solberg. I’m beginning to
understand.”
“But please keep my secret, Tobias. I can’t a ord to have anyone
talking about me.”
His eyes glittered with interest. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Solberg. I will
talk with the others without giving you away.”

OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, I did little more than keep up with my
lacework and adjust to the rooming house. If it had not been for the
company of the boys, it would have been a dismal existence. The
mist rolled in at night, sliding through chinks and under the doors,
and the privies out back proved a misery and humiliation. My hands
bloomed with chilblains; my clothes soon smelled of poverty.
But despite everything, my life opened like an alpine plant
warming to a new season. Tobias shared his books and escorted me
through the rough streets. Erlend became my tutor, lecturing me on
politics and badgering me to sharpen my opinions. In return, I
patched their clothes and knit them socks and mittens. It hardly
seemed a fair exchange.
 At rst I just listened when the students argued, fascinated by
their revolutionary rhetoric. The authorities would have been
interested to know a volume of Marx was being passed around,
along with other banned material. Some of the boys kept their
distance, like sailors who distrust having a woman on board ship.
But many of the boys soon came to welcome my company. We
stayed up late most nights, huddled around the re philosophizing.
It was a relief, at long last, to hear others asking the questions
that troubled me—why society was organized for the bene t of
wealthy men, why the law treated workers and women like
children, why so many were blocked from university or better jobs
simply because of their class or sex. Tobias lent me a novel written
by a woman, The District Governor’s Daughters, that captured a bleak,
con ned world that was painfully familiar. It made me weep into
my pillow.
Even outside the rooming house I grew more comfortable, often
walking about behind my crude veil or taking the air down by the
docks. One blustery day I stopped to talk with a woman selling
cakes to passersby. She and her children had been left behind when
her husband immigrated three years earlier to Nebraska in America,
promising to send for them when he could. The cold wind whipped
about us as we talked, and on an impulse I o ered her my mu er in
exchange for one of her cakes.
After that I stopped to chat whenever I saw her, sometimes
bringing knitted caps or socks for her children. She showed me
letters from her husband, who was struggling to wring enough cash
from his homestead to pay passage for his family. The letters, a
crabbed hand on rough paper, brimmed with both hope and failure
—the promising wheat crop ravaged by hail, the shanty built in
summer that proved inadequate for the frigid winter. I told her that
when she joined her husband, she could make their farm better. She
just nodded and tucked the letters back into her pocket.
Tobias told me she was an “America widow.” There were many
like her in Vika, he said, waiting for passage. Their husbands rarely
sent for them.
ONE AFTERNOON Tobias suggested we walk to the wharf where the
emigrant ships were loading. “Just to look at the crowd,” he said,
but I knew it was more than that. Living in Vika, I now understood
why Norway’s poor dreamed of crossing the ocean for something
better. I, too, stopped to gaze at the posters of rippling wheat on
Dakota land and listened as shipping agents hawked fares from the
sidewalks.
All the boys in the rooming house knew what it cost; most had
secret America plans.
“I’ll bet you would go pan gold in California,” I teased, as Tobias
and I walked along the seawall. The wind was up—it would be an
uncomfortable trip out the fjord that day.
Tobias laughed. “Good Lord, no. Prospecting’s too dangerous. No,
I’d go to Chicago. There’s a Norwegian community there and plenty
of opportunity. I might teach, or write for a newspaper.”
“Is your English that good?”
“No, but it wouldn’t matter. They have Norwegian papers and
Norwegian schools.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
“I swear. Before long, half of Norway will be living in America.
We don’t see it here in Kristiania, but the mountain regions are
emptying out. In some places only the old people are left.” Then he
glanced at me. “Maybe you have an America plan of your own, Mrs.
Solberg.”
“Tobias, how did you know? Aasta Hansteen is leaving for New
York next spring, and she has asked me to go with her.”
“I’m serious. You don’t belong in Vika. You must be plotting an
escape.”
I looked down the fjord. “I can’t leave Norway, Tobias. I have ties
here I cannot sever.” Then I smiled at him. “But, I’ll admit,
sometimes I wish I could.”
We approached the steamship wharf where a restive crowd
waited to board.
“My God, how young they are,” I said, glancing about.
 “Yes, it seems true for every boatload,” Tobias said, pointing out
boys no older than ten and several pairs of sturdy girls traveling
without husbands. Even the families seemed young, newlyweds and
couples with small children. Everyone had a heap of bags, and the
mothers, often clutching an infant, perched on their red wedding
chests, many apprehensive and sad. It made my heart ache to think
that these chests—decorated with the rosemaling of their districts—
might soon be the only links back to their Oppland farms.
I noticed a girl standing by herself. “Look at that one there, in the
brown coat. Do you think she’s going to America alone? Why, she
can’t be fteen!”
He watched her. “They say some girls leave Norway because they
are with child. They take their secret with them to America and
bear their children away from Norwegian eyes.”
“The poor thing, to be alone at a time like that! What will become
of her?”
“There are few unmarried women on the frontier, so she may be
able to nd a husband, even with a child. Perhaps she’ll be ne.
She’ll certainly be better o than if she stays here.”
We watched the passengers move slowly up the gangway.
“Do you think they’ll miss Norway?” I asked.
“Norway’s done little for them,” Tobias said, an edge to his voice.
“These are the courageous ones. How exciting it must be to leave
this narrow, fogbound country for the freedom of America. I think
about it all the time.”
“I considered going to Copenhagen once.”
“Why Copenhagen?”
“Because people who go to Copenhagen don’t write home
complaining about grasshoppers.”
He laughed. “The grasshopper plagues are mostly gone, as are the
Indians, who’ve been pushed west by the army.”
“Then I don’t know why we aren’t all packing our traveling
chests.”
“The emigration bug might catch you yet, Mrs. Solberg. As soon
as I nish my studies, I might go.”
“How would you a ord passage?”
 “That’s the trick,” he said, eyeing the ship. “That’s the trick.”

ASIDE FROM AMERICA DREAMS, the popular topic that fall in the rooming
house was the election of the new Storting and whether Norway
would adopt universal su rage for all men. Feeling bold one
evening, I asked if su rage could be called universal if it didn’t
include women.
Some of the boys shifted uneasily in their seats. Tobias and Erlend
were as freethinking as I was on the Woman Question, but others
were not. Henrik, a newcomer who seemed to resent my presence,
started making fun of my heroine, Miss Hansteen, joking about her
wearing men’s boots beneath her skirts and threatening politicians
with her umbrella.
I put down my sewing and frowned at him.
“Careful there,” said Erlend. “Mrs. Solberg considers herself one
of Hansteen’s lieutenants.”
“I think Hansteen is dangerous,” Henrik said. “She wants the
rights of women improved before the rights of working men.”
“That’s because women don’t have the most basic human rights,”
I said. “Even poor farmers have more rights than women of any
class.”
“But you can’t let women take jobs from men. Women already get
most of the factory work because they’ll work for less and are afraid
to strike.”
“Because they must feed their children,” I said hotly.
“That’s the problem with women,” said Henrik. “They’re weak
and their concerns are narrow. They shouldn’t be part of the labor
debate.”
“Not part of the debate? Have you any idea how imprisoned
women feel because they cannot …”
“Watch out, Henrik,” Erlend laughed. “She’s got an umbrella!”
I opened my mouth again, but Tobias pulled me away.
“Mrs. Solberg and I are going out for some sea air,” he said with
his usual gallantry, handing me my coat. Outside he slipped his arm
through mine.
 “Don’t bother with Henrik—he’s a prig. But he’s right: the Woman
Question is not simple.”
“But nothing is simple, Tobias. Surely you understand that.
Sometimes I get impatient hearing all these grand theories because
they seem to ignore what is actually happening to people. And why
women should be cut out, time after time, just because their
situation is complicated—it just keeps us bottled up in our parlors
with our knitting, as if we are no good for anything else,” I said
bitterly. “I’ve lived that life, and I’m not going back there.”
Tobias was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. “Mrs.
Solberg, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your
husband?”
I stopped and looked at him. A vague story formed on my tongue,
but I could not lie to Tobias. I just shook my head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s all right,” I murmured. I wanted to tell him the truth, because
he would have understood, but I did not dare.

A FEW WEEKS LATER we celebrated Christmas at the rooming house over

a bowl of lamb stew, a special treat from our landlady. Tobias
brought me a bit of holly tied with red yarn he pulled from a sock. I
hung the holly in my room.
The next day I walked to the fjord in the late afternoon. A year
had passed since I came down here in the inky dark after my ght
with Torvald. I looked down at the heaving sea. For some reason, I
had been pulled back to this spot, back from Hamar to Kristiania,
then here to Vika. Now I lived at the harbor’s very edge, the damp
in my sheets and foghorns in my dreams.
If I took one more step, I’d be in the water. Or on a ship.

AFTER THE HOLIDAY,the Arctic winds bore down from the north. The
cold sti ened my hands, making it harder to sew. One evening I
asked the boys if I should try to get a job at one of the factories.
They listened with interest, and then several exchanged glances.
“We could send you in as our spy,” said Nikolai.
 “Your spy?”
“We need evidence of poor working conditions and injuries. You
could be very helpful.”
“Good Lord, Nikolai, do you want Mrs. Solberg to end up in
prison?” Tobias said. He turned to me. “Don’t listen to him.
Standing at a loom is backbreaking work.”
“But I don’t seem useful for anything, Tobias.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll nd you something.”

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Tobias burst into the rooming house waving a
newspaper. “I’ve found you a job, Mrs. Solberg. Look here.” He
pointed at a small notice. The agent for the White Star Line needs a
secretary for his o ce in Bjørvika. English required.
“Clerk for a shipping agent?” I wrinkled my nose.
“Yes, why not?”
“Well, you know what they say, that the shipping agents go
through the countryside swindling poor emigrants.”
“Mrs. Solberg, have we taught you nothing?” Tobias said. “The
authorities spread those tales to discourage farmers from leaving.
Just go talk to the agent. See what he’s like.”

I CHANGED INTO MY BLACK DRESS, fumbling nervously with the buttons,

and then walked quickly to Bjørvika, where the shipping lines kept
their o ces. I wasn’t sure what to think. I’d heard many stories of
unscrupulous shipping agents and doubted they were all lies.
When I entered the o ce, the agent was leaning over a counter in
his shirtsleeves and vest, explaining a contract to a young family. He
was tall, with thinning hair, dark sideburns, and a stern face.
Commanding, but not a gentleman.
He didn’t look up, so I took o my hat and coughed.
He glanced at me, taking in my golden hair, then straightened up.
“You’ve come about the job.”
“Yes. I have my academy credentials, I’ve done copying and
bookkeeping for several law o ces in town, and I speak English and
some German.”
 “Can you now.” He looked me up and down. “Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Solberg.”
He gave my hand a quick shake. “Fredrik Nielsen,” he said. “A
widow, I see.”
I didn’t correct him.
“Well, now, let’s test you out.” He pushed a document toward me.
“Here’s the standard contract for passage to America in steerage.
Review it with the next family. In a nutshell, they take a Wilson
Line ship across the North Sea to Hull, on the eastern coast of
England, then the train to Liverpool. They sail from Liverpool on
one of the White Star ships.”
I scanned the contract. “Does it cover lodging in Liverpool?”
“No, but there are rooming houses near the docks. Have them sign
two copies. Then I’ll sign them.” He leaned over and whispered in
my ear. “Don’t read the whole damn thing; it only confuses them.
Just the rst page will do.”
I slid behind the counter and faced a farmer with two daughters. I
smiled. “Are you traveling steerage?”
He gave me a tight nod, so I read the contract slowly. His
daughters kept stopping me, asking questions about everything from
washing to cooking onboard.
“Mr. Nielsen, do they serve meals, or can they cook their own?” I
said, turning to him.
“Good God, no! These are steamships, not broken-down whalers.”
Mr. Nielsen leaned over and stabbed at the contract with a long,
bony nger. “Right there: two meals a day, no cooking allowed.”
“Of course.” I blushed at his rudeness. The poor farmer nally
signed, and another family pushed forward. With each party Mr.
Nielsen checked and signed the documents while I took the money,
nearly two hundred crowns per person for steerage, more for
staterooms. A fortune, it seemed to me.
Near closing time, a family of cotters approached, the wife
pushing her husband toward me. “Ma’am,” he said, his mouth
working with anxiety, “how often do the ships wreck?”
“Wreck?” I instantly thought of the SS Atlantic, which went down
o Nova Scotia ten years earlier. Over ve hundred people
drowned, including all the women and children. A White Star ship.
“Not often,” I stammered.
“There are terms for shipwreck,” he said, pointing to a page. “So
it must happen.”
Mr. Nielsen appeared behind me. “The White Star ships have a
99.9 percent rate of safe completion. The terms are there in the rare
case something goes wrong, and when it does, the lifeboats are more
than adequate.” He shooed the couple away, then glared at me.
“Mrs. Solberg, if you want to keep this job, you’ll refrain from
discussing such matters.”
I felt my back sti en. “But what if they lose their nerve? What if
they decide not to go and need to get out of their contract? Do they
get their money back?”
“Rarely. Now, Mrs. Solberg, I trust you’re not going to create
more problems than you solve. If you cannot think of an appropriate
answer, refer them to me.”
After clearing a few more parties, Mr. Nielsen closed the o ce for
the day, then turned to me. “Well, Mrs. Solberg, do you have a letter
of recommendation?”
“No, but I’ve worked for the solicitors Meier and Dahlberg. You
could ask them for a reference.” All of a sudden I wanted this job. I
didn’t like Mr. Nielsen, but at least I was out in the world rather
than huddled by the re with my knitting.
He regarded me for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose you’ll do—
just promise me you won’t ever talk of shipwrecks. The o ce is
open Monday through Saturday, eight to ve. I pay twenty crowns a
week.”
It was less than factory work, but I was in no position to
complain. “Tomorrow, then, Mr. Nielsen. Thank you.”

WHEN I STEPPEDinto the shipping o ce the next morning, Mr. Nielsen

looked up with surprise. “Good day, Mrs. Solberg. I wasn’t sure
you’d return. I gured your brother, or whoever cares for you,
would forbid you to take the position. With a shipping agent, I
mean.”
 “I decide for myself, Mr. Nielsen. No one forbids me.”
“Because there’s no one looking after you.”
“Mr. Nielsen, there are people waiting. Shall we open?”
“So you have no family.” It wasn’t a question.
“I do have a family, Mr. Nielsen, if that is what you wish to
know.”
He stroked his sideburns. “But there’s something mysterious about
you, Mrs. Solberg. You wear black, yet you don’t carry yourself like
a widow.”
“There are many losses to mourn, Mr. Nielsen.”
“Perhaps you were unhappy in marriage, and God answered your
prayers. Tuberculosis, was it? Or chest fever?”
I ushed with anger. “Sir, if I’m required to divulge my personal
history, then perhaps you should hire someone else.”
“No need for a fuss, Mrs. Solberg,” he said, turning away. “Didn’t
mean to o end.”

AND SO THE WINTER PASSED. At the shipping o ce, I managed the

correspondence and helped with the contracts. It was what I had
always wanted—a job where my intelligence and skill were put to
good use—except for Mr. Nielsen.
I quickly grew to dislike him, and it was hard to believe he didn’t
mean to o end. He was often brusque and demeaning, and when we
worked late in the o ce, he liked to read over my shoulder so he
could lean against me or squeeze my arm. When he did this, I pulled
away and told him to refrain, but my words carried little weight. I
hated the smell of him.
Mr. Nielsen soon assigned me to the steerage passengers so he
wouldn’t have to dirty his hands tending to the lower classes. He
meant this as a social slight, as a way of elevating himself over me,
but I didn’t care. I came to enjoy helping these neediest emigrants.
I was particularly interested in the women. Most seemed to be
emigrating reluctantly, leaving behind children buried in
churchyards and elderly parents they would never see again. It was
as if the women carried the sadness for the entire family. I told them
what I could to ease their passage—bring vinegar in case of lice and
dried apples to keep the children happy—but it never seemed
enough to quiet their worries. Still, I went home at the end of the
day knowing I had done what I could.

AT NIGHT, curled in bed against the cold, I sometimes imagined what

I would be doing if I had gone to Copenhagen with Mr. Lyngstrand.
Starring in the latest play, or waiting in my apartment for a lover
who had moved on to someone else? I did not regret my choice,
though sometimes I despaired that anyone would ever love me
again. Because who on earth would it be? Mr. Nielsen made my skin
crawl, and Tobias, though very dear, was far too green. Sometimes I
watched Erlend across the table and wondered if he thought about
me in the dark of night. He was older than Tobias and world-weary
in a way I recognized. Yet I was his senior and di erent because I’d
had a family. He knew nothing of this but sometimes glimpsed this
other Nora.
“You’re too good at darning socks,” he said one day, giving me a
knowing look. I reddened and turned away, feeling like an old lady.
In time I came to envy the families shipping out, as Tobias had
predicted. What I would have given to escape Torvald, to get out
from under Mr. Nielsen’s unwanted attentions, to leave Norway so I
could be myself again rather than posing as a poor widow with a
murky past.
But at the end of the day I would return to my room and stand
before the drawing from my children. It was faded but still my altar.
As long as they were in Norway, I could not leave.

ONE FRIDAY EVENING I returned to the rooming house and sank

gratefully into a chair by the re, hungry for supper.
But Erlend approached, with other plans. “Get your coat, Mrs.
Solberg!”
“Oh, Erlend, I’ve been out on the wharf all day, in the sleet.”
“Aasta Hansteen is giving a farewell address. She leaves for
America next month. Tobias told me to bring you.”
 I looked at him, eyes wide.
“Come. The talk starts soon.”

THE HALL where Miss Hansteen was appearing proved to be little

more than a crowded warehouse with a crude stage at one end. The
audience was mostly men, but I also spotted several society girls, a
few maids and shop clerks, and a knot of women factory workers. In
the back were several constables.
We found Tobias and squeezed in next to him. Before long a
broad-shouldered woman in a traveling dress and men’s boots, with
her dark hair pinned up behind, stepped onto the stage, an umbrella
over her arm.
“Welcome,” Miss Hansteen said. “Even if you’ve come only out of
curiosity, to see this strange phenomenon of a woman speaking in
public, I hope my words will fall on receptive ears. As you may
know, I’m leaving for New York in a few weeks. The American
su ragettes have extended a kind welcome to me, and I hope to
learn from their excellent work ghting for women’s natural rights
of equality and prosperity.”
This seemed ino ensive enough and made me wonder why the
constables were necessary. But in the next moment Miss Hansteen
gave the crowd a erce look and launched into a tirade against
Norway, condemning the government and the Church for
undermining e orts by women to organize and improve their lives.
She shouted; she stamped her feet. She praised the American system
and harangued the audience about Norway’s patriarchal laws and
mores.
“The rights women need are personal as well,” she cried, shaking
her umbrella. “Women should be allowed to keep their own
property after they marry, and women cast aside by their husbands
should have the right to care for their children if they can!”
There were a few derisive shouts, but she waved them to silence.
“Why, here in Kristiania, a woman who left her husband to live on
her own has been blocked from seeing her children!”
 I took a sharp breath. Erlend turned toward me, but I dared not
catch his eye.
“Women shouldn’t have to stay with husbands who beat them or
keep them locked up at home. Yet if they leave, they’re cut o
without support or access to their children. I ask you, is this fair?”
There was a momentary hush, and then a man in the back yelled,
“But that lady abandoned her children. That’s unnatural!”
With that, the crowd erupted, everyone shouting at once. My
knees buckled; the room spun. Erlend grabbed my elbow. “Mrs.
Solberg, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said, though I leaned heavily on his arm. Several men
were heckling Hansteen, who banged on the lectern to regain
control.
A factory woman in a skirt powdered with lint strode onstage.
“And what about us who work long hours to feed our children? I
don’t need rights—I need a fair wage!”
“Careful, or the government will be at your neck, like they are
with labor!” someone else cried out.
The constables started for the front of the room.
“Let’s go,” Erlend said. He and Tobias pulled me through the
crowd to a side door that opened into an alley. Once outside, we
heard shouting from the front, so the boys dragged me the other
direction. We ran through the freezing rain, turned a few more
corners, emerged on an empty street, and stopped to catch our
breath under an overhang.
Erlend peered into my face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, but what about Miss Hansteen? Are they arresting her?”
“Maybe,” said Tobias. “But they’ll let her leave. It’s what the
authorities want.”
“Did you nd it interesting?” Erlend said, watching me.
“It’s inspiring what Miss Hansteen says about America,” I said,
still breathing hard. “And I’d like to hear more about her theology
of equality.”
“What do you think of the case of Nora Helmer?” Erlend asked.
My blood went cold. “Nora who?”
“Nora Helmer, the lady she spoke of—who left her family.”
 “I guess I did hear of it.”
“She was a society lady. Did you know her?” asked Tobias.
I glanced at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I probably met
her once or twice. I don’t remember. I’ve met her husband. I believe
he’s manager of a bank.”
“That’s right,” said Erlend. “I wonder if he was awful to her.”
“He must have been, or she wouldn’t have been able to leave her
children,” I said, my voice breaking. “What kind of mother would
leave three small children?”
“What kind indeed,” said Tobias.
“I mean, it must have broken her heart,” I said, choking on the
words.
“Why, Mrs. Solberg, you’re shivering,” said Erlend. “That thin
coat! Here …” He wrapped his scarf around my neck. “Let’s get you
home.”

BACK AT THE ROOMING HOUSE, Erlend seated me by the re, and then he
and Tobias disappeared into the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. I
stared into the ames. They had gured me out.
When they came back, they sat in front of me.
“We must ask you something, for your own protection,” Tobias
said.
I gazed at them, then nodded. “Yes.”
They glanced at each other.
“You’re Nora Helmer?” whispered Tobias.
“Yes. I would have told you, but I’m hiding from my husband.
You cannot tell anyone.”
“Look, Mrs. Solberg, I mean, Mrs. Helmer—,” said Tobias.
“Please, Solberg. It’s my maiden name.”
“Fine, but listen. You may not know this, but some women nd
you inspiring, and everyone wants to know what’s happened to you.
The talk is that you left for Bergen or Trondheim, or have gone
home to Hamar, where you’re from, I believe.”
“Good Lord, everyone knows all about me.”
 “You’re quite the cause célèbre,” said Erlend. “Even the Church is
preaching against you. Several pastors have suggested you be
o cially shunned.”
I went still. “What does that mean?”
“You couldn’t attend services or be given the sacraments.”
I turned away so they wouldn’t see my shock. Church meant little
to me, but this felt like being banished.
Tobias tugged on my hand. “But we can help you.”
“Listen, boys, please. I’m not a heroine. I’m just trying to survive.”
They nodded, but it didn’t dim their excitement. Their eyes
glittered with eagerness.
“I am serious,” I said. “The most important thing is that my
husband not nd me, because he intends to have me committed to
an asylum.”
Erlend sucked in a breath. “Could he do that?”
“He believes so. He’s angry because I tried to speak to my
children. He threatened to tell them I died, and I couldn’t let them
believe that. He says that’s evidence of hysteria.”
Tobias stared at me, then took my hand. “Mrs. Solberg, you
should go to America. Escape this brute of a husband.”
“He’s not a brute, just a man who thought his wife should obey
him,” I said, shaking my head. “We disagreed on many things, but
he loved me, in his way.”
“Then why did you leave him?” said Erlend.
I sighed. That question again. Perhaps I would never escape it. “I
did something outside the law, in order to save my husband’s life
and keep my family from nancial ruin. It hurt no one, and I earned
the money to make it right. Yet when my husband discovered my
misdeed, he condemned me as a criminal. I realized then I could
never love him again, and so I left.”
They looked at me, blinking.
“So much sophistication in a simple seamstress,” Erlend said
quietly.
“Then go to America,” said Tobias. “You’ll be safe there!”
“But if I go to America I’ll never see my children again, Tobias! I
couldn’t bear it.”
 They nodded, solemn now. Tobias squeezed my hand again.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Solberg. We’ll keep your con dence and do what
we can to help you.”

CONFESSING MY IDENTITYrescued me from the isolation of my secret but

hampered my freedom. Erlend said no more public lectures for me,
and Tobias insisted on escorting me to work each morning.
One day a letter arrived, from Anne-Marie.

The boys are home from Sandefjord and heartily glad, if a bit
subdued. They haven’t asked for you, and perhaps that’s best. They
are to be enrolled at the cathedral school next week. Bobby is
reading, and Ivar seems very much a young man. Mr. Helmer told
me he heard you had moved to Bergen. Emma’s doing well. Anne-
Marie

Bergen! Perhaps Torvald was lying and hoping Anne-Marie would

relay the message to me so I would let down my guard. As for the
boys, a plan formed in my head. If Bobby could read, it was time to
answer their letter.

I WAITED FOR THEM IN THE PARK near their school. I knew they would
walk past, since the path linked to the street that led to Torvald’s
apartment. I dressed so they would know me, in one of my old skirts
and my hair styled as I used to wear it. A letter for them sat in my
pocket—cheerful, loving, explaining that I couldn’t be with them
but that I missed them and would see them again when they were
older. Ivar might understand and be able to explain things to Bobby.
The thin March sun illuminated the barren trees. An hour passed,
and then the school bell rang. Boys began trickling past on the street
outside. Finally, I saw my two approach.
I waited until they were close, then took o my hat and stepped
forward. “Ivar! Bobby!”
They stopped dead. Ivar recognized me rst, but instead of
rushing into my open arms, he stood his ground, his eyes burning
into me.
Bobby squinted. “Mama!” he cried and started toward me.
“Bobby, no! You mustn’t!” Ivar yelled, grabbing him by the coat.
Bob pulled and twisted as Ivar held him back. Ivar grew frantic and
smacked his brother with his open hand. “Bobby, stop! You know
what Father said!”
“Ivar, darling, it’s me,” I said, more gently now, moving slowly
toward them. I didn’t want them to bolt. “It’s all right.”
They stood in the middle of the path, Ivar blocking his brother,
Bobby struggling and beginning to cry. “Go away!” Ivar yelled.
“Sweetheart, it’s all right,” I said, but I stopped.
“No, it isn’t!” Ivar screamed. Now Bobby was sobbing. “Do you
see what this does? Go away!” he cried. “Go away!”
I took the letter from my pocket. “I have something for you, an
answer to the letter you wrote me.” I held it out, like bait.
“We don’t want your letter now!” Ivar yelled again, tears
streaming down his face. “We don’t want you now!” Then he backed
up, still holding onto his brother, and looked wildly around.
Suddenly, he bent down and grabbed a rock. And then he cocked his
arm.
“Ivar, darling—”
With a mighty sob, he hurled the stone.
I didn’t even duck. It hit my cheekbone, stunning me. Ivar pushed
Bobby down the path away from me, still yelling over his shoulder,
then dragged him out the gate.
I stood there in the path, and my heart split in two. I sank to my
knees. At my feet lay the stone, Ivar’s stone, smooth and round. I
felt the welt on my cheek. Dear God, how had it come to this? A
knot of pain swelled in my chest. I picked up the stone, feeling its
weight in my palm. Oh, Ivar, sweet Ivar!
I looked up now, remembering my surroundings. I didn’t want to
catch the attention of a constable, so I stood, put on my hat, and
pulled down my veil. My tears stung the wound. I slid Ivar’s stone
into my pocket, along with the undelivered letter, and hurried home
to Vika.
BACK IN MY ROOM, I lay on my bed, turning Ivar’s stone over and over
in my hand. I felt as if someone had cut the cord that held me to
everything dear. A terrible truth loomed before me: I must let go of
my children and allow them grow up without me. And to do that, I
would need an ocean between us. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be strong
enough. Torvald had won for now, but if I could nd a way to leave,
I could nd a way back—when they were old enough to decide for
themselves.
I heard footsteps, then a knock. “Mrs. Solberg! Are you in there?”
It was Tobias.
I cracked the door.
“Mrs. Solberg! What happened?” He peered in anxiously. “Are
you all right?”
“Yes, just a small accident. What is it, Tobias?”
“An elderly woman is here to see you. She says her name is Anne-
Marie.”
My stomach ipped—I had gotten her in trouble. “Of course. I’ll
be right there.” I splashed water on my face and dabbed at the cut,
purple now as it bruised up, then went out into the front room.
Anne-Marie sat by the re, looking old and sad.
“Oh, Anne-Marie, I’m so sorry!” I sank down next to her. She
reached up gently to touch my cheek.
“He said he hit you with a rock,” she whispered. “I didn’t believe
it, but he was crying so!”
“It’s all my fault. I should never have tried to see them!”
“There, there, Miss Nora. No one can blame you for wanting to
see your boys.”
“They were so upset,” I said. “It was quite shocking, Ivar’s fear.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “They were crying when they got home. They
told me everything, and then I had them take baths and go to bed. I
was hoping to keep it from their father, but Ivar couldn’t hold it in
his heart—it was too much for him.”
“What did Torvald say?”
“I don’t know what he said to the boys. Whatever it was, it
quieted them. But then he came into the kitchen and told me I had
to leave. He knew I’d written you, and when I wouldn’t give him
your address …” Her voice trailed o .
“He let you go? But that’s impossible! You’re their nurse! You’re
part of the family!”
“Aye, Miss Nora, but perhaps it’s for the best. I can’t take the
unhappiness in that house anymore. Forgive me.”
“No, Anne-Marie, I should beg you for forgiveness! I’m the one
who put you in this impossible position. I thought it would be all
right. That you could raise them the way you raised me, but I see
how sel sh that was!” I could scarcely look at her. I was the one to
blame, for everything; I had frightened my children, and now I had
gotten Anne-Marie red.
And so I must take responsibility for what I had done. “I’ll go
tomorrow and speak to Torvald at the bank, Anne-Marie. I’ll
convince him to take you back.”
“Oh, Miss Nora, you can’t do that! He means to have you
committed! If you walk into the bank, he’ll have you taken away.
He’s hiring men to nd you!”
I grabbed her hands. “Did anyone follow you here? Does Torvald
know where I live?”
“No, I don’t think anyone followed me tonight. It was so late, I’m
sure he assumed I was going home to my daughter’s.” She looked at
me sadly. “You must leave Kristiania as soon as possible, Miss Nora,
because Mr. Helmer will nd you. He pretends he’s gotten over you,
but he hasn’t. He’s consumed with what you’ve done and talks it
over endlessly with his new friend, a solicitor—he’s not very nice.”
Panic swelled in my chest. “Yes, I’ll go, for the children’s sake,
perhaps to Copenhagen.”
“That might be best. I’m sure there’s a better place for you
somewhere.”
I nodded, understanding at that moment that this was good-bye. If
only I had some way to thank Anne-Marie for all she had been to me
—mother, nurse, bedrock. And then I remembered my mother’s tea
set. “Wait here, Anne-Marie; I have something for you.”
I ran to my room and got the small wooden box, then put it in her
lap. “These were my mother’s. Please take them. It’s all I have to
thank you.”
She looked inside, then shook her head. “They’re beautiful.
Shouldn’t Emma have them?”
“No, they are yours,” I said. “I’ll be leaving Kristiania soon, but I’ll
write and tell you where I am going. And when the children are old
enough, please let them know I love them and desperately want to
hear from them.”
“I promise.” She kissed my cheek. “Good-bye, dear Nora.”
I could scarcely imagine my world without Anne-Marie standing
steadfast at its core. “Good-bye,” I whispered.
She slipped out into the night.

wrapped in a quilt. If I left Kristiania, I would have to go

I SAT UP LATE
far enough that no one would know my name or my story, and only
then would I have the freedom to build a new life. I couldn’t do it
hiding here in Norway, clinging like a castaway to the otsam of
what I had known before. Even Copenhagen might not be far
enough.
But Chicago, big, crowded Chicago—chaotic with immigrants
from many di erent countries, if Tobias was right. I needed a place
where I could make myself anew, unfettered by the old Nora. Where
I could walk the streets unveiled, live by my word and deed, grow
into a better person. I was sure I could nd work in Chicago, and
with any luck, Tobias might follow me one day.
I took my scissors and opened the seam of my shift that held my
pearls. Tomorrow I would nd out how far they could take me.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

SOLVI
December 1918 Kristiania, Norway

December ground past—a haze of snow, Latin, reading, and review.

Before Christmas, Solvi and Rikka vowed they would do nothing but
study until the January exams, breaking only long enough to toast
the holiday with a bottle of champagne Rikka smuggled into her
room.
It worked; they passed their exams. Rikka smuggled in another
bottle, and Solvi sent her mother a telegram.
Accepted to university. Start next week. Solveig

“I DO BELIEVE HELL HAS FROZEN OVER,” Rikka said, a few days later. She
and Solvi stood at the university gates for the rst day of classes,
their breath billowing about them. “Must be because we were
admitted.”
Solvi laughed with a shiver, then looked across the broad
quadrangle. Only men and boys as far as she could see. “Where are
the other women students?”
“There’s just a handful each year,” Rikka said. “I may be the rst
in medicine; I’m worried the boys will give me trouble.”
“If they do, just crack them over the head with your anatomy
book.”
“Solvi Lange, honestly. Advocating violence so early in the war
with men.”
“Is it a war?”
“Of course it is,” Rikka said, turning toward the science
laboratory. “Good luck!”
Without Rikka, Solvi suddenly felt very alone. She crossed to the
history building and stepped inside, bumping into a crowd of young
men. She seemed to be the only girl. She took the staircase and
found her classroom, but a knot of boys blocked the doorway.
“Excuse me,” Solvi murmured, hoping they would let her pass
without notice. Instead, they fell silent and backed away.
“Thank you,” she said.
At that, one of them dropped into a deep, mocking bow, then
hopped to a desk and pulled out a chair. “At your service, miss,” he
said. Several boys laughed.
Solvi raised her chin. “No need to be at my service.” She chose a
di erent seat farther in and dropped her books with a smack.
“There’s no pleasing them these days,” the boy said in a stage
whisper. “I use my best manners and …”
“Good morning, students,” bellowed an older man pushing his
way through the door. The professor. He wore spectacles and had
curly gray hair around a bald spot. He scanned the room, pausing
for a moment when he spotted Solvi, then smiled at her. The
students scattered to their seats.
A young man slipped in next to her. “Don’t mind Gregor. He’s
rude to everyone,” he said.
She looked up and her mouth dropped open. “Magnus! What are
you doing here?”
“Taking a history class,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t believe it
when you came through the door.”
The professor knocked on the lectern. “Welcome to Norwegian
History. I’m Professor Wol . We’ll start with the Vikings.” He
stopped. “What, no groans?”
The class laughed and Solvi relaxed. At least he had a sense of
humor.
“After that,” he said, “we’ll move quickly toward the modern era.
We’ll examine the forces that forged present-day Norway:
emigration, the separation from Denmark and Sweden, the rise of
the working class, the rise of women, the war. Any questions?”
With that, he launched into his lecture, talking of recent
archaeological nds that challenged romantic notions of Viking
hegemony. Solvi took notes, thinking for the rst time about Viking
women, those who managed the farms after the warriors sailed
away in their sleek boats. It seemed odd to her that women rarely
gured in the legends. Professor Wol raised so many interesting
questions, the time passed in a snap. Before she knew it, he told
them to start thinking of essay topics, then grabbed his papers and
strode from the room.
Magnus turned to her. “Nothing like starting the day with the
history of pillaging. Do you have time for co ee before your next
class?”
She hesitated, not sure if she should encourage him.
“Come,” he said, undeterred. “We can celebrate your
matriculation.”
As they walked to a co ee shop, chatting comfortably, Solvi
wondered why her mother had shielded her from talking with boys.
Weren’t young women safer when they had male friends they could
rely on? Solvi had always longed for a brother, someone who could
have escorted her places and pushed out her narrow boundaries. It
thrilled her now to have both a boy she was interested in, Dominik,
and a boy like Magnus, someone trustworthy, someone she could
talk to about all that seemed challenging at university. Someone like
a brother who would defend her from the boys who weren’t so nice.
But she would have to be careful and not lead him on. She didn’t
want to be the kind of girl who broke men’s hearts.
“Don’t you think so, Solvi?” Magnus said, turning to her as he
opened the door to the co ee shop.
“Oh, yes,” she said, not wanting to confess she hadn’t been
listening. If she was going to be his friend, she would have to pay
better attention.
Inside, they bought co ee and a packet of sweets, then claimed a
table in a sunny window, their knees bumping as they sat down.
He raised his co ee cup in a toast. “Congratulations on passing
your exams, Solvi Lange. You are now, certi ably, one of the best-
educated young women in Norway, and I trust you’ll make the most
of it and stay in university. No running o and marrying the rst
charming lad you meet.”
Solvi clinked her cup against his. “I’ve already refused one boy, so
I think I can resist that temptation. I promise—academics above all
else!”
“You already refused someone?” Magnus said, his brow crinkling.
“Did you break his heart?”
“I doubt it. Our parents arranged it, and I knew instantly I
couldn’t marry him.”
“So you did not love him.”
“No. He mostly talked about his ri e and hiking club.”
Magnus pulled a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled
something. “Get rid of ri e and hiking boots,” he muttered. He put
the notebook away and looked at her with mock innocence.
Solvi laughed nervously. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come here
with him. “I didn’t know you were studying history. Do you hope to
teach, like Professor Wol ?”
“No, I want to be a journalist, and history seems important. I hope
to travel and write about world events. So far I’ve only written
about Norway, but the world is wide.”
“Where would you go rst?”
“Well, I should probably visit the capitals of Europe, but that’s not
what I really want. What I really want is to go to South America.”
“South America! Why not North America? New York, San
Francisco, the Wild West?”
“Fewer Norwegians in South America,” he said. “I want to write
home about things most Norwegians have never seen. As a people
and a government, Norwegians need to look out into the world
more. I think this war has proved that.”
“I think you’re right, Magnus,” she said, nodding. Then something
occurred to her. “So if you’re a journalist, you must know how to
investigate things for your articles, yes?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
Solvi pulled out the photo of her mother’s family and handed it to
him. “This was taken here in Kristiania, in 1879. I rst saw it just a
few months ago.” He took it and examined the gures and the
burned edge as Solvi explained the contradictory history of her
grandmother and uncles and how her mother probably lied about
what happened to them.
“How strange,” Magnus said.
 “I’m convinced my mother’s hiding something. I desperately want
to nd them, alive, hopefully. It’s possible they’re here in
Kristiania.”
“What do you know so far?” Magnus took out his notebook again.
Solvi told him of Mr. Stenberg’s records at the photography studio
and the di erent name, along with the shadow of scandal. Then she
told him about the headstone for Johanna Helmer and her visit with
Rikka to the police station.
He spun his pencil, thinking. “I’ll ask my editor; he knows
everyone.”
“Thank you, Magnus.”
“At your service, Miss Lange.”
Solvi leaned back. “My mother would faint if she knew I’d had
co ee with a journalist.”
“I always wanted to make a lady faint,” said Magnus. “But I
imagined someone younger, a girl of my own generation.”
Solvi felt the heat rise in her face. Had she been irting? It wasn’t
what she meant to do. “I, ah, I have literature class now, but thank
you, Magnus. You’re so kind to listen and help …” She faltered. She
wasn’t sure what to say.
“May I sit with you in class again?”
Solvi nodded, tongue-tied, then grabbed her books and ed.

“YOU, ME, AND ALL THE AGING SUFFRAGETTES,” Rikka whispered. She and
Solvi stood at the entrance of a large salon, another stop on Rikka’s
plan to modernize her.
They looked around—older women, yes, but hardly ones Solvi’s
mother would have invited for tea. Most wore modern out ts, and
there were even several women dressed in men’s suits. Solvi
regretted leaving her camera behind.
The girls found seats, smiling as the women greeted them. So nice
to see fresh faces. So good of you to come.
“Why are we the only young ones here?” Solvi asked.
“The feminists are struggling to attract younger women, so they’re
hosting lectures about the heroic days,” Rikka said. “I thought that,
as a budding historian, you might nd it interesting.”
Before long a tall, businesslike woman called the meeting to order
and then introduced the speaker, who turned out to be a shriveled
older lady in a lace bonnet seated on a divan. With her widow’s
gown settled around her, she looked like a black swan bedded down
for the night.
But then she started speaking.
“To understand the story I tell tonight, you must imagine Norway
in the 1880s. Society was still divided into strict classes, yet social
unrest had bubbled for a decade. Labor leaders were jailed and
frequent demonstrations called for universal su rage for men, and
better factory conditions. Women had few opportunities for
employment and few legal rights. And the only serious voice
advocating for Norwegian women, the painter Aasta Hansteen, was
leaving for New York to seek the help of the American feminists.
“And then, one woman—a genteel lady—did something
unthinkable. She walked out one night, leaving behind her husband
and young children. By all accounts her husband was a ne,
upstanding man. No one had any suspicion that there were
problems in the marriage. She just walked away and never went
back.
“At rst, most people assumed she was having an a air. This had
happened before and, while providing amusing gossip, did little to
upset the social order. But this case was di erent; no other man
could be identi ed, and the lady was soon spotted looking for work.
People concluded that she left her family—some said she had seven
children—to live on her own, which outraged them. It didn’t matter
that the children had a trusted nurse and were well cared for by
their father. The very idea of a mother abandoning them was
scandalous.
“At the same time, though, a handful of people understood. There
were many reasons a woman might strike o on her own. The rst,
of course, would be if her husband had done something
unforgivable, but we don’t know if that was true in this case. We
also do not know if she su ered from melancholy or some other
mental anguish that made her think it better to leave her children
until she recovered. Perhaps she was in trouble; perhaps she was
driven by something inexplicable, even to herself. As we can now
acknowledge, marriage and motherhood cannot contain every
woman.
“Over time, society moved on to fresh gossip, and her story went
blank. Most likely, she left Kristiania for a life somewhere else and
died poor and forgotten.
“What she never knew was that her bold action, so personal and
private, spread like a rumble of thunder. Other wives started
speaking up, pushing their husbands to treat them better, and many
took courage from her example to start ghting for women’s rights.
The early feminists argued that her tragedy could have been
prevented if she’d had the same human rights as men: to care for
her children, to secure honorable work, to own property, and to
keep her wealth. When Aasta Hansteen returned to Norway some
years later, women were ready to ght for those rights.”
The speaker stopped for a long moment and looked around the
room. “I wish we knew what became of her. I also wish she knew
how important she was. This woman, the Forgotten One, was the
rst woman in Norway who said no. And her ‘no’ started
everything.”
She dropped her hands into her lap and smiled. The gathered
group clapped politely.
Solvi sat unmoving for a long moment.
Rikka elbowed her. “They have punch. Would you like some?”
Solvi could barely breathe. She looked at Rikka. “That’s an
interesting story. Had you heard it before?”
“No, I hadn’t.” Rikka stood. “I’ll bring you a cup.”
Solvi jumped up and pushed through the crowd to meet the
speaker. “Thank you for a wonderful talk. It was, ah, quite
interesting. Did you know her, the Forgotten One?”
The woman blinked at her with watery eyes. “No, but I heard the
gossip. I always suspected other women were a bit envious, that
some wished they had the courage to leave their di cult husbands.”
“Do you remember her name?”
 She shook her head sadly. “I wish I did. No one I know seems to
remember.”
“Are any of the people who knew her still alive?”
“Possibly, but I doubt they know what happened to her. She was
not allowed to see her children and was excluded from polite
society. Besides, it was a long time ago, forty years.” She shook her
head again. “I believe she was also shunned by the Church.”
“Shunned? Because she left her husband?”
“Well, it was like that, back then. If a grown woman was not
living with a husband or a male relative, she was assumed to be an
adulterer. Unless, of course, she was a widow.”
Solvi gulped. “That would be enough to make one wear black.”
“Yes,” the woman said, looking at Solvi more closely. “It would.”

AFTER THE LECTURE, Solvi stumbled along the sidewalk, wrapped in

thought.
“What do you think happened to her?” Rikka asked.
“The Forgotten One? Oh, I don’t know. Probably she died poor
and alone, as they said.” Unmourned too, Solvi thought, with a pang
of sorrow.
“Well, I disagree,” said Rikka. “I say she married a sea captain
and traveled the world.”
“But she wasn’t divorced; she couldn’t have married again.”
“Maybe she pretended to be someone else or changed her name.”
Solvi glanced at her friend. She loved how Rikka never accepted
the simple answers. “You’re right. It’s got to be better than a solitary
death. Maybe she went to America as a stowaway, hiding in the
hold until they reached Boston.”
“Okay, she can be a stowaway, but she didn’t go to America,” said
Rikka. “Only farmers and dairymaids went to America. No, she must
have done something grand with her life—maybe she immigrated to
Africa to hunt lions. That would explain why she didn’t take her
children.”
“Maybe she went to South America,” said Solvi, starting to laugh.
“Maybe she went to China as a missionary!”
 “Or maybe she stayed in Kristiania and lived in the basements of
her sympathizers as their clandestine leader,” said Rikka. “Maybe
she was there tonight, one of those wizened owls in the back!”
“No,” Solvi said, her smile fading. “She must have left Kristiania.
It would have been too hard for her to stay here, watching her
children grow up without her.”
Rikka sighed. “The truth is, she probably isn’t real.”
Solvi stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean?” For some
reason this bothered her. “The speaker remembered her. Why would
you say that?”
“Well, such gures are often jumbled together from the
experiences of several people, and then the story gets embellished
over time. She became iconic, I suspect, because there was more
than one woman who said no.”
Solvi shook her head. “No, it’s not that long ago, just forty years.
There must be people who remember her.”
“Well, even if she was real, I doubt she had seven children. That
just sounds exaggerated.”
“A lot of people had big families back then,” Solvi muttered. The
Forgotten One must be real, Solvi thought. How could such a tale
start if there wasn’t someone real at the heart of it?
They soon reached the study house and just in time. Matron
locked the door behind them.
“Are you angry with me?” Rikka asked.
“Sorry—just tired, I guess.”
Rikka gave her a hug, and Solvi shut her door. Why did it matter
whether the Forgotten One was real? Solvi undressed and started
brushing out her hair. After a few minutes, she stopped.
Because if a woman had the courage to do all that, then she
shouldn’t be forgotten.

A FEW DAYS LATER, Matron handed Solvi another letter from her
mother.
It cut like broken glass.
 Dear Solvi, I have waited for weeks now—no, months—hoping for a
letter from you, but apparently you are too busy to remember me. I,
personally, don’t like telegrams, as they always make me think
someone has died. There is little to report here. Life is quite dull
now, without you and Grandfather. Lisanne came by again,
mysti ed that you haven’t written to her. At least send something to
her if you don’t have time to write to me.
Your Mother

Solvi, chastened, sat down at her desk.

Dear Mama: I’m sorry I haven’t written. How are you doing, and
how are Cook and Mathilde? I hope you are all well. I must tell you
that many exciting things are happening for me. First, university is
going well. I think my course of study will be history, although I also
enjoy literature.
I have good friends here at the study house, and we go to cafés
sometimes and, yes, talk with boys. I’ve also been learning to do
some rhythmic dancing, like Isadora Duncan. But don’t worry, there
are no boys in that class—just girls.
Despite what you might think, I’m being good and working hard.
Life in the study house is ne, though I miss Cook’s dinners. Please
tell her that. And I will write Lisanne soon, I promise.
Love, Solvi

She looked it over, then quickly added a postscript.

P.S. Is it possible that Grandfather’s name was originally Helmer?

I’ve found some evidence that he changed it to Fallesen later, after
you were born.

She mailed it rst thing the next morning, before she could
reconsider.

TWO DAYS LATER Rikka peeked in the library door. “Solvi! There’s
someone to see you.”
 Solvi looked up. Not her mother; please, not that. “Who is it,
Rikka?”
“You’ll just have to come see.”
Solvi followed, raking her ngers through her hair, praying.
There in the lobby was the last person she would have expected:
Dominik. Her stomach uttered.
He swept his cap o his head. “Hello, Solvi. I thought you might
like to get some air.”
Solvi had gone to the café several times hoping to run into him
but with no luck. She turned to Rikka. “Want to come?”
“Heavens, no. I’ve a million pages to read,” Rikka said, edging
toward the stairs and giving Solvi a sti smile. “Have fun.”
Solvi fetched her cape and put her camera around her neck. She
felt lightheaded with happiness.

SOLVI AND DOMINIK rst walked around the curve of the harbor, then
found a bench on a hill near the Akershus Fortress. Below them, the
passenger steamers to England and Bremerhaven were lined up
along the wharf. Farther away, trawlers and merchant ships
unloaded their wares. The early spring day was mild, but the ground
still held the cold. A few brave crocuses had pushed up and were
starting to bloom.
Solvi took a picture of the harbor, then put in a fresh plate, swung
around, and took one of Dominik gazing at her with a quizzical
expression.
“Hey, don’t you warn a fellow? I have a better side.” He twisted
around and mocked a pro le, nose high in the air. “Take one quick,
before I fall o this bench.”
“Oops, completely out of plates,” Solvi laughed. “I think I’ll like
the one I got.”
“Are you going to put it under your pillow?”
She ushed red. “We don’t know each other well enough to
discuss my pillow, Dominik.”
He grinned, unabashed. “When did you start taking
photographs?”
 “As a girl; my father got this camera to record rare owers. I was
his photographer.”
“So doesn’t he need it anymore? Or perhaps you stole it when you
left for university.”
Solvi looked at him. “He gave it to me before he died.”
Dominik ran his hands through his hair. “Oh, Lord, I apologize.
Sometimes I speak without thinking.”
“It’s all right,” she said, though she wondered at his manners.
“Do you always bring it along? I need to know if I’m going to be
taking you places.”
She snapped the camera closed and put it away. “Not necessarily.
I bring it when I need to feel braver; it helps me forget myself.”
“No need to be brave today,” he said, patting the bench next to
him. “I won’t bite.”
She sat down. “I’m not used to walking out with boys like this.”
He laughed. “Well, this is hardly a date, sitting up here on a
spring day. Perhaps I should arrange something more interesting,
something you could dress up for, like dinner or a dance.”
“Ah, maybe,” she said, trying not to sound eager. “But I’d have to
know you better.”
“Which is why we are here.” He pulled a sleeve of biscuits from
his pocket. “And I brought a little something in case we get hungry.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” she said, taking one.
“So, tell me more about your missing relatives,” he said. “Have
you found any clues?”
“Not really. I’m not even sure I’ve got the right family name.” She
told him about Mr. Stenberg’s ledgers as well as Helmer and
Fallesen. “I searched a cemetery one afternoon, but could only nd
a stone for a Johanna Helmer, who was too young to be my
grandmother. I don’t think she was related to me.”
He took a few biscuits. “I’m impressed that you’re looking for
them, Solvi. Most young women come to university to escape their
families.”
“What do you mean?”
“Many girls say they want to study, but they really just want to
leave home.”
 She laughed nervously. “Are you mocking me?”
“No. It’s just that sometimes I wonder how serious these girls are
about their studies. It’s a lot of work if they’re only going to marry
and have children.”
“But women like knowing things, just as men do,” Solvi said.
“And some of us will go into professions, like you university boys.
Rikka’s studying to be a doctor.”
“Yes, and I wish her luck ghting her way into that eld.” He
leaned his shoulder against Solvi for a moment. “But let’s not argue;
I can see you’re serious. Which class do you like best?”
“Norwegian History. It’s taught by Professor Wol —maybe you
know him?”
“I do. A bit radical for my taste, but a ne scholar, or so they say.
Do you have an essay topic yet?”
“Maybe. Have you ever heard about the Forgotten One?”
“Let me guess, some old agitator languishing in a dungeon.
Sounds boring.”
“No, it’s a woman, a genteel lady who left her family in 1880
because she wanted to be independent. One of the rst feminists.
Rikka and I heard a lecture about her last week.”
“Independent? She must have run o with another man.”
“She didn’t; that’s why she’s interesting,” Solvi said. “She tried to
nd work in Kristiania and live on her own, but it proved
impossible. Leaving her husband cost her everything—her children,
her position, her wealth, her protection. Eventually, she
disappeared. I thought I might try to nd out what happened to
her.”
“If she didn’t have a man to support her, she probably became a
prostitute.”
Solvi frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so. She was a respected society
lady, a mother.”
“But she did leave,” Dominik said. “She probably had little
money, unless someone gave her some. Without money, she would
have had to turn to prostitution.”
“I don’t know why you would insist on that, Dominik,” Solvi said,
growing irritated. “Maybe she found other work.”
 “But, Solvi, that’s what happened to women then. I agree, it’s not
a pretty picture, but it’s realistic. Prostitution exploded in the 1870s
and ’80s because so many men left the country for America and
there were few jobs for the women left behind. Some men
abandoned their families right there on the docks because they
couldn’t a ord passage for them. They were called America widows.
After a few months on the streets, they often turned to prostitution
to feed their children. The government actually built public brothels
where the women could nd men looking for their services.”
“That’s terrible,” Solvi said, pulling away from him. How had they
stumbled into a discussion of prostitution? “That couldn’t have
happened to the Forgotten One. She was a lady …”
“I’ve got a book for you—Albertine, published in the 1880s. It’s
the story of a young woman who gets tricked into prostitution. It
caused quite an uproar when it came out and was banned by the
government. If you’re going to write your essay about this Forgotten
One, you should read it.”
“But she was one of the rst feminists,” Solvi said, her face red.
Dominik stood, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Let’s get some cocoa.”
He took her arm and steered her down the hill. “Would you like to
have supper with me next week?”
“But we’re arguing.”
He squeezed her elbow. “That just means I like you, Solvi. I only
argue with people I take seriously. You want to be taken seriously,
don’t you?”
Her stomach uttered again. “Well, I suppose so.”
“How about Wednesday? Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay,” she murmured. She was still a bit angry with him for
dismissing the Forgotten One as a common prostitute, but as they
walked to the café she tried to let that go. He knew more, had read
more, she thought.
And perhaps that was how love worked—no one was perfect; no
one was quite who you wanted them to be.
“THEY CALL HER THE FORGOTTEN ONE, the woman who rst said no,” Solvi
said. “Do you think Professor Wol would approve that as my essay
topic?”
Magnus handed her the sugar bowl. They had come to the pastry
shop every week now after history class, though Solvi told herself it
meant nothing.
Magnus cocked his head. “Today it would be easier for a woman
to strike out on her own, obviously,” he said. “But in the 1880s?
Maybe she could have worked as a maid or found a job in the
factories, but if she was from the upper class, she would hardly have
been suited for such work. I think Professor Wol would be
interested. Tell him you want to write about the Woman Question—
that’s what they called it back then.”
“It’s time someone wrote about that era, isn’t it? I mean, now that
we’ve progressed to an answer.”
“An answer to the Woman Question?” Magnus said, pulling back
in surprise. “Good Lord, what is it?”
She laughed. “It’s quite simple: let women have everything men
have.”
“Are you suggesting men share their power and authority?”
“Yes, but there will be advantages,” Solvi said. “Perhaps there’ll
be no need for war. If women are leaders, calmer heads might
prevail, and all the men could stay home, safely farming and shing
or going to their o ces.”
“Put that in your essay,” Magnus said. “If you do a good job, you
might sell it to the newspaper. That reminds me, did you bring your
photographs of the housemaids? I’ve wanted to see what the fuss is
all about.”
She nodded, pulling out her album and sliding it toward him.
Then she jumped to her feet, too nervous to watch. “I’ll get more
co ee.”
When she returned, he gave her a piercing look, then looked back
at the pages, lea ng through them slowly.
Finally he spoke. “These are wonderful, Solvi. You’ve got an
artist’s eye, but they’re also intelligent.”
 She smiled with relief. She desperately wanted her friends to
understand her work.
“I’m sure the editor will be interested,” Magnus said. “Can I take
this to show him?”
Solvi thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “But only
because I trust you, Magnus. Don’t leave it with him.”
“I’ll guard it with my life.”

RIKKA NUDGED SOLVI at supper that night. “Have you written to your
friends for permission to use the housemaid photographs? Petra
asked me today.”
Solvi just looked at her.
“You haven’t, have you?” Rikka said, with an admonishing scowl.
“I’m afraid, Rikka.”
“Afraid of what?”
Solvi started to say she was afraid it would get back to her
mother, but then she realized it wasn’t about her mother. “I’m afraid
my friend Lisanne will never speak to me again.”
Rikka started to speak, but Solvi stopped her. “Please don’t say no
progress without risk. That doesn’t help me when I’m betraying
people I care about.”
Rikka looked down. “I was just going to say that if Lisanne is
worthy of your friendship, either she’ll try to get permission, or if
she can’t, she’ll forgive you for asking.”

UPSTAIRS, SOLVI WROTE LISANNEa long, chatty letter. She imagined them
sitting together in their favorite Bergen co ee shop, sharing secrets
again. She told her about life in Kristiania, working at the photo
shop, studying with the young men at the university. At the end, in
a postscript, Solvi asked, as politely as she could, if Lisanne might
get permission from the maids and her family so that Solvi could
publish the pictures.
The next morning, sorry and sad, she stu ed it in the post.
WHEN WEDNESDAY CAME, Solvi put on her nicest out t and waited
nervously for Dominik in the lobby of the study house. She wasn’t
sure why, but she didn’t want Rikka to know she was going out with
him.
When he arrived, she bustled him back out the door before he
could get his cap o .
“You’re happy to see me, Solvi,” Dominik said.
She just smiled.

THE RESTAURANT was all candlelight and luminous shadow, fancier

than Solvi had expected. Dominik ordered wine and raised his glass.
“To Solvi and her Forgotten One.”
Her brow knit. “Let’s not start the conversation there, Dominik.”
He gave her a mischievous smile. “But it’s a great topic, Solvi, and
I was just getting going the other day!”
“Thank you very much, but I’ll research it myself,” she said.
“I’m trying to nd a copy of Albertine for you,” he said, gulping
down half his glass and smiling at her over the candles. “Most were
burned by the government, but a few survived.”
She watched him. Something about him made her think of a fox—
quick, sharp eyed, liable to nip if you didn’t watch out. “Tell me
about your family, Dominik. We didn’t get to them the other day.”
“They’re boring,” he said, pouring himself more wine.
“Indulge me,” Solvi said.
“Well, all right. Let’s see, my father’s a lawyer who works for the
mining companies, my brother’s reading the law, my mother shops
in Copenhagen. Old Kristiania money, I’m afraid.”
“Have you always lived here?”
“My father came to Kristiania from Røros as a young man to make
his fortune, then later built a house in Homans Byen, which is where
I grew up.”
“You’re lucky to have a brother.”
“I suppose, though he’s not much fun now that he studies all the
time. It’s rather clipped his wings.”
 “I wish I had siblings,” Solvi said. “It’s hard to be your mother’s
only child.”
“She must be fairly open-minded, allowing you to come to
university.”
“She tried to forbid me, but I came anyway.”
Dominik gave her a sidelong look. “A rebel. My favorite type.”
Solvi looked away so he wouldn’t see how this pleased her. “No,
Rikka’s the rebel, not me.”
“Rikka is, hmm, how should I put this? Rikka’s tough and brittle,
too hard.”
“She nursed soldiers in France. That would make anyone hard.”
“No, I like a girl with a little give,” Dominik said, reaching out
and tugging a lock of Solvi’s hair. “A bit of feminine softness.”
Solvi blushed again.
“But honestly, Solvi, don’t you have a more stylish dress?”
Solvi looked down at her silk, chosen by her mother. It was lovely
but demure. “Is something wrong with this one?”
“It’s okay, I guess; I just mean one you can dance in. You know,
sleeveless, where your knees show when you kick.”
“Dominik, why are you asking me this?”
“My club is hosting a dance next Saturday night. I’d like you to
come.”
“Oh,” Solvi said. She had never been asked to a dance before.
“What kind of club is it?”
“You’re sounding like a very proper young lady, Solvi,” he teased.
“It’s my residence club. Most of the male students live in one; mine
just happens to be the best.”
“What makes it the best?”
He leaned across the table, his eyes twinkling at her. “We’re the
smartest and handsomest, and if your mother would like to know,
the boys come from the best families.”
“Well,” Solvi said, “I’ll just have to see for myself.”
 CHAPTER NINE

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

Anders brought me a cup of tea. He was normally a traditional man,

expecting me to keep the house and manage the kitchen, but every
evening, in this way, he treated me like royalty.
I had not deserved him, this steadfast and tender man. Some back
in Norway would have said he didn’t deserve me, a lady raised and
educated for the life of the parlor. But he rescued me, three times
over, and I would always be grateful. At the end of the day, our
di erent breeding meant nothing.
Because what was marriage, really, beyond a web of small
gestures and kindnesses? It was not the promise we made at the
altar; it was the living of that promise, however many compromises
must be made. It was like pouring wine into a glass. A drop meant
nothing; it was the fullness that mattered.
Maybe that was what went wrong with my marriage to Torvald,
though at the time I could not have named it. There was little
kindness between us. Instead, there was electricity, but it burned my
ngers as often as it excited or illuminated my life. And it didn’t
last.
I sat beside Anders and watched him slowly whittle away at a tiny
block of wood. He was famous in town for his carving and recently
had been making little toy animals to sell. Now he was carving a
goose, a little bird with its beak tucked under a wing. But then I
looked more closely. It was two geese, nestled together. A mated
pair.
“That’s a bit odd for a child’s toy,” I said. “Don’t horses and sheep
sell better?”
“This is not a toy,” he said, taking up a bit of sandpaper and
polishing the backs of the geese. He examined it, fussed at it with
the knife for another moment, bu ed it with a cloth, then handed it
to me. “This is for you.”

NORA
May 1881 Kristiania, Norway

The next morning I took my pearls and went to the shipping o ce

early, ling contracts while I waited for Mr. Nielsen. When he
arrived, he greeted me with an approving nod.
“Good to see you working industriously, Mrs. Solberg,” he said,
taking o his coat. “I think the weather may lift soon. It seems to be
warming.”
“Mr. Nielsen, I need to ask you something.”
He looked up sharply, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Mrs. Solberg?”
I pulled my pearls out of the little bag at my waist. “I’d like to
purchase a ticket to America. I don’t know what these pearls are
worth, but perhaps—as reward for my hard work—you could accept
them as payment.” I held them up to the light so he could see how
ne they were.
He leaned back with a sigh, ignoring the pearls. “You would
leave, now that I’ve nally trained you to be of some use? And ask
for my help to do so?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nielsen, but I cannot stay in Norway any longer.”
“Why? Has the law nally caught up with you?”
I ushed—with guilt, anger, dismay. “Whatever do you mean, Mr.
Nielsen?”
“Come now, Mrs. Solberg. You’re a re ned, well-educated widow
living in a squalid rooming house in Vika. Yes, I’ve followed you. I
don’t know what you’re hiding, but you’re hiding something.”
I stared at him, then shook the pearls. “Please, have some
kindness, Mr. Nielsen. Help me do this.”
“Why should I?” he said, standing up.
“Perhaps I could earn the fare working extra hours.”
 He barked a laugh. “It would take you years to earn your passage,
my dear. Besides, why America? Have you any idea what it’s like
over there for single women?”
“Many single women make the journey. I’ve seen them.”
“Yes, rough peasant girls, willing to marry some dull farmer and
work in the elds the rest of their lives. I hardly think that’s the life
for you.”
Now he leaned toward me, his unwelcome breath and thick
cologne lling my nose. “The hard truth, Mrs. Solberg, is that you
cannot a ord passage, pearls or no pearls, so give up this foolish
notion. I’m sure you can work out your little problem so you can
stay in Kristiania.”
He turned and picked up some papers. “In time, if you perform
well, I might consider taking you on as my business partner. With
your help I could expand, represent other steamship lines.” He
cleared his throat. “We might even marry someday.”
I inched.
He glanced at me. “I could restore you to respectability, Mrs.
Solberg.”
All I could do was stare at him, mute.
Someone tapped on the window. “Is the o ce open today?”
Mr. Nielsen went to the door. “I’m not promising anything, Mrs.
Solberg, but consider it. When you think of the rigors of life in
America—and it can be brutal over there—I’m sure you’ll come to
your senses.” With that he swung the door open, and the anxious
emigrants pushed into the room. I spent the rest of the morning
reading over contracts, avoiding his eye.

LATER THAT DAY, just before closing, a dark-haired man in a worn but
well-made coat stepped up to my counter. His face radiated both
intelligence and grief, and his muscular shoulders fell forward in a
stoop. He gave me a tense nod, then pulled out a sheaf of papers
and searched through them. I noticed his hands were calloused, like
those of a tradesman. A cooper or carpenter most likely, probably of
some education. He had ve tickets.
 He handed one to me, issued to an Inge Eriksen. “My wife,” he
said in a hoarse whisper. “She’s passed away and therefore has no
use for it. I would like to have my money refunded.”
I looked into his deep-set eyes, pools of sorrow. “I am very sorry
for your loss, sir. Let me ask the agent.”
Mr. Nielsen slid over and peered at the ticket. “Your contract, sir,”
Mr. Nielsen demanded.
“My children and I sail on the Angelo Friday, but as my wife has
unfortunately died, I’d like a refund,” the man said. “I understand I
cannot sell the ticket to someone else.”
“That is correct,” Mr. Nielsen said, scanning the contract. “Ah,
here it is: The White Star Line is not required to reimburse you for an
unused ticket, but you may petition the court, which will order restitution
if it is deemed valid.” He tapped the paper. “It’s right there, in the
contract you signed.”
“Petition the court? That could take months! How am I to argue
my case from America?”
“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps you can le your petition before you
leave and hope for a settlement sometime in the following year.”
The agent folded his arms across his chest. “They do have mail in
America.”
The tradesman glared at Mr. Nielsen for a long moment. “How
would I le such a petition?”
“I don’t know. You could speak to a solicitor.” Mr. Nielsen sighed.
“Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr. Eriksen?”
“No. You’ve done nothing and apparently will do nothing.” He
gathered his papers and turned to leave, then glanced back at me
and tipped his cap. “Thank you, ma’am.”
I stood behind the counter, paralyzed. My mind had suddenly
lled with an astonishing thought, and all I could do was hold it in
wonder. I could not speak, could not move. And then I realized I
must speak and move, or Mr. Nielsen would think of it, too. I helped
the last customer of the day, then stacked papers and tidied up. Mr.
Nielsen put the “Closed” notice in the window and pulled the
shades.
I grabbed my coat and hat.
 “O early? We’ve les to tend to.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nielsen. I need to take care of some business
before the shops close. That’s why I came in early.” I slowed down
and looked around the o ce for a moment so he wouldn’t get
suspicious.
He scowled. “I’d prefer you ask permission to leave early.”
“Yes, well, I’ll come in early tomorrow. Just leave the les for
me.”
I slammed the door before he could respond.

EXCITEMENT DRUMMED IN MY CHEST as I scanned the wharf. Where had

the man gone? I walked quickly toward the emigrant rooming
houses. His children must be waiting. I began to worry that I had
lost him, then saw him staring in a market window.
“Mr. Eriksen!”
He turned with a start. “Why, ma’am …”
“Mrs. Solberg,” I said, holding out my hand. “I apologize for the
shipping agent. He has little sympathy for passengers.” I pushed a
strand of hair o my face. “Emigrating is such an anxious time for
most families.”
“You’re very kind, ma’am,” Mr. Eriksen said. “I’m not sure what I
expected. I’ve heard the agents are often di cult.”
“Well, I followed you because I wanted to say, ah, that …,” I
hesitated, caution getting hold of my tongue, “that I know a few
solicitors in Kristiania, if you’d like a reference.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I was counting on
selling Inge’s ticket, as it will cost us nearly all we have to reach
Minnesota.”
“Where in Minnesota are you going?”
“The western prairie. My brother is there and doing fairly well,
now that the grasshoppers have retreated.”
“I admire you, Mr. Eriksen, emigrating with three children after
losing your wife.”
“I’ve little choice. We sold everything so have nothing to go back
to.” He looked down at his hands. “The baby is just two months old,
but I have a strong girl, Birgitte. She’ll be mother to him now.”
“And the third?”
“Another boy, my right hand, though still a child. Jens.”
A plan was gathering in my head. “Perhaps I could persuade the
agent to make some accommodation. Where are you staying in case
I need to nd you?”
“That’s very kind, ma’am, but I doubt you’d know it. The White
Gull, in Vika.”
“Yes, I know it. I live in Vika.”
“You do?” He looked at me, puzzled. “I would hardly have
imagined …”
“Yes, well, life moves in mysterious ways.”
“Most would say God moves in mysterious ways.”
“I don’t know where God has gone,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Solberg. Good
night.”
I headed home, my mind turning.

THE NEXT DAY I put on a simple skirt, then threw my old shawl over
my head. I felt like an actor again, as if my own self was dissolving
away. Instead of going to the shipping o ce, I went to the White
Gull in search of Mr. Eriksen.
At the emigrant inn, families were already stacking their bags
alongside the wagons that would take them to the wharf. Inside,
travelers at rough tables bent over their porridge.
Mr. Eriksen and his children were bunched in a corner. The girl
was tall, perhaps twelve or thirteen, almost a young woman. She
held the infant on her lap as she tried to eat, but the baby fretted
and squirmed. Her brother Jens seemed about Ivar’s age; he was
poking the baby to distract him. They were dark haired and blue
eyed, all of them.
“Mr. Eriksen,” I said. “Good morning.”
He spun around. “Why, Mrs. Solberg! Good morning. Have you an
answer already?”
 I hesitated, then shook my head. “No, not an answer but possibly
a solution. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
He studied me for a long moment, then turned and whispered to
his children. Birgitte shot me a piercing look.
Mr. Eriksen followed me outside. “Mrs. Solberg, please explain.”
“It’s quite simple, Mr. Eriksen. You have a ticket to America you
cannot use and an infant. I’ve been a mother three times over, and I
need to go to America.”
He stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“You have a ticket, and I need passage.”
He choked out a hoarse laugh. “Don’t play with me, Mrs.
Solberg.”
“Please, Mr. Eriksen. I thought we might reach some agreement. I
will accompany your family and care for the baby as long as you
think appropriate in exchange for passage to America.”
“But you heard the agent. I can’t sell the ticket. They won’t even
let me give it to you.”
“Yes, but I’ve thought of a way,” I said, looking about to make
sure no one was listening. “I hope this won’t o end you, but if I,
well, if I posed as your wife, Mr. Eriksen. Just for the voyage.”
“Posed as …” He stepped back and ran his hands through his hair.
“Wouldn’t that be illegal?”
I lowered my voice. “Perhaps, but no one will think to question
us. The agents just want to get one ship loaded so they can turn to
the next. If we travel as a family, we’ll blend in with the others.”
“They know you; they’ll recognize you.”
“Not the Wilson Line agents, who register us the morning of
departure. Mr. Nielsen works for the White Star Line only. He
doesn’t like the Wilson Line agents, so he has as little to do with
them as possible. If I keep my head down, I should be able to get
aboard without being spotted. If I carry the baby, no one will
question that I am your wife.”
“But you don’t look like my wife!” He waved at my attire. “It’s all
wrong, and anyone would spot it. You’re too ne. Yesterday you
didn’t wear a blanket as a shawl.”
 “I’ll change what I wear. I’ll wear your wife’s clothes—surely you
have them.”
“Your face and hair, your language …”
“I’ll roughen my face, and I won’t speak. You’ll talk for us.”
He considered me for so long, I was sure he would refuse. “Where
is your family, if I may ask?”
I looked down for a moment to compose my face. “I lost them, all
of them,” I said. “Some years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said, with a sti nod. “I’m sure that’s
been quite di cult for you. Is that why you want to leave Norway
now, in this sudden way? I’ve a right to know.”
“Of course, but it’s complicated,” I said. “The shipping agent, just
yesterday, started pressuring me to marry him, and he’s threatening
to re me if I refuse. But I can’t bear the thought of him—you saw
how he is!” I paused, breathless that this was what I had chosen to
say. “Norway has been a place of great sorrow for me, Mr. Eriksen. I
started dreaming of America as a way of forgetting what happened
here, but it will take me years to earn my passage.”
He listened to this with an inscrutable face.
“If I lose my job in the shipping o ce, there’s little else I can do
here in Kristiania. I know, because I’ve tried everything. But in
America there would be better opportunities.”
“But we’re going to farm. You couldn’t possibly know what that
will be like.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Eriksen. Tell me your plans, and I’ll
judge what I can do.”
He gave me a steely look. “It’s a homestead outside a small village
in far western Minnesota, near the Dakota border. The county, Lac
qui Parle, was only recently settled, though there were trappers and
missionaries earlier, before the Indian Wars.”
“But those wars were twenty years ago,” I said. “Surely Minnesota
is safe.”
“Yes, but where we’re settling has only recently been abandoned
by the Indians. There’s a lake lled with duck and geese, with wood
around it, my brother says.”
“How long have they worked their homestead?”
 “Several years. We’ll stay with them to start, then nd a farm
nearby to buy. I need a homestead with a dwelling, as I won’t have
time to build one myself before the snow comes. The winters in
Minnesota are very cold, even worse than Gudbrandsdalen, where
we’re from.”
I nodded. Gudbrandsdalen, surrounded by Norway’s highest
peaks. Lush in summer but forbidding in winter. I thought of his
calloused hands. “Are you a wood carver? My father traveled to
Gudbrandsdalen once and brought back the most exquisite carved
mirror.”
“Yes. My father owned a large dairy farm, which was left to my
older brother. I was apprenticed to a local carver, who also educated
me. When I married, my brother leased me a house and enough
pasture to keep a few cows, but I could no longer make a living
carving, as so many have emigrated. My younger brother, Gustaf,
managed the farm for our brother, but it chafed at his pride. After
watching friends leave for America, he went too. They have a boy
now, born in Minnesota.”
We fell silent. Finally, something in him began to yield. “What
would be the terms of your employment?”
“I would care for the infant and, with Birgitte’s help, manage the
housework. I know nothing of farming, but I could teach the
children.”
“They already read and write but need more schooling. What
education do you have?”
“I graduated from a private academy in Hamar. I speak some
English.”
“Why don’t you teach? I would think that sensible for a woman in
your position.”
“I did, for a time,” I lied. “The pay was poor and the girls quite
spoiled.”
He accepted that, and then I knew he would agree.
“But you and I cannot live together, after we move to our own
farm,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to pose as man and wife in
America.”
 “No, of course not,” I said, shaking my head. “Only for the
voyage.”
“You could stay with my brother’s family and help in both
households. I believe his wife will soon have another con nement.”
“That would be ne. Do you think a year of work would be
appropriate?”
He nodded. “I suppose we’ll provide your board. What of your
clothes?”
“I have what I need.”
We quickly talked out the details. I would dress as his wife and
travel with her emigration papers, issued before her death. Inge
Eriksen, exhausted from the birth and preparations for the trip, died
of a fever just days into their journey out of the mountains, he told
me. They stopped only to bury her in Lillehammer, fearful of
missing the ship. He said he would give me one of his wife’s woven
skirts and her shawl, so that I would look like part of the family.
“Birgitte will wear a skirt like it,” he said.
Then he cocked his head. “You were wealthy once.”
“Never wealthy, Mr. Eriksen,” I said, reddening. “I was
comfortable, but I didn’t marry well, and we struggled to make ends
meet.”
“I don’t mean to o end, Mrs. Solberg. I just need to understand
the person I’m hiring.” He looked away. “I do need help with the
child, as Birgitte is not yet adept. I believe the baby misses his
mother as much as the rest of us. He cries so.”
“I’ll do what I can for him, Mr. Eriksen.”
With that we shook hands, and I promised to stop by the next day
for Inge’s clothes.
“What will you do when you’re done working for us?” he asked.
“I’d like to nd a job in Chicago,” I said. “There are
neighborhoods where they speak Norwegian. I hope to serve as
governess for a family.”
“You’ve thought this out,” he said.
I nodded—another fabrication—then said good-bye.
LATER, I huddled with Tobias beside the re at the rooming house.
“I’ve something important to tell you—I’m going to America! We
leave this Friday.”
He opened his mouth, but I quickly squeezed his hand. “Shhh. It’s
a secret.”
He nodded, eyes wide. “I can scarcely believe it!” he whispered. “I
had no idea you’d saved enough for a ticket! Did you sell a secret
stash of jewelry?”
I blushed. Perhaps I was more transparent than I thought. “No,
I’m earning my way across. I’m going with a family to care for an
infant.”
“As a nurse? As their maid?”
“Like a member of the family.” I told him the story of Mr. Eriksen,
the baby, the wife buried in Lillehammer, and the farm in
Minnesota.
He listened intently, but when I was nished he sat back in
dismay. “Mrs. Solberg, you can’t do this!”
“I know it sounds like madness, but I must leave Norway, and it’s
the only way possible.”
“But it could be dangerous. You don’t know this man; he could be
a brute! Does he expect you to live in the same house with him? It’s
lonely on the prairie, Nora.”
“No. His brother and wife are nearby,” I said. “The baby and I
will live with them.”
He just shook his head.
I leaned forward. “Listen, Tobias, I understand how it looks, going
with a stranger, but he’s a good man. I’ve seen how he speaks to his
family, and he clearly loved his wife. There are years of hard work
in his hands and shoulders. He wants me to teach his children,
Tobias. He trusts me with the baby. And if it turns out I’ve
misjudged him, I’ll walk away once I’m over there.”
Tobias just looked at me. “But Mrs. Solberg, the prairie is so
isolated, and you’ve no idea what it will be like living with his
relatives. It may be a very poor farm—some of them barely scrape
out a living—and you will be trapped for a year of labor. What do
you know of farmwork?”
“Please, Tobias. I must believe I can do this, because I’ve little
choice.” He was right—I had no idea what it would be like working
for this family, but it didn’t matter. I was con dent I could nd my
way to what I needed.
He reached out and took my hands. “Maybe you need another
choice, Mrs. Solberg. Or, if I may, Nora—.” His eyes blazed at me.
I stared at him in wonder. “Tobias, no, please …”
“I know I’m young, and I can’t o er you anything now, but if
you’ll wait for me, until I nish my degree, maybe we could go to
America together.”
“Oh, Tobias,” I said. “You’ve been so kind to me, but I am far too
old for you! You need someone young and interesting, someone
with her life before her. Not a compromised woman like me,
running from her husband. And he is coming for me, Tobias, maybe
not today, but soon. I need to go far away to be safe. The American
prairie is so distant, so distant …” I choked and my eyes lled. A
vast gulf would open between me and Torvald, yes, but also
between me and my children and my dear friend Tobias.
He gazed at me, disappointment in his eyes. Finally, he nodded,
resigned. “Perhaps you can write to me when you get to America, so
I’ll know where to nd you.”
“Of course.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Just keep my secret, Tobias, always and forever. Don’t even tell
Erlend. No one can ever know.”
He looked at me, solemn now. “Of course. I promise.”

I NEVER RETURNED to the shipping o ce, as I dared not face Mr.

Nielsen again. Instead, I took my mourning gowns, corset, and
veiled hat the next morning and gave them to my friend the
America widow, with a fond farewell.
“I’m o to Minnesota,” I said, handing her my widow’s wear. How
glad I was to get rid of it. “I won’t need these any longer,” I said.
 She took the things gratefully, but I could see the envy in her
eyes.
“I wish you could go with me,” I told her.
“Aye, as do I.” She put on the hat. “I suppose I’m a true widow
now, Mrs. Solberg.”
“Good-bye, dear friend. I hope to see you in America someday.”
She gave me several cakes, which I put in my pocket. Then I
walked to the White Gull.

AS ARRANGED, Mr. Eriksen met me outside and led me upstairs to a

cramped room. Birgitte sat with her brothers on a cot, knitting a
small shirt. Jens entertained the baby with a carved wooden horse.
They looked up wordlessly when I said hello.
“I’ve brought you a treat,” I said, handing them the little cakes.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jens. “May we eat them, Papa?”
“Yes, as soon as your sister says thank you to Mrs. Solberg.”
“Thank you,” Birgitte said, with a sullen look, though her mouth
registered grief more than anger.
The children unwrapped their cakes and ate them in the awkward
silence. I suddenly saw how much I was intruding on their privacy.
It had only been two weeks since their mother’s death.
“Let me see what we can nd for you to wear,” Mr. Eriksen said,
jumping up and bustling about nervously. He cleared some space,
then opened the rosemaled chest his wife, Inge, had packed before
they left. He sorted through stacks of clothes, nally handing me
one of his wife’s woven skirts and a black rose-embroidered shawl to
wear on the ship.
They must have been a family of some wealth, because at the
bottom of the trunk were heirlooms—silver spoons, carved wooden
candlesticks, the thick blue skirt and owered vest of a traditional
Gudbrandsdalen bunad. Everything was beautifully crafted.
There was also a small wooden box. “My woodworking tools,” Mr.
Eriksen said. Then he pulled out a sewing bag of embroidered felt.
“Women’s tools. You should carry it as part of your disguise.”
Birgitte put down her knitting.
 I opened the sewing bag; everything was so neatly kept. My own
jumbled sewing kit would t inside.
“Shouldn’t I have Mama’s sewing bag?” Birgitte said.
“Yes, of course,” I said, handing it to her. “I didn’t mean …”
“No,” said Mr. Eriksen, putting it in my pile. “For now. For the
voyage. We have to be as faithful to the truth as we can be, or no
one will believe us.”
“To the truth?” Birgitte squeaked, in disbelief. She’d only known
me a few minutes and had already drawn her battle lines.
“To the truth we want them to believe,” her father said. “This is
no time to quibble with me, Birgitte.”
The girl turned away, her jaw working.
I sighed. Would we be safe with this fuming girl in our midst?
Mr. Eriksen just pushed ahead. Ignoring his daughter, he handed
me the baby, so I could get to know him a little. The child gazed up
at me from his swaddling. The familiar weight in my arms nearly
brought me to tears. He reminded me of Bobby, with his silken curls
and observant blue eyes.
Then he began to fuss.
“He doesn’t like her,” Birgitte said.
“He’s hungry, Birgitte,” Mr. Eriksen said. “Get his ask.”
Birgitte prepared the suckling ask, then passed it to me with a
challenging look, as if she doubted I’d ever fed an infant before.
Fortunately, I knew how the ask worked, and Tomas sucked
eagerly. Birgitte took up her knitting again, pulling angrily at a row
of loops.
“We will also need food for the train travel,” I said. “We may not
have time to get it in New York. Dried apples, cheeses and sausages,
and crackers. And, of course, cans of milk for Tomas.”
“Yes, I will get it this afternoon,” Mr. Eriksen said. “We can
restock in Minnesota when we get the wagon.”
I looked up at him. “I didn’t imagine we’d be traveling by
wagon.”
“There’s no railroad yet to Lac qui Parle. We’ll get a wagon and
oxen at the end of the rail line and walk from there. It will only take
a couple of days.”
 Walk across the prairie? I handed Tomas back to his sister. Would
I be able to do this? Would I be expected to carry the child on such
a journey?
“Thank you, Mr. Eriksen,” I said, picking up the bundle of things
he set aside for me. “If there isn’t anything else, I will meet you on
the wharf tomorrow morning.” I bid good-bye to Birgitte and Jens
and left them to themselves.

BACK AT THE ROOMING HOUSE, the immensity of what I was doing began
to ll me with dread. Would I ever return to Norway, ever see my
children again? There would be many dangers on the prairie—
snakes, cyclones, men of little decency. And Tobias was right—I
knew nothing of Mr. Eriksen. I tried to imagine living in his
brother’s house, a primitive cabin with few comforts. But there
would be a stove, no doubt, and maybe a rocking chair. I could see
myself feeding Tomas, helping with meals. At least there would be
another woman, and they appeared honest folk. Small things were
reassuring—the ne bunad and silver spoons packed in the chest,
Jens entertaining Tomas with the toy horse. How could malice be
harbored in such a family? Birgitte might be di cult at rst, but
that was understandable.
What they carried was sorrow rather than malice, I thought, and
sorrow I could handle. Sorrow I knew.
Tobias knocked to see if I needed anything, so I asked him to
trade my wooden chest for his old valise. He agreed reluctantly.
“Please be happy for me, Tobias. You’re the one who told me to
go to America!”
“But not like this, like stepping o a cli ! You’re a lady, Mrs.
Solberg!”
“Tobias, I’m stronger than I look.” I stopped, thinking how to
explain. “I’m like those pregnant girls on the wharf, Tobias, carrying
something in my womb, something only partly formed but
important. It cannot grow here in Kristiania—even if I were restored
to my class. I see that now. It needs space and freedom, or it will
never ourish. And so, I too must go to America.”
 He gazed at me, solemn and sad, then left me alone so I could
pack.

I TUCKED MY VALUABLES inside my drawstring bag: my money and the

silver pickle forks; the letter from my children, Emma’s cap, and the
picture of my family; then my own certi cate of baptism and Ivar’s
stone—strangely precious to me. I tested the bag around my waist,
then sewed my pearls back into my shift. In the valise I packed
Chopin’s Mazurkas, my English grammar and other books, then the
few clothes I had left. On the ship, I would wear my plainest dress
beneath Inge’s woven skirt, with her shawl over my head.
Later, Tobias and I slipped out for one last walk. He o ered me
his arm and chatted to ease my mind. Soon we stood in front of
Torvald’s apartment. Lamps ickered in the parlor—Torvald would
be reading beside the tiled stove. We crept into the courtyard so I
could gaze up at the darkened nursery window. They were in there,
so close. I imagined myself moving about that familiar room,
leaning over each bed. Good-bye, Ivar, and forgive me. Good-bye,
my Bobby. Good-bye, sweet Emma. I’ll come back for you someday
—I promise.
Tobias, concerned someone would hear me weeping, nally led
me out.

WHEN WE GOT BACK to the rooming house, the boys were celebrating a
visit from a well-known Danish intellectual, toasting him with
bottles of beer. I could not share their mood, so said good night and
retired.
My sadness felt like a deep well in my heart, and I stood beside it,
bucket in hand. But I didn’t dare lower the bucket, for fear that it
would pull me in.
I washed, then let down my hair and brushed it long and hard—
suspended between all that was familiar and all that was unknown.
When the brushing was done, I braided my locks into two thick
ropes, then pinned them across my head like a dairymaid.
I climbed into bed and tried to sleep.
THE HAMMERING came deep in the night, waking me with a start. Then
the sound of boots, many boots, entering the rooming house and
moving up the stairs.
Had the day started, this day of days? Suddenly, there were voices
as well. Angry voices. I jumped up and threw on my dress, tossed
my bag under my mattress, then peeked out the window. It was
blacker than midnight outside.
I crept from my room into the kitchen. I could see the glimmer of
torchlight under the door that led to the parlor. Now I heard
shouting, then furniture crashing and footsteps tumbling down the
stairwell. I cracked the door.
Police were everywhere, sticks swinging, boys ghting, boys on
the oor. Some being kicked.
I retreated into the shadows. No, not on this night.
Then, two policemen, with a lantern, looking for me. “Nora
Helmer?”
“My name is Solberg.”
One pulled out a rope. “Turn around.”
I stepped back and tried to look as imperious as possible. “What
are you doing? Are you arresting me?”
“If you cooperate, you have nothing to worry about,” the older
one said. “Everyone in this house is under arrest, for sedition.”
Then, before I could think about the consequences, I lied. “I am
not one of them.”
The policemen looked at me and laughed.
“But I’ve never done anything seditious,” I protested. “I’m a
simple seamstress; I wouldn’t know how!”
“That’s not what I heard, Mrs. Helmer,” the other one said. He
grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the front door. He had the
strength of a bulldog.
In the parlor students and police still scu ed, though the police
were getting the upper hand. Through the fray I spotted Tobias, his
hands bound. He rose from a bench. “Mrs. Solberg!”
A policeman whirled about and clubbed him on the head; Tobias
sank to the ground. The shock jolted me fully awake. My friend, my
truest friend in the world, lay limp. Blood started to pool beside his
head.
Shame shot through me. How could I have denied that I was one
of them? I tried to jerk away, to go to Tobias, but the o cer pushed
me through the crowd and out the front door.
On the street, they were loading the boys into a wagon, but they
hustled me into a small carriage. There were two men inside. One
was a policeman, but the other wore a dark coat and a hat pulled
low so I couldn’t see his face.
“Good evening, Mrs. Helmer,” he said.
“My name is Nora Solberg. If you’re looking for a Mrs. Helmer,
you’ve made a grave mistake.”
The man laughed gently. “Solberg, Helmer, it doesn’t matter. We
know who you are.”
I couldn’t help but shiver. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the police station.”
“Why?”
“We’ll explain when we get there.”
Then I understood. Torvald must have sent them. The police were
rounding up the boys as cover. If it wasn’t for me, they never would
have come to this rooming house. These students weren’t any more
seditious than anyone else in Vika.
No, they came for me, and now Tobias was hurt, possibly worse. I
turned away so they couldn’t see my face. Why had I said I wasn’t
one of them? Of course I was. When I had nowhere else to hide, the
students had accepted and sheltered me. Tobias, in particular, had
counseled me, listened to me, protected me. And now he lay
injured, because of me.
Here I was again, in trouble and trying to slip the trap by denying
my truth. No, I am not a wife; I am not a mother; I am not a friend.
That was the root of the shame, right there.

WHEN THE CARRIAGE FINALLY STOPPED, the men bundled me into the
police station and then into a small room. A senior o cer, possibly
the commissioner, shouldered his way in and tossed my drawstring
bag on a table. They had searched my room.
“Well, well, Mrs. Helmer. We looked all over town for you. Your
husband insisted you wouldn’t be in Vika, but there you were. It
makes sense to me now.”
I ushed. “I hid in Vika because I knew my honor would protect
me. No one would suspect it.”
“Until we questioned your honor,” he said.
“I am not a prostitute, if that is what you are implying. And my
name is Solberg.”
He pulled a folded paper from his coat. “You were baptized
Solberg, but your married name is Helmer.” He had my marriage
certi cate; Torvald must have sent them.
“Since you’ve been lying, let’s see what we have here,” the
commissioner said, dumping the contents of my bag on the table.
“An interesting collection, Mrs. Helmer.” He picked up the small
cloth bundle that held the little pickle forks and untied it. The
shimmer of the silver seemed strange in the starkness of the
interrogation room.
“Did you steal these?”
“No, they’re mine,” I said. “They were … my mother’s.”
“You do know, Mrs. Helmer, that because you are still married,
everything belongs to your husband. Even if they were your
mother’s. That’s the law.”
“I apologize. I didn’t know the silver belonged to my husband. He
may have them.”
The commissioner harrumphed, then picked up the stone, Ivar’s
stone. “An odd thing to carry in your purse,” he said. “Ammunition?
To throw at the police?”
“No, of course not. One stone wouldn’t get me far, now, would it?
It’s just a favorite, a gift from someone I love.”
He leaned over, as if speaking to a child. “It’s not wise to lie to us,
Mrs. Helmer.”
“That isn’t a lie,” I said evenly. “And I am Nora Solberg, now that
I no longer live with Mr. Helmer. As that is not a crime, I’d like to
know why I’ve been arrested.”
 “We have plenty to arrest you for. Be smart, Mrs. Helmer; tell us
about these students. Did you know that a Danish radical was
meeting with them this evening? The police in Copenhagen are
looking for him.”
I sti ened. Where was there room for truth in a place like this?
“No. I retired early.”
“If you tell us what they’re planning, we’ll take you home.”
I thought of Tobias on the oor, bleeding. “I don’t know of any
plans.”
“What books do they read? Do they have any weapons? You must
know something. How could you live with those scum and not know
their plans?”
“They aren’t scum, or radicals. They are university students, all of
them.”
“As I said, scum, radicals.” He watched me for a moment. “I’ll
give you one last chance to tell us the truth.”
I raised my chin but said nothing.
He reached for my head. I pulled back but could not escape him.
His ngers burrowed in under my braids and pulled out rst one
pin, then the other. The heavy braids opped down.
He tugged on one. “What beautiful golden hair you have, Mrs.
Helmer.” Then he dropped it and wiped his hand on his trousers.
“Pity you have lice.”
“I do not have lice, sir.”
“You must, Mrs. Helmer. You cannot lie with vermin without
picking up vermin.”
Then he turned to one of the guards. “Take her to the courtyard
and cut it o .”
“No, please—!”
“Then tell us their plans.”
But I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, give the boys away, even if it cost me
everything. I would not deny them again.
The commissioner grunted, and a policeman dragged me down
the hall and outside to the courtyard. They used scissors rst,
cutting close to my head, then brought a basin of water and a razor.
When it was over, I was as bald as a baby bird.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, when I ached with cold, they dragged me to an
empty cell. It had little more than a bucket to relieve myself, a
blanket, and a lthy pallet. I thought about lice and sat on the frigid
stone oor, my arms around my knees.
In one stroke, they had rendered me ugly for the rst time in my
life. I ran my hand over my scalp, stopping at the tender places
where the razor had nicked the skin. How often had I used my
blond hair to my advantage, asking for an extra slice of ham at the
butcher’s or charming some poor man to do my bidding? It almost
felt like divine retribution. I wondered if it made it easier for the
police to lock me up, disarming me in this way and making me
hideous. I told myself my hair would grow back, but still—it felt as
if they had branded me.

WHEN THE POLICE nally let me out of the cell near dawn, Torvald was
there waiting. My heart ared with anger at the sight of him, but
also something else—relief to see a familiar face.
He caught his breath. “Why did you shave her head?”
“She had lice, and a bad case of refusal.”
Torvald gazed at me, and his face lled with pain. “You scarcely
look like Nora without your lion’s mane.” Then he did the last thing
I expected—he unbuttoned his coat and threw it over my shoulders.
I could not look at him, but gratefulness ooded through me.
“I’ll take her home,” Torvald said. “Thank you for bringing her in.
We need to work on cooperation.”
A policeman untied my hands.
I turned to the commissioner. “Am I being released?”
“For now. Into your husband’s care.”
“Then I want my bag.”
He retrieved my drawstring purse and handed it to me.
Everything was there, Ivar’s stone and Torvald’s silver forks,
everything except my coin purse. The only thing I truly needed.
“You’ve taken my money.”
“Expenses, ma’am.”
 Torvald tugged at my arm. “Come, Nora. You don’t need money
now. I’ll take care of you.” He edged me toward the door.
“And Mrs. Helmer, if your memory improves, the law requires
you tell us anything you know about these young men.” The
commissioner gave me a stern look.
Torvald whispered in my ear. “Just come, Nora. Let’s get away
from here.”
Outside, we climbed into a hansom cab. It was like old times—the
intimacy of the coach, his coat around me. Yet I was changed,
irrevocably. My hair was the least of it.
He gave the driver the address of his apartment.
“No, Torvald. Take me back to Vika. The police have released
me.”
“They only released you into my care, Nora, which means you’re
no longer free to wander the city alone. A judge has deemed you a
danger to yourself, and for that reason you must either stay at home
or, if you do not comply, go to the asylum. I’d be happy to take you
there, if that is what you prefer, or we can go home. With a bath
and a good night’s sleep, things might look di erent in the
morning.”
“Torvald, please listen. I’m leaving Norway, this very day. I need
to go back to Vika to get my things.”
“Leaving Norway? You blu , Nora. How could you a ord to go
anywhere?”
“I’m not blu ng. I’m leaving for America.”
“Nora, don’t lie to me—ever again. Or I’ll take you straight to the
asylum and never look back.”
“It’s not a lie, I swear! I’m leaving today on the SS Angelo, bound
for England and then from Liverpool to New York.”
Torvald looked at me, then abruptly laughed. “You? To America?
I can’t think of anything more absurd. How will you live in
America?” He laughed again, though nervously this time. He could
see my resolve.
“I’m going to Chicago. I’ll nd a job in a dress shop or something.
Be a governess to a wealthy family.”
His laughter faded. “You can’t be serious.”
 “Torvald, I made a grave error trying to see the children. I see
that now. I will not interfere with them again until they’re grown.
For their sakes.”
Something passed over his face. “I am—.” His voice snagged. “I
am very relieved to hear you say that. It’s been quite di cult for the
boys.”
“I know, and I am sorry. Hopefully, in America I can build a new
life. But if I’m to do this, you must agree to several things.”
“You’re in no position to dictate to me, Nora.”
I hesitated. My life and my children’s lives hung precariously in
that moment. As di cult as it was for me to touch him, I took hold
of Torvald’s hands. “It will be a great sorrow for me to be so far
away from the children, Torvald, but it’s the only way to give you
your freedom, to release all of you. For this sacri ce, I beg you to
consider what I ask.”
He did not reply, but he did not look away.
“First, please take Anne-Marie back. The children need her.”
“She lied to me, Nora.”
“She won’t lie to you again once I am gone.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then nally nodded. “They
miss her terribly, almost as much as they miss you. What else?”
“You must promise not to tell the children I have died, because I
need to know I can see them when they’re grown.”
“What would you have me tell them?”
“The truth—that we couldn’t be married anymore, and I had to go
away.”
“I don’t know, Nora. They need this to be over.”
“Please, Torvald. The world is small. They will see me again,
when they are older.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When they reach their maturity, they should be allowed to
choose whether they want to know me.”
“I doubt they’ll come to America to nd you, Nora. They’re
forgetting you as best they can.”
I glanced out the window; we were turning into our old
neighborhood. “If they won’t come to America, I’ll come back to
Norway, but not for many years, I promise. As long as you tell them
the truth.”
He grunted. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. You must divorce me.”
“Are you going to America with a man?”
“That’s not for you to know. I want to be free, and you should be
free. It will be better for both of us.”
“I cannot make you any promises, Nora. Divorce would be
scandalous. It would harm the children.”
“But what if you want to marry again? Surely you would …”
He cut me o . “I don’t know if I could trust a woman again, Nora.
I’m not sure I trust you now.”
The cab stopped outside our old apartment, the familiar doorway
looming like a prison gate. I knew that if I went inside, I would
never get away. And there was no point in running—Torvald would
just send them after me again. I needed his permission.
“Think of it, Torvald! If you take me to Vika tonight, I promise
you’ll neither see nor hear of me again for many years.”
He looked at me for a long, searing moment, and then his face
crumbled. “How did it come to this, Nora? You’re thin; you smell. Is
this how you want to live? Why can’t you come home and let me
restore you to society, to civility? Let me help you …” His voice
cracked again.
“You’re not the one to help me, Torvald, as you weren’t the one to
teach me how to live in the world. I must work that out for myself.
Please, take me back to Vika, and your troubles will be over. I’ll
vanish, and you can make of that what you will.”
He considered this, nally reaching out and stroking my bare
head. “You’re so cold.”
“Let me go, Torvald. Let me go so that we may both nd peace.”
He hesitated, then banged on the window of the cab. “Take us to
Vika.”
“Vika?” The driver shouted, incredulous.
“Yes, Vika, damn it. Quick, before I change my mind!”
The driver pulled away, the apartment building growing smaller
behind us. The cab turned the corner, and soon we were wending
our way toward the harbor.
“Thank you, Torvald.”
“Just keep your promise this time, Nora.”
When we got to the rooming house, Torvald stepped out and
bowed sti y. “Good-bye, Nora,” he said, pressing money into my
hand. “This should help you get started. Did you say Chicago? Dirty,
windy place, I hear.”
I lingered, momentarily overcome with sadness. “Torvald, I—.”
He cut me o . “Just make sure you get on that ship. The Angelo,
you said?”
“Yes, this morning.”
“Bon voyage.”
I watched him go, then knocked on the door of the rooming
house. The landlady appeared, her eyes widening when she saw my
bald head. The house was silent, as I was the only one released. In
my room everything had been ung about. I repacked my bag, then
tied a kerchief around my scalp and a shawl over the kerchief,
hoping no one would notice.
When it was light, I walked to the wharf.

IF I HADN’T FELT LIKE A CRIMINAL BEFORE,

I did by the time I stood waiting
at the foot of the gangplank with another woman’s child on my hip.
Tomas was a beautiful baby, plump and just old enough to
straighten his back. Every few minutes he would pull away and
stare at me, then collapse against my chest again, as if it was all
right I held him. My arms ached, but I didn’t care. I clutched him
like a life ring, the only thing holding my head above water.
Beside me, Mr. Eriksen seemed agitated, scanning the crowded
pier for the police. The baby whimpered. It was spring, but the sea
breeze was cold. I pulled Tomas’s knit blanket over his head to
protect him from the wind and turned my shoulder to the o cials.
But I couldn’t keep my heart from hammering. If the police found
me here, trying to board the ship with another woman’s papers,
there would be no escape: it would be jail or the asylum.
 How had I ended up here, ready to break the law again? Why was
there no other way for me to live in this world? Nothing felt right,
except the baby in my arms. Birgitte, still furious, stood apart from
us, refusing to acknowledge me. It was bad enough that her mother
was gone, but to have me wearing her mother’s woven skirt and
familiar shawl was too much to bear. Mr. Eriksen whispered in
Birgitte’s ear at one point, but she turned and hissed in his, so it did
no good.
When the o cial nally reached for our papers, I shifted the baby
to the other hip, nodded at Birgitte as if I had always commanded
her, then took Jens by the hand. Birgitte bristled as I rose to the role
of mother, and for a sinking moment, I feared she would give us
away. But Mr. Eriksen put his arm around her and gently pushed
her forward. The o cial looked through our papers, then studied us
for a long moment. I didn’t smile as I might have in my former life;
charm was no use to me anymore. Instead, I gave him a world-
weary gaze—the exhausted mother of a newborn enduring the
upheaval of emigrating. He waved us up the gangplank.
None of us could look at each other. Overcome with relief, I
faltered as I stepped down onto the deck. Mr. Eriksen took my
elbow to steady me.
Onboard, it was a di erent world. Sailors strode across the decks,
passing crates into the hold and pulling on ropes. Smoke from the
steam engines eddied about in the shifting wind. The steadying sails
apped on short lines, waiting to be set after the ship cast o .
A porter urged us down the ladders, to stow our luggage. We
hurried, happy to disappear belowdecks, but the steerage
compartment proved a rude shock. This small steamer, which would
take us across the North Sea to England, had only an open hold for
the lowest class of travelers. It was dank and crowded, and it reeked
of the unwashed. There were two levels of sleeping shelves on each
side, with a narrow passageway between. Lanterns and empty
buckets hung from hooks, rolling with the swell. It seemed all of
Norway’s poor—cottars, laborers, housemaids—elbowed for space.
We found a spot for our things, then went topside again to breathe.
 Now that we were safely aboard and obscured by the crowd,
Birgitte snatched the baby from my arms. Freed for the moment, I
edged to the rail and scanned the wharf below. The people on the
pier waved good-bye, but there was no one there for me. I wondered
for a moment if Tobias was there, but I couldn’t nd him. He was
probably still in jail.
Then my stomach dropped. There, o to one side, was Torvald,
looking straight at me. We stared at each other for a moment, and
then he lifted his hand in farewell.
I backed up, disappearing into the mob. The gangplank was
pulled aboard, the ship’s engines ground in earnest, and nally the
sailors tossed the lines ashore. With a blast of her horn, the SS
Angelo fell away from the pier.
Only when we were well out in the harbor did I return to the
ship’s rail. All of Kristiania spread before me, my entire world. At
the head of the bay was Vika, with its jumbled rooftops and smudge
of smoke. Beyond Vika, the commercial center and green
promenade where I often walked. Behind that, the neighborhoods
climbed the hills. And in that maze of streets were those who had
pushed me to this—Torvald and the police; the blackmailing Mr.
Krogstad; Mr. Lyngstrand, who would have sealed my fate; and the
hateful shipping agent. I had escaped, slipped from their grasp.
But to do it I had to leave my own children behind. They, too,
were out there, probably playing in a park. Unknowing, innocent,
and now motherless.
 CHAPTER TEN

SOLVI
February 1919 Kristiania, Norway

Magnus slipped into his seat next to Solvi with a smile, then leaned
over. “I’ve got something for you.”
“What is it?”
He pulled a yellowed scrap of newspaper from his jacket pocket.
“I was looking through the archives at the newspaper yesterday for
references to the Forgotten One. Back then they kept les on various
topics, and there was one on the Woman Question. I found this.”
It was a letter to the editor titled “An Answer to the Woman
Question,” apparently written by a professor at the university. It was
dated July 1880.
Solvi scanned the article, then sucked in a breath. “This is it! This
is her story!”
“Yes, it must be,” he said, pointing. “Look at this part—Recently a
woman of quality and comfort, well cared for by her loving husband,
walked away from her marriage, leaving behind a houseful of
inconsolable children.”
Solvi read it through. “The writer isn’t very sympathetic, is he?
And he doesn’t give her name. I need her name.”
“I didn’t have time to read everything in the le, but when you
meet the editor, Mr. Blehr, you can ask permission to look through
it.”
“Did you show him my photographs?”
“Yes. He wants you to come by tomorrow morning. We could
meet at the pastry shop, say, ten o’clock?”
Solvi nodded but hesitantly. What was she getting herself into?
“I did one other thing for you at the newspaper. I looked through
a register of professionals here in Kristiania, and I couldn’t nd
anyone named either Helmer or Fallesen.”
 “Does that mean my uncles are not working here in Kristiania?”
“Well, not as professional men. Given that their father was a
banker, they must have been educated for a profession.”
Solvi shook her head. “Perhaps my mother wasn’t lying.”
“But it doesn’t mean they don’t exist, Solvi. They could be
somewhere else in Norway, or they may have emigrated.”
Professor Wol entered, dropping a pile of books on the lectern.
“Thank you, Magnus,” Solvi whispered.

“HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A NEWSPAPER OFFICE?” Magnus said, as he pulled

open the door of a tall brick building the next morning.
“Heavens, no,” Solvi said. “I was brought up to be a lady.”
“Well, let’s x that,” he said. Inside, they climbed a ight of stairs
to a bustling space crowded with desks heaped with newspapers.
Everyone worked in shirtsleeves, and many were drumming away
on typewriters. A man in a rumpled suit saw them and broke from a
conversation to walk over.
“Is this your photographer, Magnus?” said the man, shaking
Solvi’s hand. He was small in stature but had sharp, observant eyes
and a mop of black hair. “Stanislas Blehr.”
“Solvi Lange, sir.”
“Pleasure to meet you. Let’s talk.” They followed him into a
private o ce, Magnus giving her an encouraging smile as they sat
down.
“Miss Lange, I must say, your photographs are very interesting.
Few people take pictures that have so much movement and grace.
Did you take them here in Kristiania?”
“No, in Bergen, where I grew up.”
“I’d like to publish a few with the article Petra Jeppesen is
preparing, but I’d also like some photos of housemaids here. Are you
willing to take more? I’m sure Petra could get you into some
houses.”
“Yes,” Solvi said, though the idea made her nervous. “I’ll talk to
her.”
 “Good. When you’ve got some to show me, bring them by.” He
smiled. “If we publish your photos, Miss Lange, you would be the
rst woman to sell us pictures. That would be something to write
home about, eh?”
“Yes,” Solvi murmured, imagining her mother reading such a
letter.
Mr. Blehr stood. “Get to work on the housemaid story, and if you
think of other interesting stories to tell, take some pictures and I’ll
look at them. Magnus says you’re studying at the university.”
“Yes. I’ve just started.”
Mr. Blehr gave her a slight bow of respect. “I failed the
matriculation exams myself, yet here I sit, editor of a newspaper.
Just remember, there’s a bigger world than the one at university.”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
“If you have the mettle you seem to, Miss Lange, you don’t need a
university degree. You could start working as a journalist today.”
Solvi just looked at him, unable to speak.
Magnus leaned forward. “Miss Lange has a request. Could she
look through the archives? She’s doing an essay on women’s rights.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever she needs, Magnus.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blehr,” Solvi said, nding her voice again.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned to Magnus. “You
and your friends better watch out. These young ladies are going to
take over the world.”
Magnus laughed. “Yes, sir. I’m already worried.”

MAGNUS SHOWED SOLVI to a room full of old newspapers, then pulled a

fat le from a drawer and handed it to her. It was labeled “The
Woman Question.”
He started to go but turned back. “One other thing, Solvi. Mr.
Blehr suggested we go look through the parish records to nd your
family.”
“Parish records? Like, marriages and baptisms?”
“Yes, and deaths. The Church has been keeping these records for
hundreds of years. I’m sure we’d nd something.”
 Deaths, Solvi thought. At least it would be de nitive.
“Come nd me in the newsroom when you’re done,” he said.

SOLVI PICKED THROUGH THE ARTICLES. Several were written by the early
feminist Aasta Hansteen, and several were written about Hansteen,
most of them derisive. There were accounts of various talks about
the Woman Question, some attended by hostile all-male audiences,
and letters from various luminaries arguing over whether women
should be accorded human rights or whether those were the
exclusive territory of men. And on and on.
Then she found this curious report: “Hansteen Talk Turns to Riot
over Case of Runaway Mother.” Solvi leaned forward to decipher
the tiny print:
Miss Hansteen praised the American su ragettes and called for more
rights for women. The crowd became unruly when Miss Hansteen
referenced the Kristiania woman who recently abandoned her marriage,
saying the law shouldn’t block her from seeing her children and that she
should have the right to care for them if she can. Constables were called.
Miss Hansteen is to leave for America in the near future, which should
allow the social order to be restored.
Solvi sat back. Another reference to the Forgotten One! Could
Miss Hansteen still be alive? Professor Wol might know.
She copied the article and made notes on others. Several referred
to a mother who abandoned her children, but no one named her,
almost as if everyone knew who she was but was unwilling to put
her name in print.
At the bottom of the pile she found a death notice—Aasta
Hansteen’s. She died in 1908. The obituary hardly did her justice.
After several hours Magnus stuck his head in the door. “Lunch?”
“Please,” Solvi said, blinking at him as if she were coming up for
air. She had never been so absorbed, never felt so alive.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON,Solvi was reading her history assignment

when someone tapped on her door.
 It was Rikka, in her nursing uniform. “I need you to go with me to
Vika. Change into something that won’t draw attention and bring
your camera.”
“I wish you would give me some warning, Rikka, really …,” Solvi
said, but she stepped out of her nice skirt nonetheless.
“Do you have a plain blouse?”
“No. My mother always insisted on lace.”
“Then put this over your head.” Rikka handed Solvi her shawl.
“Like a peasant?”
“Solvi, buck up. You don’t want to stand out, believe me. And
keep your camera hidden.”
Out in the street Solvi felt as if she had dressed for a part in a
play, but as they made their way down to the poorer sections she
began to understand. When they crossed into Vika, she recognized
the area—it was the place Rikka went the day Solvi followed her.
Today, amid the usual trash and unkempt children, she noticed
several women sitting at windows in low-cut gowns, almost as if
they were on display.
“Rikka, are those prostitutes?”
“Yes. Do not judge them, Solvi.”
“No, I, but … prostitutes? I’ve never seen one.”
“We may be talking to some.”
Solvi caught her breath. “Rikka, I, I don’t know …”
Rikka spun around. “Listen, Solvi, they get sick too. They need
medicine as much as anyone. They do what they do because they
have nothing.”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I’m ne.”
“Good.” Rikka gave her a quick smile. “Not everyone can come
down here with me, so I appreciate it.” She glanced at a slip of
paper. “This way,” she said, turning down a narrow lane. Solvi
could see racks of drying sh at the bottom of the street, the fjord
just beyond. The air was heavy with salt, and damp. Perhaps the
Forgotten One lived here once, Solvi thought. Perhaps she lived here
still.
They stopped at a dilapidated shack with its door split at the
bottom, as if someone had tried to kick it in. Rikka knocked; a thin
woman peered out. Rikka explained who she was, and the woman
let them inside. The room was chilly and dark, with only a dim oil
lamp. An oppressive stench enveloped them—sweat, dirty clothing,
rotten vegetables. As Solvi’s eyes adjusted she noticed several
children sitting on a rumpled pallet in the corner, watching them.
The woman o ered Rikka and Solvi the only chairs. Solvi sat, but
Rikka just put her medical bag on the table and opened it up.
“Here, ma’am, you sit, and I’ll check you,” she said in a soft voice,
so unlike her usual self. The woman unbuttoned the top of her
blouse so Rikka could listen to her lungs. Rikka glanced at Solvi.
“Talk to the children. Maybe they’ll let you take their picture.”
Solvi looked at them. There were ve, the youngest barely old
enough to speak. “Good day,” she said.
They stared at her like a row of owls.
She untied the ridiculous shawl, revealing the camera.
The eldest, a boy, stood up. “What is that, miss?”
“A camera. It can take pictures of people. Have you seen pictures,
like the advertisements in store windows?”
They nodded.
“Would you like to see how it works?”
The baby struggled to her feet and tottered over. Solvi unbuttoned
the case, and they crowded around. She let them touch it and look
through the view nder.
“Can you take our picture, miss?” said one.
“If your mama agrees.”
The mother glanced at Solvi. “Outside,” she said. Solvi looked at
Rikka, who nodded.
The children followed Solvi into the street. She sat them in the
doorway, the baby in the lap of the eldest girl and the smallest boy
on his brother’s shoulders. For a moment she heard her mother’s
voice—Don’t touch them, Solvi, you’ll get disease—but she ignored it.
Once the children were settled, Solvi knelt in the dirt so she could
shoot them straight on. No one smiled. She took two pictures, then
one more down the lane toward the water. A man bent over a
wagon several blocks down straightened up and looked at her, then
shouted something she could not hear.
 The children jumped up. “That’s our Far,” said the older girl. “He
doesn’t like strangers.”
The man started walking toward them.
“When can we see the pictures, miss?” asked the older boy.
“Soon. When Miss Toft and I come back.”
Rikka came out with her bag and handed Solvi her shawl.
“Their Far,” Solvi said. He had stopped but watched them.
“We’d better go,” said Rikka, quickly turning up the street. “The
fathers, when there are fathers, are protective; they don’t like us
talking to their wives.”

THEY VISITED THREE MORE HOMES, each sad in the same way—the same
dank smells, the same pale children.
In one house the mother was dressed only in a soiled shift, a
bundled baby with crusty eyes squalling in her arms.
“This is why we do not judge,” Rikka whispered. The poor woman
looked so miserable, so humiliated, Solvi kept her camera under her
shawl.
But at the next house a pair of brothers led Solvi to a stall so she
could take their picture with their father’s draft horse. And in the
last home seven children were bickering over a heel of bread, so
Solvi herded them outside for a portrait. She was taken by their
scu ed wooden shoes and scabbed ankles. After getting a picture of
the children together, she had them stick out their feet and shot
from above. They shouted with glee.

THAT EVENING Matron handed Solvi a letter, this one from Lisanne.
She took it into the library.

Dear Solvi: Thank you for your letter. I was glad to nally hear
from you. I was quite saddened to nd you had left Bergen, though I
guess I understand why you went without fanfare. Congratulations
on passing the matriculation exams. I hope you’ve written to our
teachers back at our academy. They’ll be as thrilled as I am to hear
of your success.
 I am doing well, as is my family. I will admit I was taken aback
by your request to get permission to publish those photographs. Is
that what you planned when you took them? If so, you should have
told me. I’ll be honest—I cannot speak to my parents about it, as
they would feel quite betrayed. And it doesn’t feel right to ask the
maids. We lost Marte to the in uenza, and I wouldn’t want to do
anything that might jeopardize the others. I’m sorry I cannot help
you.
There is one other thing I must tell you, and I hope it will not be
hurtful. Stefan Vinter and I are to be married in July.
I wish you well with your endeavors.
Love, Lisanne

For a moment, Solvi couldn’t breathe. How could Lisanne marry

Stefan Vinter? How would Solvi ever be able to sit again with her
and talk as they used to? She folded the letter and tucked it in her
pocket. Her old life in Bergen felt so distant—her grandfather, her
mother, Lisanne—all receding into the past, as if Solvi was on a
train traveling swiftly, inexorably, away from them.
The next morning Solvi sent Lisanne her congratulations, but she
couldn’t help feeling as if someone had died.

WHEN SOLVI DEVELOPED HER PHOTOGRAPHS of the Vika children, she was
surprised by what she had caught. In the photo of the boys with the
horse, the scraggly nag hung her head between the two brothers,
her eyes closed in rapture as they scratched her ears. In the next, the
seven siblings jostled for the crust of bread, the eldest holding it just
out of reach as they looked up at the camera. But it was the shot of
their feet—with their dirty ankles and bruised legs—that brought
tears to her eyes. They were too poor to have socks. She thought of
them laughing as she clicked the shutter. How silly; how painfully
revealing.
When she came out of the darkroom, she showed them to Mr.
Stenberg.
 “Excellent work, Miss Lange,” he said. “So many contrasts in such
a small world.”

A DRIVING RAIN blew across Kristiania the morning Solvi was to meet
with Professor Wol . She arrived at his o ce damp and bedraggled.
“Good morning, Professor. I’m Miss Lange, from your Norwegian
History class.”
“Of course, come in. Goodness, you’re wet.” He helped her shake
o her cape and invited her to sit, then squinted at her for a long
moment. “Miss Lange, if I may, where are you from?”
“Bergen.”
“Ah,” he said, studying her from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“You remind me of a long-lost friend, someone I knew many years
ago. How very odd.” Then he smiled. “Forgive me. You’ve come to
discuss your essay.”
“Yes,” Solvi said, opening her notebook. “I’d like to write about
the roots of the campaign for women’s rights. Who the leaders were
here in Norway, how they came to their convictions, how they
rallied support. For my generation it feels like the dramatic victories
are over—we can vote, we can work—yet most of us know little of
what our mothers and grandmothers did to get us here.”
“That’s quite interesting,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve
been waiting for someone to propose such an essay, but, well, it
hasn’t appealed to any of the young men.”
“I understand you knew some of the early feminists.”
“I did.”
“There are two gures from the 1880s that particularly interest
me. One is Aasta Hansteen. Did you know her?”
“Oh, yes. I went to some of her talks before she left for America,
and I worked with her when she returned later.”
“You went to her talks? I read in an old newspaper clipping about
a riot at one of them, in 1881, I believe. The constables had to break
it up. Were you there that night?”
Professor Wol blinked in surprise, then looked away. “I scarcely
remember. The constables were often busy when Miss Hansteen
spoke, as hecklers followed wherever she went. She left Norway, she
said, because ‘the ground was burning beneath her feet.’”
Solvi scribbled notes. “I asked about that riot because I’m
interested in the case of a woman who walked away from her family
in the 1880s and caused an uproar. I rst heard about her in a
lecture at the Women’s Rights Association. The riot reported in the
newspaper seemed to have been triggered by Miss Hansteen talking
about this woman, saying that it was unfair she had no right to
property or access to her children. Do you know anything about this
woman, perhaps her name? They call her the Forgotten One.”
Professor Wol coughed. “Yes, I, ah, heard about such a case, but
I don’t remember a name.”
Solvi sat up with excitement. “So she was real?”
He pressed his ngertips together. “Hmm, an important question.”
He took his glasses o and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “Are
you suggesting someone made her up?”
“Well, perhaps not deliberately. More that there was some kernel
of truth that got exaggerated over time. Sometimes iconic gures
turn out to be more myth than substance. Or so I understand.”
“That’s true, Miss Lange, and as a historian it’s your job to try to
separate truth from myth. But what makes you curious about this
woman?”
Curious? It was much more than curiosity, Solvi thought,
gathering her thoughts. “My grandmother also disappeared and
probably died in this period,” Solvi said. “It just seems like a tragic
time for women—so many restrictions and limitations, so few legal
rights, and so few opportunities, just as they were beginning to want
more. The story of the Forgotten One captures all of that, as well as
the painful consequences. She lost everything—perhaps even her life
—trying to follow a principle of individual freedom.”
Solvi stopped to think for a moment. “But she’s also interesting
because there’s so much mystery about her, where she went, how or
whether she survived, whether she’s even real. I hope to nd some
of the answers.”
He blinked at her again. “Your grandmother died at this time?”
 “Well, my mother has heard nothing from her since she was a
child, so she must be gone. I think she died in some unsavory way
because my family has tried to shield me from it.”
He stared at her. “How, ah, unfortunate, Miss Lange.” He pulled
himself straight in his chair. “So, as for your essay, you’re right, the
case of the Forgotten One is iconic for a reason. It would be
interesting to juxtapose the myth with the reality, as far as it can be
discovered. Even if she wasn’t real, perhaps you can nd the origin
of the story.”
Solvi put down her pen. “One thing I don’t understand is why it
would have been considered such a radical step for a woman to
leave her husband. Hadn’t women done that before?”
He sighed. “Well, a lot has changed in forty years, but in the
1880s society ladies who left their families invariably ran o with
other men to live in sin. But this woman, as I recall the story, was a
mother of small children and did not have a lover. That’s what made
her so controversial.”
“Forgive me if this is a rude question,” Solvi said, with a faint
blush, “but how could anyone know whether she had a lover?”
“When you are examining the facts, there are no rude questions,
Miss Lange. Norway was an even smaller place back then, with a
limited bourgeois class. Everyone knew everyone else, at least here
in Kristiania. I wasn’t of their class, but I heard the gossip. I
remember how scandalized people were that this woman left her
children just for the sake of independence. Passion they could
understand; to leave for freedom sounded like lunacy.”
“What would her alternatives have been if she no longer loved her
husband?”
“Well, that is what I want you to explore in your research,”
Professor Wol said. “What were her rights, her opportunities?
What did it mean to leave her husband’s care and protection?” He
put his hands together, thinking. “This woman was interesting
because she refused to stay in a broken marriage. What she
experienced, though, may have been much worse.”
“Why would she have been blocked from seeing her children?”
 “Most women could a ord to leave their husbands only by
attaching themselves to another man. Under the law, then, a woman
who left her husband was assumed to be an adulterer. Whether they
were or not didn’t matter. They were treated as a moral threat to
their children.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Solvi said, o ended. “How could it not
matter whether she actually was an adulterer? One’s moral code is,
well, it’s everything!”
“You’re right to be angry. Everything bad was assumed about her
when, in fact, we don’t really know.”
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?”
He gazed at Solvi for a very long moment. “If she was real, she
probably left Kristiania to escape the gossip and found a job
somewhere in Norway where she wasn’t known,” he said, his voice
growing hoarse. “Most likely she died cold and forgotten in some
drafty garret.”
Solvi nodded and put down her pen. “I hope I can solve the
mystery. It would be wonderful to know the truth.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve caught the historian’s bug,” he said. He
squinted at Solvi again. “It’s uncanny how much you remind me of
my old friend.”
“Who was she?”
“A remarkable woman; we were friends at a time when we both
needed friends.” He laughed softly. “We lived in a rooming house in
Vika back then, if you can believe it. We were both quite poor; I was
still just a student.”
“Was she, a, um, a …” Solvi hesitated, but hadn’t he said there
were no rude questions? “Was she a prostitute?”
“No. She was quite charming, well educated, and mannered. She
ended up there through unusual circumstances. She taught me to
sew; I taught her labor politics.”
Solvi smiled. “I guess that’s a fair trade. What became of her?”
“I think she immigrated to America. I still miss her.” He looked at
Solvi, his head cocked to one side. “Did your grandparents live in
Bergen?”
 “I don’t really know. They may have been from Kristiania earlier,
but they moved to Bergen before I was born. I’ve got fog in my
veins. I’m surprised it doesn’t come out my ears.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Good day, Miss Lange.”

LATER THAT NIGHT,

Solvi sat at her desk, a blank paper before her. The
chasm between her and her mother had become an abyss,
something capable of swallowing them both if Solvi didn’t tread
carefully. The only way she could think to bridge it was to be
honest.

Dear Mama: I hope you are well and feel your strength returning. I
am doing ne and happy for the spring rains, as Kristiania has been
very cold this winter. So far I love university, though there are not
many women students and I’m often the only one in the room. It
feels strange, but doesn’t seem to bother the professors, who are kind
and helpful despite my being “just a girl,” as some of the boys say.
I’m quite excited about my Norwegian History class and am
working on an essay about the roots of the movement for women’s
rights, particularly the early feminists from the 1880s. You might
have heard of Aasta Hansteen, who was a famous portrait painter
and early advocate for women. Apparently, she wore men’s boots
and once threatened to hit a member of the Storting over the head
with her umbrella! She went to America to learn from the American
su ragettes and even traveled out to Chicago and Minnesota to talk
about women’s rights.

I must also tell you that I am working at a photography shop,

clerking at the counter and developing photographs. I take pictures
all over the city but am always careful where I go and take a friend
with me.
Much love, Solvi

P.S. I’m still curious to know if there is any chance Grandfather

changed his name from Helmer to Fallesen.
 Maybe in the next letter she would have the courage to tell her
about Rikka.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

I got up in the middle of the night to write a response to the notice

from the newspaper. I could not sleep for fretting over the mystery
of the advertisement and realized I would have no peace until I
knew who was searching for me.
But I wrote only a few sentences before fear stopped my hand.
What if my response brought something unwanted? Something
that would be di cult for Anders, something that would drive us
out again or even worse? I crept back to bed, moving in close to
Anders’s warm back.
The next morning, though, I was more agitated than ever. My old
hunger to see my children gnawed at my heart, but so did a
thousand doubts. What would we do if we lost this place? What if
someone brought the authorities?
I was feeding the chickens, and in the distance I could see Anders
and Jens driving slowly through the orchard picking up windfall. In
this calm pastoral, I was the snake in the grass.
I thought of the Mormons, driven out of Ohio those many years
ago. Their houses burned and their leader killed. My darling ock
scurried about my skirts, and I remembered the awful smell of
charred meat and feathers.
I could not bear that again.

NORA
May 1881 At Sea

Supper on board the Angelo the rst night of our voyage was
peasant fare—tea, bread, salt herring. We gulped it quickly, then
made our way topside again.
Up on deck people had gathered in the lingering May twilight.
The green hills of the Oslofjord glowed in the dusky haze as the ship
made its way south toward the North Sea. Norway at its most
beguiling. Those who had hungered to emigrate were now nostalgic
for the land they were leaving behind.
Mr. Eriksen stood at the rail, Birgitte next to him, Jens slouched
against his legs. I knew Mr. Eriksen was thinking of his wife but
doubted he would speak of such things. He carried his grief like a
burden on his back, heavy and private.
Tomas slumbered in the shawl I wore tied around my neck as a
sling. How strange, to be on this ship with this motherless child in
my arms. I was leaving Norway, and my own children, to journey to
an unknown country, bound as a servant to a family of strangers
beneath my station. Yet what bubbled inside me was the elixir of
freedom I felt the night I left Torvald. I had nally escaped him; I
never needed to fear him or the vortex of my marriage again.
The light ebbed from the sky. Tomas began to fret, so I took him
below for his nighttime ask, glad to have a purpose.

ONCE THE SHIP left the sheltering fjord and headed out across the
North Sea, it started to pitch. Soon, nearly everyone was groaning
with seasickness. Mr. Eriksen, the only one who seemed impervious,
took Tomas for safekeeping while the rest of us rolled about on the
sleeping shelves in agony, reaching for the buckets time and again.
At dawn Mr. Eriksen gave us hard crackers to nibble, then took us
on deck for fresh air. The wind howled and seawater sluiced across
the deck, but we felt better, even if chilled to the bone.
We spent the rest of the crossing to England huddled topside
during the day, then con ned to the wretchedness below at night. If
we worried someone would discover our secret, that was forgotten
in the chaos of the journey. Birgitte broke down the third day and
sobbed in her father’s arms for her lost mother. Though she had
treated me with disdain and sullenness, it softened my feelings
toward her.
WE STUMBLED ASHORE in Hull on the east coast of England three days
later, then endured the long train ride to Liverpool and a nasty night
at an emigrant inn that smelled of cabbage and the foul privies
down the hall.
Liverpool, with its bands of feral children and dismal tenements,
seemed a labyrinth of human misery. It made me worry that
America, perhaps Chicago, would be like this—foreign and
threatening. Vika had been poor, but it was a poverty I understood.
Liverpool was overwhelming.
The next morning we rose early, irritable with exhaustion but
anxious to get to the quay to board the oceangoing White Star Line
ship to America.
As the others packed up, I fed Tomas his milk, then put him
against my shoulder to pat his back. Suddenly, as babies will, he
yanked o my kerchief—revealing my bald head.
Birgitte noticed rst, yelping with surprise.
Mr. Eriksen turned, then stared. “What is this!” he whispered, his
eyes wide with anger. “What in God’s name is this?”
I put the baby on the bed and retied the kerchief. I couldn’t look
at Mr. Eriksen.
He grabbed my shoulders. “Tell me!”
I swallowed hard. “The police raided my rooming house the night
before we sailed. They arrested me and the students who lived
there.”
“The police did this?”
“They wanted me to inform on the students. I refused, so they
punished me.”
“Christ, I knew there had to be something,” he said, turning away.
“So you’re running from the police.”
“No, they let me go because I wasn’t their target, but they meant
to question me again. I was lucky to be leaving with you.”
At this, he swore softly. “Good God, Mrs. Solberg, they could have
noti ed the shipping lines! I’m surprised we weren’t arrested on the
dock in Kristiania! Don’t you think you should have told me?”
Tomas began to howl.
 “Mr. Eriksen, the authorities have no reason to think I’ve left
Norway. You must trust me on this.”
“How can I trust you when you haven’t been honest with me?” He
walked away from me, then swung back. “If your problem with the
authorities threatens my family, Mrs. Solberg, I will disown you
completely.”
My chest tightened. What would he think if he knew the truth?
“And I thought you were just the simple clerk you claimed to be
…”
“I am who I claim to be. Please believe me!” I sank onto the bed. I
was a simple clerk, but I also carried a complicated past I couldn’t
begin to explain. He would disown me the minute I did.
I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed.
That unnerved him. He yelled at Birgitte to tend to Tomas, then
paced about the room. Finally, he crouched before me. “Please, Mrs.
Solberg, please. I’m sorry. Since my wife died, I’ve become a
desperate man; I fear it will unravel me.”
I nally looked at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s … it’s a
terrible humiliation.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. I am sorry for you.”
“She needn’t come with us, Papa,” Birgitte said. “I can manage
the baby.”
“Shush, Birgitte!”
“But if she puts us in danger …”
“Enough!”

AFTER A BREAKFAST OF COLD GRUEL,which did little to lift our gloom, we

loaded our baggage onto a wagon and followed it down to the vast
waterway. I had heard about Liverpool’s famous harbor but was still
stunned to see it in all its ambitious glory. Clippers and steamers
lined the waterfront as far as the eye could see, and many more
swung at anchor o shore. Scores of small boats—tugs, ferries, and
shing sloops—plied the Mersey River. Mr. Eriksen took his children
by the hand as we crossed the broad esplanade so they wouldn’t get
swept away in the crowd. I followed like a sheepdog.
 At the gangplank, we waited several hours to board, our anxiety
building with every minute. Mr. Eriksen stood with his back to me,
too angry to acknowledge my presence. Birgitte whispered to Jens.
Worry, and the burden of carrying Tomas, left me faint.
But when it was nally our turn, we were quickly waved aboard,
like everyone else. Apparently, the o cials only cared about lling
the ship as e ciently as possible. I wondered how many others in
the crowd were traveling with secrets to hide.
A steward led us to a tiny cabin with two tight bunks. We were
still in steerage, but on this bigger ship, even the lowest class was
a orded a bit of privacy. We crowded in and closed the door.
“I think we’re safe,” I whispered.
“They could still come for you,” said Mr. Eriksen. “Stay here with
Tomas, and the rest of us will go topside. If they ask to check your
papers, say your husband has them. Perhaps they won’t pursue it.”
I could only nod, my throat dry. As soon as they were gone, I lay
down and pulled the baby close. To come this far only to be put
back ashore—I couldn’t bear it. I would have to sell my pearls just
to get home to Norway, and then I’d have to crawl back to Torvald
because I’d have nothing.
And the thought of leaving Tomas now, just as he was getting
used to me, made me ache. Why did it feel as if everything good got
snatched away from me? How had I blundered into this state,
traveling on my wits with a family who barely knew me, who did
not trust me?
I lay as still as possible beside the sleeping baby so I could listen
to the creaks and banging of the enormous steamship as it prepared
to sail. Please, I begged: haul in the gangplank; toss away the lines.
Please, before the police knock on the door.
In time, the turbines began to churn, and there were shouts on
deck as the sailors cast o . More commotion and banging, then the
distinctive blaring of the steam whistle that signaled our departure.
I sat up, still listening, my nerves straining. The ship began to
move; I could feel it. I straightened my kerchief.
Next stop, New York.
THE GALLEY OF THE SHIP buzzed that evening with a babble of strange
tongues. I recognized Swedes, Germans, and Irish, but there were
also people from more distant parts of Europe, Romanians and
Hungarians, perhaps.
There was little space on the benches, so Birgitte and I ate rst,
then gave our seats to Mr. Eriksen and Jens while we escaped back
to the cabin with Tomas.
Birgitte, uncomfortable alone with me, insisted on feeding the
baby herself, though she was clumsy and had to stop often to mop
up the mess.
After a few minutes watching, I spoke up. “This may surprise you,
Birgitte, but I also grew up without a mother.”
Birgitte didn’t look up.
“I’m sorry circumstances have made my intrusion on your family
necessary. I know this must be hard for you, losing your mother and
your home at the same time.”
Birgitte’s lower lip began to shake, but she pulled it between her
teeth and patted her brother’s chin with a rag.
“How old were you when your mother died?” she nally said, still
not looking at me.
“An infant—a few days old. I never knew her.”
“So you don’t know what you lost. I know what I’ve lost.” A tear
ran down her cheek, but she rubbed it away, anger radiating from
her like heat. “And did you have a servant that moved in with your
family and pretended to be your mother?”
“I am not a servant, Birgitte,” I said, o ended. I wondered if her
father had said that to her. Perhaps he thought of me as a servant. “I
had a kind nurse who raised me, but she never pretended to be my
mother. And I will not pretend to be your mother.”
“But you want to be Tomas’s mother,” Birgitte said. “You talk to
him and kiss him, as if he were your own.”
“I need to act like his mother while we’re on the ship, as your
father explained, but I don’t think of him as mine. I had my own
children, Birgitte. I know the di erence.”
“How many did you have?”
 “How many children? Two boys and a girl.”
“What happened to them?”
“I lost them.”
Birgitte looked up at me, her nose wrinkling as if she had caught
a whi of something rotten. “What do you mean you lost them?
How does a mother lose all her children?”
I took a breath before answering. “You know how easy it is to lose
people you love, Birgitte.”
She opened her mouth to say more but stopped and looked away.
“It was a terrible shock and a lasting sorrow,” I said. Was that a
lie? Not really; it was a shock and a sorrow. “I don’t like to talk of
it.”
Birgitte looked down at her brother and patted his chin several
more times. “Just promise me you won’t try to be Tomas’s mother.”
“Birgitte, I will be helping your father for one year, and that’s not
very long. I am sure that when Tomas grows up, he’ll think of you
as his mother. He won’t even remember me.”
“I don’t like it when you carry him.”
“Once we get o this ship, Birgitte, you may carry him all you
like.”
She hugged him possessively. “I will. He’s mine, not yours.”

AFTER SUPPER, Birgitte and Jens went o to explore. I meant to follow

them topside, but Mr. Eriksen put his hand on my arm. My stomach
tightened.
“I need to speak to you.” He sat down on the bunk next to Tomas
and twisted his hands.
“I am very sorry I did not tell you …” I started.
He held up his hand and shook his head. “I just can’t quite make
you out, Mrs. Solberg. You don’t make sense to me, now that I know
you a little. Your manners, your poise, your language; it’s hard for
me to believe you lived in Vika with a bunch of anarchists. You look
as if you were wealthy once, maybe recently, but for some reason
fell on hard times. You say you lost your family and you wore black
in Kristiania, but one would think that kind of loss would strangle a
person. To lose your husband and all your children? Yet you move
through the world as if you know exactly what you are doing.”
The deck seemed to dip beneath me, as if I might slide down a
perilous slope and be dumped into the sea. Mr. Eriksen was my only
lifeline. If he did not believe me, no one else would.
I leaned toward him. “I swear to you, Mr. Eriksen, I have no idea
what I’m doing. I don’t know anything about where we are headed,
and I don’t know how to be of help on a farm, beyond cooking,
cleaning, and caring for Tomas. I pray I’ll carry my weight rather
than become a burden to you, but I don’t really know. I did lose my
family, all of them, but that was several years ago. And yes, I still
grieve, Mr. Eriksen. It’s just that it changes. One must nd a new
life.”
He watched me impassively. “It occurred to me you might be one
of those America widows. Perhaps you’re planning to join your
husband once we get to New York.”
“I do not have a husband waiting for me in America, Mr. Eriksen.
I swear to you. I have no one in America.”
We held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
“We must trust each other, Mr. Eriksen, mustn’t we?” I nally
said. “I don’t know anything about you, either. I am trusting you are
a good man and that what you need from me is honest work. I
swear to you that everything I have told you is true. I lost my
family; my circumstances in Norway became untenable, and I
desperately wanted to go to America to start over.”
He looked down at the baby and sighed. “All right, Mrs. Solberg, I
will accept your word, for now. I realize we are both taking risks.”
Then he met my gaze again. “But there are lies of omission that can
be just as damaging as what is falsely said. If there is anything else I
should know, please do not keep it from me.”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
He grunted, then jumped up and banged out the cabin door.

I SAT ON THE BUNK,

my head swimming. How could I bear to live with
this family for a full year, especially if Mr. Eriksen and Birgitte
simmered with resentment the entire time? The trouble with having
run away before was that I knew I could do it again. Sometimes I
ran and things were worse, sometimes they were better—but they
were always di erent. I didn’t want to run away this time, though,
now that there was a little child who needed me. And God knew I
had nowhere to run. I had been honest about that, at least—there
was no one for me in America.
If this was my fresh start, I needed to do better. Tomas stirred,
and I tucked another blanket around him. I needed to be true to my
word, to do my share and earn my keep. More than anything, I
wanted to keep little Tomas safe and fed, warm and loved.
Because if I couldn’t care for my own motherless children, I could
care for this one. Perhaps this one could redeem me.

THE ATLANTIC proved kinder than the North Sea, the passage easy, the
skies clear. When Jens wasn’t o exploring with his sister, he often
stayed with me and the baby on deck. He desperately wanted to see
an iceberg and sat watching for one for hours. I entertained him
with folktales and funny stories about three children who lived in a
fancy Kristiania town house. Tomas grew rosy in the sun and salt air
and soon smiled when I spoke to him. Jens and I spotted seabirds
and, one day, porpoises racing alongside, but no icebergs.
Down below, the realities of life traveled with us. Steerage proved
crowded and fetid but protected me from discovery. No one cared
whether I was the real Mrs. Eriksen. No one seemed to care about
anything other than keeping their own family alive.
Supper was a thin soup with bits of pork fat oating on top and
breakfast never more than a herring and dry biscuit. I spent hours in
a stinking laundry closet that hung out over the side of the ship,
washing out Tomas’s linens in buckets of seawater. Maybe I was a
servant after all.
The baby’s diapers did not dry well, and poor Tomas soon
developed an alarming rash. Desperate, I asked Mr. Eriksen to do
something. He soon returned with a small cup of lard.
 “I begged the cook, and he took pity on us,” Mr. Eriksen said. He
told me the shipping o cials worried about the infants on board.
“It’s an embarrassment to the White Star o cials when the children
don’t survive the voyage,” he said.
I inched at that but quickly removed Tomas’s diaper and gently
dabbed the grease on his red bottom. It made him smell like a
roasted piglet, but I didn’t care. Anything to keep him healthy. Then
I rubbed a bit into my own chapped hands.
The next night a Polish child sickened and died—of a fever,
someone said. In the morning the family gathered by the rail to bury
him at sea. The child’s body lay on a board, wrapped in sailcloth.
The ship’s chaplain, his robes blowing in the wind, read the service
for the dead while the mother keened. At the end, they tipped the
board, and the little bundle slid o into the deep.
I crept to the side of the ship. He was gone, swallowed up by the
indi erent ocean.

ALL THE WAY across the wide Atlantic, I watched Birgitte and Jens.
Thinking of my own children, I had a hungry curiosity to see how
these two would adjust to the loss of their mother. For Birgitte, the
journey away from Norway and everything she had known was
deeply troubling, each day a raw awakening and more proof of all
she had lost when her mother died. Birgitte and I shared a narrow
bunk with the baby between us, and at night I could feel the
mattress shake with her noiseless sobs. By day, she took sanctuary
in her anger, talking little except to her brother and funneling her
resentment at me. It was exhausting for all of us.
Jens was di erent. Though just a young boy, he seemed powered
by some deep sense of survival. He often chattered to me about the
wondrous voyage and strange people on board. He was buoyed by
his love of adventure and found every day a new revelation. He
reminded me so much of Ivar sometimes, it brought tears to my
eyes.
AFTER NINE DAYS AT SEA, Jens noticed sea grass oating on the swells,
and di erent birds appeared overhead. The children, hoping to spot
land, stood at the rail watching the horizon. Mr. Eriksen, however,
just stayed in the cabin, sorting through his things as if he was
afraid something was missing.
When I went to check on him, he handed me Inge’s papers.
“When we get to the immigration authorities, you will need to
answer questions as if you were my wife,” he said. “Go over these so
that you know the answers.”
I looked through them, but there was little information to learn. If
only I could have talked to Inge, I would have asked a million
questions. But Inge was like my mother—a silent, ghostlike gure
that shared little about herself. I memorized her place and date of
birth, her middle and maiden names. There wasn’t much else.
Then Mr. Eriksen handed me a small stack of Amerikabrev—letters
sent back home by earlier emigrants. Nearly everyone in Norway
had relatives who had gone before, and their letters were often
passed from family to family in villages back home.
I opened the rst letter, releasing a scent of grass and dust. It was
from Mr. Eriksen’s younger brother, Gustaf, who had immigrated
with his wife, Kari, six years earlier to far western Minnesota. The
couple we were going to meet.
July 20, 1875: Dear Family, We arrived in Lac qui Parle four months
ago. We’ve taken a claim north of the village on prairie land not far
from a lake. We live in a sod house, but as soon as possible I’ll build
Kari a proper home. We’ve planted wheat and corn and a large garden.
When the wheat comes in, I’ll buy a cow and a pig. Kari says hello.
Gustaf
Then the next, two years later. August 1877. Dear Family, We
would have written sooner but waited till we had good news. We lost
most of our wheat the last two summers to insects and blackbirds, but
with corn and shing we have gotten through the winters. The sod house
is warm, and we have a cow. We are very happy that Anders and Inge
may join us. We should have a proper house by next year. Kari is with
child. Gustaf
 I scanned the others. We have a son, Hans, born last winter, strong
and healthy. A cyclone last month destroyed three houses and killed a
woman who ran to save her horse. Sometimes the blizzards last for days
and leave chest-deep snow. Kari was pregnant again but lost the child
two weeks ago.
The last letter came with speci cs. Anders, I’ve saved enough for
lumber and will build our house after the spring thaw. You and your
family may use the sod house the rst winter if you cannot nd a farm
to buy. We wish you a safe voyage.
I looked up at Mr. Eriksen. “Does Gustaf know about your wife?”
“I wrote from Lillehammer.”
“Will you live in the sod house this winter?”
“Yes, most likely.”
I thought of a cottar’s hut I visited as a child. A crude hovel, with
a re pit in the middle and a smoke hole open to the wind.
Primitive, dark, rimmed with soot. Little more than furs laid on
rough benches and a dirt oor underfoot. Is that what a sod house
would be like in America?
When I asked Mr. Eriksen about their home in Gudbrandsdalen,
he described a comfortable stone farmhouse, with a big hearth and
turf roof. They hadn’t been poor, just landless after the farm went to
his eldest brother.
“Do you worry about living in a dirt house, how it might a ect
the children?”
He squinted at me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, surely not everyone in the village lives in a dirt house.
They might feel ashamed.”
He hu ed, just once, as if he’d taken my measure. “You’re the one
who will care, Mrs. Solberg, but you can live with my brother so as
to have planks beneath your toes. Maybe even a rag rug.”
My face went hot; I had o ended him. “Forgive me. I’m sure we’ll
all have compromises to make.” I folded the letters and tucked them
back in their envelopes. “How long before we get to Lac qui Parle?”
“The train to Chicago and on to St. Paul will take a week or more,
then another day to Montevideo, where we must nd a wagon and
team. It will take several days from there to walk to Lac qui Parle. I
hope my brother will have the wheat planted.”
“I fear I won’t be the help you need, on the farm, I mean.”
“You’re quite capable with Tomas, Mrs. Solberg. That is the help I
need.”
I lowered my head. He had forgiven me.

LATER THAT DAY we sailed into New York Harbor and moored near a
looming brick fortress on the tip of Manhattan Island—Castle
Garden, the immigration station. We debarked in long lines and
were herded into the vast registration room, which teemed with
foreigners of every stripe—Poles, Germans, Greeks, and Italians.
People napped on benches rolled in blankets like sausages, while
others brewed tea on big stoves clustered in the center of the
waiting room. Mr. Eriksen went to change his crowns to dollars, and
then we queued up for the Scandinavia desk.
When it was our turn, I pinched Tomas to make him fuss, then
answered the questions as if I were Inge Eriksen. The o cial
stamped our papers, and within minutes it was done; we had
immigrated. Or rather, Inge Eriksen had immigrated.
We were soon ferried across the Hudson River to a vast train
depot in New Jersey. A crushing crowd waited for the Chicago train.
We had to ght our way on board, Mr. Eriksen and Birgitte
elbowing and squeezing through until we found space. I sank down
and looked about. Instead of plush seats, there were only wooden
benches, as uncomfortable as church pews, and just a rough wash
closet at one end of the car. Bags and people were piled everywhere;
we could scarcely move. Tomas cried for his milk, and I spilled half
a precious can struggling with the suckling ask in the crowded car.
Mr. Eriksen hovered. “I’m worried about the chest. When I asked
about it, they did not understand me.”
The train lurched forward; the whistle shrieked.
“They lost our chest?” Jens looked up anxiously.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I saw them loading the chests in the last
car. There were none left on the platform, so ours must be with the
others.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Eriksen said, nally sitting down. “I had not
anticipated these di culties with the language.” He shook his head.
The things he could not manage chafed at his pride. “As we go west,
you must teach us some English, Mrs. Solberg. I just hope Minnesota
is thick with Norwegians.”
After I fed the baby, I looked out the window. Nothing but dreary
marshland, no green mountains anywhere in sight. I felt
lightheaded. Would I ever be Nora again? Perhaps she died at sea
and was dropped over the rail in a winding sheet. I felt like I was
being stripped of all that was familiar—my country, my language,
my identity.
Then again, maybe that was the adventure; maybe that was what
it took to escape. In the wide-open spaces of America, perhaps I
could become the woman I wanted to be—someone valued,
someone trusted, someone loved. Someone who belonged to
somebody else.
All I had to do was tuck my own children away in my heart and
turn my attention to those in front of me.
I gazed at Tomas, my special charge. How grateful I was for him.

ON THE THIRD NIGHT of our journey, the train rattled to a stop

somewhere in Ohio. People shifted about on the benches, groaning
with frustration. Tomas woke and started to cry. I unwrapped him
from the shawl slung across my breast and held him up to look
about.
Mr. Eriksen stirred and sat up, then reached a nger out to the
child, who took it rmly. “Where are we?” he said, peering out into
the blackness. “Is there a town? A station?”
“No. Nothing—just another siding.” I could smell pig manure on
the warm breeze, though there were only trees out the window.
Birgitte rose, pushed her loose hair from her eyes, and
immediately reached for the baby. She often took him from me.
“Thank you,” I said, as sweetly as I could. “I’ll get his ask, and
you can feed him.”
 We had been trapped on this dilapidated train since leaving New
York, cinders and smoke seeping in through windows cracked for
air, our bones aching from the hard benches. Several times a day the
train stopped inexplicably, often for hours at a time, then just as
mysteriously chugged to life and rumbled on. No one explained
anything, and we never stopped at stations—just to ll up at the
occasional watering tank. I had heard about the trains at the
shipping o ce in Kristiania but never imagined they could be this
bad. They had one purpose: to carry the stream of foreigners from
the docks of New York straight through to Chicago. On board, the
toilets reeked, and the water reservoirs went stale. At night the
Eriksens and I lay down as best we could, Birgitte and I each on a
bench, Jens and Mr. Eriksen curled on the oor between us. No one
slept much, except the baby.
During the day the journey was easier to bear, but only because
we could watch the countryside change, as if unwrapping a gift
from a stranger. The marshes of New Jersey gave way to the forests
and rocky outcroppings of New York State. The mountain areas
looked more like Norway, but the towns were surprisingly poor.
Shoddily built shanties and dirty villages popped up along the
tracks, only to vanish as the train swept past. We rumbled through
several small cities, with granite buildings and nicer houses, but
mostly the landscape was dotted with poor farms.
Now that we were out in the great American middle, cultivated
elds stretched like a lumpy quilt to the horizon. The farms began
to appear more prosperous; probably the soil was better. Jens
pointed out engineering marvels—canals, bridges, telegraph wires—
and asked for the English words for everything he saw. I tried to
teach the family some rudimentary phrases, though my vocabulary
was limited. Birgitte grumbled through the rst few lessons but took
to it nonetheless. Mr. Eriksen found it much harder. The little
English he knew failed him when he needed it most. I was the only
one who could speak for us.
AFTER OUR NIGHT on the siding in Ohio, the gentle hillocks
disappeared and the land attened, though there were still
occasional stands of trees.
“Is this the prairie?” I asked. We were all weary and eager to get
to Minnesota.
Mr. Eriksen looked out. “No. The prairie is at like this, but
there’s only grass. No trees.”
“No trees?” I couldn’t imagine a world without trees.
“Only in the river bottoms and along the lakes, where the roots
can nd water.”
“But your brother’s house is near a lake, yes?”
Mr. Eriksen nodded. “And there will be some trees—as long as the
other settlers haven’t chopped them all down to build their huts.”
Birgitte heard this and started whispering to Jens. This bothered
me, but I didn’t complain, as Mr. Eriksen never seemed to notice
how often she did it. He was deeply preoccupied by the challenges
to come and watched the landscape with a furrowed brow.
Two more days, and we still hadn’t made it to Chicago. America
must be vast beyond imagining, I said to Jens, who nodded
solemnly. Traveling through this immense land stretched my bond
back to Norway almost to breaking. I felt like an explorer going over
the horizon. Would anything ever feel like home again? Would I
ever see my children again, or even hear of them? Would I ever hear
of poor Tobias or Erlend? I tried not to think about all of them back
in Kristiania, though the boredom of the trip left my mind with little
else to do.
My scalp itched as a stubble of hair began to grow in. Tomas
fretted; our clothes soured. We divided our last bit of sausage as if
performing a sacred ritual.

FINALLY—when it felt as if America would never end—the train

pulled into Chicago, a huge depot choked with trains and enormous
piles of coal and lumber. The Eriksens and I stepped o , sti as old
people, and Mr. Eriksen went to nd our chest. I looked around.
There was something new here, something I had never felt before—
a hot wind blowing through, as if the Wild West crouched just
beyond. I said this to Birgitte, but the girl turned away, tears in her
eyes. She had come too far from Gudbrandsdalen and her mother’s
grave.
A horse cart carried us through the city to the western depot, the
start of the rail line to Minnesota. The streets were thick with people
—clerks and ladies in city dress picking their way past ragged street
children, laborers in overalls, and uniformed maids out on errands.
Jens and Birgitte watched, trans xed. To my relief, it felt di erent
from Liverpool, brighter, with a breeze blowing in o the lake. We
crossed the Chicago River, past blocks of rickety tenements, and
then came to a more civilized section—brick houses, stone o ce
buildings, shops. The city stretched forever in each direction, a
beehive of people and industry.
When we got to the western train station, we had two hours
before our train, so I o ered to go nd a market.
“You’re not afraid?” Mr. Eriksen said.
“No.” My pulse quickened with excitement at the thought of
walking about on my own. But I didn’t tell him that. “I’ll be ne.”
He handed me a few coins. “Bread, some fresh cheese, a sausage,
milk.”
And then I walked out into the swirling crowd and under the wide
blue sky. Chicago! I stood on the corner for a long moment, soaking
in the strangeness of the city and wishing Tobias were here to see it.
The city felt as if it had no roof, as if anything could happen.
I remembered Tobias telling me the Norwegian community was
on the west side of the city. I looked around. Perhaps it was nearby.
I crossed the street and headed out, dodging wagons and buggies.
I soon found a market and was pleased to see signs in German and
Danish. I asked the butcher if there was a Norwegian quarter
nearby.
“Go over to Halsted,” he said, pointing. “Then up to Milwaukee
Avenue. About ve blocks.”
I paid for my groceries, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. Did I
dare?
 There was time, and Mr. Eriksen need not know, I reasoned. I
walked a few blocks, passing a tavern where I heard a man shouting
in Norwegian. In a few more blocks, all the signs were in
Norwegian.
I stepped into a dress shop. The woman behind the counter was
talking with a customer in my own tongue.
I listened, trying to place her. From Telemark, probably, yet she
seemed remarkably worldly. When her customer left, she turned to
me.
“Newly immigrated?”
“Yes, from Kristiania,” I replied. She glanced at my homespun
skirt. No one in Chicago, not even the Norwegians, wore anything
like it. They were city folk, with city fashions.
She smiled anyway. “Welcome.” Then she handed me a
newspaper, the Skandinaven—in Norwegian. “Free to newcomers.”
“Thank you.” I nodded politely, then turned away. I longed to
chat, but if I did I was afraid I wouldn’t return to the Eriksens.
Back outside, however, I couldn’t resist walking up Milwaukee
Avenue, peeking in shop windows and reading postings for rooms
and jobs. A plan ickered inside me. When my obligation to the
Eriksens was done, I would return to Chicago and get work in a
shop, like the woman from Telemark. I’d save money, rebuild my
life, and then return to Norway for my children—when they were
old enough to choose for themselves.
All of a sudden, I noticed the sun had dropped. I had to hurry or I
would miss the train. And if I did? Possibilities crowded into my
head, but I shook myself. I had given Mr. Eriksen my word. I hadn’t
come to America to degrade into something worse than I was in
Norway. I would not abandon them.
I rushed back to the station, anxiety mounting as I neared the
platform. With relief I spotted them, Mr. Eriksen pacing about and
Birgitte struggling with Tomas, who wailed with hunger.
I ran up, smiling as if everything was ne.
But Mr. Eriksen wasn’t fooled. “Where did you go? I gave you
money, and you vanished!”
“I’m back now, Mr. Eriksen. I’m sorry I worried you.”
 “You’ve been gone more than an hour!”
“Look!” I held up the bag. “I found the market, and I found the
Norwegian quarter. Here—a newspaper, in Norwegian!”
Mr. Eriksen ignored the paper and instead looked deep into my
eyes. “You mean to stay in Chicago.”
I reddened. “No. I will not run from my obligation, Mr. Eriksen.
I’m not that kind of person.” I paused to breathe. “I just wanted to
see if there really was a Norwegian neighborhood.”
“The problem, Nora, is I don’t know who you are or why you’ve
agreed to our bargain. I can see now I’ve been expecting something
like this.”
“Well, you needn’t worry. I won’t do that.” I sounded surer than I
felt, but I had to convince him. “Please forgive me.”
The conductor unlocked the compartment doors. Mr. Eriksen
handed me the baby.
He had called me Nora.

THE GREAT NORTHERN RAILCAR had padded seats and fresh water, which
made the next two days easier. We pulled into St. Paul late in the
afternoon. Like Chicago, the city bustled with construction projects,
buildings of brick and granite rising on every corner. Yet St. Paul
felt more civilized, with tree-lined streets and gentle hills above the
Mississippi River. Norwegians and Swedes walked among the
Americans as if they owned the place.
We found a room for the night and collapsed into real beds. The
next morning we boarded yet another train, passing through land
that grew atter and drier, with fewer towns and farms. The trees
soon disappeared, except those growing in the sunken trace of the
Minnesota River. Then I began seeing mounds of turf, widely
spaced; with a start I realized some had doors and windows—they
must be sod houses. They looked like animal burrows.
Mr. Eriksen watched the landscape unfold. When the train raced
along the river, we could see that the water ran high—rain, perhaps,
or heavy snowmelt. Beyond the river, the prairie stretched away to
tomorrow, ooded sloughs twinkling in the sun.
FINALLY, Montevideo, the end of the line. We climbed down and
headed out to nd a store and livery. The town felt strangely empty,
as if we had traveled to the very edge of civilization. A tall Swede
with a red beard greeted us in Norwegian at the livery, a relief for
Mr. Eriksen, who sent the rest of us across to the general store to get
provisions.
The store also felt empty. The shelves were mostly bare, and the
shopkeeper was thin and pale. I smiled and asked what she could
o er.
The shopkeeper put cornmeal, salt pork, and beans on the
counter. “We usually carry more things, but we’ve barely restocked
since winter. The trains are only now getting through.”
“The winter was hard?”
She stared at me. “You must be new.”
“Yes, we’re going to, to homestead?” I wasn’t sure of the word.
The woman nodded, then sighed.
“Near Lac qui Parle,” I said.
“Well, you’re brave folk. Some people are heading back east.”
That gave me pause. “But it’s beautiful land,” I said, watching her
face.
“Looks can be deceiving.” She glanced at the children. “But I don’t
want to discourage you. A winter like we’ve had probably won’t
happen again for a hundred years.” She reached for a bag of seed
potatoes. “You’ll be wanting to plant these. There’s still time to get
them in the ground.”
I opened my mouth to ask what she meant about the winter, but
Mr. Eriksen called from the door. “Come! The oxen won’t stand still
for long.”
“Oxen!” Jens yipped, then shot out the door.
I paid and gathered our things.
“There’s something odd about this town,” Mr. Eriksen said, taking
the groceries from me. “It’s as if no one lives here.”
“Apparently they had a rough winter.”
“The Swede had several teams for me to choose from, since some
families sold theirs back to him when they left after a bad blizzard
in October.”
We stepped outside, and my heart stopped. There was Jens,
standing in front of a pair of horned beasts as big as mountain trolls,
tugging at their halters and rubbing their noses. I grabbed for the
boy, afraid the oxen would step on him.
But Mr. Eriksen just laughed. “Cattle love Jens, and this team
seems fairly well trained.” He helped me onto the seat, handed me
the baby, and climbed up beside me. Jens and Birgitte clambered
onto a buckboard behind. “Let’s see if this team understands
Norwegian,” he said, and with a smack of the reins we jolted
forward.

MONTEVIDEO soon dropped behind us, and the road faded to a rutted
track. The wagon clattered slowly along; the tall grass undulated in
the breeze, like waves.
Birgitte surveyed the endless plain and sighed. “I never thought
there would be no mountains at all,” she said. “There aren’t even
any trees, except those by the river. It doesn’t look anything like
Norway.”
I didn’t know what to tell her. The prairie had a strange, ethereal
beauty—with its bright-green grass, distant horizon, and enormous
sky, brushed now with vermillion as the sun sank. But there was
also a silence as deep, vast, and indi erent as the sea.
One could not help feeling very small in such a place.

THAT NIGHT we camped near the river so that Jens and Mr. Eriksen
could catch sh for our supper. Birgitte cut prairie grass, which I
stu ed into the two bed ticks. We spread the ticks on the ground
under the wagon, then topped them with blankets. I spotted a small
snake in the brush, which made me jump. Birgitte chased it away,
laughing at me, then pointed out other holes in the sod. Who knew
what might come out at night to sni our hair?
Mr. Eriksen and Jens returned with several small trout. We built a
re, made porridge, fried the sh, and ate them with our ngers,
like savages. No one cared. We were all lost in the immensity of the
prairie and the task before us—to learn how to live in this new
world. After night fell, I fed Tomas his milk, crept under the wagon
with him, and tried to settle on the rough mattress. I had never slept
outside in my life and could barely face the prairie in the dark. I
curled tight around the baby and tried to imagine myself back in
Vika.

THE NEXT MORNING we pushed o again into the sea of grass. Jens
asked to drive the team, so he sat on the wagon seat with me, telling
me about the animals at their farm in Norway and how he hoped we
might soon get cows and pigs here, in America. Birgitte, walking
with her father, turned several times to glare at him. She didn’t like
it when Jens talked to me about their life in Gudbrandsdalen.
As we trundled farther west, the prairie began to ll me with a
mysterious weight, like a stone set gently on my chest. The
emptiness, the crudeness of the life; I wondered if I would be able to
bear it. In my America dream, I had always imagined a city life, not
unlike my life in Kristiania. Snug apartments or little houses, with
warm rugs on the oors and pianos in every parlor. Educated
people, modern conveniences. I might have to work as a governess
or companion, but it would be in gentle circumstances.
But there didn’t seem to be any evidence of a life like that out
here.

LATE THE SECOND DAY a small wooden sign appeared just o the edge
of the track. There was no other sign of life around. It pointed to the
right, to Lac qui Parle village. Mr. Eriksen climbed up onto the
wagon seat, taking the reins from Jens with trembling hands.
“Soon,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
The track dipped toward a line of low trees, and then we could
see the lake in the distance, bulrushes at one end. We rounded a
bend, and a town appeared: a short main street, just two blocks
long, anked by wooden buildings. We passed a bank and general
store and could see up ahead a livery, two saloons, and a hotel.
Some had Norwegian names.
 Like Montevideo, the town seemed unusually quiet. Perhaps the
men were out in the elds. We stopped in front of the hotel, and Mr.
Eriksen asked me to accompany him inside, in case I must translate.
The man behind the desk looked up and greeted us in Norwegian.
Mr. Eriksen nodded politely. “We’re looking for Gustaf Eriksen’s
place,” he said. “We understand it is northwest of town.”
The man peered at us. “Will you be buying the place, then?”
“No,” Mr. Eriksen said, puzzled. “He’s my brother.”
There was a long silence. “Yes,” the man nally said. “We heard
you were coming.”
“What is it?” said Mr. Eriksen. “What’s wrong? Is he ill?”
The man shook his head. “No, not ill. Your brother is dead, I am
sorry to tell you. He and his family starved to death last winter.
They were found in April.”
My breath caught in my throat. Mr. Eriksen clutched the edge of
the counter.
“They weren’t the only ones who died around here,” the man
continued. “We had terrible cold, unrelenting. James Renville, the
Indian that lives down near the old mission, he found them. He was
their friend—took them food sometimes.”
“No, you must be mistaken,” Mr. Eriksen stammered. “We have a
letter from him!”
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re coming out of the worst winter anyone’s
ever seen. The blizzards started early and never let up. The snow
drifted twenty feet in places, and the trains couldn’t get through to
resupply the towns. The lucky ones left before Christmas. Some
families survived on nothing but turnips; others didn’t even have
that.” He stopped to let us absorb this news, then shook his head
again. “They’re buried in a small plot near their soddie, toward the
lake, in a stand of trees.”
Mr. Eriksen’s face hardened. “Please tell us how to get there.”
The hotel keeper pulled out a map and showed us which track to
follow. “It’s not much of a place. The sod house sits where the
tableland breaks toward the lake.”
“There’s no frame house?”
 “No. Most of these farmers had such a tough time with the
drought and grasshoppers a few years back, they still can’t a ord
lumber. You’ll see the elds rst, not that there’s anything in them.”
Mr. Eriksen nodded.
“If you want to take over his claim, you’ll have to talk to the land
surveyor in Montevideo. You might want to check with Mr. Pearsall
—that’s the law o ce across the street.”
Mr. Eriksen thanked him, and then we stepped outside.
“I cannot believe it,” he said. “I hope they’re mistaken. We must
go see.”
“What is it, Papa?” Birgitte asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Silence, Birgitte. Nora, take the baby.”

MR. ERIKSEN led the oxen so I couldn’t see his face. My mind skittered
about like a frightened rabbit—a family freezing and starving to
death in their own home? How could Mr. Eriksen bring his family to
such a place? Then, crowding in quickly, the complications for me.
If Gustaf and Kari were gone, I would have nowhere to live. It was
one thing to pretend to be Mr. Eriksen’s wife on the ship, but I could
not live with him in his house, sod or not.
We bumped over the faint track; few had come this way. The land
sloped toward the lake, broken by small creeks and exposed banks.
The track turned; the oxen stopped. There, stretching out before us,
were several elds of broken ground, with a low sod house tucked
against a bank beyond. Mr. Eriksen walked out into the rst eld
and kicked at the dirt. “Just weeds,” he said grimly.
He turned to the children. “Stay here until I call for you.”
“What is it?” Birgitte said, panic in her voice.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. I handed her the baby and then
walked with Mr. Eriksen down the track toward the small, oddly
shaped house. The back half appeared to be a dugout built into the
hillside. Sod bricks extended the little house in front, with a roof of
branches covered by more sod bricks. A stovepipe stuck through the
roof at one end. In front was a crude wooden door beside a window
opening covered with dirty parchment. A few yards down the trail
where the hill deepened, another sod building—rougher,
windowless—stood out from the bank. Perhaps the barn.
Mr. Eriksen called a hallo, but we both knew there was no one
inside. Between the house and the barn the trail was thick with hay
underfoot, as if someone had brought a haystack inside. Mr. Eriksen
looked at me and cleared his throat. Then he opened the door.
Inside it was so dim we could barely see anything at rst, and
then Mr. Eriksen pulled a fold of blanket away from the parchment
window. Yellow light seeped in.
“Dear God,” he whispered.
It looked like the scene of a crime and smelled of the grave.
Crockery lay tumbled on the oor, and a lthy hay tick slouched
against the wall, dry grass spilling from a rent down the middle.
Grit covered everything, as if the place had been long abandoned.
There was little furniture beyond the rusted stove and a rosemaled
wedding chest, which stood beneath the window. An open Bible lay
on top, facedown.
Mr. Eriksen picked it up. “Gustaf’s—here’s his con rmation name
and date.”
If this was all the family had when they died, it was precious
little. Newspaper pages had been pinned to one wall, as if to serve
as wallpaper, but they did little to hide the ugly sod. The grass of
the bricks had dried to a pale yellow sandwiched between the
darker dirt. I suddenly started shivering. The chill and closeness of
the soddie, the primitive quality of it all. To the left of the door was
a pile of tins and pans. Yet other things they should have had were
missing—there was no wooden counter, no butter churn or spinning
wheel, no our barrel. The house must have been stripped by
someone, yet they had taken only, only … My mind reeled.
Mr. Eriksen pulled back the faded calico cloth that separated the
front room from the bedroom. “They even burned the bedstead,” he
said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see it? Nearly everything that would burn—that was
not precious to them, like the chest and Bible—is gone. No table, no
chairs, no shelves.” He pointed out grooves in the dirt oor where
furniture once stood. “Gustaf was a gifted carpenter. Surely he built
what they needed.” He opened the stove, then pulled out bits of
charred grass. “In the end they were burning hay. It couldn’t have
given much heat.”
A few clothes, black with grime, hung from a nail. I could see why
the sod house felt like a grave—the back wall was solid dirt and
smelled of fungus and melting snow.
Mr. Eriksen picked up a leather jerkin with Norwegian tooling on
the front, a woman’s stained skirt, and a child’s knitted cap. Then he
buried his face in them and began to weep. He fell to his knees.
I desperately wanted to touch his shoulder or reassure him
somehow, but I didn’t dare interrupt his private grief. I stepped back
around the curtain and over to the corner with the tins and pots. As
quietly as possible, I looked through them. Nothing, not a seed. A
large spider scuttled along the wall and backed into a crevice.
I couldn’t breathe. I plunged through the door and ran several
steps, gulping air. Gentle afternoon light poured down around me,
and a warm breeze bathed my face. I burst into tears. I could hardly
bear the contradiction between the loveliness of the land and the
squalid life of this family. I could scarcely imagine their last months,
the snow piled as high as the roof, the stove going cold, their
strength ebbing. I wondered who died rst, then pushed the thought
from my mind. It made no di erence. They were gone, and our life
out on this prairie was going to be very di erent from what we had
imagined.
After a time Mr. Eriksen came out, his face grim. “We must tell
the children.”
Birgitte and Jens stood nervously beside the wagon. “Papa, what
is it?” Birgitte shrieked when she saw his face.
“Quiet, Birgitte,” he said. “Your uncle and aunt died this past
winter. I am sorry.”
Birgitte sti ened and pulled away. “How? How could that
happen? And what of little Hans?” Jens looked at his sister’s
panicked face and began to cry.
“Hans died as well. They starved to death during the hard
winter.”
 “Then why did you bring us here?” Birgitte screamed, backing
away from her father’s consoling hands. “First Mama and now them!
We’ll all die! We’ll all starve!” She ailed at him with her sts.
He caught her hands and held her. “Gentle, child, gentle!”
She broke into heaving sobs.
“These are terrible misfortunes, I grant you that, Birgitte,” he said.
“But it doesn’t mean we will starve. The past winter was very
severe. People died because the trains couldn’t get through the
snowdrifts to bring food. That won’t happen most winters.”
I stood to the side, touched by the care their father gave them. He
sat on the ground and took them into his lap, stroking their hair
until they stopped weeping.
Tomas, kicking on a blanket in the grass, started to fuss, pulling
me back to the day before me. I prepared his ask; the Eriksens
nally stood.
“I must nd their graves,” Mr. Eriksen said. “Nora, children,
prepare a camp, and do not go near the sod house.”
“Why not?” asked Birgitte, wiping her eyes.
“Do as I say.” He walked o .
He had called me Nora again.
 CHAPTER TWELVE

SOLVI
March 1919 Kristiania, Norway

“No,” said Rikka. “That’s hideous. You look consumptive.”

Solvi had already tried on ve dresses, none of them to Rikka’s
liking. She turned back to the dressing room.
“Try the one with ounces,” Rikka called.
But when Solvi came out, Rikka wrinkled her nose. “Makes you
look like a child’s toy, all dolled up.”
Solvi went to the rack and pulled out a pale-green gown trimmed
with satin ribbon, sheer at the top with a heavier drape below. “I
like this one.”
“Only witches wear green,” Rikka said.
“Well, I’m trying it.” Solvi disappeared into the dressing room.
When Solvi emerged again, the shop clerk stepped over. “Lovely,
miss. Just a string of pearls, and that’s all you need.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll take it,” Solvi said. She slipped back into
the dressing room, then reemerged in her street clothes. The clerk
took the gown to wrap.
“Just a string of pearls,” Rikka said, mocking the woman’s nasal
tones.
“Rikka, what’s the matter with you?”
“You must have pearls,” Rikka said. “All well-bred girls from
Bergen have a string of pearls.”
Solvi thought of her mother trying to bribe her to marry Stefan. “I
do not have pearls, Rikka.”
“Well, too bad. The other girls at the club dance will, I can assure
you.”
“Rikka, what is this about?”
Rikka pu ed out her cheeks, then sighed. “I just don’t understand
why you think you’ll enjoy this dance at Dominik’s club. The only
people there will be his rich friends and their stupid girlfriends.”
“That’s open-minded of you,” Solvi said. “You sound jealous.”
Rikka gave her a dry laugh. “Hardly.”
“Then why are you angry with me?”
“Because you’re going o to a dance with the bourgeoisie, Solvi.
Only the boys from the best families live at Dominik’s club. People
like Magnus are not allowed.”
“That’s hard to believe. His father’s a legislator.”
“His father was a shipwright; he represents labor. Magnus could
never join Dominik’s club and would never want to.”
“I’m just going to a dance, Rikka. Nothing more; it hardly
matters.”
“But it all matters, Solvi,” Rikka said. “Every time you go
someplace where your other friends aren’t invited, you escape into
the comfort of your class.”
Solvi paid for her new dress and tucked the package under her
arm. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m poor again now.”
“What I don’t understand, Solvi, is why you’re going out with
Dominik while leading Magnus along.”
Solvi spun around. “Who says I’m leading Magnus along? We’re
just friends. He’s helping me, he’s …”
“Exactly,” Rikka said. “He would be quite hurt if he heard you
were going to this club dance with Dominik.”
“Why does he need to know?”
Rikka nodded. “See? This is the problem—hiding and keeping
secrets from people.”
“Are you suggesting I tell Magnus?”
“Yes. If you’re seeing Dominik, tell Magnus, before he hears it
from someone else.”
Solvi felt her face redden. “Rikka, don’t. Please don’t. It would
only hurt him.”
“If you knew it would hurt Magnus, then maybe you should have
thought twice before letting Dominik sweep you o your feet.”
“No one has swept me o my feet. I’m standing right here.”
Rikka just harrumphed and headed out the door.
SOLVI SPENT ANOTHER MORNING in the newspaper archives, and then she
and Magnus got sh sandwiches from a stand and found a park
bench for their picnic. The day was blustery, and Solvi’s curls ew
about her head in the wind.
“What did Mr. Blehr mean when he said I could start work as a
journalist right away?” Solvi asked. “I don’t know nearly enough
about the world, and I’m just learning how to take pictures. Does he
say that to you?”
Magnus nodded. “Every day. He gets very annoyed when I waste
my time in lectures, as he puts it, but I’m determined to nish my
degree. It helps me over the class barrier. Education obscures those
lines.”
“I was thinking the other day, Magnus, how little you talk about
yourself,” Solvi said. “Tell me about your family.”
“Well, my mother and younger siblings are back in Molde …”
“On the coast? So you have fog in your veins as well!”
He laughed. “I do, but my father and I share a small at here
now. He lives with me when the Storting’s in session.”
“Rikka said your father’s a labor leader.”
“Yes. He started in the shipyards but soon rose in the labor
movement. But he’s not a member of the gentry, despite being in the
Storting.” Magnus gave her a sad smile. “He’s got calluses on his
hands.”
“My father had calluses, too, Magnus. He did all the planting and
tending of his greenhouse.”
“But still, Solvi, you know what I mean—my people are not like
your people.”
She fell silent, not sure how to bridge the divide. Or if she should
even try. “Magnus, I’m so sorry.”
He held up his hand. “No, Solvi. There’s no need.” Then he stood
up, suddenly awkward with her. “I’ll guess I’ll see you in class.”
“Magnus,” Solvi said. “Thank you. You’ve been so kind to me.”
He smiled, but the touch of sadness deepened. “My pleasure,” he
said, bowing slightly. Then he turned on his heel, leaving her alone
in the sun and the wind.
A FEW DAYS LATER,Solvi knocked on the door of Mr. Blehr’s o ce. “Do
you have a moment? I have some pictures,” Solvi asked.
“Of course, Miss Lange.” He shoved his papers aside, and Solvi
carefully laid out her photographs of the Vika children. She was
proud of them; she hoped he would like them.
He examined them one by one, then looked up at her. “What took
you to Vika, Miss Lange?”
“I went with a friend who works with the women’s health
auxiliary.”
Mr. Blehr pushed the pictures around, selecting one, then another.
“These children seem so hopeless, yet they are still children,”
Solvi said, nervously. “I was trying to show that.”
“Children are, by nature, usually hopeful. But this—.” He tapped
the photo of the children ghting over the crust of bread as they
turned to the camera. “This moment of high jinks and the hunger
beneath it captures both their hope and their grim reality.” He
looked at Solvi with a fresh appreciation. “Not everyone can capture
that disparity.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Nice work, Miss Lange. May I keep these for now? There’s a story
here, but I need to talk to my writers.” He looked through the
photographs again. “How do you do it, Miss Lange? How do you get
them to let you into their life this way?”
“I’m not sure,” Solvi said. “I suppose children are easy. Most
people ignore them, especially poor children. If I talk with them,
then show them the camera and how it works, they’re usually happy
to let me take their picture.” She stopped for a moment. “They’re
not ashamed of their poverty, because they know nothing better.
Their mothers, though, they are ashamed. It’s harder with them.”
“Could you get me more, Miss Lange? And try for some of those
mothers, as well as the scene down there—the houses, the
streetscape. Even the rats, if you can catch them. But mostly more
children. Drop the photos o , and we’ll talk again.”
DOMINIK SMILED and handed Solvi a narrow glass with something
zzing. “Don’t drink it too fast—there’s brandy in there.”
Solvi took a sip, more than she meant to. It was delicious, so she
sipped some more. The room, hazy with cigarette smoke, swayed
around her. The dining hall of Dominik’s residence had been
arranged as a nightclub, with the rug rolled out of the way and the
tables pushed to the far end. Several musicians played popular tunes
while a woman with painted eyes and a fringed dress uttered a fan
and sang.
Dominik led Solvi to a table. “Your gown is very pretty on you,”
he said. “But why did you put your hair up?”
Solvi patted the French twist at the back of her head. She spent an
hour getting it right, hoping to look more sophisticated. “Don’t you
like it?”
Dominik reached out and, before she could stop him, pulled out
the pins holding the twist in place. Her Isolde curls tumbled down
around her shoulders. “There, that’s better,” he said.
“Dominik!” She laughed nervously. “Don’t you think you should
have asked rst?”
“You would have said yes,” he said.
“I might not have. I liked it up.”
“With your hair down you look wild and free.”
“I look twelve.”
“Are you older than that?” Dominik pulled back in surprise.
“Quelle horreur !”
Solvi had never wanted to swat anyone in her life, but she had to
sit on her hands to keep from swatting this boy. “Honestly, Dominik
…”
Two other couples sat down, the girls with their hair piled high
on their heads. Solvi combed her curls with her ngers and tried to
pull them to one side. She noticed with relief that neither girl was
wearing pearls.
Dominik leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You’re the
prettiest!”
 Solvi couldn’t help smiling. Why couldn’t she stay angry with
him?
“Introduce us, Dominik,” said a young man with a thin mustache.
His date, a plump girl with huge eyes lined in kohl, hung on his
arm.
“This is Solvi Lange, boys,” Dominik said. “From the provinces,
I’m afraid.”
“I’m from Bergen, Dominik,” Solvi said. She gave him a sidelong
scowl but then couldn’t help laughing.
The other boys bowed. “Don’t mind Dominik, Miss Lange,” said
one of them. “An Arctic explorer adopted him in Greenland, then
sent him to live with the family he claims are his parents here in
Kristiania. Don’t be fooled! He’s really quite a heathen—perhaps
even an Eskimo.”
Everyone laughed. “And what are you doing here in Kristiania,
Miss Lange?” one of the other boys asked. The girls said nothing—
just watched Solvi over their cocktails.
“I’m studying at the university,” Solvi said proudly.
Two of the boys pulled back in mock amazement. “A university
girl,” said the one with the mustache. “Dominik, I thought you
avoided the smart ones. Didn’t you say they talk back too much?”
“Well, I’m trying to modernize myself,” Dominik said. “Besides,
Solvi hardly looks like your average university girl.” He turned to
her. “Let’s dance, Solvi. Get away from these apes.”
He guided her onto the oor and took her in his arms. “Thank you
for letting down your hair,” he said, tugging it gently from behind.
“You let it down, Dominik.”
“That was rather forward of me, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m still angry.”
“Then I apologize,” he said, with a little bow. “I’m famous for
doing things without considering the consequences. It’s my only
aw.”
He stepped on her toe, then had trouble nding the beat again.
“Your only aw?” Despite herself, Solvi started giggling.
“Now you’re laughing at me.” He spun her around, then pulled
her close. “My plan is to keep you guessing so you don’t run o with
someone else.” He stumbled again.
“Dominik, are you drunk, or is this how Eskimos dance?”
He pulled back and gazed into her eyes. “I wouldn’t say drunk.
I’m happy, Solvi, happy that you’re here with me.” He twirled her
away.

A FEW HOURS LATER, Solvi glanced at her watch. If she didn’t start
home soon, she would miss the eleven o’clock curfew. Matron
recently extended it just for Saturdays, at the request of the girls,
but wasn’t happy about it. She’d be quite angry if Solvi was late.
Dominik sat with his back to Solvi, deep into an argument with a
friend about the factions in Russia, something Solvi knew little
about.
On Solvi’s other side, the girl with the kohl eyes chattered about a
trip to Copenhagen with her parents. “I don’t know why anyone
would shop in Kristiania anymore,” she said. “Everything here looks
like it was made by someone’s grandmother.”
Solvi tapped Dominik’s arm. “I need to go. I’ve got curfew.”
Dominik looked at her quizzically. “Oh, right. Too bad, Solvi. The
party’s just getting going.” He pulled out his cigarette case. “Have
another, my sweet, and then I’ll take you back, promise.”
Solvi already had a headache from several cigarettes and too
many cocktails. “Dominik, if I’m not there by eleven I’ll get kicked
out, and then I’d have nowhere to live. I’d have to go back to the
provinces.”
“You could live with us here, in the club,” said Dominik, lighting
a cigarette and taking a gulp of his drink. He had had several more
than Solvi and appeared to have lost his jacket and tie. “You could
sleep with the servant girls in the attic,” he said. “You like servant
girls, I think.”
He turned to his friends. “Solvi says we have enslaved our
housemaids. She’s hoping to liberate them. She takes photographs of
them doing horri c jobs, like laundry.”
Several boys laughed; Solvi ushed, then stood up. “Are you
going to be a gentleman and walk me home?”
 “I’m sorry, Solvi. Did that make you mad?” Dominik glanced
around. “Better nd my jacket. Always that north-wind nip in the
air.” He smiled at her. “Run away with me to the Amazon, Solvi. At
least we’d be warm.”
“I’m getting my coat. I’ll wait at the door.”
By the time he appeared, Solvi was walking away by herself. He
ran after her, grabbing her hand and then pulling her at a run
through the streets.
“We’ll make it,” he yelled. “Trust me!”
But when they got to the study house, the lights were o and the
door locked.

SOLVI STOOD BEFORE THE BUILDING,breathless and angry. “Oh, Dominik, I

can’t believe you made me miss curfew …”
Dominik looked up at the bedroom windows. “Me? I ran as fast as
I could, Solvi. You were the slow one, in those heels.”
She felt sick to her stomach and shook her head in despair.
“Just kidding, Solvi. Come on, don’t be like that. There must be
some other way in. Which one is Rikka’s room?”
“It’s in the back, on the third oor. But perhaps …” She crept
through the bushes and around the corner of the building, trying to
remember if she left her window unlatched.
Dominik crashed after her, tripping on branches. “Maybe we can
climb in.”
“Shhh,” she said, then stopped below her own window. “I need to
climb this tree.”
“Is that your window?” he said, in a stage whisper. “Is it open?”
“It might be,” Solvi said.
“I’ll go rst,” he said, swinging up into the branches. He braced
his feet, then reached down to help her. She stepped up onto a
branch; her skirt snagged on something, then gave way as it tore.
Her heart sank. How did she get here, climbing up to her room after
curfew and ruining her rst perfect dress?
But Dominik just grinned. “See? Isn’t this fun? Bet I can climb
higher than you.” He swung up to the branch that reached toward
the window and carefully shimmied out until he got his toes on the
ledge.
The window opened. Solvi, looking up from below, gasped.
“God damn you, Dominik, why did you keep her out so late?” It
was Rikka. “Get out of the way so I can help her in.”
“Can’t I come in too?”
“No, and if you don’t move, I’ll knock you o that branch.”
He slid down to another limb, then helped Solvi to the window.
Rikka looked into her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, just …” Rikka grabbed her elbows and pulled her in over
the sill.
Solvi found her feet, pulled her dress down, and looked out at
Dominik. “Thank you for the evening,” she said.
He leaned toward her. “Give me a kiss, Solvi, for all my trouble.”
“No,” said Rikka, elbowing Solvi out of the way. “You don’t
deserve a kiss. Just be quiet getting out of here.” Then she yanked
the window closed.

“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO BE SO RUDE to Dominik, Rikka,” Solvi said,

checking to make sure Dominik got to the ground, then turning to
examine her skirt. It was streaked with dirt and torn around the
satin ribbon of the hem.
“Excuse me?” Rikka said, cocking her head. “Did you want to kiss
him? I’m sorry. I just assumed—as he brought you home drunk and
after curfew, which meant you had to climb a tree to get back into
your room—that you probably weren’t in a kissing mood.”
“How do you know what mood I’m in, Rikka? You’re worse than
my mother!”
“Well, if you’re going to behave like that, then you need a
mother! You could have gotten killed climbing that tree in the state
you’re in.”
Solvi tried to shake the ache out of her head. “That’s rich coming
from you, Rikka. You climb that tree all the time!”
“Yes, but I know what I’m doing.”
“Well, Dominik helped me up, and here I am, just ne.”
 “Except you’ve ripped your dress,” Rikka said, sinking onto the
bed with a hu . “When I realized you’d missed curfew, I came up
here and waited for you, Solvi Lange, as your friend. What would
you have done if I hadn’t? The window was latched tight.”
Solvi sat and dropped her head in her hands. “I don’t know. I’m
sorry, Rikka. Thank you for helping, for waiting for me. I just don’t
want you to be angry with Dominik.”
Rikka leaned forward. “Solvi, I don’t know why you’re defending
him. Dominik is, oh, I don’t know—he’s irresponsible, he takes
advantage of people, he’s sel sh. He’s not good enough for you.
Can’t you see that?”
“What I see is a handsome, spoiled boy, but a good one
underneath. He says and does things before he thinks, that’s all. He
needs someone like me, someone steady. And he’s brilliant, Rikka;
you said so yourself.”
“I don’t see what he has that Magnus doesn’t have.”
“This isn’t about Magnus.”
“That’s part of the problem. It should be about Magnus.”
“Why do you want me to fall in love with Magnus?” Solvi gave
her a dark look. “You don’t know what’s in my heart. I barely do, so
I don’t see how you could. Besides, I left my mother behind for a
reason, so I’m not about to explain myself to you.”
Rikka stood up. “Fine, Solvi. Just know that the next time you
need that window to be open, I’m not going to be up here looking
out for you.”
She went out, slamming the door loud enough to wake all the
girls on the hall and Matron downstairs.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

The newspaper advertisement was getting frayed hidden in the

pocket of my apron, but I was loath to put it away. Sometimes I
looked at it several times a day, delighting in the images of my
children; other days I ignored it, though I could not forget it was
there. It had opened a well of worry inside me, but also hope. A
hope that was growing.
Perhaps I was reticent about answering because it might not be
from any of my children. Perhaps it was from someone else.
If so, then who could it be? The only person I could think of was
Tobias.
I stood at the kitchen door considering that possibility, then
noticed the sun had set behind the hill. Time to gather the sheep.
We brought them in at night to protect them from the mountain
lions that roamed after dark. Our faithful donkey stood watch
during the day, guarding the ock from coyotes, but he was no
match for the big cats.
How di erent my life was now, compared to those evenings in
Vika discussing politics around the re with Tobias and the other
students. I had always wondered if Tobias might seek me out here in
America someday. He was the one who kindled my America dream,
talking of his own plan to settle in Chicago and teach school or
write for a newspaper. I still checked the Skandinaven occasionally,
to see if he had followed that path, but so far there was no evidence
of him. I wrote him a letter when we settled here in Spokane, but I
only knew his parents’ address. They were elderly and had probably
died, so it was unlikely he got my note. I knew he would have
written if he had.
 I climbed up the hill, listening for the donkey’s bell. On second
thought, it couldn’t be Tobias, because how would he have gotten
the photograph to use in the newspaper advertisement? He would
have had to nd one of the children. Perhaps he went looking for
me and found Ivar. Perhaps he convinced Ivar it was time to forgive.
I found the ock and waded through the sheep to the gentle
donkey. The children called him Pokey, as he walked at his own
pace. I tied the rope to his halter and showed him the apple I had
for him. He followed happily, the ock in his wake.
Forgiveness. What a balm that would be.

NORA
June 1881 Lac qui Parle, Minnesota

The birds woke us at dawn the next morning, chattering enough to

raise the dead. Except it did not work, not that day. Gustaf, Kari,
and Hans still lay in their graves, and we stumbled from the hay
ticks miserable and weak. In the bright daylight it was almost too
much to bear. We ate our corn mush in silence, and then Mr.
Eriksen sent the children to weed one of the fallow elds so we
could plant the potatoes. We needed to get one crop in if we were to
live through the next winter.
We. Was I part of this we, these Eriksens whose prairie experience
had brought hardship and death?
Mr. Eriksen sat down next to me as I tended to Tomas. “This
tragedy has complicated your situation, Nora,” he said. “I’m sorry
for that.”
We glanced at each other awkwardly, both from such di erent
worlds. “Perhaps there is some other family nearby I could live
with,” I said.
“There may be, but I dare not ask. If anyone knew we were not
married, the town sheri would put us back on the train. I see no
alternative. You must continue to pose as my wife, at least for now.”
I turned away. It wasn’t that I had to live with this man—what
felt like propriety in Norway had evaporated over weeks of shared
sea cabins and train cars. It was the playacting and dressing in
another woman’s clothes. I didn’t want to pretend to be Birgitte’s
mother.
“I know it’s di cult, Nora, but I need your help,” Mr. Eriksen
said. “I realized that in Chicago; I cannot do this without you. Give
me one year, help us get on our feet, and then I’ll help you get back
to Illinois.”
“But I don’t know if I can do it. Live in the sod house. I’m so—.” I
choked. “Inadequate. I don’t have the strength.”
“We have the strength; Birgitte will help you. And we’ll x up the
house, clear it of ghosts. If you want me to live in the barn, I will. I
don’t mean to compromise your virtue.”
“Birgitte resents me; she doesn’t want me here.”
“Birgitte is grieving. She’ll learn soon enough to value your help.”
“But how will we explain ourselves? You and I are like ox and
horse—unsuited to be yoked together.”
He inched.
I started to apologize, but he waved it away.
“I doubt anyone will pry as long as we behave as husband and
wife,” he said. “If they do, we’ll say you are my second wife,
Tomas’s mother. Not mother to the older ones.”
“What will they call me?”
“Nora, as if you were their stepmother. And you must call me
Anders. We’ll say I met you—a widow—in Kristiania, after Inge
died. That’s true and explains why you are di erent.”
“What will you say when I leave?”
“Ah. Perhaps that you died. We’ll erect a marker next to the other
graves and grieve the loss of you.” I glanced up to see if he was as
bitter as he sounded, but instead his face shone with something
honest. “I have little doubt, Nora, that we will grieve the loss of
you.”
He was wooing me. He was afraid I would walk into town and get
on the next train.
I fussed with Tomas, thinking. I could leave; I could leave that
day. But that wouldn’t be fair or honest, and I needed to be fair and
honest. Besides, Tomas might not live through the rst winter
without me.
I sighed. “I will stay, Mr. Eriksen.”
“Anders.”
“I cannot call you that yet. Please, give me time.”
“Of course. But if someone stops by …”
“I understand.”
He helped me up. “Let’s see how the children get on.”

I TIED TOMAS TO MY BACK and took Jens’s place in the eld, so he could
help his father gather wood down near the lake. Birgitte moved
along the row ahead of me, tearing at the weeds with a hand claw,
and I followed, digging out the stubborn ones. It was hot work, and
I soon ached from bending. I stood for a moment, gazing out at the
lake, and suddenly noticed a man at the edge of a thicket. A strange-
looking man, with long black hair hanging down around his
shoulders. Otherwise, he looked like a farmer, in a work shirt and
homespun pants. He raised an arm and started toward us.
Birgitte looked up, then backed toward me. “Mrs. Solberg—.”
“It’s all right, Birgitte.”
I shouted a greeting to him in English, though his dark skin and
hair made me wonder if he was some other race. He didn’t answer
right away, so I greeted him in French. His face lit up, and he
stepped closer. His skin was rough, scarred by a life outside, and he
had charcoal eyes. “Are you French or English?” he asked in
strangely accented French.
“Norwegian.”
“You are Mr. Eriksen’s kin,” he said, bowing. “He said you were
coming. I’m James Renville. A friend to Gustaf and Kari. I am very
sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I murmured. “My husband is Anders Eriksen. And
this is Birgitte, and the baby is Tomas.” I patted the sling. “We also
have another son, Jens. He and his father are down by the lake.”
“Is he an Indian?” Birgitte whispered.
“I don’t know. He was a friend of your uncle’s.”
 “I saw them shing,” said Mr. Renville. “Are you to take over Mr.
Eriksen’s claim?”
This last bit I could not decipher. “I don’t understand. Do you
speak English?”
“Yes, but not good,” he said, switching over. “My sister and I
learned at the mission school here. But the missionaries left after the
Indian War. I picked up more doing business with settlers.”
“How did you learn French?”
“It’s my native tongue, along with Dakota. My grandfather was
the son of a French fur trader and a Dakota wife. He was a border
chief and built Fort Renville.” He pointed to the distant bank, but I
could see only trees.
We heard the wagon rattling up the slope. Mr. Eriksen brought
the team to a halt, jumped down, and strode over, Jens on his heels.
“Nora, is everything all right?”
“Yes. This is Mr. Renville, your brother’s friend.”
Mr. Eriksen shook the Indian’s hand. “Then you must join us for
dinner. Jens, clean the sh. Birgitte, heat the frying pan.”
As we shared our meager meal, I translated, switching between
languages. The winter was grim, worse than any of the Indians
remembered. Many farmers couldn’t get their wheat threshed before
the rst storm, leaving them little to eat.
Mr. Renville spoke bitterly of the railroads. “You must make the
land work for you; it’s dangerous to be dependent on the trains.”
He asked if Mr. Eriksen would take over Gustaf’s claim and what
he would plant. When Mr. Eriksen mentioned the potatoes, Mr.
Renville nodded in agreement, then told us we would need a garden
and some Indian corn, and o ered to bring seeds. I was touched by
his concern; we didn’t seem quite so alone.
Mr. Eriksen sent the children back to nish the weeding, then
turned to Mr. Renville. “Please, tell me how you found my brother.”
“It was late March, after another big blizzard, still very cold. As
soon as I could, I came with supplies, as I knew their food was low,
but I was too late. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you for burying them,” Mr. Eriksen said, his voice
cracking.
 “We were surprised to see they had burned nearly everything,” I
said.
“Yes, but not everything,” Mr. Renville said. “I have their
valuables, his tools and his gun. I’ll bring them to you.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Eriksen. “Did he have livestock?”
“They froze in the October snowstorm.”
Mr. Eriksen shook his head. “I just don’t understand how they
became so desperate …”
Mr. Renville leaned forward. “Your brother was an able man, Mr.
Eriksen, a good farmer. This past winter defeated many, but it’s
unlikely to happen again. Cut plenty of hay, gather wood, and build
your larder. That is what you must do.”
Mr. Eriksen nodded, thinking. “We’ll need a cow, milk for the
baby.”
“We’re all waiting to restore our stock, but there should be
shipments soon.” With that he stood. “You’re very like your brother.
I’ll bring Mr. Eriksen’s things over the next time I’m on this side of
the lake.”
“You don’t live here?” I asked.
“Many dislike those of us with Indian blood, so I live at the end of
the lake, near the old mission. It’s abandoned now but familiar land
to me.” He bowed, then disappeared into the trees.
We spent the rest of the day planting the seed potatoes and
hauling water to give them a start. Birgitte did the lion’s share, her
mouth tight as she registered what my weakness would cost her.
After more corn mush for supper, we prepared for bed.
“Tomorrow we’ll clean the sod house,” Mr. Eriksen said. “We
can’t live under the wagon forever.”

WHEN I ROSE THE NEXT MORNING, Mr. Eriksen was already gone. Tomas
gazed at me from the hay tick, his eyes full of love. He squirmed
now with excitement whenever I picked him up and watched me as
he drank his milk. It was hard to remember he wasn’t mine.
I smelled smoke and looked around. A gray plume rose from
beyond the sod barn—someone had set a re. A moment later, Mr.
Eriksen appeared, wiping his eyes. He had pulled the old hay ticks
and ragged clothes from the soddie and set them ablaze, he told me.
“No need for the children to see those things.”
After breakfast we emptied the sod house of what little was left,
then swept it out and moved our things inside. We took the
Skandinaven newspaper I had gotten in Chicago and tacked the
pages up around the exposed walls, extending Kari’s e ort, then
hung fresh linens to split the back into two tiny sleeping spaces—
one for Mr. Eriksen and Jens, one for me, Birgitte, and the baby. I
hung another sheet against the exposed earthen wall, as I could not
bear the thought of sleeping against it. We had no bed frames, so
the hay ticks had to lie on the dirt oor. I tried not to think of
spiders.
Jens found an outdoor re pit Kari must have used for laundry, so
Birgitte and I boiled a huge tub of water and washed our lthy
clothes, pounding them with stones as we had no washboard. We
spread the clothes on the grass to dry, then took turns bathing. I ran
my hands over the stubble on my head and tied the kerchief back in
place. By the end of the day my arms were chapped to the shoulder
and my back sti with pain, but we were blessedly clean.

ONCE WE HAD SETTLED in the sod house, however, a dark mood came
over me. Our life was so rudimentary, it felt as if we had traveled
back in time. Grit sifted down from the roof into our food and hair,
and the smoke from the woodstove crept into everything. It made
me wonder about Kari, whose shade seemed to inhabit the place.
Did she give birth to Hans alone in this lth? Did she miss her
family, long to return to Norway? How I wished she were here,
teaching me the ways of the house, mothering Birgitte, easing
everything.
But when I thought of the Eriksens’ loss, I tried to put aside my
disappointment. I might not know what Inge or Kari knew about
running a farm, but I could still be useful. I took over the cooking
chores, along with tending Tomas, and in the evenings I told stories,
to ll the silence of this empty land. Jens loved tales of the nisse, the
mischievous little Norwegian folk people, so I told him their
Gudbrandsdalen nisse had immigrated with us, hiding in the
rosemaled chest. They were to blame for the spilled our and
missing buttons, and they liked to tweak Tomas’s ear to make him
cry. Jens laughed, then made up his own nisse stories.
Birgitte pretended not to listen to our prattle, but one evening she
launched into a tale about a huldra—an enchantress who lived in
the mountains but liked to come down and mingle with people.
“She’s uncommonly beautiful, this huldra,” Birgitte said. “She has
rich blond hair and a lovely gure, but if you look closely you can
see her long cow tail peeking out from under her skirt. That’s how
you know she’s an enchantress. And we must take care, Jens, for she
likes to snatch babies.”
I felt my breath leave my body.
Mr. Eriksen gave Birgitte a stern look. “Tomas has been baptized,
Birgitte, so a huldra would have little power over him. No need to
alarm everyone.”
When we climbed into our shared bed, I turned toward the
hateful dirt wall. Anything to avoid Birgitte’s gaze.

THE NEXT DAY Mr. Eriksen went to town to settle his brother’s estate
but returned undecided and worried. The government would let him
inherit the claim only if he paid Gustaf’s debts.
“I don’t know what to do,” he told me. “The banker recommended
I mortgage the land to pay the bills, but I hate to start in debt.”
“In my experience, debt is a consumption—taking one thing after
another,” I said. I thought of Krogstad angrily shaking the loan
papers in my face when I didn’t have enough money to satisfy him.
“What can we sell?”
“My brother’s wagon and his chest, to start,” he said.
“I have some silver forks and a book of Chopin music.”
“I didn’t know you played the piano, Nora,” he said, gazing at me.
He used my Christian name now, yet I still stumbled on his.
I went to look through my valise and brought him a stack of
things, which he put in a crate. Then he opened the rosemaled chest
and rummaged around, nally pulling out the silver spoons and
some carved woodenware, including the elegant candlesticks. All,
into the crate.
Then he took out a small hand organ.
“Oh, an organ! How wonderful,” I said, taking it from him. “Why
have you been hiding this?” I started to unsnap the leather clasps,
but he stopped my hand.
“I don’t have the heart to play anymore, Nora. I did so mostly for
my wife’s enjoyment.”
“But we’ll need it, to keep our spirits up.”
“It speaks to us of Inge; none of us could bear it.” He pulled it
gently from my grasp.
“Forever is a long time to grieve, Mr. Eriksen.”
He gave me a small smile, but put the organ in the crate.
With that, I handed him my little purse, fat with Torvald’s money.
“Nora, that’s too generous. You’ll have nothing to get started.”
I blushed, knowing my pearls lay safely in the seam of my
chemise. “Please take it. You can pay me back later. I’ll starve with
the rest of you this winter if we don’t do something.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving me a searching look. “You keep
surprising me, Nora. You carry silver pickle forks, and you play
Chopin. What else don’t I know?”
Something between us crackled. It was so intimate, our life in this
hovel. I stepped back. “Those are all my secrets, Anders,” I said,
shyly using his Christian name.
He nodded, picked up the crate, and disappeared out the door.
When he returned that evening, the homestead was his.

MR. RENVILLE CAME BY A FEW DAYS LATER with the promised seeds. It was
a warm afternoon, and Birgitte was helping me make otbrod. From
a dense dough we rolled rounds thin as paper, then browned them
on the stove top. But I didn’t have the knack of sliding the long at
sticks under the rounds to lift them, and Birgitte grumpily patched
the holes I left behind. I couldn’t tell how long Mr. Renville watched
us from the open door. Having him hear Birgitte’s admonitions
embarrassed me, so I sent her to fetch her father from the eld.
Mr. Renville put the bundle of seeds on the chest. “She is not your
daughter.”
I hesitated, but he could see the truth in my eyes. “No, she’s not.
Nor Jens. I met their father later. Their mother died in Norway.”
“Ah,” he said, thoughtfully. “That explains some things but not
why you are di erent.”
“I’m from the city, Kristiania—not from a farm.”
“Is Kristiania a big city, like Chicago?”
“No, smaller but older, a harbor town.”
He thought about that. He was so quiet and sure in this world, I
envied him. He unrolled the cloth that held the seeds and identi ed
them—turnips, beets, pumpkin. Then he looked at me. “You are not
made for this life,” he said. “I think it’s too hard for you.”
“They’re teaching me. I’ll learn, and then I can be more help.”
Mr. Renville nodded. “Forgive me. Perhaps I am rude.”
“No, no.” I handed him a otbrod, warm and crispy from the oven.
“Very good,” he said, tasting it, then wrapping it in a
handkerchief. “I’ll take it home to my sister. She thanks you.”
“Will we meet her?”
“No. She’s sick and does not leave the house.”
“Then take another.”
He opened the handkerchief, and I added more rounds. He
nodded, then stepped out the door.

THE NEXT DAY Anders surprised us with bedsteads built from willow
saplings, to get us o the oor. That night I told Jens the nisse were
angry because they could not climb up the slippery bedsteads to
sleep under the quilts with us. He laughed and made up a story
about them stealing a coal from the stove to keep themselves warm.
Then Anders started singing a song about the fairy people. We all
stared at him, astonished. It was so lovely to hear music again that I
sang a hymn. Then Birgitte, not to be outdone, recited a poem about
a maiden left behind by her lover. We went around our small circle,
singing and reciting as best we could remember. For one magical
hour I forgot we lived in a sod hut.
Later, curled between Tomas and the earthen wall, a small ame
of happiness ickered inside me. Some things about this life I could
scarcely endure, but there were also blessings—the beauty of the
prairie, Jens and his many questions, Anders’s growing con dence
in me. And little Tomas. I pulled him close and kissed his warm
head.

THE SUMMER UNFOLDED, a string of unending tasks, simple meals, and

subtle feelings. Birgitte and I managed the house and garden, while
Jens and his father hunted or worked the elds. On our tableland
above the lake, the prairie shimmered in the heat, and luminous
sunsets lit up the sky. Except for Mr. Renville, we felt utterly alone
on the land. Anders went to town occasionally for supplies, but we
knew no one there.
In the afternoon I held school outside in the shade of the soddie. I
gave the children reading and history challenges and pushed them
on their mathematics, which were weak. Next we would open my
old English grammar and stumble through conversations. Birgitte,
quick and avid to learn, was grudgingly appreciative that I had
something to teach her.
One day Mr. Renville brought a tiny harness of leather that he
hung from a ceiling pole. He strapped Tomas into it, as Indian
mothers do with their children, and soon the baby was bouncing o
his toes, crowing with glee.
I was deeply grateful, as the sod house had many hazards for a
child starting to crawl. I tended to fuss over Tomas, worrying that
he was not gaining weight or running to snatch him up whenever he
cried. Birgitte disliked this, often taking him into her own lap and
berating me for spoiling him. Still, I was the one he looked for in the
morning, and that was enough for me.

AS THE DAYS SLIPPED BY,

I grew attached to Jens, this fearless boy with
torn pants and unruly hair. He had taken to prairie life as if born to
it, which seemed to ease his grief for his mother. He loved to
explore and show me what he found—animal skeletons, strange
bugs, stone arrowheads. In the evening, he sketched pictures of his
collection in a little notebook. He desperately wanted to see a
bu alo or a wolf and told me of great panthers Mr. Renville recalled
from his childhood.
Jens often worked at his father’s elbow, absorbing the prodigious
knowledge Anders carried in his head. Without plans or pictures,
they built all we needed—furniture, wooden pails, even a little
house to smoke sh. I laughed to imagine how Torvald would have
treated someone like Anders, lifting his nose in superiority. But
Torvald wouldn’t have survived a week out here.
Despite summer’s beauty, the chores and heat took their toll. Our
skin coarsened; our muscles ached. It was di cult to imagine the
land covered with snow, yet we were haunted by the legacy of the
last winter and did everything we could to prepare. The tasks were
legion: cut and cure wood, nd a cow, harvest hay, build furniture,
hunt and smoke meat, grow our vegetables and potatoes. And make
some money, somehow.

ONE AFTERNOON, after too much laundry and wood smoke, I handed
the baby to Birgitte and headed toward the lake. I found a at rock
and sank down, grateful for the quiet. Dragon ies buzzed about me,
and wild berries beckoned in the dappled sun of the woodland.
I pulled o my kerchief to feel the breeze in my wisps of hair and
sat for a long time watching the birds, free in a way I’d never felt
before. There were many worries out here on the prairie, but I was
not alone with those demons, as I had been for so many years in
Norway. Anders and the children and I worked and worried
together, everyone doing what they could to make it better. It was
so di erent from my marriage to Torvald, which had been a
constant tug-of-war of power and fear, secrets and lies. It made me
wonder if I could ever marry again back into that privileged life. As
much as I grumbled about laundry day or cooking over the
uncooperative woodstove, when I sank into bed each night I felt
needed and appreciated, particularly by Anders.
It made me wonder how I would feel when it ended.
I picked a handful of violets and walked slowly home in the dusk.
The others had already supped, but they left a plate for me. I put
the violets in a small glass. Mr. Eriksen gave me a sympathetic look.
“Was it lovely out there, Nora?”
“Beautiful, Anders. Thank you.”
He smiled to hear his Christian name.

A FEW DAYS LATER Anders told me something that took my breath

away. He would be leaving in October to work in the lumber mills
in Minneapolis. He would be gone until Christmas.
I looked at him in dismay. “Must you?”
“Many of the local men go, once the harvest is in,” he said. “We’ll
run through our money this summer, so I have to do something.”
“But I can’t possibly cope out here without you.”
“You aren’t alone, Nora. Mr. Renville has said he’ll stop by to
check on you every few days. I daresay Birgitte could manage Jens
if it were just the two of them. Together you’ll be ne.”
I bowed my head in acquiescence but still cast about frantically
for some alternative. “Maybe I could get a job in town, sewing
perhaps.”
“You must keep teaching, but maybe some other Norwegian
children could join you. I’ll ask around.”
Teach other children? They might be unmanageable, stupid. I felt
like my fragile hold on this challenging life was slipping away. “Of
course,” I said, with a tight smile.

A WEEK LATER the children and I were studying outside when a team
of skinny mules rounded the bend, pulling a wagon driven by a tall,
bearded man with two children on the seat beside him. As soon as
the wagon stopped, two other children jumped down from the hay
pile in the back. They greeted us in Norwegian.
 The father looked every inch a prophet, with a full beard and
intense eyes. He shook my hand. “Welcome to Lac qui Parle, Mrs.
Eriksen. I’m Leif Madsen, and these are my children.” The eldest
was a girl, the others boys—all thin as their mules and dressed in
faded black like their father.
“Thank you. This is Birgitte and Jens.”
Mr. Madsen bowed. “Mr. Eriksen said you’re teaching school.”
“Yes, mostly reading, arithmetic, and English grammar. Birgitte
and Jens hope to attend the village school next year but must learn
English rst. Do your children attend?”
“No, because they don’t allow the children to speak Norwegian or
read from the Bible. Do you teach the Bible, ma’am?”
“Yes,” I said. It was somewhat true, as we used the Bible to
practice reading.
“If you’ll take my lot here, I’ll give you a milk cow as payment.”
A cow! We had been unable to nd one we could a ord, so I
didn’t even hesitate. “That would be wonderful!”
“They will bring her tomorrow, along with their slates and Bible.”
He turned to speak to his children, pointing to the sun and the
horizon to direct them home. Then he climbed into the wagon and
clopped away. They watched him disappear around the bend in the
track. How poor and alone they seemed, these four dusty prairie
children.
I clapped to start our school day, sat them down, and asked
Birgitte and Jens to introduce themselves in English. With shy
smiles, the Madsens told us their names. Siri was Birgitte’s age and
Claus a year behind her. Tosten seemed closer to Jens’s age, and
Nils was just ve.
They soon relaxed, sharing the English they knew. They had little
facility in grammar but had picked up many words, and so we
patched together a lesson.
The next morning, the Madsen children appeared again, stepping
out of the tall grass like fairies. They brought with them the cow—a
brown and white spotted beast that became Jens’s responsibility.
Never having lived around animals, I was nervous, but Jens showed
me how to scratch the cow on her neck and speak softly when
leading her. I soon came to enjoy her solemn company.

IT RAINED OCCASIONALLY in July and then not again for most of August.
The potato plants grew bushy and green, but only because Birgitte
and Jens hauled well water up to them every day. The heat
intensi ed, often making the horizon shimmer as if made of molten
glass. We Norwegians had never known such heat, and I struggled in
the afternoons to keep the children from falling asleep with their
slates in their laps.
My students made steady progress, despite the informal nature of
our school. The Madsen children had many strange ideas when it
came to religion, but instead of discussing them we simply turned to
new Bible verses. Gradually, Siri and Claus began to read on their
own—helped by Birgitte and Jens and their own competitive spirit
—and soon they were reading passages from all the books of the
Bible.
We lost track of the days, though we knew it was Sunday when
the Madsens did not come. Anders seemed to have little need for the
solace of church, and I was secretly relieved. “There will be time for
church in the fall,” he said, when Birgitte asked about it. “We have
too much work right now.”
After supper we often sat outdoors in the lingering light. I tatted
lace collars to sell in town, while Birgitte knitted socks and mittens.
Anders and Jens carved many wooden spoons and bowls, hoping
they would sell as well. I prayed we could earn enough that Anders
wouldn’t go to the mills, but I knew he would go no matter what.
Until we could raise some wheat, we would be achingly poor.
As I tended to little Tomas and helped Birgitte with cooking and
housework, I seesawed between feeling like a member of the
household and daydreaming of a future in Chicago. My favorite
escape from the drudgery of chores was to imagine having a room
of my own, with a real bed, a wooden oor, and indoor plumbing.
In time I might wear a corset and a bustle again.
 But when I nished with my daydreams, there would be Tomas,
chortling up at me with a broad grin, either hungry or happy. As he
grew, he seemed to become my child in a way I could not talk
about. The more care I poured into this motherless infant, the more
I loved him, but I had to be careful, because Birgitte sensed my
feelings and resented them. I only hugged and kissed him when she
was not there to disapprove.

OVER THE COURSE OF THE SUMMER, I did my best to weave myself into the
family. It was easy with Jens, who taught me many things about
working on the farm and caring for the animals, including the
rudiments of milking.
With Birgitte, though, everything was harder. When we were busy
with the household chores, she lorded over me with her superior
knowledge and strength. She knew all the family recipes, including
how to make cheeses and butter. She could coax lye from the stove’s
ashes to make soap, and she knew how to treat a blister or a cold.
But when the baby fussed, I had the nal word, and when I was
teaching, she knew to be obedient and respectful. I could tell,
though, that she didn’t like it.
As for Anders, I didn’t know quite what to make of him.
Sometimes I caught him looking at me with pain in his face, as if I
had disappointed him; other times he treated me with gratitude,
even tenderness.
To endure this primitive life, I had to forget Norway and make
myself into a di erent woman—one who scrubbed clothes, made
cheese, and chased mice from the soddie. The old Nora would have
detested these tasks, but the more help I could be, the better I felt
about everything, even the dreary little house.
It felt as if we were all suspended in a time that existed outside of
time, when we did not need to decide how we felt about each other.
We could just go on whittling spoons and feeding the baby and
watching the crops grow.
And sometimes I looked up from my work and found myself lled
with the beauty of the place—the grass moving in the warm wind,
the birds lifting and chittering, the clouds drifting across a deep blue
sky. In those moments, I felt as if my soul could expand forever.

THE PRAIRIE TURNED GOLDEN under the August sun, and Anders began
cutting hay. We stopped school, promising the Madsens we would
start again after the haying, and the children took up rakes to help.
It was hot, grueling work. I tried to handle the other chores, and the
baby and I brought out sandwiches at noon. They cut hay for days.
Once the hay was stacked behind the barn, Anders packed his
rucksack. He promised to return before the rst snowfall. To save
money, he would walk the entire way to Minneapolis.
The morning he left, the children and I stood at the head of the
path waving until he disappeared. It felt as if the sunlight had been
sucked from the world.
That night I let the children pour molasses on their corn mush as
consolation, then poured some on my own. For once, Birgitte did
not frown at me.

THE FALL DAYSwere deceptively warm, yet the nights edged with cold.
The brush along the lake soon blazed red and yellow. Great wedges
of geese stopped to rest in our lake, otillas of clamoring birds. I
understood then why the French called it Lac qui Parle, the Lake
That Speaks.
But even the ocks could not relieve the unyielding silence of the
land. Their calls were swallowed up by the vastness of the prairie,
leaving us each with our own private loneliness.
In early October it rained heavily for several days, and muddy
water dripped through the ceiling onto our heads. Jens did what he
could to patch the sod roof, but still we had to cover the food with
rags. The gray skies made us feel Anders’s absence acutely, and
Birgitte turned her unhappiness on me. One day I tried to make
primost, the traditional caramelized cheese, but in my ignorance I
neglected the pot and scorched the precious milk. Birgitte, brittle
with disappointment, said I was no better than a troll—carrying my
head under my arm rather than on my shoulders where it would be
of some use.
I opened my mouth to scold her, but then I saw why she found me
so frustrating. “Birgitte, I’m sorry. Your mother could have taught
you what you need to know, but I cannot—I don’t know how to run
a farm. That’s what angers you.”
Her eyes lled with tears, and she turned away, but when I served
the scorched primost that evening, she choked it down by way of
apology.

THE WEEKS WORE ON. The children and I harvested the potatoes and
garden, lling the root cellar and exhausting ourselves. A trickle of
resentment began to run under everything I did, as if Anders has
broken his promise. This was not our bargain—we were a team,
even if ox and horse. I was willing to work hard and live in a dirt
house, but not alone.
For months I had managed to keep thoughts of Norway at bay,
but now my soul lled with memories, like the tide ooding
footprints in the sand. I ached for my old parlor and coal heat—I
was so tired of breathing wood smoke and feeding the ravenous re.
And I needed a friend, someone to talk to, like Dr. Rank or Tobias.
When I daydreamed now, it was of walking east with little Tomas
on my back, toward a civilized life out from under this great bowl of
sky.

THE FROST CAME, and the willow leaves dropped away. We took the
wagon and collected windfall down by the lake. The gray days
followed one after another. A light snow greeted us one morning but
disappeared by noon. The Madsen children still came for school, and
Mr. Renville stopped by as he had promised, often bringing a treat
of beets or Indian rice from the marsh.
One day I invited him to stay for tea. His otherness always thrilled
me a little—his di erent smell and coal-black hair, the way he sat
straight-backed and ready.
“Will it be a bad winter, Mr. Renville?”
 “The geese are lingering, so, no. There are never two hard winters
in a row.”
“Will the lake freeze over?”
“Most years it does, and thick—you can drive a wagon across it.”
“I guess it doesn’t speak when it’s frozen,” I said, with a smile.
“No, but it whispers. You’ll hear it.”
“Whispers?”
“My people, the People of the Leaf, call it the Lake That Whispers,
because it’s so beguiling. The French trappers did not understand.”
“What does it whisper?”
“One’s destiny.”
“Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. “I only know I can live nowhere but by its side.
Sometimes I think of it as wife to me.”
I nodded, blushing. There was so little I knew of this man, yet
here we sat, sharing tea and speaking of wives. Perhaps he could not
take a real wife because he was of mixed blood. Perhaps no one
would have him.
“Will there be blizzards?”
“Oh, yes, but they won’t come early or stay late. January and
February will be the worst. Still, you must watch the northwestern
sky. The blizzard cloud comes very fast, and the winds are erce;
the snow becomes ice, like bits of glass. Sometimes you can barely
breathe.”
“I didn’t know the storms were that bad. What do you do if one
catches you?”
“Keep walking to stay warm or climb into a haystack if you nd
one. The most important thing is not to get caught. Don’t let the
children walk out on the prairie, even if it’s clear. The weather can
change quickly.”
We lingered at the door, each lonely, each shy, not knowing quite
how to say good-bye. Finally, he bowed and walked away.

near the end of November to howling winds, and

WE WOKE UP ONE DAY
when we opened the door a great gust of snow billowed into the
house. The children were bitterly disappointed their father hadn’t
beaten the storm, so we poured out more molasses that night.
Anything to keep their spirits up.
The storm blew for two miserable days. It dawned clear and very
cold the third day, and we shoveled our way out of the sod house to
look out over the frozen prairie. It felt like living at the top of the
world—only snow as far as we could see.
The Madsen children stopped coming. Jens and Birgitte didn’t
mention their father again, but they kept track of the days. In the
evening I let Birgitte read to us from one of my novels, a romance
about some city girls; it kept us from listening for the door.
Another storm blew through in early December, and the lake iced
over. Then, late one afternoon, when we had nearly given up,
Anders stumbled into the house. The children threw themselves
against him before he could get his coat o , and I smiled at him
through the mayhem. He dropped a sack, goods carried all the way
from Minneapolis. Perhaps there would be something for Christmas
after all.
He plucked Tomas from his harness and sat with him in front of
the stove, playing with his tiny hands. I served supper while Anders
told us of his long walk across Minnesota and pulling huge logs out
of the Mississippi River. He lived in a bunkhouse village with other
farmers—Swedes, Germans, Americans, and many Norwegians. Most
had families waiting in a sod house somewhere on the prairie.
“Can I go with you next year?” said Jens.
“No,” Anders said.
Jens’s face fell, making his father laugh. He patted the boy’s knee.
“If you could see it, you would thank me. It’s very dangerous out
there on the river with the logs. Best to stay here on the farm.”
Anders complimented me on my bean soup.
I was giddily happy that he was back.

THE NEXT MORNING Anders took me aside. “I’ve brought a few

Christmas presents for the children. Can you make a julekake?” He
handed me two small packets: cinnamon and raisins.
 “Yes, how wonderful.” We shared a conspiratorial smile; warmth
ooded through me.

ON CHRISTMAS EVE, I pulled out Inge Eriksen’s traditional bunad, with

its embroidered apron and vest, and handed it to Birgitte. She
buried her face in it. The costume ballooned on her slender frame,
and we had to cinch the skirt. But with her apple cheeks and dark
hair, she looked like the perfect Norwegian maid. Jens, not to be
outdone, put on his father’s red felt vest, studded with silver buttons
linked with ne chain. We gathered at the table and took turns
reading the Christmas story from the Bible. I served goose with
turnips and boiled potatoes, and then we nished with tea and
julekake. Birgitte and Jens ate with quiet reverence.
When we were done, Jens asked if I had made the porridge for
the Julenisse.
I knew this folk tradition, but I didn’t think anyone believed it
anymore. I shook my head with a sigh.
“Mama always remembered,” Birgitte said. “Else the Julenisse
won’t leave presents.”
“Never mind,” said Anders. Then he ducked into the bedroom and
came out with a stack of packages. “The Julenisse crept up behind
me in the barn the other day and bit my ankle to get my attention.”
Birgitte gave him a doubtful look, but Jens’s mouth dropped open.
“He asked me to give you these.”
For Birgitte, there was a book of poems; for Jens, a new notebook
and pencil; and for Tomas, a rattle made from a gourd. Then Anders
handed me my gift, a carved wooden hand mirror.
I looked up at him in surprise—such an intimate present. “From
the Julenisse?”
“No. From me.”
Birgitte looked at her father, then at me, then back at him.
“Thank you,” I said, blushing.
“I hope you’ll take it with my gratitude, Nora. I trusted you with
the children, and you’ve done well.”
Birgitte got up and started to clear the dishes.
 Anders reached for her hand. “We can do that later. I have one
more surprise.”
“Papa, please.”
“What’s wrong, Birgitte?”
Tears slipped down her face. “Is it so easy for you to forget?”
“Do you mean your mother?”
Birgitte nodded, then sat, twisting her hands.
Anders reached out and cupped her face with his palms. “Oh,
Birgitte, I’ll never forget your mother. Every day I think of her, as
you do. I know it’s hard—the rst Christmas without her. Which is
why we must have music, in her honor.”
With that he pulled from his pocket a small wooden block, raised
it to his lips, and started blowing a soft Christmas melody. Birgitte
caught her breath. It looked like some sort of mouth harp. “It’s
called a harmonica,” he said, when he was done. “The Julenisse gave
it to me for my present.”
We all examined the little instrument. There was a German name
etched on the metal cover and thin reeds inside that hummed when
one blew across them. Anders played another Christmas hymn and
then all the beautiful old songs we knew. I suspected he had
practiced for this night, as he played uidly with few mistakes.
Tomas stirred in my lap, opening his wide blue eyes. I smiled at
him tenderly, not caring what Birgitte would think. I had come so
far since that last Christmas with Torvald two years earlier, I could
scarcely make sense of it. I thought of our holiday tree blazing with
candles, the money I so desperately needed to pay Krogstad
wrapped in gilt and hung from the branches. Then I thought of
Tobias and the sprig of holly he gave me last year, tied with yarn
from his sock.
Somehow, I had washed up on this desolate prairie, living with a
family I had known for only seven months. But I was beginning to
feel I could belong.

AFTER THAT CHRISTMAS NIGHT, my life brightened. I wasn’t sure what

had changed, but I felt more con dent and apologized less. I started
taking more care with myself, pulling my short blond curls back
with a ribbon, knitting myself a pretty new shawl. Having a mirror
restored something I’d lost—the sense that I was a woman. Some
days I even felt like a girl.
Anders also seemed happier. I knew he would always miss his
wife, but it felt as if he left the burden of his grief in Minneapolis
instead of hauling it back to Lac qui Parle. He told us of the other
men he met at the camp, particularly a Norwegian from Lofoten,
Lars Hansen, who also came to America after losing his wife. Each
night they sat by the bunkhouse stove, whittling and talking,
providing the solace Anders had needed.
One day I heard him whistling in the barn. A few days later he
o ered to haul my share of the water—the chore I detested most—
and later that week he returned from town with a beautiful owered
fabric for me to make myself a new dress. Soon, he was lingering
with me while I milked the cow or tended to Tomas, often talking of
his plans for a large wheat crop and a frame house. I watched him,
puzzled. He had grown optimistic and expansive, and he treated
with me a fresh appreciation. I was not the only one who saw this. It
irritated Birgitte, so I began to think it might be real.

AND THEN, on one of those bright winter days when everything

sparkled, he stopped me as I headed to the smokehouse.
“Nora, let us walk down to the lake,” he said. “It’s so beautiful
out.”
“But I told Birgitte I would get the sh for supper.”
“We’ll bring it in when we return,” he said. “Please. I need to
speak to you.”
We headed into the wood, then picked our way through a thin
crust of snow down to the edge of the lake. The ice was thick and
covered with swirled drifts, like frosting on a cake. I found my
favorite granite bench; we brushed it o and sat.
At rst he didn’t say anything. I waited, mysti ed. “Anders,
please, what is it?”
 “Nora, I’ve been thinking,” he said, twisting his hands. “I know
you plan to go back to Chicago when your time is done, but if you
wanted to stay, we would be happy to have you.”
“Stay? Living as we’ve been? Pretending we’re man and wife?”
He shook his head, cleared his throat. “Actually, Nora, I thought
we might marry.”
My mouth dropped open; my stomach uttered.
He leaned toward me. “Please don’t be o ended, Nora.”
“No,” I said, too amazed to know what I thought, but I didn’t
want to hurt his feelings. A strange heat rose in my chest. “I am not
o ended, Anders.”
“I know I’m not of your class …”
“No,” I said again, shaking my head. “That doesn’t matter.” Now I
looked up, into his worried eyes. “I’m so sorry I ever suggested we
were like ox and horse. That was unkind.”
“But I think it mattered to you,” he said quietly.
“I’ve, well, I’ve changed,” I said. “I didn’t know someone could
make a life from nothing. It has lled me with admiration for you.”
“Thank you,” he said. “And I think you love Tomas.”
“I adore Tomas, and Jens. And I’m working on Birgitte.”
He laughed for a moment but then grew serious again. He sat
down next to me. “The question, Nora, is do you think you could
love me?”
I just looked at him. Love this man? Then, in that moment, my
world pivoted, as if God had spun it like a wheel. Instead of looking
east toward Chicago, my mind’s eye turned back to this farm. And
for the rst time I could see a trim white house with a real barn
behind it. Horses waiting for their oats, chickens swarming at my
feet. Fields of ripening wheat moving in the wind. We could sell my
pearls to pay for the lumber.
My heart quickened, and then I began to shiver. No, Lord, no.
How could I even think of marrying Anders? I was probably still
married to Torvald.
“But, Anders, don’t you love Inge?”
He sighed. “I will always love Inge, but she’s gone and I’ve made
my peace with it.” Now he smiled shyly and took my hands. “When
we rst came to Lac qui Parle, my heart was like an empty house,
but you crept into it.” He was quoting a Norwegian poet.
I smiled back, but I didn’t know what to say. He watched me, so
intent, waiting, hoping. I looked down at our hands, holding each
other. “When did you know how you felt?”
“When I came back from Minneapolis,” he said. “I was overjoyed
to see you. That’s when I understood how much you meant to me.”
He waited for a moment, then asked again. “So, Nora, I realize you
may not love me now, but do you think you could learn to love
me?”
I looked into his eyes. I felt as if I were being swept downstream
in a spring freshet. Then I heard myself whisper one word:
“Perhaps.”
“Then that is all we need, Nora.”
I knew I should smile, but instead my eyes brimmed with tears.
He reached up and wiped them from my cheek. “What is it,
Nora?”
“Oh, Anders, it’s so complicated,” I said. “I’m so complicated! I
know I seem like a simple woman, living here with you and the
children, but that’s only because I’ve pushed aside everything that
came before.” I ached to tell him the secret that cowered inside me,
but I didn’t dare. He would turn away from me forever.
“Is it your dream of returning to city life? Because if it is, Nora,
we could consider that. After we build the farm and make it
pro table, perhaps we could move to Minneapolis. There’s a whole
Norwegian community there. I’ve seen it—clubs, schools, everything
you could want!”
I took a deep breath, sucking in the cold air like aquavit. “May I
think about it, Anders? Perhaps till spring?”
“Of course, Nora. There’s no hurry.”
More tears slipped down my cheeks. I wanted so much to be
loved.
“Come now, Nora! I didn’t mean to make you sad!”
I brushed the tears away, trying to laugh. “No, Anders, you’ve
made me happy today.” I gazed deeply into his eyes. What a
dangerous re kindled in my breast. “Very happy. Thank you.”
 He blushed. “I’m happy, too. But we must be careful around the
children. Until we’re sure, we mustn’t give them any clue. We want
to tell them, not have them gure it out.”
“Birgitte may be hard to trick, Anders. She’s sees everything.”
Birgitte and God, I thought.
“Then I’ll have to be circumspect around you.” He squeezed my
hands again. “Just know that, no matter how I behave, I still love
you.”
I nodded, astonished and beguiled by the idea that he loved me.
But how could I allow it? “She’ll be waiting for the sh,” I said. “She
probably already suspects.”
He helped me stand. “Then let’s go back and behave as usual.
She’ll soon forget it.”

ANDERS AND I RETURNED TO OUR LIFE, but everything felt di erent; each
gesture, each word, echoed with meaning and feeling. We tried to
treat each other as we did before, particularly around Birgitte, but if
Anders came into the house and no one else was there, he would sit
and chatter about some new idea, such as buying a team of horses
or building a sleigh so we could go to town in the winter. Love
made him talk; I was surprised to hear what turned in his mind.
As for me, I didn’t know what to do. When I thought of marrying
him, joy bubbled inside me, but I was afraid to take the lid o it.
Could I marry him here in Minnesota without anyone suspecting I
had a husband in Norway? I had no idea.
But when I told myself, no, I should be honest and tell Anders the
awful truth, then my soul seemed to harden into ice. We felt alone
on this prairie, but there was a Lutheran church in town. Someone
might nd out.
Perhaps I had to learn to want again.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SOLVI
March 1919 Kristiania, Norway

When Solvi went down for breakfast the morning after the dance,
her eyes blurry and her head aching, Matron gave her a stern look
and handed her another letter.

Dear Solveig: I was quite taken aback by your news and have been
debating whether I need to come to Kristiania to save you from
yourself. I’ve decided instead to rely on your better judgment. Your
father always said you were a sensible child, and I trust he was
right.
I was very disturbed to hear you are clerking in a shop. Indeed, I
can only cringe at the thought of you waiting on common people. I
cannot imagine what you are thinking. If you need money, ask me.
I’m happy to help, but in exchange I ask that you give up this work.
These experiences, if continued, will coarsen you, Solveig.
Independence is one thing, but I fear you’ve forgotten your breeding
—you are a lady, above all else.
Mother

P.S. Our family name was never anything but Fallesen. I can’t
imagine what you think you know.

For a moment, Solvi could scarcely breathe. If her mother thought

clerking in a shop was coarsening, what would she think of climbing
in the window after curfew, drunk from too much champagne? Solvi
felt as if she’d left her mother in the last century and would never
be able to talk to her about anything again. She put the letter aside,
but it shadowed the rest of her day.
RIKKA AVOIDED HER FOR THE NEXT WEEK, managing to disappear into the
city in a way that both irritated and saddened Solvi. She wasn’t sure
how to apologize or even whether she wanted to. She wandered
through her life alone, feeling estranged from everyone who
mattered to her.
Then, one evening, someone started drumming softly on Solvi’s
door, quite late. It could only be Rikka, Solvi thought, her pulse
racing. No one else was that impatient.
It was Rikka, but she seemed oddly disheveled and timid, as if
drained of her con dence. She sank down on Solvi’s bed, then
turned to her with red-rimmed eyes.
“Rikka, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, Solvi, everything’s awful! We need to be friends again, or I’m
going to lose my will to live.”
“Rikka, heavens, of course,” Solvi said, wrapping her in a hug.
“I’m so sorry. I was being stupid that night.”
“No, I was wrong,” Rikka said, clinging to her in a way that
surprised Solvi. “How did we let boys get between us like that?” She
tried to laugh but quickly dissolved in tears.
“Rikka, what’s happened?”
“I saw something terrible in Vika today,” Rikka sobbed. “And I
didn’t stop it!”
“Slow down, Rikka. Take a deep breath. Tell me what happened.”
Rikka blew her nose, then settled for a long moment, as if
collecting herself. “I had gone to talk with a woman who
desperately needs to prevent more pregnancies. I probably shouldn’t
have done it, but she already has seven children and nearly died
with the last one. So I gave her some condoms. Then, as I was
leaving, her husband came in and got very angry.” Rikka gulped air.
“Before I knew what was happening, he starting beating her, with a
ladle!”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No, because I slipped away. I was such a coward! I just left. I
knew I should’ve gone back, but I was afraid he would turn on me.”
Rikka began to cry again. “Sometimes when I see how these women
live, when I see them pregnant with the tenth child, or with bruises
on their faces or arms, or how thin they are, I just burn with fury.
But there’s so little I can do!”
Solvi got her a fresh handkerchief and sat down in front of her.
“Rikka, I know you feel you must take on all these problems, but if
you let each one into your heart this way, it will tear you apart.”
Rikka buried her face in her knees.
“Please don’t go back,” Solvi said. “You don’t want someone
coming after you.”
“I have to go back. I can’t let him drive me away.”
“Then don’t go alone, Rikka. Tell the auxiliary you need an escort.
You can’t take on the world by yourself.”
Rikka wiped her eyes. “That is rather arrogant of me, isn’t it? To
think that I can change their poverty.”
“Yes,” Solvi said. “It is. But then again, you are a heroine of the
Great War.”
Rikka rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lord, hardly. I mostly cowered when
the shells rained down.”
“No doubt, but still—the war was your crucible. To be honest,
Rikka, it’s made you reckless.”
“Careful people don’t change the world, Solvi.”
“But neither do dead people. The war must have taught you that.”
Rikka just looked away.

AS PENANCE for letting boys lead her astray, Solvi returned to her
studies with renewed fervor and began pulling together her research
about the Forgotten One. Before long, Solvi was thinking of her all
the time, trying to imagine her life, trying to understand her
reasons, trying to get at her shadowy character. Did the Forgotten
One live in a dark little room, like Petra, or was it even worse—
some broken-down hut in Vika with the sea breezes blowing
through the walls? Did she struggle to nd food? Did she sit
stitching shirts in the back of some store with her stomach
growling? And what was so unbearable about her former
comfortable life? What drove her out the door?
 Then Solvi opened a novel assigned for her literature class,
Constance Ring, and it felt like pulling back a curtain. Set in 1885, it
helped Solvi understand the deadening humiliation of being married
to an imperious boor, the constraints of a gossipy and meddling
society, the despair of being trapped in a world de ned and
managed by men. Just before bed, Solvi ipped to the end, curious
to see if Constance ultimately set out to nd her own life.
But, no. At the end of the book she killed herself.

AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING Solvi couldn’t stop talking about the
book.
“It’s a novel of such cruel despair,” she told Rikka. “But it’s all
eerily familiar. I felt like I was in my mother’s parlor when I was
reading it, and one of the characters could have been my
grandfather back then.”
“Perhaps the Forgotten One killed herself,” Rikka said. “It might
explain her disappearance.”
Solvi frowned. “Goodness, I hope not, although Professor Wol
said leaving her husband would have been nearly suicidal. Is it
suicide if one starves to death?”
“Perhaps she ended up like the women in Vika—sick and
emaciated with tuberculosis and so poor no one realized she was a
lady or cared when she died,” Rikka said.
“I just hope my essay leads somewhere more inspiring than to an
early grave,” Solvi said. But she knew Rikka might be right.

“HAVE YOU MADE ANY PROGRESS nding your grandmother?”

Solvi and Magnus were seated at the pastry shop as usual, but
now, for the rst time, their conversation felt strained.
“No. I’m too busy researching the Forgotten One, though
sometimes I get glimpses of my grandmother’s life through what I’ve
discovered.”
Magnus just nodded. Solvi had never seen him so quiet.
“Do you think the Forgotten One might have killed herself?” Solvi
asked. “I’m reading Constance Ring for context and Madame Bovary
next. They both try to escape their adulterous husbands by
committing suicide, and I’m wondering if that’s what happened to
the Forgotten One.”
Magnus gave her a puzzled look. “If I remember correctly, Emma
Bovary is the adulterer, not her poor husband. She has several
a airs, tries to prostitute herself to pay o her debts, and then ends
up taking arsenic because she cannot bear to confess and return to
her marriage,” Magnus said. “If you reference it in your essay, make
sure you have your facts straight.”
“I, well, I’m sure you’re right,” Solvi said, stung by his tone. It
wasn’t her fault that the matron of her ladies’ academy in Bergen
had banned them from reading Madame Bovary.
Magnus sipped his co ee, then looked at her.
“Magnus, are you angry with me?”
He put down his cup. “I’m sorry, Solvi. Not angry, just, well,
disappointed.” He took a breath. “I heard you went with Dominik to
a dance at his residence club.”
Solvi noticed the icker of hurt in his eyes. She could see that she
had done exactly what she wanted to avoid. “Oh, Magnus, it meant
nothing. I’m not even sure I had a good time. Dominik got me home
late, and I had to climb in my window to avoid getting in trouble
with Matron. It made me rather angry, though it’s hard to be angry
with Dominik. He couldn’t help it; he was drunk—he felt bad that I
was late.”
“Well, that’s your own a air, Solvi,” Magnus said, turning a bit
red in the face and looking down at the plate of biscuits between
them. He took one and ddled with it. “It’s none of my business.”
For some reason, that made her heart hurt. “I’m sorry, Magnus,”
she said.
He gave her a tight smile. “You needn’t say anything, Solvi. I
understand. The whole world has opened up to you, and I’m sure
there will be many young men interested in your attentions.”
“But we’re friends, aren’t we? That’s important to me.”
He broke the biscuit in half and popped a piece in his mouth. “Of
course we are, Solvi. Friends.” Then he gathered his books and
walked away.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Solvi and Rikka slipped out of the study house so
early only the milk wagons clattered down the streets. Solvi
clutched her camera bag, running to keep up with Rikka, who
hurried along in her nurse’s uniform.
They were headed to the house of a wealthy family in the Homans
Byen section. Petra had arranged it with the servants, but the family
knew nothing about it. Solvi would take pictures of the maids, and
Rikka would advise them about their sexual lives. Petra had told
Rikka so many stories of young maids being raped, then red when
they got pregnant, that Rikka was determined to help.
They were late, because Solvi had second thoughts that morning.
It was one thing to do this in Bergen, where she knew the families,
but here in Kristiania it felt like trespassing. In fact, it was
trespassing.
Rikka listened, then sighed and waved that away. “We’re not
stealing anything, or hurting anyone,” she said. “You’ve got to be
willing to take a little risk, Solvi, if you want to make a di erence in
the world. This is nothing. If you’re careful in your pictures to
obscure the identity of the maids and the place, no one will ever
know we were there.”
They found Petra on the corner stamping her feet against the cold.
“I thought you lost your nerve,” Petra said, pulling her shawl tight
around her shoulders.
“Oh, goodness, no,” said Rikka, glancing at Solvi. “Plenty of
nerve, right, Solvi?”
“Sure,” said Solvi, though she felt nervous and queasy.
They caught a tram and jumped o in a neighborhood of stone
row houses and stately mansions. With Petra in the lead, they
trudged up a hill, then ducked down an alley and through a gate left
open for them. When they knocked on the basement door of one
elegant mansion, a young scullery maid let them in, her nger on
her lips. She led them through a busy kitchen to a storage room
stacked with china.
An older maid who seemed to be in charge came in with two
chairs. “Rikka, you can talk to the girls over here,” she said. Rikka
took o her coat and pulled out her stethoscope, a stack of
pamphlets, and a box of condoms.
“And Solvi, take whatever photographs you want,” the older maid
said. “But don’t forget, you must be gone in a half hour. The family
rises early.”
Solvi took her camera into the work area, her hands shaking. She
quickly shot a photo of the cook hacking at the carcass of a lamb,
the table slick with blood. Then she shot a scullery girl polishing a
large copper kettle scorched with use. After that, Solvi moved into
the laundry and photographed a housemaid ironing sheets and
another struggling to operate a huge wringer. Solvi carefully
obscured the girls’ faces and, in several photographs, purposefully
cut o their heads, catching only the labor of their thin bodies, arms
tensed, backs bent and straining.
Petra wandered about, watchful, listening for footsteps on the
stair.
After a bit, Rikka poked her head into the laundry, pulling on her
coat. “Come on, Solvi, we’d better go.”
“Just a moment,” Solvi said. There was one last photograph she
wanted. She talked to the maid, who nodded and then, using huge
tongs, pulled a wad of steaming sheets from a deep pot.
Suddenly, Solvi heard a male voice in the other room. “Who the
hell are you?”
Petra started to speak, but Rikka interrupted. “We’re nurses with
the Health Auxiliary, checking the girls for tuberculosis,” she said.
“Lucky for you, they all look ne.”
The laundry maid turned to Solvi. “In here!” she hissed, opening a
large closet lled with brooms. Solvi grabbed her camera and
slipped inside. She heard Rikka say the authorities had every right
to test domestics for tuberculosis, and the young man countered that
any respectable health organization would ask permission rst.
Rikka pretended that they had; perhaps his mother didn’t tell him,
she said. This o ended the young man, who took their names—
Rikka and Petra gave false ones—and sent them out the door. Solvi
held her breath.
 After a few minutes, she cracked the door of the broom closet.
The laundry maid stood stock still, looking toward the kitchen.
“Do you know who they are?” the man said, coming into the
laundry. Solvi shrank back into the closet.
“No,” said the maid. “I was just doing the washing; I didn’t know
they were here. I didn’t talk to them, I swear.” Solvi couldn’t see the
young man, but she could see the maid looking up at him anxiously.
“Please, Edvard, I knew nothing of it.”
Then Solvi saw his hand snake around the girl’s throat. “I want to
believe you, Greta, but something tells me you’re lying.”
The maid began to cry. “Please, Edvard, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
After a long moment, he let go of her neck but pinched her cheek,
hard. Her hand ew to her face, but she took the punishment
silently.
“Ask the others who they are and report back to me,” he said.
Then he stomped away.
Solvi heard him go upstairs and slam the door. She stepped out of
the closet. The maid held her cheek and just looked at Solvi, tears
running down her face.
Solvi lifted her camera. “Move your hand, Greta. I’ll make a
record of it. Evidence, in case you want to make a complaint.”
Greta looked at Solvi, her eyes huge. Her hand dropped; the pinch
stood out as an angry welt. Solvi clicked the shutter.
A minute later, she was out the back door, running to meet Rikka
and Petra, who were waiting in the alley. They hurried to the street,
then made their way to a main thoroughfare. A tram pulled up; they
climbed aboard, breathing hard.
Rikka started to giggle.
“It isn’t funny, Rikka,” Petra said between her teeth. “This isn’t a
schoolgirl’s prank.”
“But he has no idea who we are,” Rikka said. “There’s no need to
worry.”
“Hush,” Petra said, glancing about the crowded car.
“He threatened the laundry maid,” Solvi whispered. “He pinched
her face, badly.”
 Petra shook her head. “Doesn’t surprise me. I just hope you got
some good photographs.”
Rikka elbowed Solvi. “This is our stop. Petra, we’ll see you later.”
“Hopefully, we can get inside another home next week,” Petra
said. “I’ll let you know.”
Solvi sighed. That was the last thing she wanted to do.

A FEW DAYS LATER, Magnus sat next to Petra, helping her edit her
newspaper story, while Solvi laid out her photographs of the maids.
Petra had refused to meet them at the students’ café but grudgingly
agreed to the pastry shop. Solvi felt a little stab of jealousy watching
Magnus and Petra with their heads together, talking quietly.
“Magnus, which of these do you like?” Solvi asked.
He looked up, scanned the pictures, and picked up one of the
laundry maid struggling to turn the crank of the giant wringer. Solvi
had photographed only her shoulders and arms straining with the
e ort, water running everywhere. “This one is very evocative,
Solvi,” he said, giving her a small smile. He seemed to have forgiven
her.
“They’re good, but we need more,” said Petra. “Mr. Blehr wants at
least twenty so he can choose the best. I’ve gotten permission from a
young woman to have you photograph her family’s maids next
week, while her parents are in Italy. We won’t have to sneak
around.”
“Sneak around?” said Magnus, glancing at Solvi. “Did you sneak
around to get these photos?”
Solvi glanced at Petra. “Well, it was arranged with the maids, but
the family didn’t know. We went early one morning. Unfortunately,
a young man of the house came down and caught Rikka and Petra.
The laundry maid hid me in a closet, and I got out later.” She felt
breathless as she said this and watched Magnus for a reaction.
Perhaps her mother was right about coarsening.
Then Magnus laughed. “I would never have imagined you
cowering in a closet, Solvi. But you two should be more careful. I
don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.”
 “Sometimes Rikka scares me,” Solvi said. “She’s afraid of
nothing.”
“Well, Rikka has little to lose and no one to advise her otherwise,”
Magnus said.
“I think she’s courageous,” said Petra. “Few can match her. But
don’t worry, Solvi. It’s impossible to tell who these maids are or
where they work.”
Solvi took another photograph from her satchel and laid it on the
table: Greta’s tear-stained face with the welt.
“What is this?” Magnus said, peering at it.
“The young man at the house in Homans Byen got angry at the
laundry maid and put his hand around her throat, then pinched her
hard. I took a picture, in case she wanted to make a complaint.”
“Are you going to publish this photograph?” he asked.
Petra took it from him. “We should, Solvi. People need to see
what happens.”
Solvi shook her head. “No, it’s Greta’s to do with as she will. I just
need to nd a way to get it to her.”
“I’ll take it to her,” Petra said, reaching for it.
Solvi hesitated, not sure she could trust her but not brave enough
to ask. “Thanks, Petra.”

A FEW DAYS LATER Solvi was hanging up photographs to dry at the

photography shop when Mr. Stenberg knocked on the darkroom
door.
“Miss Lange, I’ve found something astonishing. Come out as soon
as you can.”
She nished and emerged into the light.
“Look at this,” he said, leaning over a large photo album. It was a
collection of formal portraits from the past, the pages faded and
cracked along the edges. Mr. Stenberg pointed at one particular
photograph. “There.”
It was a picture of a beautiful woman with honey-blond hair in a
dress very like the one Solvi’s grandmother wore in the photograph
of Solvi’s family. Solvi peered at it. It was her grandmother, an
individual portrait likely taken at the same sitting. Underneath the
photograph was a title: The Notorious Nora Helmer, 1879.
Solvi glanced around the rest of the page. The other portraits
were from the same period, and many of the names sounded
vaguely familiar.
Mr. Stenberg ipped to the front of the album, where someone
had written a title page in owing script: Famous Personages:
Kristiania, 1872–1890. Compiled by Mr. Otto Stenberg.
“What is this?” Solvi asked.
“I believe my father put this album together from photography
sessions he did of famous Norwegians.”
“But what is my grandmother doing in there? And why is her
name Nora Helmer? Her name was Solveig Fallesen.” Solvi’s knees
went weak; she grabbed for a chair. “And what did he mean by
notorious?”
Mr. Stenberg shook his head. “I don’t know, Miss Lange. But the
di erent name and the word notorious both point to some kind of,
well, family embarrassment. And here she’s Helmer. That must
mean Helmer was your family name at the time the portraits were
taken. It became Fallesen only later.”
Solvi looked at him in dismay. “But I’m from a genteel family, an
old Bergen family.” She covered her face with her hands. “None of
this makes any sense.”
“I’ve found life to be far more complicated than most people
pretend,” he said gently.
Solvi looked up at him, and something clicked into place. She
jumped to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stenberg, but I can’t stay today. I, I need to do
something. I’ll come in this weekend to nish the developing. May I
take the photograph?”
“Yes, of course. Just bring it back to me when you’re done with
it.”
Done with it. Solvi might never be done with it.
She grabbed her coat and ew out the door.
SOLVI RAN ACROSS TOWN TO THE CAFÉ, desperately hoping Magnus would
be there. Inside, she looked madly about, nally spotting him in the
back with some friends. “Magnus!”
He looked up from his toasted cheese. “Solvi, what’s wrong?”
“I need your help. Remember how you said we should look
through the parish records?”
“Yes …”
“If you have time—.” She stopped. “I know I don’t have the right
to ask, but I’d be very grateful if we could go today. Right now.” She
took the picture of her grandmother out of her purse. “Because now
I know my grandmother’s real name.”
He stared at her, then pushed the rest of his sandwich in his
mouth and stood up. “Good-bye, comrades. The lady awaits.”
They headed for the cathedral, Solvi telling him about Otto
Stenberg’s album of famous Norwegians.
Magnus whistled. “Boy, I’d love to see that! But why was your
grandmother in there? Was she famous?”
“More infamous, I’m afraid. Now that I know her actual name, I
need to nd out if she really died. I don’t know why my mother lied
to me about her name, but she must have.”
“So what are we looking for in the records?”
“Whatever we can nd for both Helmer and Fallesen: marriage
records, birth and death records. We should be able to nd my
uncles’ and my mother’s birth records from the 1870s. My
grandparents probably married just before 1870—maybe there’s a
record of that.”
“Their marriage would be recorded in the place where they
married,” Magnus said. “Did they marry here?”
“I don’t know! I just learned my grandmother’s real name a half
hour ago.”
“Right. Okay.” He stopped for a minute and tugged on her hand.
“It will be okay, Solvi, really.”
But she didn’t believe that. She felt like the oor of her life was
falling away, right out from under her.
INSIDE THE CATHEDRAL they were directed to a library below the nave.
A white-haired cleric listened to their request, then disappeared into
shelves of ledgers. After a few minutes he reappeared with several
large tomes. They took them to a table by the window.
Solvi opened the rst, a record of births in Kristiania from 1870
through 1880, and her pulse quickened. The old-styled handwriting,
the dates and names of the babies, all of it felt like unlocking time
itself. Magnus opened a record of deaths in Kristiania for the same
decade. They started scanning for the two names, turning the pages
slowly, the dust of the old books making them sneeze.
All of a sudden a familiar name materialized before her eyes.
Helmer, Ivar, a boy, born September 9, 1872. To Torvald and Nora
Helmer.
Solvi gasped. “Look, Magnus. A boy, born to Torvald and Nora
Helmer! My uncle!”
He leaned over. “Ivar. He’d be, ah, forty-six today. Old enough for
you to have cousins.”
“If he’s still alive,” Solvi said, writing down the information. She
kept scanning and soon found another boy born to Torvald and Nora
Helmer, Robert, in 1874.
“Two down, just your mother to nd next,” Magnus said.
Then, several years further into the ledger, Solvi gasped. A girl,
Emma, also born to Torvald and Nora Helmer, on April 16, 1877.
Her mother’s name and birth date.
“Magnus, I found my mother!” She looked at him; tears rose in
her eyes.
“Solvi, are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. “But it’s so
strange, that di erent name. Why did my mother lie about my
grandmother? It’s as if she didn’t want me to nd out anything
about her.”
“And you’ve seen no births under Fallesen.”
“Nothing under Fallesen,” she said. “How about you?”
“Let me search more carefully in the death register, now that we
know everyone’s name. How old are the boys in that picture?”
 Solvi thought for a moment. “Ivar’s about seven or eight, and
Robert ve or six. If they had gone o to school a few years later
and died, they would have been about ten and eight, maybe a little
older.” Solvi did a quick calculation in her head. “So check for their
deaths in 1881, 1882. My mother made it sound as if they died at
the same time—from cholera or diphtheria, something sudden.”
Magnus skimmed carefully through the ledger, but there was
nothing. “Maybe the boys didn’t die here in Kristiania.” He asked
the clerk a question and sat back down. “He said that if the boys’
family lived here, their deaths would have been recorded here, in
this parish.” Magnus went back to scanning but then abruptly
stopped.
“This is odd,” he said, pushing the book in front of Solvi. “Look at
this entry.”
Solvi squinted—the handwriting had faded a bit. Nora Helmer,
born 1850, declared dead by court order, November 18, 1885.
She looked up. “What in God’s name does that mean? Oh,
Magnus, she’s dead!”
He shook his head. “Not necessarily. They do that when someone
vanishes without a trace.”
“Like she drowned or something? Like there was no body?”
“Yes,” he said, “or she left Norway, and no one knew.” Then he
grabbed the ledger of marriages. “I just thought of something.” He
opened to the year 1886, and there it was. “Torvald Helmer married
Johanna Moller the next summer, July 1886. That’s why he had
your grandmother declared dead. She must have been missing for a
while, and he only went to the trouble when he wanted to remarry.”
Solvi looked at him, and the room began to sway around her.
Then everything went black. She started to topple o her chair.
“Solvi!” Magnus caught her and settled her back on the seat.
“Here, put your head between your knees and breathe, big breaths.”
Solvi dropped her head and closed her eyes. She could barely
think of her grandmother—the elegant woman in the photograph,
who radiated such intelligence and warmth—dead at the bottom of
a fjord or possibly murdered and left to rot. It was too much. Her
grandmother was supposed to be alive, alive and waiting for Solvi to
 nd her. Not dead. Solvi lifted her head, looked at Magnus, and
wept.
“Oh, Solvi, let’s go.” Magnus returned the books, gathered their
things, and helped Solvi outside. The sun was setting, lighting up
the clouds, but the beauty of the sky meant nothing to her. Her
grandmother had died—not quite as her mother said, but she must
have died nonetheless.
Magnus walked Solvi back to the study house and promised to
check on her the next day. She slipped upstairs and into bed, weepy
and broken. How she had longed to nd her grandmother alive,
someone who might understand her, who could explain her thorny
family.
She felt like an orphan.

LATER, Rikka tapped on her door. Solvi let her in, showed her the
photo Mr. Stenberg found, and explained how she and Magnus
discovered the court declaration of her grandmother’s death in the
parish records.
Rikka listened to it all, then gave her a consoling hug. “I’m so
sorry, Solvi. This must be quite a shock.”
“I was so excited, then, just hours later, we found that she died. It
was awful.”
“But maybe she didn’t die,” Rikka said. “It’s just a court order, not
a death certi cate.”
“But that’s what they do when the body can’t be found,” Solvi
said. “She was probably murdered and dumped somewhere, or she
committed suicide. She’s probably moldering under a pile of leaves
right now.”
“Listen, don’t torture yourself,” Rikka said. “Now we can work on
nding your uncles.”
“But Magnus says there’s no sign of them here in Kristiania, not
working as professional men. If they’re alive, they’re somewhere
else. I don’t think I can search the whole world.”
“Perhaps they’ve left a trail you could follow. Maybe they are the
ones waiting for you somewhere.”
 Solvi nodded, but it was little solace, as she had nothing to go on.
Rikka said goodnight, and Solvi fell back into bed, sad in a way that
surprised her.
There were losses that could happen before a person was born,
losses that cast grief over a family for generations. How much had
she wanted to change that.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

Maybe Emma was searching for me. Perhaps she found some
evidence that I was alive and had grown curious. Perhaps her own
children made her think of me in a di erent way.
When I had my rst baby, I began to wonder more about my lost
mother. There was something about holding my infant child in my
arms that made me ache for what I had been denied growing up
without a mother. Perhaps Emma had that same revelation—the
sudden understanding that losing me shaped her more than she had
thought.
I examined her baby face in the photograph, but there were few
clues. The last time I saw Emma she was twelve years old, a surly
little beauty. She wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I always
hoped that would change one day. Every year when her birthday
came, I imagined her more grown-up, more mature. By now, no
doubt, she was living the privileged life of an elegant lady. I could
just see her ruling her household with a con dent hand, knowing
what she preferred and how it should be done. I often wondered
whether she found a good husband, someone worthy of her,
someone who would respect her concerns and treat her like an
adult. But perhaps Torvald got in the way.
The truth is, I had no idea what kind of woman she had grown up
to be. I sometimes imagined her playing my piano, using my books
of Mozart and Chopin, yet I had no evidence that she enjoyed music,
as I did. Did she have close friends beyond her family? Did she take
baskets to the poor? Did she have a favorite child, or was she fair-
minded and careful not to prefer one above another?
I wondered what it would be like to meet her on the street. Would
I be intimidated by her or drawn to her? She had been a bossy baby,
willful and demanding. As a young teen she appeared mannered but
suspicious—uninterested in anything or anyone that was not part of
her world. What kind of woman had grown from such roots?
I wrote to Emma when she was eighteen, telling her where I was,
but I never heard back. Most likely Torvald burned the letter before
she even saw it.
Maybe she had placed this ad. Maybe she was the one who
wanted to nd me.

NORA
February 1882 Lac qui Parle, Minnesota

The days were lengthening, but the winter cold deepened, leaving
the sky clear and cloudless. One day Anders said he and Jens would
take the wagon down to the lake to gather wood while the weather
held. “Only for a few days,” he said, smiling. “Mr. Renville said we
could stay in the abandoned mission.”
I packed them blankets and food. Birgitte and I watched the
wagon disappear into the woods.
Later that night she sat down next to me by the stove. “Nora …
may I ask, what happened to your husband and children?”
“My family?” I stopped to knot a thread, biting o the ends to
give myself time to think. “It was an accident, Birgitte. Terrible. I
try not to think of it.” I fell silent, wondering if that was a lie. There
was an accident—the accident of my being blackmailed and
discovering that my husband wasn’t the man I needed him to be.
“How long ago?”
“Several years,” I said tersely. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
“I am asking, Nora, because I wonder how long a person should
grieve.”
I softened. “Oh, of course. Some losses you never get over; others
fade more quickly.”
“Will you miss Tomas when you go?”
“When I go? Why, yes, Birgitte, but I’m prepared for that.” I
stu ed my sewing in my bag and stood up. “I’m looking forward to
starting my life in Chicago.”
“You just seem so settled here, with us,” she said, an edge to her
voice. “Jens thinks you will stay forever.”
“Perhaps I should talk with him, so he understands.”
“And talk with Papa,” she said, more boldly. “He must understand
as well.”
“Your father understands, Birgitte. Now, we best get to bed, as we
have all the chores to do ourselves in the morning.”

THE CONVERSATION left me unsettled. The next day I helped Birgitte in

the barn, tossing out the soiled hay and bringing in fresh, but we
didn’t talk. Instead of a lesson, I gave her some Bible passages to
translate while I mixed and kneaded the bread, as I was reluctant to
engage her.
Then a knock sounded on the door. We both jumped.
When I opened it, Siri Madsen stood there, wrapped against the
wind in two shawls.
“My goodness, Siri, come in!”
Her teeth chattered, and she moved quickly to the stove. “Please,
Mrs. Eriksen, you must come. The boys are sick, very sick, and
Mama doesn’t know what to do. She said to come for you, as you
are educated and will know how to help them.”
I might be educated, but I knew nothing of medicine. “Isn’t there
a doctor in Lac qui Parle village?”
“No. Papa went to Montevideo to fetch one, but he’s been gone
two days.”
Birgitte looked at me. I didn’t know if I could help, but Dr. Rank
often talked to me of his cases; perhaps I would remember
something. I darted outside to check for blizzard clouds, but there
was only bright sunshine. I didn’t see how I could refuse.
I went back inside and nodded to Siri. “I’ll come. Let me get a few
things.”
“No!” Birgitte cried out. “Papa would never want you to leave
us!”
 “Birgitte, your father said that you could easily handle things here
if I needed to go into town for some reason. So I’m going to the
Madsens’. It’s not that far, and I’ll be back tomorrow.” I moved
around the house packing a small bundle—extra socks, iodine,
baking soda, the brandy. But the truth was, I had no idea what I
needed.
Birgitte stared at me. “Father said that?”
“Yes. He has every con dence in you, as do I. Now, you know
what to do for Tomas? He’s safer here with you.”
“Yes, but, but … What do I do if a blizzard comes?”
“Bring in the rest of the woodpile, leave the stock plenty of hay,
and melt snow for water. You’ll be ne.” I threw on my coat and
Inge’s shawl. “Good-bye and be careful!”

SIRI AND I TRUDGED ACROSS the frozen prairie as quickly as we could,

our heads deep in our shawls. It was a relief to get away from
Birgitte’s prying comments, and I was pleased the Madsens had
turned to me, even if I knew little about nursing.
The family lived west of our farm in a low sod house that stood
out in the middle of the atland with little protection from the
weather. Siri glanced at me as we pushed through the door, as if in
warning.
I should have braced myself, as the air inside the soddie reeked of
illness and soiled linen. A wave of nausea swept over me. In the dim
light, I could see Mrs. Madsen in a rocker, crooning to a child that
lay limp in her lap. Racking coughs echoed from the beds in the
back.
Siri sank to her knees in front of her mother. “Oh, Mor …”
Mrs. Madsen looked up at me, weeping. “He’s gone! I couldn’t do
anything for him, and now he’s gone!”
It was Nils, my youngest student; my heart clenched. “Here,” I
said gently, “let me take him.” I gathered him up and laid him on
their wedding chest. Siri, leaking tears, fetched an old muslin sheet,
and we wrapped his small body.
 I sat down beside his mother. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Madsen. What
do you think this illness is?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Eriksen! I’ve never seen this before. They have
fever and a very sore throat. Nils could barely breathe. He gasped
so!” She began to weep again, and Siri glanced at me, ashamed. She
hadn’t wanted to say how bad it was for fear I wouldn’t come.
Behind a curtain I found Claus, Tosten, and two-year-old Per
together in one bed, clutching each other in fear and misery. I held
a candle close and looked down their throats. They all had
something that looked like a patch of white leather across their
windpipes, and Per was hot to the touch.
I mixed baking soda and water to quell their stomachs, but they
barely swallowed any of it. I boiled tea; again they took little. A
memory ickered in my mind of Dr. Rank talking about the
Trondheim throat sickness, a disease that struck children, often
killing several in a household. Or it could be scarlet fever, though
none had a rash. I prayed it was not scarlet fever.
When I had dosed the boys as best I could, I helped Mrs. Madsen
wash and change into fresh clothes—she probably hadn’t rested in
days—and then I made her lie down. Within minutes she was
asleep.
Siri and I cleaned up, sweeping, washing dishes, and boiling the
dirty sheets, which she stoically took outside to pin on the
clothesline. After that she sank, exhausted, into bed as well. I dozed
in the rocking chair. Sometime before dawn Mrs. Madsen awakened
and went to sit beside Nils’s little body, muttering prayers in Old
Norske.
In the morning the older boys seemed a bit better and could take
some gruel, but little Per was worse and gagged as if being
strangled. I wrapped him in a blanket and rocked him by the stove.
By early afternoon I grew worried. Birgitte expected me back, but I
hated to leave before Mr. Madsen returned. I stepped outside to
check for storms and spotted a wagon coming over the southern
horizon. I prayed the doctor was with him.
But when Mr. Madsen came through the door, he was alone. His
wife rose, sobbing, and collapsed in his arms, telling him about Nils.
He held her for a long moment, then went to his dead child and
knelt beside him.
I gathered my things to go. “I need to get back to my own
children,” I said.
“It may be diphtheria, or scarlet fever,” he told me. “Something is
sweeping through western Minnesota. The doctor couldn’t come
because so many in town are sick.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He just nodded, resigned. I left them to their grief.

I HURRIED HOME, glancing over my shoulder, but the sky remained

blessedly clear. The sun slipped below the horizon, and I made it
back just as the world went dark. When I came through the door,
Birgitte jumped up with a cry of relief and helped me unwrap.
“Thank you, Birgitte. How’s Tomas?”
“Fine. He’s napping. I made primost. There was milk for it,
without everyone here. How are the Madsens?”
I sat down, sti from my labors, and warmed my hands by the
stove. “It’s sad news, Birgitte. Little Nils died last night. I don’t know
if it is scarlet fever or diphtheria, but all the boys are ill. I fear their
baby will not live another day.”
Her hands ew to her face. “No! How awful! Did they get
medicine? Did a doctor come? And what about Siri?”
“Mr. Madsen returned with some medicine, but the doctor was
too busy tending sick children in Montevideo. Siri, so far, seems
ne; I hope she can resist it.”
We ate our beans with primost on bread, and I spent the evening
with Tomas in my lap, so glad to be back in our neat little house
with these healthy children. I could feel the despair of the Madsen
household like soot on my clothes. After putting Tomas down for
the night, I washed and slipped into bed for a deep, comforting
sleep.

TWO DAYS LATER,

Anders and Jens appeared just before dusk, the
wagon loaded with rewood. They were cold and tired, so we ate
right away. Then I told them about the Madsens.
Jens fell silent when I mentioned Nils.
Anders turned to me. “What was this illness?”
“I’m not sure, but it may have been scarlet fever or diphtheria,
what they called the Trondheim throat sickness back home. The
boys could scarcely breathe, with white lumps in their throats.”
“Yes, I remember hearing about that.” He looked concerned. “I
hope you didn’t bring the illness home.”
I glanced at Tomas, sitting in my lap and kicking at my hands.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“Did you bathe before touching him?”
Birgitte and I looked at each other. “No,” I said. “I held him in my
lap until bedtime, then washed up. Would that matter?”
A shadow crossed Anders’s face. “Let’s hope not.”
My stomach seemed to fall away. I thought of Nils’s cold body
lying atop the rosemaled chest. Please, God. Please.
Anders stood and patted my shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be ne,
Nora. Let’s just keep him warm and well fed. We mustn’t worry
about it.”

LATER THAT WEEK, however, Tomas woke up hot to the touch. Birgitte
brought him to me, saying he was fussy and sweaty. When Anders
heard that, he snatched the child, took him over to the lamp, and
peered down his throat. The baby coughed and fussed. “It looks a
little red,” he said. “And he’s feverish. How many days since you
were with the Madsens?”
“Five? Six?”
“Let’s see if he’ll drink his milk,” Anders said.
While I got the ask, Anders checked both Jens and Birgitte,
looking down their throats and feeling their foreheads. They seemed
ne, but Tomas was clearly sick with something. He turned from the
ask, as if drinking was painful.
Anders and Jens tended to the chores in the barn, taking longer
than usual. When they returned, Anders started pulling the blankets
o the beds.
 “If this is diphtheria, Jens and Birgitte and I must live in the barn
until it passes.”
“What?” I looked at him, aghast.
“Diphtheria is very contagious among children, Nora, so we must
quarantine you and Tomas here in the house.” He dragged one of
the hay ticks to the door.
“You’ll leave me to nurse him alone?”
“I’ve no choice, Nora. I’ve got to go to Montevideo for medicine.”
Panic rose like bile in my throat. “Please, Anders, please don’t
leave me alone with the baby. What if he weakens? What if he dies?
Please!” Yet I clutched Tomas to my chest, as if the fairies were after
him.
Anders turned to Birgitte. “Birgitte, take the hay tick to the barn,
and these blankets.”
“But, Papa …”
“Now. Do as you’re told.”
She shouldered the tick and went out the door.
Anders came over to me. “Nora, you must understand that I have
no choice. It breaks my heart to leave you here alone with the baby,
but I could lose them all if I don’t quarantine you. I couldn’t survive
that.” He took a deep breath. “We won’t be able to come back into
the house until it’s over, one way or the other, and you’ve cleaned
the house of the contagion. I’ll talk to you through the door.”
My hands shook. “What if it’s not diphtheria but something that
might sicken me? Would you leave me to die with him?”
He looked at me—I could see the turmoil in his eyes. “I wouldn’t
do that if I thought you could get what he has. Adults are usually
una ected by diphtheria, and that must be what it is, as there are
no other illnesses around.”
“But how was he exposed?”
“He could had gotten it from your clothes or your hair, even your
breath.”
Something inside me crumbled. “Am I to blame?”
“No. Nora, you did what you could, what any kind person would
do. You didn’t know how contagious it would be, or you wouldn’t
have gone.” He couldn’t quite look at me as he said this last bit.
 Now he glanced around the kitchen area, anxious to get what he
needed and retreat.
“Take some dried sh, and the skillet and cornmeal,” I said, piling
things into a crate—spoons, bowls, crocks.
He carried out the crate and bedding. A few minutes later I heard
him shouting at Birgitte to stay away from the house.
“I want to see him!” she screamed.
“No! Birgitte! Come away!” I heard a scu e, then Birgitte’s fading
sobs as her father dragged her down the path to the barn. A few
minutes later he returned to say good-bye to Tomas. He dared not
touch the child but leaned over him. “Sweet Tomas,” he whispered,
lingering for a long moment.
Then he turned to me. “Try to make him drink—water and milk
with a little brandy. Whatever you can get down his throat. I’m
leaving now for Montevideo and should be back late tomorrow with
the medicine. I’ll have Birgitte or Jens come by every hour to see
what you need. But don’t let them in, no matter how they plead.”
He banged out the door.

I WARMED MILK MIXED WITH BRANDY, but Tomas—listless and ushed—

drank little. I rocked him until my arms ached, only putting him
back in bed when Birgitte left me a bowl of corn mush.
After I ate, I lay down, curling myself around his fevered body, as
if I could shield him from death. As the night wore on, his breathing
grew more labored, and in the morning there was the telltale white
membrane in his throat. By noon I noticed swollen lumps on both
sides of his neck, and his temperature seemed even higher. I bathed
him in cool water and vinegar to bring the fever down, but he cried
through the ordeal and kicked in misery. I wrapped him back up,
and he slipped into an exhausted sleep.
As I watched him worsen, dread built inside me. I tried to think of
him healthy, playing peek-a-boo with my apron or watching me
from his harness. He had been mine for less than a year, yet was as
dear to me as my own. It seemed strange, now, that I was never
allowed the closeness of caring for my own children, protected as I
was by Torvald and Anne-Marie. Could I have left them if I had? I
doubted it.
And now I was losing this one.

BIRGITTE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR every few hours, asking about her
brother. I didn’t want to tell her the worst, so I just said he was sick
but resting. With each small lie, my isolation grew. I was the only
one who knew what was happening.
As his breathing grew more tortured, I wracked my brain for
anything that might help but could think of nothing. Later that
evening, as Tomas gasped for breath and burned with fever, Anders
knocked on the door. “Nora, I’m back. I brought medicine. How is
he?”
“Oh, Anders, he’s ghting for every breath!”
“Quickly, then. The doctor said to mix a spoonful with a little
water. Here, I’m leaving it by the door. I’ll check back in an hour.”
I waited a few moments then snatched the packet o the ground.
My hands shook as I opened the precious envelope and mixed the
powder with water. I took a sip—it was exceedingly bitter, so I
stirred in some molasses. I poured the medicine down Tomas’s
throat, but he gagged and spit most of it back up. I tried again,
nally holding his nose so he would have to swallow to breathe. He
struggled and cried but nally took most of it. I laid him back in
bed, then poured myself a dram of brandy to calm my nerves. When
Anders came by later, I told him Tomas had taken the medicine. I
feared, however, that it was too late.
My sweet boy had one last night, a torment of racking breaths I
hoped never to witness again. I could feel him drowning but was
powerless to save him. By morning his pulse was so low I could
barely nd it, and his breath came in shuddering gasps. When
Anders knocked on the door, I just said he wasn’t much better. I
knew he would die, but I could not say it.
All that day I rocked and sang to him. Tomas seemed a bit calmer
when I did so, and it eased the knot in my chest. Late in the
afternoon, as the light faded away, he took his last gasping breath. A
long moment of silence followed, and then his little body slumped
in death, his head rolling toward my breast.
I held him for a long time. I had taken on his care as a sacred
trust, and now it had come to this. A ne mother I turned out to be.

I FINALLY ROSE, the cold urging me back to life. I wrapped him in a

blanket and laid him on his father’s bed.
Then, a knock. “How is he, Nora?” It was Anders.
I could not answer. I stood frozen in the middle of the room.
“Nora! What’s happening?” His voice rose in panic.
“Oh, Anders, Tomas has, he has …” I could not say it. I could not
make myself say it.
“Nora, has he died?”
I nally croaked out a yes, then shouted it, not knowing if he had
heard. “He’s gone! Oh, Anders, I’m so sorry!” All I could do was
weep.
I didn’t know what hell Anders experienced outside the sod house.
It was very still. I listened at the door. “Anders, are you there?”
“Yes, Nora.” His voice was cold and at, like death itself.
“I tried everything, but the medicine came too late!” I was
weeping again and could speak no more.
“Nora, Nora. Calm yourself. God does not blame you, nor do I.
Please.”
I tried to pull myself together. “I’ve wrapped him in his blanket.”
“I’ll build a box for him. And, Nora, put the medicine packet
outside the door. I’ll give the rest to Birgitte and Jens, just in case.”
“Yes.”
“You must clean the house, Nora, from top to bottom. The doctor
gave me alum powder. You mix it with water and scrub everything.
Burn Tomas’s clothing and blankets, then you must boil the other
clothing and bedding in the house. But rst, get some rest. In the
morning Birgitte will get the water and wood you need and leave it
out here. You’ll need to strip and burn the newspaper from the
walls, then wipe the walls with the solution.”
 “Yes, of course,” I said. I couldn’t imagine how I would nd the
strength, but I couldn’t let the others die.
“I’m going to tell the children. Don’t forget the medicine.”
I grabbed the packet and set it outside the door. A few minutes
later I heard mu ed shouts and cries from the barn, then later the
hammer blows as Anders began building the tiny co n. They
echoed through the night.

I SLEPT IN FITS AND STARTS, chased by snatches of dreams, some of

Tomas, some of my own children. Many were gentle, but a vivid
image of crows picking at a child’s body woke me just before dawn.
I got up and stoked the re, then forced myself to heat water for tea
and porridge. I had little appetite, but if I didn’t eat, I wouldn’t have
the strength I needed.
Anders knocked and said that Tomas’s co n was ready.
“Must we bury him so soon?” I couldn’t bear the thought of
putting him in the ground.
“Yes, Nora. His body carries the contagion. Mr. Renville helped
me dig a small grave.”
“Will we have a service?”
“In a few days, when we can.”
I waited a few minutes, then opened the door to nd a beautiful
little wooden co n, with Tomas’s initials and a Gudbrandsdal
ower carved on top. I brought it in and lined it with one of his
mother’s old skirts, making a comfortable nest. He was sti now,
and cool; I laid him in the box, then blew him a gentle kiss and put
the lid back on. It was all I could do to set the co n outside and
shut the door, as if leaving him for the wolves. I was relieved to
hear his father return and take him away.

BEFORE LONG BIRGITTE KNOCKED HARD, yelling that the water and wood
for the laundry was outside. She was angry—blamed me, no doubt.
In a fog of sorrow, I pulled the buckets and wood inside, then built
up the re and stu ed Tomas’s clothes into the stove. I was tempted
to keep his little red knit hat, but I could not risk it. All, into the
ames.
I scrubbed and boiled all that long day, nally bathing in the last
of the rinse water. I napped and then ate a little supper and started
peeling the newspaper o the walls so I could wipe them down.
And that was when I found the letter, pushed into a crack
between the sod bricks.
Norwegian, in a feminine hand. I caught my breath. It was
addressed to Anders.

Dear Anders, Gustaf died three days ago—lung fever. Hans and I
are now very weak, from hunger and illness, and it is still snowing.
Hans lies beside his father’s body and cries. We’ve nothing left to eat
save the pages of the Bible. I don’t know if you’ll nd this note, but
please know I did my best. I cannot watch my son su er any longer,
and so I will take him outside to meet his Maker. The blizzard will
rage through the night; by morning it should be over. How dearly I
wish we’d never left our beautiful valley in Norway. Good-bye, dear
family. Kari

Dread lled my chest. Did she take her son out into the storm to
freeze? There was something evil in this land, something that lived
now in this house. I slipped her letter into the stove. Anders needn’t
know that she watched his brother die and took her son’s death into
her own hands. I thought of her and Hans huddled in the blizzard
and wept for her. And as I mourned, something of her took root in
me. Everything felt useless, hopeless, sad beyond bearing. It was all
I could do to wipe down the furniture and walls with the alum, then
sprinkle the oor and sweep it dry. Finally, I opened the door and
let the cold wind in, weeping as winter swirled through our little
home.
After a while, Anders brought the children and their bedding and
food back inside. We shut the door and lit the stove again. Anders
asked Birgitte to get our supper and went back out to the barn to do
the evening chores.
 I threw on my shawl and followed. I knew how it looked, but I
couldn’t help it.
Anders put down his hay fork. “Nora, why have you come out
into the cold?”
I moved toward him, leaking tears, my arms open. “Please,
Anders, hold me. It was awful—you have no idea.”
But he backed up, his eyes intense with pain. “Nora, I cannot. You
may still carry the contagion, and I don’t want to take it back to
Birgitte or Jens. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Please, not tonight. I cannot bear anything tonight.”
My heart stopped. He saw this in my face.
“Nora, dear Nora, bless you for caring for him. You saved the
other two, I swear to God.” He turned away; he didn’t want me to
see his grief, or his anger. “Just give me time.”
I wanted to sink through the oor. Instead, I went back to the
soddie and climbed into bed. I could not face any of them.

AFTER TOMAS DIED, the snows returned. Winter gripped the land, and
the cold and darkness settled in my breast. Nothing moved in that
frigid world except what the wind gave life to. Once a day, if
weather permitted, I bundled up and staggered through the drifts to
the little graveyard. Only the tops of the wooden crosses poked
through the snow, and often Tomas’s small cross could not be seen
at all.
Sometimes it almost felt as if I had imagined him, that he was
never a real child who babbled and laughed. But when I closed my
eyes I could see him—peeking out over my shoulder on the dock in
Kristiania, staring into my eyes when I fed him, falling asleep in the
crook of my arm. It felt as if my own child had died. No, it was
worse—it felt as if my only surviving child had died. Stripped of my
three, I had turned to Tomas for comfort, and somehow he knew his
part. I was able to come to America and learn to live on this
godforsaken prairie because I had him on my hip. Now that he was
gone, I couldn’t bear anything.
 Sometimes I would look away from the graveyard out across the
frozen lake and listen for my destiny. I could feel the lake beckoning
me, just as the fjord had beckoned the night I left Torvald. It was all
I could do not to turn from Tomas’s grave and follow the path to its
frozen edge.
But I could not allow myself such indulgence. I pulled my shawl
tight and trudged back to the hateful sod house and my
responsibilities inside.

but said nothing. None of

ANDERS DIDN’T LIKE ME GOING TO THE GRAVE SITE
us said anything about Tomas; indeed, we rarely spoke at all. I
didn’t talk because I feared anything from me would make it worse.
At rst I could not understand this winter of the soul. Then I
started to think that Anders and Birgitte thought I had no right to
feel what they felt, as I was not Tomas’s mother. And because they
did not cry, I could not cry. We all grieved silently behind our stoic
faces.
I knew they blamed me. I risked the family’s health for others,
and the worst happened. Birgitte’s resentment soon took root and
ared in a thousand subtle ways. She blocked me from talking with
Jens; she ignored me during lessons; she elbowed me out of the easy
chores. And I let her, because she was right—I was a fraud. I knew
little about caring for children and should never have pretended
otherwise.
She soon grew bold and started speaking rudely to me in front of
her father. I expected him to come to my defense, but he just
muttered admonitions and turned away. None of us was any help to
each other.
And poor Jens drifted through his sorrow alone, like a child
clinging to a spar in a vast sea. I saw him su ering but dared not
comfort him. Never again would I mother a child; he was better o
seeking comfort from his father and sister. It was too dangerous to
be close to me.
AT NIGHT IN THE BEDI shared with the simmering Birgitte, I turned to
the dirt wall and considered what was left of my life. I had lost my
country, my class, my family and friends, and now my purpose.
Without Tomas, Anders didn’t seem to love me anymore. He sank
into his grief, avoiding my eye and my company. The cord that
bound me to the Eriksens loosened with a jerk the day Tomas died,
and now it dropped away.

MY DEPENDENCE BEGAN TO CHAFE. I imagined that they resented having

to feed me, so I ate only small bits. I moved my chair back from the
stove, out of the family circle. Our lessons died away. I did my
chores—most of the cooking and sewing—but little else. Anders
spent as much time out of the house as he could, working in the
cold barn on his carving. Jens followed him like a puppy, now that
he was discouraged from spending time with me, and Birgitte went
as well, since she disliked being left with me. Alone, I wept silently
as I went about my work.
My mind took on a life of its own. One day, I picked up the
butcher knife and pushed the tip against my skin, pricking enough
to draw blood. I imagined that cutting my arm would release the
tremendous pressure trapped inside. I pressed again until it hurt,
then stopped, but the idea did not frighten me.
And then there was Kari Eriksen. First she showed up in my
dreams, a gaunt gure leaning over our stove, making a dreadful-
smelling stew. She seemed to haunt the sod house; I imagined her
slipping behind a curtain at the edge of my vision, or bringing in a
load of wood when I heard Birgitte open the door with a grunt. Kari
didn’t frighten me any more than the knife did. By imagining her
here with us, I felt I could give her something in death that no one
gave her in life—understanding and sympathy. I was particularly
consumed by her last days, watching her husband die and making
her fateful decision. I began to feel I was becoming Kari—isolated,
miserable, alone.
Mr. Renville stopped by one day with more of the Indian rice, to
boost our health, he said. Birgitte elbowed her brother, and they
slipped out to the barn. I was glad to get a chance to talk with him
privately, so I made tea while he warmed himself, then asked if he
could tell me about nding the Eriksens’ bodies.
Mr. Renville looked up from his cup. “Why do you want to
know?”
“I found a letter Kari wrote but left behind, hidden in the wall.”
“What did it say?”
“She said Gustaf died of lung fever rst and that they had no food
left, and she couldn’t bear to watch Hans die of hunger, so she …” I
choked and could not go on.
“So that’s why she took him outside that night.”
“You found them there?”
“Yes, their bodies were just beyond the barn, where it’s less
protected. That puzzled me at rst, but when I saw that Gustaf had
died earlier, I understood.” He looked into my sad eyes. “I’m sorry
you had to nd that letter.”
“I burned it, as I didn’t want Anders to know. It’s been so di cult
for him, losing his wife, his brother, and now Tomas. Please, don’t
say anything to him.”
“Yes, Mrs. Eriksen, if you think that best.”
“Anders carries his grief inside, but it’s a heavy burden, and I fear
it might defeat him if he knows the worst.”
He nodded, pensive. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Eriksen.”

THE EMPTY PRAIRIE turned people in on themselves, and if that was not
a safe haven, then woe to them. One day I was thinking of Kari and
her terrible decision, and the next day I envied her. If the Church
fathers were right, she and little Hans were together now with
Gustaf. I didn’t know if there was a heaven, but I hoped her soul
had joined those of her son and husband, which might be all the
heaven she needed. When I knelt in the snow beside Tomas’s grave,
I prayed he was with his mother; otherwise the afterlife would be a
lonely place for a child.
I slipped Emma’s embroidered cap inside my chemise and kept it
there against my thinning breast, in my grief likening Tomas to my
own baby. I also put Ivar’s stone—still strangely comforting—in my
apron pocket, where I could hold it when I needed to. I walked to
the graveyard, thinking of Tomas, then looked out across the frozen
lake and thought of Kari. She escaped this life, this awful dirt house,
this evil land. Maybe I could escape, as she had—free myself from
the pain and sorrow.
And so I drifted away from everyday life into the bleak world of
my weakened mind.

ONE DAY IN LATE MARCH I noticed the ground softening beneath my

feet, mud mixing with the snow, and from the hill I could see water
puddling on the lake ice. Spring was coming; slowly, but it would
come. I squeezed Ivar’s stone in my pocket.
A few days later Anders and I argued over the best way to treat an
infected cut Jens had on his hand. Anders wanted to rub cow
liniment into it; I thought we should bathe it in hot water with salts.
I pushed too hard—Birgitte came to her father’s side and shouted
me to silence. I turned to Anders, but he just looked away. His
refusal to reprimand her left me burning with shame; I had come to
nothing in his eyes. I slid behind the curtain and crawled into bed.
The next morning Anders said he and the children would take the
wagon north to gather wood. Birgitte packed bread and dried sh,
saying they wouldn’t return until dark. My pulse began to race. I
said no more than a simple good-bye as they closed the door behind
them.
I left my pearls as payment, with a note, tucked in the pocket of
my apron. Perhaps now they could a ord the lumber for a house. I
patted Emma’s cap to make sure it was there inside my bodice and
then put my baptism certi cate, the photograph of my family, and
the letter from my children into my drawstring bag, which I tied
around my waist. Finally, I put Ivar’s stone in the pocket of my coat.
Outside, I headed rst to the cemetery, where I whispered over
Tomas’s grave until I wept. I then turned down the path toward the
southeastern end of the lake. I moved as if in a trance, clutching at
branches to keep from slipping in the soft snow.
 A desperate longing to withdraw built inside me. It was not that I
wanted to run away—I wanted to vanish, leave no trace, melt into
water with the spring snow. Because only then would I nd peace. If
I lived, I would just hurt more people with my lies and pretending. I
lied to my father to get away from his prying; I lied to Torvald to
evade his authority; I had lied to the priests and police and all my
friends. And I lied to Anders so I could cling to what he had—a
ticket, a baby, a family. But no more.
It took me a long time to nd the right spot, my body growing
numb in the chill. I didn’t think—just pushed down through the
undergrowth to the lake edge, thorns snagging my clothes, skidding
through the mud. When I reached the bank, I stopped to breathe,
but just for a moment. There was open water farther out but, close
in, the ice still hugged the shoreline. The woods were quiet and still.
The lake whispered its promise.
I stepped out. The ice, spongy and dense, creaked beneath my
weight. I brought Ivar’s stone to my lips. I meant to kiss it good-bye
but instead slipped it into my mouth, as if to stop the lies. I shu ed
out a few more feet; nothing. Then a few more and a few more.
The ice gave way; I plunged into the water.
For the rst moment it felt like a comfort, but then the cold hit—
an intense pain that shot through me and shattered my trance. I
tried to let myself sink, but every muscle in my body wanted to
ght. I could feel grass around my legs, then my feet hit bottom. I
looked up. Sunlight ltered down through the hole, beautiful and
serene, but under the ice there was a murky blackness unlike
anything I had ever seen—the color of death. Terrifying emptiness. I
felt Ivar’s stone, heavy on my tongue, and suddenly remembered
stopping by Torvald’s apartment and my wolf-like hunger to see my
children.
For the rst time in weeks, I thought of them.
I spit out the stone and gulped in lake water. Spots danced before
my eyes. I wavered between two worlds. Then, blazing across my
mind like a comet, came Torvald’s terrible lie: that he would tell the
children I died. And here I was, despite the distance, doing what he
wanted, playing the role he wrote for me.
 But it was not what my children wanted, those sad creatures I
locked away and tried not to think about. The children who still
lived and breathed, who deserved to have a mother.
I struggled out of my coat, then kicked o the bottom with all my
strength. I grabbed the ice edge and managed to get my head above
water and take a breath. But the softened ice quickly gave way, and
I went under again. I pulled out a second time, took another breath,
got my arms up onto the ice, and crashed through again. I breathed
in water, coughed, and sputtered, but it was shallower now.
Desperate, I threw myself toward the trees, which reached for me
like silent helpers. Somehow I pulled myself out and collapsed onto
the wet snow of the bank. I looked around. There was no one. I
called out to the quiet wood. Nothing but the drip of melting snow.
I laid my head on my cold arms, so tired I could scarcely breathe.
Gently, tenderly, the world went black.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SOLVI
April 1919 Kristiania, Norway

When Magnus slipped into his seat next to Solvi in history class, he
squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”
She smiled sadly. “It doesn’t make sense, feeling bereft over a
grandmother I never knew, but I do.”
“But Solvi,” he said, “you don’t know for certain that she died.”
“If she was alive, don’t you think my mother would have heard
from her?” She shook her head. “She must have died years ago. I
need to let her go.”
“If your grandmother is gone, let’s try to nd your uncles,”
Magnus said. “There’s no evidence that they died.”
“That’s what Rikka thinks, but how on earth would we do that?”
“With an advertisement.”
Solvi looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? What kind of
advertisement?”
“We prepare an advertisement to be posted in a newspaper, one
that includes the photograph you have of your family. Mr. Blehr
could probably help us.”
“But you said my uncles aren’t working here in Kristiania, so what
would be the point?”
“The point would be to run the advertisement in an American
newspaper, one the Norwegians read.”
She stared at him. “Do you think my uncles are in America?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m sure they would have
contacted your mother.”
“Even if they didn’t know her name?”
“If they are alive, I suspect their last name has also been Fallesen
for some time.”
 At that moment, Professor Wol banged into the room, and there
was no more time to talk. Solvi hoped Magnus would have time to
go to the pastry shop after class, but instead he picked up his books,
gave her a small smile, and walked away.

A FEW DAYS LATER, Matron handed Solvi a card. “Delivered by a

constable, Miss Lange,” she said. “I hope you aren’t in any trouble.”
Solvi turned away to read the note.
I’ve found information about the Helmers. At your service, O cer
Farstad

SOLVI TOOK RIKKA WITH HER, someone to hang on to if she got bad news.
But when they arrived, O cer Farstad greeted them with an
eager smile and bustled them over to a counter beside a bookcase of
ledgers.
“I’ve got to say, Miss Lange, it looks like your relatives—your
grandparents, I’m guessing—got into a marital ti ,” he said, opening
a musty old police docket. “Here’s the rst item, from June 1881:
Torvald Helmer, a bank manager, requested police assistance in nding
his estranged wife, Nora. Blond, medium gure, attractive. His private
investigator followed Mrs. Helmer to a rooming house at Filosofgangen
and Vinkelgaden, in Vika. Mr. Helmer suspects she has fallen into a state
of hysteria and should be under the care of doctors at the asylum. She
appears to be living with a group of young anarchists; he fears she may
be engaged in prostitution.”
Solvi stared at the entry, struggling to believe this Mr. Helmer
could have been her grandfather. It was so tawdry, so humiliating.
How could such a thing have happened to her grandparents?
“And here’s the second,” O cer Farstad said, ipping the pages to
later in the month. Nora Helmer picked up in raid on rooming house at
Filosofgangen and Vinkelgaden last night. She refused to inform on the
residents at the rooming house. She had lice; head was shaved. No
charges brought. She was released into the protection of her husband,
Torvald Helmer. She could possibly be persuaded to testify against the
residents if necessary.”
 Rikka and Solvi looked at each other. “Prostitution, hysteria?”
Solvi whispered. “And they shaved her head?”
“Routine in those days,” O cer Farstad said. “Especially if a
woman wasn’t behaving herself.” He coughed. “There’re two more,
some years later.” He opened another ledger.
The rst entry was June 5, 1885. Torvald Helmer requests an
investigation into the disappearance of his wife, Nora Helmer. O cer
Sandvik assigned. Then he ipped to the last one, a few months later:
Investigation into the whereabouts of Nora Helmer closed. As there is no
evidence of her living anywhere in Norway, nor record of her leaving the
country, it is presumed she has died. Registered with the court for a
declaration of death, November 18, 1885.
“That’s it, all I could nd,” O cer Farstad said.
Solvi handed him a crown. “Thank you, O cer.”
She and Rikka stepped outside. “That explains it, doesn’t it?” Solvi
said, giving Rikka a grim look. “I just never imagined it would
involve prostitution and hysteria. Maybe it’s better that my
grandmother is dead.”
“No, Solvi,” said Rikka. “If you’re after the truth, it wasn’t in that
police docket. Nothing proved she was either a prostitute or insane.
I’ll bet she didn’t even have lice! They probably shaved her head to
punish her for protecting her friends.”
Solvi gave her a dubious look. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes,” said Rikka. “We have no idea what the true story is. Maybe
she was a hero, Solvi. I’ll bet she was a hero to those young men.”
“My mother would never think of her as a hero,” Solvi said.
“Perhaps not, but you can think of her that way.”

A FEW DAYS LATER,Solvi stood before an elegant mansion, dread lling

her chest. Ever since Dominik invited her to Sunday dinner at his
family’s house in Homans Byen and she saw the address, Solvi had
wondered. Could the house where she hid in the laundry closet be
Dominik’s house? She knew it was on the same street, but she didn’t
know whether this was the house. Maybe all mansions looked alike.
Dominik answered the door. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
 He led her to the parlor, where his parents were sipping drinks.
Dominik’s mother, her hair in a French twist, swept forward to
shake Solvi’s hand. She was older than Solvi’s mother, not as
beautiful, though her gown was expensive and trimmed with
exquisite lace. She looked Solvi over, then smiled, as if Solvi had
passed some sort of test. She was right to wear the silk her mother
had picked out.
“Welcome, Solveig,” she said. “Come sit and tell me of your
family.”
Dominik’s father handed her a glass of sherry and gave her a nod
before stepping over to a desk on the other side of the room and
moving some papers around.
Dominik poured himself a drink and sat down next to Solvi, smug
as a cat as she answered his mother’s questions. They were gently
probing, the questions Solvi had heard a hundred times in the
parlors of Bergen. Who were her father and his Danish family? Who
was her mother, and where was her family from? And, nally, who
was her grandfather, and which bank had he managed? All asked
with a charming smile.
But for the rst time these questions made Solvi stutter. She
wasn’t sure, anymore, where her mother was from, or even if she
should answer honestly. She smiled back at Dominik’s mother, to
cover up what she didn’t want to say.
The door to the parlor opened, and a young man entered. He was
older, smartly dressed, with dark eyes and his nose held high, as if
he were sni ng the air. He reminded Solvi of Stefan Vinter.
“Ah, Edvard, come meet Solveig Lange, Dominik’s new girl,” said
Dominik’s father.
He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. Dominik’s been telling us
about you. Apparently you’re a photographer.”
Solvi went still. It was the same voice, the voice of the man who
put his hand around Greta’s neck. This was the house.
Dominik elbowed her. “Tell them how you took pictures of plants
for your father.”
She looked at their faces. There was no sign that anyone
recognized her or knew anything about the photographs she took in
their kitchen. Poor Greta seemed to have covered for her.
“Well, my father studied rare plants, and as he didn’t like to dig
them up, he taught me to take photographs in the eld. When he
died, he left me his camera. I mostly take landscapes and pictures of
my friends.” She couldn’t look at Dominik, as she was terri ed he
would mention her pictures of the housemaids.
“She took a picture of me the other day, up near Akershus
Fortress,” Dominik said proudly. “I suspect you’ve got it pinned up
near your mirror, eh, Solvi?”
She didn’t know what to say, so just sipped her sherry. How much
she seemed to need it at the moment.
“Let’s go in,” Dominik’s mother said, standing. They passed into a
beautiful dining room, the walls papered in a damask rose, the
mahogany table and china gleaming. Dinner was just as Solvi had
expected—a beef roast from England, champagne, a French torte for
dessert. Solvi and the serving maids glanced at each other in
recognition, and from that point on Solvi tried to look only at the
food and her hosts. She laughed; she answered more questions; she
listened. She behaved as her mother had taught her and thought of
nothing else.

LATER, Solvi stopped by Rikka’s room, inging herself on Rikka’s bed

in despair.
“It was the same house?” Rikka said, her eyes wide. “Are you
sure?”
“Dominik’s brother, Edvard, was the one who pinched Greta. His
mother called him by name, and it was his voice,” Solvi said.
“Besides—the serving maids and I recognized each other.”
“Good God, I hope you didn’t stare.”
“No. I spent a lot of time cutting my dinner into tiny pieces.” Solvi
sighed. “Oh, Rikka, now I’m afraid we shouldn’t use those
photographs in the article. This is why people shouldn’t trespass!”
“No, this is why we need to do this story: to protect housemaids
from people like Edvard,” Rikka said. “I assume you told Dominik
you can’t see him anymore.”
 Solvi sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Well, obviously he’s from a bad family.”
“Rikka, that’s not fair. His brother’s the bad one. Dominik’s
harmless.”
Rikka went quiet, then shook her head. “I just don’t see why you
like him.”
“He’s fun, and he challenges me to think in new ways. When it’s
just him and me, it’s nice; I think he really likes me. He gave me a
book, Albertine. It’s the story of a young woman who gets tricked
into being a prostitute.”
Rikka gave her a sidelong look.
“No, it’s not what you think. It’s background for my essay about
the Forgotten One. He’s trying to help me, and I want to help him
back. I think he needs someone like me.”
“Saint Solvi, needing to save someone,” Rikka said.
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but it’s a bad reason to fall in love, Solvi.”
“Why?” It annoyed Solvi how patronizing Rikka could be, treating
her like the kid sister who didn’t know anything about the world.
“Because love shouldn’t be confused with heroism,” Rikka said.
“Trust me; I know.”

THE NEXT TIME Solvi and Rikka went to Vika, they wrapped
themselves in heavy shawls to obscure their youth. They stopped at
a ramshackle cottage on a narrow lane, one of the poorest houses
Solvi had ever seen. Inside, a barefoot young girl stirred a kettle
over an open re, a toddler on her hip. The mother, thin and weak,
tried to rise from her bed but could not.
Rikka went to help her while Solvi turned to the girl. “Here, I’ll
take the baby for you,” she said, pulling the toddler into her arms.
“Watch your feet there, around the coals.”
But the girl just looked at her with a haggard face and went back
to stirring. Solvi could see bits of burned potato oating in the soup.
The little boy gazed up at Solvi with big, serious eyes. She bounced
him; a small smile played on his face.
 Rikka sat beside the mother, talking to her quietly. The woman
was hopelessly frail and wracked with rattling coughs. Rikka urged
her to go to the sanatorium to recover, but she just shook her head.
“There is no one to care for my family,” she said, looking around
the small, dark room.
“Do you have a husband?”
“No,” she said, without explanation. She looked away from Rikka.
The little boy squirmed in Solvi’s arms. “Ma’am, may I take a
picture of your children?” Solvi asked. “I’ll give you a print.”
The woman shrugged, too sick to care. Solvi handed the toddler
back to his sister, then positioned them beside the open door, in a
wash of gray light. The girl canted her hip to the side to hold her
brother, just as any mother would, making her look strangely adult.
The little boy twisted away, whining; the girl looked into Solvi’s
camera, wistful and resigned. Old before her years, Solvi thought.
She pressed the shutter.
Rikka gathered her equipment, then gave the mother a pamphlet
about the sanatorium. “Maybe we could nd someone to care for
your children,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few days to see what
you’ve decided.”
The woman nodded. “Thank you, miss. And you’ll bring the
photograph?”
“Of course,” Solvi said.
As they walked to the next house, Rikka shook her head. “She’s a
prostitute, I’m sure.”
“She is?”
“You can tell when they don’t explain how they lost their
husband.”

SOLVI SAT DOWN that evening with the book Dominik had given her,
curious now in a way she hadn’t been before. Albertine’s story
started with poverty and exhaustion. She worked at home as a
seamstress, laboring for hours over her hand-operated sewing
machine, sometimes sleeping in her chair. Her sick brother was
dying, her aging mother mired in despair. Albertine—beautiful and
principled but pessimistic about her future—thought obsessively
about her sister, Oline, who had brought shame to the family by
becoming a prostitute.
In time, Albertine tumbled as well, tricked by a policeman who
drugged her and then raped her. Fate, it seemed, had no escape for
poor Albertine. She ended up in Vika, a swaggering, laughing,
unashamed whore, even worse than her sister.
Solvi read the novel in one night.
At the end of the book she was surprised to nd reproductions of
a series of paintings. The author, Christian Krohg, was also an artist
and painted scenes from the book. Solvi paged slowly through the
plates, some of which she recognized, though she’d never
understood before where they came from. There was Albertine
sleeping in her chair before her sewing machine and Albertine’s
dying brother propped in a wheeled chair. Then Albertine being
chastised by her mother. Later there was Albertine, demure in her
skirt and shawl, being ushered into a clinic for women with sexual
diseases, surrounded by prostitutes in cheap gowns. And after her
fall, Albertine in a thin shift sitting on the edge of a rumpled bed,
her head in her hands.
Solvi took the book to Rikka and told her all about Albertine.
Together, they examined the plates.
“I hate it when the heroine becomes a prostitute at the end of a
novel because, believe me, that’s not the end of that woman’s story,”
Rikka said.
“I have an idea,” Solvi said. “This might sound strange, but I think
it would get people’s attention. We try to nd several prostitutes to
help us re-create some of Krohg’s Albertine scenes, which I
photograph. Then we show them to Mr. Blehr.”
Rikka looked at her with surprise. “Is this your mother’s daughter
talking?”
“Albertine still lives in Vika. People need to know that.”
Rikka jumped up and gave her a hug. “Let me work on it.”
A FEW DAYS LATER, they set out. Solvi brought money, and Rikka
carried a basket of food—cheese, biscuits, and fruit. The two women
were waiting for them in the rough rooming house where they lived.
One had a child, a small girl who sat on a low stool and stared.
Rikka handed her an apple. The girl took it silently and held it in
her lap.
“You can eat it, love,” said her mother, a delicate woman with a
frail, sickly body. She wore a torn Chinese robe over a shift and
slippers, her stringy blond hair piled haphazardly on her head.
Rikka pulled out her stethoscope and listened to her lungs.
The other prostitute, younger and stronger, with dark tresses
around her shoulders, wore a narrow skirt and a frayed blouse open
at the neck. She treated the older woman as someone under her
special care, o ering her the best bits from the basket.
Solvi talked with them rst, trying to understand how they had
come to live this way. The stories were bleak—hunger, little
schooling, fathers who beat them and worse. One came from a long
line of prostitutes that started with a great-grandmother abandoned
on the wharf. The other woman, the mother of the child, fell into
prostitution when she lost her mother as a young girl. Solvi
scribbled notes and assured them she would obscure their identity
in anything she might write for the newspaper.
Then she took pictures that would echo the Albertine paintings.
First, Solvi shot the delicate one in just her shift sitting on the edge
of her bed, her head in her hands. Then Solvi had the women face
each other, with the younger casting her eyes down in shame, the
other berating her. Next, she seated them at a table before a heap of
knitting, leaning back as if they slept in their chairs. For the last
shot, she put a blanket over the lap of the little girl, whose blond
hair glowed white in the light of the window, and photographed her
straight on, just as Krohg had painted Albertine’s dying brother.
When she was done, she promised to bring them copies of the
pictures when they were developed. Rikka handed them a box of
condoms.
 Solvi and Rikka walked home quietly, subdued by being with
these women and their resignation and shame, their hunger, the
child. Baskets were never going to be enough.

LATER IN THE WEEK, Solvi and Magnus visited Mr. Blehr for help
placing an ad in an American newspaper. He recommended the
Skandinaven, published in Norwegian from Chicago. Read by
Norwegian immigrants from East to West, he assured Solvi. He even
knew the name of the editor.
By the end of the afternoon, the advertisement was readied and
sent o to Chicago. That evening, Solvi told Rikka about it. “I have
no idea if it will work,” Solvi said, “but I feel better doing
something. At the least, maybe some Norwegian in America will
recognize them and send me some information. Even that would be
something.”
Rikka tipped her head to the side. “Will you tell your mother
about it?”
“Lord, no,” Solvi said. “I may never be able to tell her any of it.
Even if I nd them.”
Rikka nodded thoughtfully. “It was very kind of Magnus to help
you with that.”
Solvi chewed a hangnail. “Yes, it was. In fact, it was his idea. We
will see if anything comes of it.”

A WEEK LATER,against her better judgment, Solvi went with Petra and
Rikka to a second wealthy home. Fortunately, this one was easy
since the family was away on holiday and only the sta was in the
home. With no need to rush, Solvi got better pictures. Her favorite
showed the maids in a line, all holding kitchen pans in front of their
faces, like masks. Their uniforms and aprons—wrinkled, stained,
streaked with dirt and our—told the story of their labor.
When she was done, Solvi chatted with them as she waited for
Rikka to nish distributing condoms and advice. One of the girls
asked if Solvi would someday write a newspaper article, as Petra
was doing. Solvi heard herself say yes and told them about the
Forgotten One. They listened, rapt.
When she was done, Solvi looked around the table. “And here’s
the strangest part of it: the Forgotten One was never heard from
again. She disappeared, and no one has any idea what happened to
her.”
“Maybe she became a famous actress,” one girl said dreamily.
“Maybe she went west,” said another. “Maybe she got kidnapped
by Indians and learned to shoot bu alo.”
The others giggled, except one older maid polishing silver at the
end of the table. “No,” she said. “It’s a sad story, losing her children
like that.”
The elderly cook shook a pan at the stove. “I’ve always thought it
a sad story, myself.”
Solvi turned to her. “Do you know this story?”
“Aye, I’ve known it a long time,” the cook said. “I have a friend
whose mother was nurse to the children of this woman when she
left her husband.”
Solvi nearly choked on her co ee. “You knew her nurse?”
“Well, I know the nurse’s daughter, and she told me this story
years ago.”
“Is the nurse still alive?”
“No, she’s been gone for years. But her daughter, my friend
Louiza Olsen, is right here in Kristiania.”
“Would she talk to me?” Solvi asked.
The cook turned to look at Solvi, sizing her up. Finally, she
shrugged. “I’ll ask her. If you come back next week, I’ll let you
know.”
“Thank you. I’ve been searching for someone who knew her.”
The cook gave Solvi a solemn look. “It’s not a pretty story, Miss
Lange. She left those children bereft. My friend, if she’s willing, can
tell you what it looked like from the nursery.”
Rikka emerged from the dayroom, pulling on her coat. “We’d
better get going.”
One of the housemaids wrapped two warm pastries for them in a
bit of newspaper. Rikka and Solvi thanked the women and headed
out the door.
“You’ll never believe what I just heard …,” Solvi said.

IT WAS A SOFT SPRING DAY when Solvi knocked on the door of a small
apartment in an old tenement building far from the center of town.
She carried a small bouquet of narcissus owers, clutching them
nervously, unsure what sort of reception she would get.
A thin woman with hollow cheeks and a loose twist of gray hair
behind opened the door and looked her over. “I suppose you’re Miss
Lange.”
“Yes, good day, Miss Olsen. Thank you for meeting with me.” She
handed the woman the owers.
The woman nodded in a formal way, then stepped aside and let
Solvi enter.
Solvi stood awkwardly in the middle of a small room, waiting for
an invitation. After a few minutes, she edged toward a chair. “May I
sit?”
“No one is stopping you,” Miss Olsen said, then shook herself a
bit. “I suppose I could get some tea. I’ve got the kettle warm, so it’s
no trouble.”
“Yes, please. If it’s no trouble.”
“That’s what I said, miss,” Miss Olsen muttered, shu ing o to
her tiny kitchen.
Solvi swallowed hard. She had high hopes for this interview, but
already it felt like something had gone awry. Maybe Solvi shouldn’t
have worn her short skirt and nice jacket.
She took out her notebook and looked about as Miss Olsen rattled
things in the kitchen. Everything indicated a life lived with barely
enough, but it was still a respectable life. Nothing like the squalid
conditions of the poor prostitutes in Vika.
For a moment Solvi wondered if this woman could be the
Forgotten One herself, but no. Solvi could see that Miss Olsen was
not born upper class, as the Forgotten One was. Still, their fate
might have turned out much the same.
 Miss Olsen returned carrying a tray with an elegant tea set, oddly
out of place in her spare room.
“What lovely china,” Solvi said. She picked up one of the little
cups and turned it about, admiring the delicate pattern of red
blossoms. “So ne, and beautifully kept.”
“I rarely use it,” Miss Olsen said. “It was given to my mother by a
friend.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Olsen. I’d begun to think this
woman, this Forgotten One, was just a myth.”
“Oh, she was real, miss. I know because my mother devoted her
life to her.”
Solvi took some notes. “So, please start at the beginning. How did
your mother come to work for the family?”
“My mother nursed the woman when she was a baby, in Hamar.
Her mother died in childbirth, so they needed someone.”
“Did you grow up with her in the same house?”
Miss Olsen stared for a moment, then shook her head roughly.
“Oh, no. My mother had to give me over to be raised by strangers in
Kristiania so she could take the job of caring for the princess. That’s
how it was done in those days.”
“The princess?”
“Well, she wasn’t a real princess, but that’s what I called her. Her
father was wealthy, bought her whatever she wanted, my mother
said, just like a princess.”
“You kept in touch with your mother?”
She nodded. “And after the princess married and moved here to
Kristiania, she brought my mother with her, to nurse her own
children. My mother stayed with me on her days o .”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Anne-Marie Olsen.”
“Do you know why the woman left her family?”
Miss Olsen sighed. “There were troubles between her and her
husband. He was an upstanding man, but he treated his wife like a
child, my mother told me. He loved her dearly but was also fond of
humiliating her.”
“Did he try to get her to return home?”
 “He hired men to nd her and red my mother after he
discovered she’d corresponded with her. But then he rehired her.
Those children were lost without their nurse, and he knew that.”
“Yes, I can understand. How did they react when their mother
left?”
“To my recollection it was hardest on the boys, as they were older
and had more memories of her. Their mother tried several times to
talk with them in the park or on the street, and that was very
upsetting for them. Frankly, it would have been easier for everyone
if she had died. Her husband nally told the children she had died
so they could grieve and get over her.”
“But was that true?”
Miss Olsen poured more tea, then stood. “I’ll fetch some biscuits.”
When she came back a few minutes later, Solvi felt her
withdrawing.
“I hope these questions aren’t too intrusive,” Solvi said. “She’s an
important gure to the feminists, one of their rst heroines, but no
one seems to know her fate. Do you remember her name?”
Miss Olsen hesitated, then pursed her lips. “It was Solberg, Mrs.
Solberg.”
“Solberg!” Solvi wrote it down. “Thank you! That should help.”
Miss Olsen gave Solvi a searching look. “I’ll be frank with you,
Miss Lange; I don’t know why anyone would consider her heroic.
My mother loved her like a daughter, but it broke my mother’s heart
when she abandoned those children. My mother tried hard to hold
them together, but it was di cult.” She stopped for a moment,
ngering her teacup. “Maybe I was jealous; the princess had a rich
father and my mother for her nurse. Later she married a rich
husband and had those beautiful children. That should have been
enough for her. Put that in your notebook.”
Solvi scribbled away, then nally looked up again. “Is there
anything else you remember? Do you know where she might have
gone, I mean, if she didn’t really die?”
Miss Olsen shook her head. “That’s the most I want to remember.
I don’t like to talk of it. I just thought I could be of some help.”
 “Of course, you have been,” Solvi said, rising. And then she had
an idea. “Miss Olsen, could I take a photograph of you and your
beautiful tea set?”
Miss Olsen blushed, then patted her hair. “I’m not sure why you
would want to, but all right.” She picked up the tray and stood
beside her small ceramic stove. Solvi shot her looking into the lens,
her face stern but proud.
“Thank you, Miss Olsen. I’ll drop o a print in a few days.” Solvi
packed up her camera and notebook, then put on her jacket. “Just
one last thing, Miss Olsen—Mrs. Solberg didn’t die, did she.”
“No. Not as far as I know. But then, I wouldn’t, would I? I was
just the nurse’s child.”
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

A few days later I was sitting with Jens and Katrin’s youngest child,
their only girl, making up silly rhymes with her. She’s a quick-
witted one, fond of bouncing between Norwegian, German, and
English to see if the rest of us can keep up. She’s only ve but rules
my heart.
She was working on her next couplet when she tilted her head
and pursed her lips; and in that moment she reminded me so much
of my son Bobby that I almost let out a sob. He loved rhymes and
songs as well and often asked for a special one just for him.
In the photograph in the advertisement, it is Bobby who leans
lovingly against me. When I left home those many years ago, it was
Bobby who knew just enough to feel wrenched from my arms and
not enough to understand any of it.
Perhaps Bobby was looking for me. If his father had died, maybe
Bob now had enough money to journey to America, to go on an
adventure that might solve the mystery of his lost mother. When
Ivar discovered I was still alive, he made sure Bobby knew. And
when I saw Bobby shortly after that, when he was still not quite of
age, he had none of Emma’s disdain. He only knew that his mother
had, nally, wonderfully, returned.
And then it all fell apart. Most likely Ivar told him the terrible
truth, and that extinguished his love for me.
But maybe not. Maybe that was what this advertisement was
about. Bob had packed his rucksack at last and now needed to know
where to nd me.
The child in my lap tweaked my ear. “Listen, Bestemor. Are you
listening?” Then she clasped her hands together and recited her
little poem.
 NORA
March 1882 Lac qui Parle, Minnesota

Someone rolled me over. My eyes uttered. Sky above me, at and

white, traced by bare branches. I gasped and coughed. A dark face
hovered; someone pounded my chest. I closed my eyes. Please, just
leave me.
And then he slapped my face, shouting in French. “Breathe!” It
was Mr. Renville, trying to lift me up. “Cough! You must cough up
the water!”
I tried, but I shook with cold. He dropped me back into the snow,
disappeared, returned with a blanket, and rolled me into it. Then,
with a great heave, he lifted me over his shoulder and scrambled up
the bank to where his Indian pony waited. He dropped me onto the
little horse and told me to lie against its neck. It was all I could do
to grasp the shaggy mane.

I SCARCELY REMEMBER our trip around the lake. He told me later he was
checking traps when he saw someone walk out onto the ice and fall
through. He came as quickly as he could. When we arrived at Mr.
Renville’s log cabin, he carried me inside and sat me in a rocking
chair. It was blessedly warm, with a re in an open hearth. After a
moment, a woman stepped silently from the back room. She was
co ee skinned, like Mr. Renville—the sister I’d never met. He
gestured to her with his hands, then walked out.
She smiled, kindness shining from her eyes, but said nothing.
Probably she didn’t speak English. I tried to greet her in French, but
my teeth chattered too much. I had no more strength than a baby.
She untied the drawstring bag from my waist and peeled o my
soaking layers, stopping to examine Emma’s cap. Then she rubbed
me hard with a rag. She fetched a heavy annel nightdress and
dropped it over my head, then wrapped me in a dry blanket and put
a hot brick beneath my feet.
This generous care made me weep, my thoughts slopping from
relief to shame to dread. I could still taste the horror that coursed
through me under the ice. I feared Mr. Renville would be angry, that
he would fetch Mr. Eriksen.
She held a bitter tea to my lips, and I drank as best I could. Then
she opened my drawstring bag, taking out my treasures and doing
what she could to save them. My baptism certi cate might dry, but
the photograph and the children’s letter were ruined, so with a
tearful nod from me she tossed them into the re. Then she combed
the lake grass and leaves from my hair. She didn’t ask about my
short locks, barely long enough now to tuck behind my ears. She
didn’t seem surprised by me at all.
Mr. Renville returned and sat down beside me, his face grim. “Oh,
Mrs. Eriksen. First Gustaf’s wife, now you. This land is not meant for
white women.”
I didn’t know what to say. I felt as if my soul had oated a long
way beyond our crabbed life here on the prairie, and I couldn’t bear
to bring it back.
“Why would you do such a thing? Your family—what am I to tell
your husband?”
I gazed at him in confusion, then remembered. “He’s not my
husband.” Having spit out Ivar’s stone, I was ready to tell the truth.
“What?”
I blushed; I knew it was shameful. “We’re not married. He hired
me to care for the baby after his wife died, in exchange for my
passage.”
Mr. Renville pulled back with a soft grunt, watching me intently.
“I didn’t understand you and Mr. Eriksen. Now I do.”
“I had to pose as his wife on the voyage, as I traveled on her
ticket and papers,” I said, stopping to cough. There seemed to be
water in my lungs. “I was to live with Gustaf and Kari when we got
here, but they were gone, so we went on as if we were married.
There was nowhere else for me to live and take care of Tomas.”
He nodded. “You loved that child so, I never imagined he wasn’t
yours.”
“I lost my own children back in Norway. Tomas meant everything
to me.”
“Did you hope to marry Mr. Eriksen?”
 I blinked, then felt tears in my eyes. “I didn’t … He doesn’t want
to marry me. He and Birgitte could never forgive me for losing
Tomas.”
“So you walked out onto the ice.” He stood. “I must tell him
where you are.”
“No, I beg you! I left him my jewelry to pay o the rest of my
debt to him. I cannot go back there.”
“But I must tell him you’re alive.”
“I left a note saying I was going to Chicago. He won’t think I am
dead. He won’t come looking for me.”
His eyes burned into mine. “I don’t like to carry lies, Mrs., Mrs….
I don’t even know who you are.”
“I am Nora Solberg.”
“So you’ll go to Chicago?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t know how I will get there. Perhaps I can
walk to Minneapolis.”
“Will you go back out onto the ice?”
“No. It was terrifying.” I began coughing again, the water coming
up in spurts. I coughed until I bent over. Mr. Renville’s sister pushed
him away.
“Ann says you must rest,” he said. “I am going upriver for a few
days to check my traps. When I get back I’ll try to nd you help. I’ll
only tell Mr. Eriksen once you’re gone.”
“Thank you.”
“One thing you should know—my sister cannot hear or speak. She
was very ill as a child, and her hearing was taken from her. But she
understands many gestures.”

ANN RENVILLE PUT ME TO BED, and I fell into a deep sleep. A burning
fever brought me out of my coma the next day, but I could barely
lift my head from the pillow. I coughed incessantly. Ann helped me
sip more bitter tea, but I soon slid back into sleep. Later, I
remembered waking to nd Ann rubbing a foul-smelling paste on
my chest and pounding my back. The next few days were a blur of
burning fever and shaking chills, with a deepening pain in my chest.
I was haunted by hallucinatory dreams—the faces of my children
oating in dark water, a blanket of grasshoppers crawling over my
bed, Anders turning his back and disappearing into a forest.
But each time I surfaced, there was Ann, bending over me.
It took me several weeks to recover, and during all of it Ann
tended me with silent dedication. I lay under the quilts and watched
her. She looked more Indian than her brother, with two thick braids
tied together at the ends. She wore homespun skirts but deerskin
moccasins on her feet. She was not limited by her lack of hearing or
speech. Her gestures were clear, and she shared a hand language
with her brother. I envied their quiet understanding.
My body began to recover, but my soul refused. Brought back
from the edge of death, I had to shoulder again all that dragged me
down, and with it came a fathomless sadness. I worried that Anders
would nd me, then the next day that he wouldn’t. My sorrow at
being alive but separated from him surprised me. Did I love him?
Was it his coldness after Tomas died that drove me out onto the ice?
I turned my face to the wall and tried to forget.
Ann saw that I was troubled and handed me yarn and knitting
needles. When I was better, she took me outside to pull weeds from
her garden. It helped to be useful and feel the sunlight around me.
But as I healed, new worries surfaced. How would I repay the
Renvilles, and how would I get to a city and nd shelter and work? I
had nothing but the clothes I wore into the lake, now lthy and torn
—even my coat was gone. The only thing I had of value was
Torvald’s wedding band. Perhaps the Renvilles would take it as
payment for all they had done.

ONE EVENING Mr. Renville sat down to talk with me.

“I found help for you. A German that lives near Milan has a
Norwegian wife, and they’ve helped many people around here. He’s
wealthy, and kind. I told him about you.”
I gasped. Above all I needed to stay hidden.
“No,” he said. “It’s all right; he won’t give you away. He lives on
the other side of the lake from Mr. Eriksen, in the next county, and
doesn’t know him. He has a plan for you.”
Mr. Renville took several bills out of his pocket. “This is money
for a train ticket to St. Paul and directions to a mission for
immigrant women. They can give you shelter and help you nd a
job.” Then he tossed a coat of warm wool on the bed beside me.
“This is from his wife.”
I pulled it to my chest, astonished by this largesse. “How will I
ever repay him? What is his name?”
“Herr Gippe. He doesn’t expect you to repay him. He and his wife
were quite moved by your story.”
“Did you tell them I lived with the Eriksens outside of marriage?”
He nodded solemnly. “It was the only way to explain your
situation, Mrs. Solberg. But don’t worry; they don’t judge you and
will keep your secret. Write to them from St. Paul. All they want is
word that you’ve found your way.”
I nodded. Ann came up behind her brother with a broad smile. I
slid Torvald’s ring o my nger. “Please, take this in payment for
your kindness.”
But they just laughed. “No,” Mr. Renville said. “You will need it.”
That night Ann mended and ironed my skirt and blouse, then
helped me wash my hair. The next morning she gave me a beautiful
woven shawl to cover my head, and I hugged her good-bye. Mr.
Renville, solemn as always, drove me to the train in Montevideo in a
cart hitched to his pony. The rst spring wild owers ran lacy ngers
through the grass, and my grateful soul expanded under the prairie
sky.
When we got to the station he shook my hand. “You are a strong
woman, Mrs. Solberg. I’m sure you will nd a place of service and
belonging.” With that, he helped me aboard, then walked away
without a backward look.
Something in me died at that moment, as I doubted I would ever
return to the lake that whispered, or to the Renvilles or the Eriksens.
My heart, like a ravenous vine, had wound itself around these
people and their beautiful land, and I didn’t see how I could live
without them.
Before I was ready, I was ying east, back to civilization.
THE TRAIN pulled into St. Paul late, and I hurried across town to the
West Side mission before it grew dark. The mission was little more
than a rambling old house with faded shingles behind a broken
picket fence and a garden of weeds. I rang the bell; a young woman
in a dirty apron opened the door.
She looked me over, puzzled. “Have you come to hire a maid,
ma’am?”
“No. I need a room for the night. Herr Gippe in Milan said you
could help me.”
“Best come speak to Matron.”
I followed her to a parlor, where a prim older woman in a
starched black dress looked up from her papers and reached for my
hand. “Welcome to the St. Paul Women’s Mission. What can we do
for you?”
“I need a room. I’ve a bit of money and can pay what it costs.”
“Well, ma’am, we’re a place for the truly destitute, those who
otherwise might be preyed on in the streets. Tell me how you’ve
come to us.”
“I’ve nothing but a few dollars. I’ve been working with a farm
family in Lac qui Parle. I immigrated with them, as the mother had
recently died and left an infant child.”
“You immigrated with a farmer? But your English is good.”
“Yes, I am educated, from Kristiania. But I lost all that. I met the
family on the docks and agreed to care for the infant for a year.”
“And so your year is up.”
“Yes,” I lied, then stopped. “Actually, it’s more that my debt is
paid. Now I need work.”
“Do you have any skills?”
“I speak French and German and could be a governess or
seamstress. I’ve also worked for a shipping agent, managing his
o ce and books.”
“We place most of our girls as domestics. Are you willing to go
into service?”
Service—my father would turn in his grave. “Yes,” I said.
 She nodded and made some notes. “And you care for children, I
assume?”
“I’d rather not.”
She tilted her head to the side. “May I ask why?”
“The infant I was caring for died of diphtheria. I was unable to
save him …” My voice faltered.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “It’s a dreadful disease. Even the doctors
cannot save them, in my experience.” She stopped and looked me
over again. “Are you a widow?”
Why did the world make it so di cult to stop lying? But there it
was: I could not tell her the truth and expect to get a position.
“Yes,” I said.
She nodded her condolence, then smiled. “You may stay, though
you’ll have to work in the kitchen for your board until we nd you a
placement.”
“Thank you, Matron.”
“Yes, well, see that you do your part.” She looked at me again.
“What happened to your hair? Lice on the ship?”
I hesitated, then nodded. My truths were just too damning.
I went straight into the kitchen to help dry the supper dishes,
while the cook bustled about preparing the next day’s breakfast.
When she realized I’d missed dinner, she gave me a bowl of cold
porridge. I ate it quickly, then went upstairs to my bunk and sank
into an exhausted sleep.

I WORKED AT THE MISSION for several weeks, sometimes on my knees

scrubbing the oors, sometimes helping Matron with her
correspondence. I did whatever was asked and was grateful for a
bed and meals. Most of the others were young girls who immigrated
with no one to rely on and found America harder than they
imagined. I felt in nitely old as I listened to their easy chatter, but I
enjoyed their laughter. One of them was quite pregnant. I was
relieved there was a place for her, and for me.
One morning I was called to the parlor, where a well-dressed
gentleman sat talking with Matron. He looked a bit like Torvald,
successful and overly tidy in his dress. But when he turned, his face
was deeply creased with distress.
“Mrs. Solberg,” Matron said, “this is Mr. Burnley. He’s looking for
a companion for his wife, who’s nearing her next con nement but
not doing well.” The gentleman shook my hand, his eyes quickly
scanning my face.
“Is your wife ill, sir?”
“Yes, but not in body,” he said. “She’s ill in spirit, quite
despondent. She’s convinced she will die in childbirth.”
Such a fear was hardly unreasonable; most women worried as
their con nement neared.
“Have you brought in a doctor?” I asked.
“Yes, several, but they give contradictory advice. My sense is she
needs someone to sit with her, read to her, distract her.”
“That’s why I thought of you, Mrs. Solberg,” Matron said. “You
would make an excellent companion.”
I hesitated, wondering if I was strong enough to help someone
else in despair. But it was a job, with a private room and good
wages, he said, and would earn me a reference if I did well.
I smiled. “When shall I start?”
Mr. Burnley shook my hand again, relief ooding his face. “Thank
you, Mrs. Solberg. Can you come with me now?”
I fetched my coat. Mr. Burnley met me in the front hall. “No
bag?”
“No,” I said. I was stripped of everything but what I carried in my
head.
He helped me into his buggy.

WE PASSED MANY FINE HOMES as we crossed St. Paul, but when we

stopped in front of the Burnleys’ house, I had to pinch myself. The
three-story limestone mansion towered over its neighbors and a
small park of owering trees across the street. We were met by a
maid, who led me up two ights to an attic room with a gabled
window looking down into the Burnleys’ garden. The room had little
more than a bed and a washbowl but was blessedly private. “I’ll
leave you to get settled,” she said.
I took o my boots and lay down on the bed, gazing out at the
trees just beginning to green. Such gentle surroundings—lace
curtains, ironed sheets, real soap. I ran my hand across the soft
quilt. Perhaps this place could heal me.
The maid knocked. “Mrs. Burnley is ready for you, Mrs. Solberg.”
“I’ll be right down.” I put my boots back on and washed my face,
but I still looked like a street urchin, with my boyish hair and worn
clothes. I hoped I would do.
The maid led me to a door, knocked gently, then opened. The
room was quite large, with tall windows facing the street, but the
drapes were shut tight against the afternoon sun. In the dim light I
could see a huge bed with someone under a mound of blankets. A
low re burned in the replace, though the room felt sti ingly hot.
“Ma’am, this is Mrs. Solberg,” the maid said.
From the bed, nothing, though I could see that Mrs. Burnley was
awake.
The maid retreated.
I looked about. There was a breakfast tray, untouched, and a pile
of clothing on an armchair. I walked to the window and pushed the
curtains aside. Sunlight spilled across the oor.
“Spring is just over the horizon, ma’am,” I said. “It’s quite warm
today, for April.”
Mrs. Burnley just turned to the wall.
How many mornings in the sod house had I longed to stay in bed.
But I had to carry my weight—make breakfast, wash the laundry.
Still, I understood wanting to lie silently all day. I pulled a chair up
to her bedside.
“Mrs. Burnley, I am Nora Solberg. Please call me Nora.”
She kept her head turned away. I picked up a volume of poetry o
her nightstand, chose a poem, and started reading aloud. When I
was done with one poem, I read another, then another. After a while
I stopped and sat in the stillness of that sad room.
Finally, she spoke. “You’re Swedish, or Norwegian. I can hear it.”
 “Norwegian, from Kristiania. My husband was a bank manager,
but I lost my family, so I came to America to start a new life.”
“Where did Mr. Burnley nd you?”
“At a mission for immigrant women.”
“How long have you been a domestic?”
“Most of my life I’ve had servants of my own. My father was a
businessman and gave me an academy education. But since coming
to America, I’ve had to make my own way.”
“You’ll have a hard time of it,” she said.
“Making a life in America? Yes, but I think the worst is over.”
“I mean helping me. My husband says I don’t want to be helped.”
“What do you say?”
Now she turned to me. She was quite beautiful, with curly black
hair, pale skin, and dark-blue eyes with black lashes. But she also
had crescents of deep shadow beneath her eyes and gaunt cheeks,
despite her pregnancy. “I don’t say anything because I cannot
explain it. If he knew what plagued me, he wouldn’t say such
things.”
“Yes. That I understand.”
She gazed at me, I at her. “What happened to your hair?”
“Lice—on the ship,” I said, standing up. I needed to take charge.
“First, I’ll tidy your room a bit, then get some fresh air in here.
Perhaps you should sit up. Have you eaten today?”
She turned away again but spoke clearly. “No. Food frightens
me.”
“Frightens you?” I moved about the room picking up clothes and
putting them into closets and drawers.
“I am afraid of the baby, and the food seems to be for him. So I
don’t eat.”
I stopped. “You don’t want this child?”
She looked at me over her shoulder, then turned away again.
“This is why I don’t speak.”
I came back to her bedside. “Because no one can bear to hear
what’s in your heart?”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. I handed her a handkerchief.
“They would lock me up if they knew the truth about me,” she
whispered.
“Yes, well, men would like to lock many of us up, if given half a
chance.”
She turned her damp eyes toward me in disbelief. Good, I had
piqued her interest.
“Birthing children is a hardship, I grant you,” I continued. “How
many do you have?”
“Four living, and I’ve lost two already—one stillborn, the other
when he was barely two. Each time I near my con nement this fear
comes over me, but it is worse this time. My sister died in childbirth
a few months ago.” I took her hand and held it tight. “I fear these
are my last months,” she stammered.
All I could think to do was to smooth the tangled hair from her
brow. Then I noticed a pull chord, so I rang. The maid appeared.
“Please bring us some beef broth, a bit of cheese and bread, and
something sweet.”
“Yes, ma’am. There’s custard from the children’s supper last
night.”
After she left, Mrs. Burnley looked at me, despondent. “I cannot
eat.”
“Then I’ll have to eat it. I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
The lines around her eyes softened. I brought a damp cloth and
wiped her face, then brushed her hair and pinned it back. The food
came; I set the tray on the edge of the bed and nibbled at the cheese
and bread. She watched me.
“I’ll tell you a story,” I said, taking a spoonful of the rich broth.
“Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden raised in comfort
by a doting father. She lost her mother at her birth but had a kind
nurse and many friends. With them and her father, she was never
lonely.”
“This is your story.”
“It’s someone’s story, that’s true. So the maiden grew into a lovely
young woman, and a ne man came along and took her for his
bride. She was a good wife and gave him three perfect children and
did everything she could to make him happy and safe. But then a
great misfortune fell upon the household, illness and debt. She did
her best, but still, she lost everything—her children, her husband,
her home.”
Mrs. Burnley watched me intently.
“She wandered for a time, trying to nd her way,” I continued.
“She lived in poverty, then took a journey across the sea to a new
land. There she found another home and another family. It wasn’t
her family, but she grew to love the children, especially the littlest
one. Then one terrible day the baby died, and the woman sank into
despair. After many dark weeks, she walked out onto a frozen lake
and fell through the ice.”
Mrs. Burnley’s eyes were xed on my face. “Did she die?”
“No, not that day. A surprising thing happened to her. Once she
was sinking to the bottom of the lake she realized she didn’t want to
die after all. So she swam and pulled herself out.”
“But how could she?”
“She used all her strength, and a kind friend saw her struggling
and saved her. Another kind friend, a woman, nursed her until she
was better. And do you know what was most interesting about this
nurse?”
“What?”
“She could not hear or speak.”
“Not a word?”
“Not a word. It didn’t matter, though. They understood each other
well enough. Sometimes women just do.”
She gazed at me. “So you’ve lost your family.”
“Yes, twice over.”
“Yet you talk and laugh like a normal woman.”
“Today I do. You will too, someday. I promise.”
Mrs. Burnley suddenly spooned a bit of custard into her dainty
mouth. But no more. I acted like it didn’t matter and called for the
maid to remove the tray. Her husband came in at supper time, but
she refused to go downstairs. Still, we’d had some success. Perhaps
tomorrow, I thought, I could get her out of bed.
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS I worked to lure Mrs. Burnley out from
under her paralyzing fear. She was certain she would die when the
child was born and was angry no one took this seriously. She
refused everything that gave life—sunlight, food, water.
I sought rst to win her trust, then gradually brought life back
into her somber bedroom. I ate all my meals at her bedside,
savoring delicacies and nudging her to try things. We debated the
opening of curtains, the reading of poetry, the need for a walk, and I
always pushed for more. Each day I xed her hair, helped her wash,
made her put on a clean nightgown.
I wasn’t sure what guided me in this work. I felt like I had
crawled out of the lake a di erent woman, able for the rst time to
forget myself and think only of the other person. It was an
astonishing relief.
On my rst day o , I pawned Torvald’s wedding ring and bought
several new blouses and a fashionable skirt, discarding the worn
homespun that had de ned my days with the Eriksens. I also bought
new shoes, soft leather heels with a strap. The rst glimmer of a
smile I got from Mrs. Burnley was when she saw me in my new
clothes.
As we became friends, she asked about my life in Norway. I didn’t
talk about what happened with Torvald, but I did tell her about our
dinner parties and Norwegian holidays, my singing and dancing.
One day she asked me to play the piano for her. We went down to
the empty parlor where I found a book of Chopin and sat down at
the keyboard. I stumbled at rst—it had been so long, my hands
trembled with the e ort—but soon the tender melodies returned to
me, unspooling into luminous sound. Mrs. Burnley sat still as a cat,
tears sliding down her face. After that I played for her every
afternoon.
She went into labor one evening in early May. She grew quite
terri ed, but the midwife stationed me at her side, talking and
breathing with her. Within a few hours a tiny, wizened baby girl
slipped from her womb. Mrs. Burnley, overcome to nd herself
alive, took the child tentatively into her arms. When the wet nurse
arrived, she let go of the wee thing with reluctance.
After the birth, Mrs. Burnley began to eat again, though not
without a struggle, as her body was not used to food. When I asked
her about this, she said, “I eat only so they won’t worry.”
As Mrs. Burnley improved, so did I. By the time summer arrived, I
could nally think about the Eriksens without weeping. How I
wished our time together had ended di erently.

WITH HIS WIFE PAST HER CRISIS,Mr. Burnley began looking for another
post for me. I considered going on to Chicago and even sent a letter
to Tobias at his parents’ home in Norway, hoping they would send it
on to him if he was in America. But I never heard back. I worried I
didn’t have enough money saved and grew reluctant to leave
Minnesota, as the only friends I had in America were there. When
Mr. Burnley told me of another St. Paul lady su ering from
despondency, I took the position.
The next woman was older, mired in grief after losing two
daughters to tuberculosis, one right after the other. I did the same
things: told her stories, walked with her beneath the elms, read to
her when it rained. After a few weeks she no longer muttered under
her breath, and I soon moved to another home.

ALL THAT LONG SUMMER I tended to sad women by day, then lay awake
at night in some hot attic room, lonely and empty. I may have found
a purpose caring for these women, but belonging eluded me. No one
else had welcomed me as the Burnleys did; the others considered me
a nurse—there to serve and clean up. Every few weeks my position
changed, and I worried, always, about the next job.
Sometimes I imagined myself back on the prairie under that
endless sky, and my heart ached. What might have happened if
Tomas hadn’t sickened and died? I thought of my summer with the
Eriksens the year before, sewing and carving outside in the
evenings. And I thought of the short, sweet time that Anders loved
me.
 Before I could stop myself, I was spinning dreams of a life back at
his side. Sometimes we kept a tidy frame house up on the tableland,
with lace curtains in the windows and a coal stove. Other times we
lived in Minneapolis, and Anders worked as a carpenter while I
opened a school for girls.
But then I would come to my senses, and my stomach would knot.
How could I marry Anders when I might still be married to Torvald?
I tried to release Torvald the night I left him, saying we were no
longer bound to each other, but I never knew if he agreed to that. If
he wanted to remarry, perhaps he had gotten permission for a
divorce, but I didn’t know. Still, these hopes ickered in my mind.
If he hadn’t released me, however, I was then bound to him
forever, with little chance of anything more than a lonely
spinsterhood. And that made me angry. Without a divorce, the
Church and the law said I was Torvald’s wife, but if I didn’t live
with him or make any claim on him, how could I be wife to him?
When I thought of growing old alone, I could feel despair
creeping up on me again. I wanted to be loved by someone good,
someone true. I wanted to be part of a family again. I wanted that
web of commitment and consideration I had with the Eriksens—
Jens asking me his questions, Mr. Eriksen smiling when I served
supper. I could even live with Birgitte if she forgave me for Tomas.
Perhaps all of us could pretend again.
I put myself to sleep each night thinking of Anders and woke up
in the morning to my forlorn existence.

ONE DARK DAY I was practicing the piano at a new home, waiting for
the woman I was tending to rise from a nap, when her husband
came up behind me and slid his hands around me in an embrace. I
jumped up, startled, and he backed away.
But later that night he rattled the locked door of my room. “You’ll
let me in, Mrs. Solberg, if you want to keep working in St. Paul.”
I braced a chair against the doorknob, then resigned the next
morning. The Burnleys took me back in and tried to nd me another
placement, but for the rst time no one needed me. I returned to the
mission. Matron o ered me room and board in exchange for
managing her correspondence and helping in the kitchen. I was back
where I started, unsure what to do next.
Every morning I combed through job placements in the
newspaper, and one day I noticed a surprising announcement. My
old heroine, Aasta Hansteen, was visiting Minneapolis and would be
speaking at Nordens Hall in two weeks’ time.
I remembered her talk in Kristiania—the mob, the yelling, our
escape out the side door. Would it be like that?
I asked Matron what she thought, and she laughed. “You should
go, Nora. I am sure Miss Hansteen would be pleased to talk with a
Norwegian lady like yourself.”
The night of the talk I put on my only dress, a blue worsted gown
with lace trim down the bodice, and walked to the hall. There were
mostly Norwegians in the crowd, and some Swedes. When Miss
Hansteen stepped onstage she appeared older and less con dent
than she did in Kristiania, but once she started to speak her strength
shone through.
She came to America, she said, to better understand the legal
protections for American women so that such laws could be
proposed in Norway. She had concluded that the American marriage
laws, which allowed women to get divorced and keep inheritances,
o ered better protection to women than the paternalistic Norwegian
marriage laws. She also spoke with admiration of American
su ragettes and their remarkable freedom of thought and said she
hoped to bring their message back to Norway to serve as inspiration
for a new generation of Norwegian women.
When Miss Hansteen nished, there was only polite applause. No
angry men, no shouting. Afterward, she greeted people she knew,
and I waited patiently for a moment with her. Finally, I shook her
hand and asked if we could talk privately.
She gave me a questioning look and told her hosts she would
meet them later. They nodded and left us alone.
“I’ve long wanted to meet you, Miss Hansteen, but I always
thought it would be in Norway.”
“And who are you, if I may?”
 I hesitated, then leaped. “I am Nora Helmer.”
Her brow wrinkled. “The Nora Helmer who left her husband in
Kristiania?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head in surprise. “Why, Mrs. Helmer, imagine
nding you here in Minnesota! No one would believe it! You’re
quite the heroine among freethinking women in Norway. Does
anyone know you’re here?”
“No, Miss Hansteen. And, please, they cannot know. You must
keep my secret.”
She hesitated, then nally smiled. “Of course. But how did you
get here?”
“I immigrated with false papers—as the wife of a poor farmer
whose own wife had just died, leaving him with two children and an
infant. I agreed to care for the infant for a year in exchange for
passage. I posed as his wife on board ship.”
She sucked in her breath. “My goodness, Mrs. Helmer. What an
adventure! You’re lucky you weren’t stopped.”
“Yes, but I had to leave Norway. Mr. Helmer was threatening to
have me committed to an asylum.”
“Because you left his protection?”
“Yes, and because I wanted to see my children. He could not
abide the thought, and so he had me arrested.”
“Were you jailed?”
“Only overnight. They shaved my head, then released me in the
morning. I left Norway that very day.”
She considered me now with fresh appreciation. “It is a great
honor to meet you, Mrs. Helmer.”
“Mrs. Solberg. I go by my maiden name and tell people I am a
widow.”
“How sad that you must hide that way, even here.”
“Perhaps, but here at least I have a life. I work in St. Paul with
women who are despondent.”
“How do you help them?”
“I care for them and talk with them. Sometimes all they need is
someone to listen.”
 “I commend you. I wish more women would reach out to each
other rather than setting themselves up as rival queens in their
overdecorated parlors. That’s part of what drove me out of
Kristiania.”
I nodded, then leaned forward. “Miss Hansteen, may I ask your
opinion about something?”
“Of course.”
“I enjoy my work here, but I am a servant in these homes. So I am
thinking of remarrying.”
“But you are still married to Mr. Helmer, are you not?”
“I don’t know. I asked him to petition the king for a divorce, but I
don’t know if that has happened. Do you think I dare marry here?”
She gazed at me. “God would know, Mrs. Solberg, and the
Norwegian Church might nd out.”
“But I’ve heard you say that God understands when women do
something for love.”
“Yes, but still …” She considered me for a moment. “I’ve always
said that if the laws do not meet the needs of women, then women
must write their own laws.”
“Oh, yes! I’ve always believed that myself!”
She sat back. “Mrs. Solberg, have you ever thought of speaking
out about these things? Your case is inspiring; you could be an
important voice for Norwegian women here in America.”
Inspiring? I worked in a mission because I had nothing. I thought
of my life in Minnesota, the narrow ledge of civility to which I
clung. How dare I stand before other women and encourage them to
follow my lead? For a moment I felt a pang of anger. Who could I
have been if I’d had a little wealth or been given the chance to earn
my way to a bigger life? Perhaps I could have been someone.
At the same time, though, my obscurity had protected me, and it
was better to stay hidden. “Miss Hansteen, I am doing my best just
to survive. I don’t know what I would say to other women.”
She sighed. “Well, Mrs. Solberg, I think you should follow your
own instincts. You know what’s best for you. And I suspect that, out
here in the West, no one cares as much as they do back in
Kristiania.”
 “You don’t know what that means to me. Thank you.”
She shook my hand. “Good luck to you, Mrs. Solberg. I’ll keep
your secret, but someday Norwegian women must know what
became of you. I look forward to that day.”
I walked out into the warm evening, and my heart soared.

I CONTINUED TO WORK at the mission as the leaves of the maples amed

with color, then dropped to the ground. I waited until I was sure the
harvest was done. Then, one morning, I headed across the city to St.
Anthony Falls.
The famous falls—and the lumber mills powered there by the
river—were easy to nd, as trams lled with men owed in that
direction just like the Mississippi itself. The men glanced at me with
curiosity when I got o with them at the main gate, as I was one of
only a few women in the crowd.
At rst I just stood aside, overwhelmed by the vast site. The mill
buildings sat on platforms out over the Mississippi River, so that the
churning water could turn the huge saws. Upstream, great pine logs
blanketed the river in a tremendous jam. Men scrambled over them
with long pikes, jumping and pulling, trying to corral the logs into
booms to prevent them from going over the falls uncut. Saws
whined; mist and wood dust hung in the murky air.
I scanned the crowd, coughing, my pulse hammering, but it was
hopeless. There were hundreds of millworkers.
A man stopped and tipped his cap. “Are you looking for the
kitchen, ma’am?” He pointed to a building behind me. Workers
streamed in and out of a long, low shack.
“Yes, of course, thank you,” I said, turning toward it. Everyone
must eat, after all.
Inside, the tables were packed with men hunched over metal
plates. Others waited to be served by women doling out food.
I slipped behind the serving table. A woman in a calico apron
staggered from the kitchen lugging a huge pot of porridge. “Are you
here to volunteer, ma’am?” the woman asked. “If so, could you take
the empty in to wash?”
 I picked up the pot, heavy even with nothing in it, and pushed
through the door. I could not imagine lifting it full. In the kitchen,
women stood at a line of cookstoves, stirring huge cast-iron kettles,
while others peeled potatoes and apples or worked at a long sink
stacked high with dirty plates.
One of them grabbed the empty pot and tossed me a dish towel.
“We could use help with the drying, if you don’t mind.”
I nodded, then took o my coat. Perhaps this would be best. I
could help out here in the kitchen for a few days, then ask to work
at the serving table. If he was here at the mills, he was bound to
come through.
That day I dried hundreds of plates, peeled heaps of apples, and
rolled out enough pie dough for an army.
“Don’t be too generous with the sugar,” one woman said,
watching me mix the apples. “They’re so hungry they’ll eat
anything.”
I had never seen so much food produced so quickly and marveled
at the women who could haul great buckets of water and stew.
Some seemed to be working for wages, but I was not the only
volunteer. Several better-dressed girls nodded to me politely.
At the end of the day, I could barely stand, but when I got back to
the mission I spoke with Matron, and she agreed to let me work the
morning shift at the mill kitchen as long as I did my o ce work for
her later.

AT THE MILL, I had to peel potatoes and wash dishes for nearly a
month before I was allowed to serve. When I could get a short
break, I lingered in the yard outside the kitchen watching the
crowds. And once I was portioning out the corn mush, I looked at
every face that appeared before me.
But still I didn’t see him.
Then one morning, as I was scraping the pot to gather the last
bits, someone reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. I
knew it was him even before I looked up.
We locked eyes. I fought back tears, then began to smile.
 “Nora, is it really you?” he whispered.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“I, I am glad to see you,” he said. “But why are you here?”
The next man thrust his empty plate at me, and I served him a
spoonful. “Because I hoped you would be here,” I nally said.
“Let’s keep the line moving,” someone shouted.
Anders stepped aside. “Where will you be tonight?”
“I live at the St. Paul Women’s Mission, on Grace Street.”
“May I stop by?”
“Yes, of course.” I gave him a spoonful of mush, then a little
extra.
His serious eyes searched mine for clues. “Tonight then, after
supper.”
I nodded, going weak in the knees. What had I started? “Yes,
Anders, tonight.” I gave him a small smile, then he was gone, back
into the sea of men. I spooned out mush the rest of the morning,
barely breathing.

AFTER SUPPER THAT EVENING, I washed and put on a fresh blouse,

watching myself in the mirror. Now that I had found Anders, I
wasn’t sure what to say to him. I longed to tell him the entire truth
—about Torvald, my children, my leaving them—but how could I?
If I told him everything, he would vanish from my life as
irretrievably as if he had died along with Tomas.
And I knew by then I couldn’t bear that. Just because I left
Torvald, should that mean I would never be allowed to love anyone
else, never be permitted to share a bed again, never sit at a family
table? Did I come all the way to America only to wear the shackles
of Norway?
I did not.
I brushed my hair until it shone and pulled it into a small knot, as
it was nally long enough to gather and pin. Neither God nor man
would deny me this chance.
WHEN ANDERS APPEARED at the door of the mission, he didn’t say
anything. He just looked at me and turned his felt cap in his hands.
“Please, come in,” I said. I thought he would be happier to see
me. I led him into the small parlor. He perched awkwardly on the
horsehair sofa.
“How, ah, how are the children?” I asked.
“Fine, I hope. I didn’t want to leave them, but they made me go.
Birgitte’s very capable, and we need the money.”
I nodded. “I thought you would be working at the mills. But I was
so overwhelmed when I rst went down there. There seemed to be
thousands of men. Then I found the kitchen.”
“I couldn’t quite believe it when I recognized you at the serving
table,” he said. “To be honest, I spotted you a few days ago.”
My heart sank. “Why didn’t you come forward then?”
“I, well, I don’t know, Nora. I had to consider it.”
I looked down at my hands. “Perhaps you never wanted to see me
again.”
“No, Nora, don’t think that,” he said. “I always hoped to see you
again. I just, well, I thought you were in Chicago. I never expected
to see you serving mush at the mill kitchen in Minneapolis.”
I could only nod. There was so much to say but nowhere to start.
“Are you happy here?” he nally asked. “I am sure the city is
more your kind of life.”
Now I looked up, into his eyes. “I’ve been working as a nurse, for
despondent women, as a servant. But even that work has
disappeared. Now I am stuck here, at this mission.”
He winced. “I would never have thought of you as a servant.”
“I didn’t feel like a servant with you. We all worked together, as a
family. This is di erent. Here I belong to no one.”
“But I am glad to see you alive and well, Nora. After Mr. Renville
told me what happened, I, well, I feared for you.” Now he took my
hands. “I am so sorry, Nora. I had no idea you’d taken Tomas’s
death to heart that way.”
My eyes lled. “It wasn’t just losing Tomas, Anders. He was the
last in a long line of children taken from me. I couldn’t bear it.”
 “Yes,” he said. “I am sorry I didn’t understand that. Talking of
these things has never been my way, but I see that I must change.”
I nodded, falling silent again.
He tugged on my hands a bit. “What I couldn’t understand was
why you walked out onto the ice.”
I sighed. There was a raw place inside me that would never fully
heal, and I didn’t like to think of it. But I could see he wanted to
understand. “After Tomas died, I fell into a terrible hole that I
couldn’t crawl out of. I didn’t just lose him; I lost my purpose. There
was no one I mattered to. It broke me.”
He squeezed my hands hard. “Then that was my great failure,
Nora, because you mattered to me, deeply, despite everything.” He
shook his head. “The weeks after Tomas died were the worst I’ve
ever lived through, because I thought God was punishing me. That
he took Tomas to punish me. I couldn’t see anything beyond my
own sin.”
“But why would God punish you, Anders?”
“For falling in love with you so soon after Inge’s death.”
“But, Anders, does God work in that way?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anymore. When I saw you at the
serving table, it made me wonder what God meant by sending you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I hadn’t even dared wish for that.”
“Oh, Anders, what if all this has nothing to do with God?”
Suddenly, I knew what to say. “Inge died after childbirth like many
women, and Tomas died because of a terrible illness known for
killing children. I don’t believe either was God’s will. And I came
looking for you of my own accord, not because God sent me. This is
about you and me, Anders, not God or Inge or even Tomas.”
His eyes burned into mine. “But why did you come, Nora?”
“Because I missed you! I missed you all, the children, the chores,
even the cow! I missed what we had.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then nally smiled softly.
“May I come see you on Sunday? I have the afternoon o .”
“So do I. We could walk.”
“I’d like that,” he said, rising. “Until next week, Nora.”
WHEN MR. ERIKSEN ARRIVED Sunday afternoon, he greeted me warmly,
but I could tell he was nervous, so we went out for a long ramble. It
was snowing gently, a fall dusting. We walked past the elegant
houses of Summit Avenue, lamps glittering in every window.
“Some Americans are so wealthy,” Anders said. “There must be
great opportunity out west here, though I doubt it’s in farming.”
“Did you plant wheat this year?”
“Yes. We had a good crop, despite the crows. Next year I’ll plant
more.”
“What will you do with the money?” I asked.
“I’ve already spent it.”
“Really! On livestock? A team of horses?” I stepped out to cross a
street.
“No, Nora. On a house.”
I stopped dead in the roadway. He pulled me to the other side,
laughing at the look on my face.
“I built a frame house, Nora, with help from Mr. Renville,” he
said. “It’s white with green trim.”
“Are the children there now?”
“Yes. It still needs more furniture, but I can build some this
winter.”
“Where is it?”
“Up on the at but not far from the well. With another crop, I
hope to build a real barn.”
“Oh, Anders, what an accomplishment!” I wondered for a moment
if he sold my pearls to help pay for the lumber, but dared not ask.
That was his business, not mine.

AFTER THAT HE CAME BY EVERY SUNDAY. When the sun shone, we walked
outside; other days we sat in the parlor. A week before Christmas he
visited one last time before returning to Lac qui Parle.
We sat side by side, not talking much at rst. The wood snapped
in the replace.
Finally, he gave me a shy smile, then took a tiny box out of his
pocket. “Here, Nora, for you.” I unwrapped the present with
unsteady hands. Inside was a silver locket engraved with an elegant
N. When I opened it, there was a tiny dried violet under glass.
“It’s beautiful, Anders. Thank you.” My throat tightened. I could
not endure the thought of his walking away.
“Nora, I asked you once if you would marry me, and now I ask
you again. Do you think you could? Perhaps in the spring? I know
it’s a di cult question; you needn’t answer today.”
“But what about the children,” I said, scarcely breathing. “Do you
think they could accept me?”
“I wrote to them, explaining that I had found you and hoped to
bring you back as my wife.” He smiled gently. “Birgitte can’t quite
admit it, but they have both missed you. I think that, in time, all
will be ne.”
I laughed, and then I was crying. “Then it’s an easy question,
Anders, and I don’t need to wait until spring. Yes, I’ll marry you.
I’ve been so afraid you would never ask me again!”
He stared at me with surprise, and then his face softened and he
leaned forward to kiss me.
“Shall we do it this week? Are you ready to go back home?”
“Yes, please.”

A FEW DAYS LATER Anders and I stood before a simple altar in a

Lutheran church in North Minneapolis and pledged our troth. I used
my maiden name and told only one lie—that I was free to marry.
Everything else, promising to love and honor and obey, I swore with
a clear heart. By then, I was more sure of love than truth. For who
was to say where the truth lay? Was I still Torvald’s wife? I didn’t
even know. But I knew I loved Anders, and my desperate hope was
that our marriage would become true over time.
And if this was sel sh, I didn’t care. I felt beholden to no one.

THAT NIGHT,in a musty hotel room, we took each other into our arms
for the rst time, timid and shy. He found it harder than I did,
whispering at rst that he felt unfaithful to his wife, but after a
while his hesitancy faded. It felt so strange to lie with a di erent
man, yet better. I had no idea it could be such a comfort, so gentle.
As the barriers between us melted away, I was more con dent I had
done the right thing.
The next morning Anders surprised me by pulling out my string of
pearls.
“These are yours, I believe. Would you like them back?”
I gazed at the beautiful necklace, so out of place in this drab
hotel. I thought of the night Torvald gave them to me, but then
shook the thought away. “No, I meant them for you, to help
improve the farm. There are jewelry stores here that would take
them, and then we could use the money for whatever we need next.
Perhaps more cows.”
“Jens wants to raise pigs.”
“Pigs, then,” I laughed. “From pearls to pigs!”
We sold the strand for a nice sum and bought Christmas gifts and
new shoes for the children, as well as a green gingham traveling
dress for me with a straw hat to match. Then we sat for a wedding
picture and sent it to the children, telling them when to expect us in
Lac qui Parle.
A few days later we boarded the train. Shifting emotions ickered
through my mind as we rumbled west across the brown prairie. I
felt shy with Anders but also buoyed by his quiet strength. I looked
forward to seeing the children but was nervous about Birgitte. And I
knew I would have to take on the heavy chores again, learn the
things I still didn’t know.
Yet now I was a wife. I would never be alone again.

WE REACHED MONTEVIDEO just before supper and got a room at the

hotel. The next morning Anders went o to negotiate for several
sows he would retrieve later in the week. I went to the general store
to buy more gifts for the children and silk thread for lace collars. I
looked forward to taking up my needles again.
We set out walking, as there was little snow, and didn’t approach
our homestead until quite late. The full moon helped, and Anders
knew the track well. When we reached our wheat elds, my
stomach clenched, but instead of heading toward the sod house, we
turned west, and then I could see something looming in the dark. A
real frame house, with carved trim and a green door. A lamp burned
in the window.
We came in quietly, but within an instant Jens tumbled down the
attic stairs, his sister following. Jens gave me a ferocious hug, while
Birgitte dutifully kissed my cheek and o ered her congratulations.
After a few minutes, their father sent them back up to bed. They
slept in the attic, Anders said, and we would sleep … here. He
opened a door. Inside was a beautiful little bedroom with a dresser
and bed built into the wall. The bedstead was carved with owers in
the Norwegian fashion. I sat down and ran my hand over a rich new
quilt.
“Mrs. Madsen made it for you,” he said. “She was sorry to nd
you had gone but insisted we keep it in case you returned.”
I recognized the traditional Norwegian pattern, embroidered roses
with green and maroon borders on a white lawn. “Did the rest of
her children survive?”
“Yes, miraculously. She credits you, Nora. It was a kind thing you
did.”
I looked away. I couldn’t think about that time. It was hard
enough being here again.
But he understood and gave me a hug. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you
everything. It will be better now, Nora. I promise.”
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SOLVI
May 1919 Kristiania, Norway

Spring came slowly. The owers seemed hesitant to emerge after the
hard winter and the trees reluctant to unfurl their leaves. To Solvi,
everything felt unresolved—from the mysteries she was chasing to
the relationships around her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about
anything or anyone—neither Dominik, nor Magnus, nor the
Forgotten One, nor the puzzle of her family.
For the rst time since leaving Bergen, she ached for her father
and the gentle advice he often gave her as they hiked the upland
meadows. She pined for him, and she missed the wide outdoors.
So when Dominik invited her a few days later to picnic with him
in Frogner Park, she jumped at the chance, despite her uneasy
feelings about him. “What a nice idea,” she said. “I love a long
walk.”
He gave her a cryptic wink. “Just you wait.”

ON SATURDAY MORNING, she waited for Dominik outside the study

house. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes when he appeared on a
yellow bicycle, one with two seats and two handlebars.
“This thing’s a bit hard to manage without a partner,” he yelled,
careening into the curb. “Hop on, Solvi.”
“But I’ve never ridden a bicycle,” Solvi said. “My mother thought
it improper.”
“If you’re with your boyfriend, it’s perfectly acceptable,” he said,
patting the second seat. “Don’t worry. I’ll steer—you just pedal.”
Solvi climbed gingerly aboard, tucking her skirt beneath her.
Then Dominik pushed o . They veered across the street but then
picked up speed and began to even out. It took Solvi a few blocks to
trust it, but soon they were ying along, her pulse thumping with
excitement. It felt like riding a horse, only smoother.
“It must be fun to ride by oneself,” Solvi yelled. “Is it hard to
learn?”
“Most people pick it up quickly,” he said. “But I’d rather do it
together.”
He headed up the hill to the park. Solvi pedaled hard, enjoying
the exercise, watching his strong shoulders and legs. Her long hair
streamed out behind her, tangling hopelessly.
When they got to the top, they stashed the bicycle behind a
blackberry bush and walked up into a meadow of tall grass and
wild owers. As if overnight, everything had started to bloom. There
were other people about, some picnicking on the lawn, others
walking through the trees beyond. Solvi breathed in the smell of the
grass and closed her eyes to listen to the bees.
“I’ll show you my favorite spot,” Dominik said. In the distance,
the meadow sloped down to a lake with a stand of weeping willows
at one end. The willows were so old, their branches swept the
ground in the light breeze. He took her hand and headed toward
them.
Solvi expected him to spread out the picnic blanket beside the
lake, but instead he ducked between the willow branches, pulling
her with him.
Solvi looked around. Behind the branches, they were completely
hidden.
“Isn’t this great?” Dominik said, taking the blanket out of his
rucksack and spreading it out. He patted a spot next to him. “Come,
sit, Solvi. We’ve got our own private little room. Just us and the
birds.”
But Solvi just stood, watching him. Something felt wrong. She
wasn’t sure if she should sit with him under the tree like this. He
ignored her and set out the lunch—sandwiches, strawberries, wine,
and chocolate. He had obviously gone to some trouble. How could
she disappoint him? She nally sat on the blanket, as demurely as
possible.
 He poured the wine, then handed her a glass and raised his in a
toast. “To my girlfriend, Solvi Lange!”
“To my friend, Dominik,” she said back, then took a long sip.
He looked at her, surprised. “Not your boyfriend?”
“Well, I don’t remember agreeing that we were girlfriend and
boyfriend, Dominik. It isn’t so just because you say it.”
“But I took you to meet my mother! Didn’t that mean anything?”
“Yes, but something that important should be discussed, between
you and me,” Solvi said, taking a strawberry. “What would it mean
to be boyfriend and girlfriend?”
He leaned down on one arm. “It would mean that you’re my girl.
That you cannot go out with other boys.”
“I often go to a pastry shop with Magnus after class, to get co ee.
Could I still do that?”
“You go for co ee with Magnus, every week?”
She nodded, even though it was no longer true. They hadn’t been
to the pastry shop since their ght after Solvi went to the dance
with Dominik, but she didn’t want Dominik to know that. “Magnus
is just a friend, Dominik. He’s helping me with my essay.”
“I’ve been helping you with your essay. How much help do you
need?” He sat up and scowled at her. “I’m not sure I like that.”
He reminded Solvi of her mother forbidding her to walk about
Bergen. She reached for a sandwich. “Come on, Dominik, let’s not
argue. It’s such a pretty day.”
“Well, I don’t like it, Solvi,” he said, but after eating half a
sandwich and drinking more wine, he brightened up again. They
talked and laughed. Soon they had nished the bottle of wine and
opened the chocolate.
Dominik took a piece and held it up to Solvi’s lips. “Let me feed
you,” he said, smiling.
She ushed; she didn’t really like this but opened her mouth and
took the chocolate with her teeth. Then, before she knew what was
happening, Dominik leaned over and kissed her.
“Now are you my girl?” he asked, with an impish grin.
“Dominik, I really think …”
 “Oh, Solvi, don’t you know when to stop talking?” With that, he
took hold of her hair, wrapped it around his wrist, then pulled her
backward, down onto the blanket.
“Dominik!” she cried out, struggling to get up, but with his hand
in her curls she couldn’t twist away. He leaned over and kissed her
again.
Now she pushed him with both hands, and he nally let go. She
sat up, twisting her hair into a rope and stu ng it down the back of
her blouse. “Dominik, that wasn’t fair.”
“But now I think you have to be my girl, because you don’t want
it getting around that you’ll kiss every boy.”
She put her hand to her lips. Her rst kiss. She wished she had
wanted it more. “I think we should go,” she said.
“You’re being rather cold about this,” Dominik said. “I thought
you’d like it.” He started to pack up the lunch.
“Perhaps I’m just not ready,” Solvi said, feeling bad in every
possible way. “Why didn’t you ask my permission?”
“Permission spoils the mood. It’s a bit rough on us lads if you lead
us on but don’t mean anything by it,” he said. “You sure know how
to ruin a nice day.”
They walked back to the bicycle, pulled it out of the bush, and
headed down the hill. For Solvi, sitting behind him and unable to
steer or set the pace, the joy had gone out of it. She wished she were
riding on her own.
When they got to the study house, Solvi tried to be polite. “I’m
sorry, Dominik. It was lovely up there. Thank you.”
But both of them knew she didn’t mean it.

AFTER DOMINIK PEDALED AWAY, Solvi turned toward town, heading

straight to a barbershop. The barber refused at rst, but when she
o ered to pay him double, he did as she asked. He left just enough
of her hair to cover her ears.
When he was done, she tried to pull her hair back, but it was too
short to hold. Good, just what she wanted.
WHEN SOLVI APPEARED at dinner with her new haircut, Rikka could only
stare. The other girls fussed over her, saying they wished they had
the courage, but not Rikka.
It was only after they were seated that Rikka whispered in her
ear. “What happened?”
Solvi grabbed a roll. “I’ll tell you later. I’m starving. I rode a
bicycle today, with Dominik. A bicycle built for two.”
Rikka looked at her. “Was it fun? You don’t look like you had
much fun.”
“No.”

UPSTAIRS LATER, Solvi told Rikka what happened under the willows.
“You were right, as much as I hate to admit it,” Solvi said, running
her ngers through what was left of her curls. “It was a mistake to
trust Dominik.”
“I’m sorry for you, Solvi. I know you liked him. But some boys
seem to need to make others do their bidding. Maybe it comes with
their privilege, that sense that other people should bend to their
whims.”
Solvi sighed. “Perhaps. I just wish he and I could have talked
about it. I wish he had asked permission.”
“If you nd a guy like that, marry him,” Rikka said. “In the
meantime, your bob looks smashing.”

LATER THAT WEEK Solvi took her new photographs of the maids to the
newspaper o ce, swallowing her misgivings. Rikka was right, she
thought. There was no progress without risk.
Mr. Blehr looked through them, then shook Solvi’s hand.
“Excellent work, Miss Lange.” He handed her several crowns. “The
story will be out in a few days, as soon as we can make engravings
from the photographs.”
She looked at the money. “Mr. Blehr, I have more photos. Do you
have a moment?”
“Of course.”
Solvi pulled out her copy of Albertine. “Do you know this book?”
 He took it. “Ah, yes. Most of these were burned within days of
publication,” he said, then looked through the plates in the back.
“I’ve seen some of these paintings. For some reason, the authorities
didn’t burn them. I suppose they thought paintings were not as
dangerous as books.”
“Well, I’m not sure they were right,” Solvi said, surprised at her
own boldness. “My friend who works for the health auxiliary in Vika
introduced me to several prostitutes who helped me re-create
Krohg’s paintings.”
He looked at her, dumbfounded. “Re-create?”
She laid out the photographs. “See? Albertine still lives, in Vika.”
“My word,” he said softly, picking up each one and comparing it
with Krohg’s version. “How clever, Miss Lange. Very interesting.”
“I also talked with the women about how they ended up working
as prostitutes. They’re quite hopelessly poor, and most are sick.”
He scooped up the photographs and the book. “May I keep these?
Let me talk to the other editors. Excellent work, Miss Lange.”
Solvi smiled; then, just as quickly, her smile vanished. She had
just thought of something, something that worried her.
“When the housemaid story comes out, Mr. Blehr, will my name
be in the newspaper?”
“Absolutely; I want everyone to know who my talented
photographer is.”
“Even if one’s mother might be horri ed?”
He looked at her over his glasses. “You still have a mother, Miss
Lange? I would never have guessed.”
“Well,” she said, “this may be the last week.”

AS IF ON CUE, a letter arrived from Solvi’s mother that same afternoon.

Dear Solvi: I have been thinking of your circumstances in Kristiania

and have decided you need the guidance of a mature female
presence. To that end, I have contacted an old school friend of
mine, Mrs. Klausen, who lives in Briskeby, just a tram ride away
from the university. She is widowed now, with room to spare. She
 has generously o ered to have you live with her until a better
solution can be found, as it is clear the matron of your study house
exerts little control over you girls. Mrs. Klausen said some company
would do her good.
I trust this arrangement will meet with your approval. With the
money you save living with Mrs. Klausen, you can give up that
frightful job at the photography studio. I am happy to help with your
expenses.
I hope you understand how di cult this is for me, alone here in
Bergen and fearing for your safety. I trust you will take pity on your
grieving mother and o er me some relief. Please tell me when you
will be ready to move to Mrs. Klausen’s so I can let her know.
Mother

Solvi went straight to Rikka’s door.

“Hey,” Rikka said, kicking aside a pile of clothes. “What’s
wrong?”
“Read this.”
“Oh, I just love other people’s mail,” Rikka said, grabbing it and
reading it through. Then she looked at Solvi and put her hands on
her hips in mock disdain. “Really, Solveig, what were you thinking,
working in a photo shop? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Solvi sighed. “Now she’s cooked up this Mrs. Klausen, as if it’s my
responsibility to keep some old widow company.”
Rikka tossed her head. “Just refuse, Solvi. You’re making enough
money to keep living here. This is your life, your decision.”
“But what if my mother never speaks to me again? She’s my only
living relative, as far as I can tell.”
“You won’t lose her,” Rikka said. “Call her blu .”
“This is what I get for being honest with her, trying to close the
gap between us by telling her what I’m doing.”
“Did you tell her about me?”
“No, you’re much too alarming.”
Rikka laughed. “So there it is. You’re your own person now, Solvi.
Congratulations.”
SOLVI SAT DOWN to respond that afternoon, before she lost courage.

Dear Mama: Thank you for your concern, but I will not go live with
Mrs. Klausen. The study house is as safe as a private home, and I
do not need guidance from a mature female presence. Please tell her
thank you but that I am ne where I am.
You must understand this is my life, Mama. I am di erent from
you. I am not sure why, but I have always felt it and I need to be
free to choose as I will.
I hope you can nd a way to trust me. You are my only family,
Mama. We need to be happy with each other, but that can only
happen if you let me live my own life.
Your daughter, Solvi

Solvi didn’t tell her mother what she had learned about her
grandmother. She wasn’t sure why, except that she felt somehow
her mother didn’t deserve to know. Her mother hadn’t tried to nd
her own missing mother and didn’t seem to care what had happened
to her. Solvi could feel herself clutching her grandmother’s story—
thorny, confusing, haunting—as if it were her own secret treasure. It
didn’t belong to anyone else.

WHEN IT CAME TIME to write her history essay, Solvi holed up in her
room, coming out only for meals. She worked hard to bring the
Forgotten One to life, describing the legal and social restrictions for
women at the time and what they would have meant for someone in
her circumstances: her thin purse, the ache of missing her children,
the shame that would have left her unemployable and friendless;
how she must have had to live in the shadows, how hard it would
have been to resist falling into prostitution.
As she wrote, the sorrow Solvi felt for her lost grandmother
seeped into the essay, giving it a tender, tragic edge.
When she was done, Solvi carefully wrote out a copy. She wanted
to show it to Magnus, but she wasn’t sure she had the right. The
truth was, she didn’t know what to think or feel about Magnus.
A FEW DAYS LATER, the newspaper published the housemaid story.
Solvi ran out early and bought several copies, glancing nervously
inside to see which photos Mr. Blehr had used. There was the
picture from Bergen of the scullery girl with the long braid down
her back washing stacks of dishes, then several from Kristiania—the
maids with the pans, the cook hacking the lamb carcass, the young
girl brushing ashes from an enormous replace. In each photograph
the maid’s face was obscured in some way, but below them all stood
Solvi’s name, in bold type.
And there, at the bottom of the page, was the photograph of Greta
and the ugly welt.
Solvi swore softly. Petra must have given it to Mr. Blehr instead of
to Greta. How could Petra have de ed her? She looked closely at
the picture. Fortunately, Solvi had shot Greta’s cheek up close, so it
was impossible to see who she was, and Petra hadn’t named Greta
or Dominik’s family. Her article talked of how maids worked long,
exhausting hours and often su ered physical and sexual violence.
The picture of Greta’s welt proved her point. At the end, Petra called
for the Storting to pass wage and workday standards for
housemaids, as well as legal protections.
Solvi sat back with a sigh. She understood why Petra had done it;
she just wished she had asked permission.
She brought the newspapers to breakfast, and Rikka jumped up to
show the other girls before Solvi could stop her. They congratulated
her, but several glanced at her with an edge of discomfort. Most
probably grew up with housemaids.
“I think you’ve intimidated them,” Rikka said later. “Few would
have the courage to do something like this. You’ve stepped out of
the privilege of your class, Solvi. I’m very proud of you.”
“It’s exciting, Rikka, I’ll admit, but I’m angry with Petra. I told her
not to give the photo of Greta to Mr. Blehr.”
“But you can see why it was necessary.”
“Yes; I just hope we don’t get into trouble over it,” Solvi said.
“How would we get into trouble? No one can possibly know we
were there.”
 “I don’t know, Rikka. I just have a bad feeling about it.”
“That’s silly; enjoy your celebrity, Solvi. You earned it. Maybe I
need to nd another bottle of champagne.” Rikka gave Solvi a sly
smile. “If we had some rope, we could haul it in from outside.”
Solvi couldn’t help but laugh. “Rikka, you’re not going to quit
until we’re both booted out of this place, are you?”
“Probably not.”

WHEN SOLVI WALKED INTO the photo shop later that day, she found Mr.
Stenberg leaning over the newspaper.
“Congratulations, Miss Lange! These are excellent. I’m quite
impressed.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without your
encouragement. You were the rst to appreciate what I was trying
to do.”
She retreated to the darkroom, a relief after the hubbub of the
morning, and sank into the quiet process of moving the photographs
from one pan to the next.
After several hours, Mr. Stenberg knocked. “There’s someone to
see you, Miss Lange. A young man.”
Her stomach ipped. Dominik. She washed up, her hands shaking,
then took a deep breath and emerged into the light.
But it wasn’t Dominik; it was Magnus.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, Solvi. I just wanted to congratulate
you, and I knew you’d be here.” He held the newspaper in his
hands. “The photographs are very moving and powerful. I’m so
proud of you and Petra.”
“Thank you, Magnus. But do you think it’s a problem, the photo
of Greta?”
“I saw Petra this morning and asked her, because I was surprised
to see it. She said Greta gave her permission. Petra found her a
better job in another house.”
“Ah,” Solvi said, and then she turned to Mr. Stenberg. “Would you
mind if I nished the developing tomorrow?”
 “Of course not,” he said with a smile. “Enjoy your moment of
glory.”
Outside on the sidewalk, Solvi looked up at Magnus. “Could we
go to the pastry shop again, like we used to?”
His face brightened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

SOLVI BOUGHT their usual packet of sweets as Magnus claimed the

table in the window. Now that the spring equinox had passed, the
afternoon light lingered. The buildings glowed pink in the sinking
sun, and the trees, nally leafed out, bent gently in the breeze.
“Thank you for stopping by, Magnus. I was hoping to see you.”
“I’ve missed our talks, Solvi.”
“Me, too,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I need to tell you
something, though I’m not sure it will matter to you. I don’t want to
presume.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not seeing Dominik anymore. He, well, he …” Her voice
caught.
Magnus put his hand on hers. “You don’t need to explain; I
understand. Dominik is a strong fellow.”
Her eyes brimmed. “It’s a mess, Magnus! I haven’t told you yet,
but Greta was one of the housemaids for Dominik’s family!”
“What? Was the house you sneaked into Dominik’s home?”
“Yes, though I didn’t know it at the time.” Then Solvi told him
about Edvard threatening Greta and about being invited later for
Sunday supper with Dominik’s family. She explained how she
identi ed Edvard and blushed when she recognized the serving
maids who brought in the food. Magnus listened thoughtfully.
Solvi sighed. “Now I’m worried Dominik and Edvard will put two
and two together and go to the police.”
Magnus cocked his head. “I suspect Edvard will be too
embarrassed to say anything. If Greta doesn’t make a formal
complaint, he’ll probably stay silent.” Magnus opened the
newspaper and looked at the photographs again. “There’s hardly
anything here that could tip o Dominik’s parents, unless they get
suspicious and look at the photos carefully and compare them with
their kitchens and their maids’ aprons and shoes. They would never
recognize them unless they were looking for it.”
Solvi sighed.
“Really, Solvi, don’t lose sleep over this,” Magnus said.
She took a deep breath. “Between Edvard, Dominik, and my
mother, it’s hard not to worry. I wish I could enjoy it more.”
Magnus laughed. “And I’ll bet Edvard and Dominik are the least
of it!”
Solvi rolled her eyes. “I expect my mother to show up any day
now, unless seeing my name in the paper gave her a heart attack
right away.”
“But she should be proud of you, Solvi. I certainly am.” He
smiled. “You’re a surprising girl, Solvi Lange. I’m glad we’re friends
again.”
“Me too,” she said, her soul lling with light. She had no idea
how much she had missed him.

THAT NIGHT, Rikka and Solvi met at the café for supper. Solvi noticed
Dominik across the room, but he didn’t look her way or come over.
She hadn’t spoken to him since their picnic and was relieved to nd
he was keeping to his own circle.
When they were done with their soup, Rikka stayed behind
talking with her many friends, but Solvi, exhausted, headed home
alone. She glanced at Dominik one more time as she slipped out the
door. He didn’t seem to have noticed her.
The streets were dusky in the remaining light, and Solvi trailed
along dreamily, thinking of Magnus and all he had said. She was
happier than she had been in some time.
She turned the corner into a darker street, then suddenly heard
someone running up behind her. She started to look around, but
before she knew what was happening, someone grabbed her and
pushed her hard against a building.
Edvard.
 “Solvi Lange, the great photographer,” he grunted, pushing his
face into hers. “You were there that day, weren’t you? You and your
friends trespassed in my family’s home, and you a great friend of
Dominik’s!” He squeezed her arms hard behind her. “I can’t believe
my family hosted you for supper, you ungrateful bitch!”
“Edvard, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean …” Solvi twisted away from
his eyes and breath.
His hand closed around her throat. “You’d better keep quiet about
what you think you know, Solvi Lange. If Greta les a complaint, I’ll
need you to come to court and deny it. I hope you’re ready to
explain to the police why you were trespassing.”
“Photographs don’t lie,” she croaked, her voice little more than a
whisper.
He spit in her face. Then, in a moment of inspiration, he pulled
her satchel o her shoulder.
“Is your camera in here?”
“No!” she screamed, though it wasn’t true. She lunged to grab the
satchel, but he kicked it away.
Then someone else came running and shouting. Dominik.
“Edvard, stop! You said you wouldn’t hurt her!” he cried, scu ing
with his brother and pulling him o Solvi. She stumbled from the
wall, scrabbling across the pavement for her satchel. But Dominik
snatched it rst.
She straightened slowly, wiping the spittle from her cheek.
“Dominik, please, you know what that camera means to me.” She
looked into his eyes and held out her hand.
He hugged her satchel tighter. “Then explain it to me, Solvi.
Explain why you did it.” His eyes burned into hers. “Why would you
hurt my family when we were so kind to you?”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean for Greta’s photograph to be in the
newspaper. Greta gave it to the editor, not me.”
“But why did you trespass?”
“I didn’t know it was your home. It was before you asked me to
come for supper. But you are right. We shouldn’t have gone in
without permission.”
 Edvard tugged at the satchel. “Come on, Dominik. Let’s throw it
in the fjord. That’ll teach her to snoop.”
“Permission, Solvi,” Dominik said. “You wanted me to ask
permission, but you couldn’t be bothered. It cuts both ways, doesn’t
it?”
Tears ran down her face. “You’re right, Dominik. I apologize. And
I’m sorry, sorry about everything.”
He frowned and looked down at her satchel for a long moment,
then abruptly pushed it back into her arms.
“God damn you, Dominik!” Edvard said, giving his brother a
sharp push. “You’re going to regret this!”
“Shut up,” Dominik said. “I’m not going to bully her, Edvard, and
neither are you, so just shut up.”
Solvi slipped the strap of the satchel over her head.
Dominik hesitated, looking at Solvi now with pain and sadness.
“I’m so sorry, Dominik,” she said.
“Just go, Solvi. Please go. But keep quiet about this, or you’ll be
even sorrier.”
Solvi backed away, crossed the street quickly, and then hurried
around the next corner. Her heart didn’t slow down until she was
safe inside the study house.

SOLVI RAN UPSTAIRSand rapped on Rikka’s door, then elbowed her way
in and sank onto her bed, ghting back tears.
“Solvi, my goodness, what happened?” Rikka asked.
“Edvard attacked me as I was walking home. He was so angry—
he wanted to throw my camera in the fjord! He grabbed my satchel,
but Dominik gave it back to me.”
Rikka pulled her to a stand. “Let me look you over and make sure
you’re not hurt.”
Solvi rubbed her neck. “He grabbed me by the throat, but it’s not
bad, thanks to Dominik. If he hadn’t come along, I’m not sure what
Edvard would have done.”
“I hope Dominik isn’t your hero now.”
 “No. But he was right; we never should have trespassed at their
home.”
Rikka ignored that. “Will you see him again?”
“No. I think he hates me now,” Solvi said. “But I’m worried that
Edvard might still go to the police.”
“You should tell Mr. Blehr. He’ll know what to do; it’s his
newspaper, after all.”
Solvi sighed. “I wish I were braver. You probably would have
gouged his eyes out.”
“I’m not brave, Solvi. I’m angry,” Rikka said. “It makes me so
angry that men have that power over us. Anger is my sword.”
Solvi looked at her for a long moment. “I need a sword.”
“Yes, you do. If you’re going to be a journalist, you might need a
cannon.”
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

NORA
Spring 1919 Spokane, Washington

Ivar. Maybe it was Ivar who was looking for me. I gazed at the
advertisement again, at the image of my eldest standing there like
the stalwart boy that he was, and my stomach knotted. Of my three
children, he was the one I most needed to see. I had grown old, past
seventy. It would be painful to go to my death without his
forgiveness.
Ivar was my rst-born, and our relationship was a revelation to
me. He was the rst person I loved in an uncomplicated way,
without having to perform for him as I did for his father, without
worrying whether he loved me back. Because that was without
question—he was my child, and I was his mother. Our bond was
simple, true.
I had little time to indulge my delight in him, however, as Torvald
became ill with tuberculosis shortly after his birth and my father
soon developed his bad heart. I felt torn between the three of them:
a demanding father, a weakening husband, and my baby boy. Each
one needed more of me than I could give, and so I managed to
disappoint them all.
Ivar survived, as babies do, even though we dragged him to Italy
while his father convalesced. He learned to walk on the lthy streets
of Rome among the owerpots and heaps of dung. It was all I could
do to keep him safe and healthy that year. Between Torvald and
Ivar, there was little time for anything other than tending and
worrying. Would Torvald survive? Would Ivar catch malaria or
totter in front of a cart? I hovered over them both, guardian angel
and mother and wife. I barely slept the entire year.
When Ivar grew up anxious, I was not surprised. He learned it at
my knee.
THE TRUTH WAS, I didn’t know whether it was Ivar, or Bobby or
Emma. But it must be one of them. And I could see that this was my
chance, my one chance to patch my life back together again.
I sat down at the kitchen table that afternoon with a fresh sheet of
paper. I was too old to be afraid anymore.

Dear Child of Mine,

I am not sure which one of you posted the advertisement in the
“Skandinaven,” but please know I am so grateful. For years I have
longed to nd my way back to all of you, and it appears now that
might be possible.
Please write to me at post o ce box 216 in Spokane,
Washington.
I await your response with happy anticipation.
All my love, your mother

I folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, to mail the next
day when we went to town.
Then I walked down through the orchard to where my patient
husband was working, to show him the advertisement and tell him
what I had done.

NORA
January 1883 Lac qui Parle, Minnesota

Now that I was married to Anders, I could begin my life on the

prairie anew. The frame house proved a revelation—carefully
crafted and lled with comforts, including rocking chairs and glass
windows. Birgitte surprised me by helping sew curtains, and one
day brought out the rag box so we could braid a rug. Around me she
was quiet and solemn, but no longer angry. I tried to be as kind as I
could.
As we sorted through the rags, I noticed strips of the calico
curtains from the sod house.
 “I’m sorry, Nora,” said Birgitte, pulling them out. “I thought we
burned these.” She turned toward the stove.
“No,” I said, stopping her. “We need to remember, don’t you
think? We mustn’t forget him.”
We held each other’s gaze for a long moment, and then she tossed
the strips on top of our pile and returned to our task. I could feel her
opening to me.

A FEW DAYS LATER, I walked with Jens over to Tomas’s grave, where
the sparse snow glittered around his small cross. I would always
miss that baby boy, but life had surged onward, in its relentless
way. I was surprised by what a blessing that was.
Mr. Renville soon stopped in to welcome me back, and the next
day I walked around the lake to visit his sister. She greeted me as if
I had never left, showing me her weaving and brewing me a cup of
her herb tea. Once the ice left the lake, Mr. Renville took me across
in his canoe to visit Herr Gippe, the gentleman who gave me the
money to get to St. Paul. His Norwegian wife and I sat together over
co ee, and when I told her about caring for women with
melancholy, she said there might be local women who needed my
help. She promised to send her husband for me if she heard of
anyone.
With spring, our pigs arrived, three sows with swollen bellies who
soon gave birth to a passel of noisy piglets. Jens took charge,
cleaning their pens, watching for escapees, and making sure the
runts got milk. When he thought one was being cheated, he brought
it to me, and I would sit in the hay with the old suckling ask,
cooing to the piglet as I cooed to Tomas. It helped heal the hole in
my heart.
In the warming evenings we took our chairs outside and watched
the sun sink toward the horizon. Sometimes Birgitte or I read aloud,
or Jens and his father played checkers, a game Anders had learned
in town. He knew more people, as the county lled up, and on
Sundays now we went to the Lutheran church. I did my best to
attract little attention.
 In many respects I settled in well, but still—it felt strange to be
married again. Memories of Torvald nagged at me, like ghost limbs
that ached with imagined pain. I sometimes found myself telling
small bs or hiding something I should tell Anders, as I did with
Torvald. Then I would make myself confess so I could live with a
clearer conscience. I worried that I could never be the helpmate
Anders needed, but he was patient with me and appreciated my
e orts. Anders’s love was di erent from Torvald’s—quieter, less
demanding—and by the time Indian summer arrived, memories of
Torvald had faded away.
That fall we had a good harvest—pulling in a healthy wheat crop
and selling pigs to new settlers. Anders celebrated by going to town
and returning with a team of horses. He was curing wood to build a
small sleigh, so that we might attend church in the winter. Birgitte,
who was nearing fteen, needed to be con rmed.
Once the harvest was nished, Birgitte and Jens returned to the
village school, walking o down the track with their lunch sacks
and books. The days were lonelier for me but not without their
pleasures. Anders taught me to paint the traditional rosemaling so
that I could decorate the bowls and spoons he sold in the general
store, and I learned to drive the horses.
One day, Birgitte came home talking of the licensing exam for
teachers. I agreed to help her study, and her dream soon became our
common mission.

IN THIS SHELTERED WORLD, six years passed. Anders and the children
and I toiled to make the farm prosper, but it was never easy. Some
seasons were contented ones; others were shadowed by hardship
and worry. Late the second summer, after the August winds had
dried the grass to parchment, a great re surged across Lac qui Parle
County. We awoke that morning with smoke in our lungs and
leaped from our beds. Anders plowed a line around the house rst,
then the elds, but by the time the ames rose in front of us, it
looked hopeless. Jens climbed out on the roof and hauled up
buckets of water to wet it down, risking his life but saving the
house. In the midst of the mayhem, Birgitte’s skirts caught re.
Without thinking, I grabbed a wet blanket and ung myself against
her, rolling us both on the ground. Birgitte’s legs were quite badly
burned, and she spent weeks in bed healing, tended by me and Ann
Renville. By the time she walked again, she was a di erent girl—
older, wiser—and we were nally friends.
When Birgitte turned sixteen, she passed her examinations and
went to live and teach in the town of Madison, ten miles away. Her
visits home were happy times, and we encouraged her to save her
earnings so she could attend the new college for Norwegian
immigrants in North eld, south of Minneapolis. Jens, who was not a
student like his sister, developed into a carver almost as good as his
father. He, too, sold his woodenware in town and gladly added his
earnings to Birgitte’s college fund.

IN THE WINTER AFTER THE FIRE,

many families struggled. One cold day a
sleigh pulled up with Herr Gippe at the reins. A young mother
needed my help, he said. I packed a small bag, and soon he dropped
me at a very poor farm. Entering the humble soddie I was overcome
by the familiar dank smell but mustered myself to do what I could.
The woman sat silent as a post in a corner, a letter in her hand. I
stayed three days, cleaning, cooking, and helping with her children,
while she wept for her parents back in Norway, who had recently
died. When I returned a few weeks later to check on her, she was
better, and grateful.
Others soon learned of my skill, and when an anxious child or
husband appeared at our door, I knew it was time to gather my bag
and go. Prairie women fell to grief in every season, on dark winter
days when the wind was howling and soft summer mornings when
the meadowlarks sang from the fence posts. By the time someone
sought my help, the women were often far gone, gaunt with sadness
and weak from sickness and hunger.
I did what I could to ease their burden, usually starting with the
women themselves, much as Ann Renville had done with me—
bathing and changing them in their beds, feeding them by hand if
they wouldn’t eat, brushing their hair. Anything to make them feel
better.
Eventually, they would fall asleep, relaxing at last because
someone was there to cook for their families. And so I did, getting
the children to help me tackle the dishes, sweep the house, cook,
and bake.
Many women sank into despair after losing a child or su ering an
injury, tragedy piling on top of their unremitting poverty. Herr
Gippe fetched me one day to help a couple whose three children had
recently died of scarlet fever. I stayed with them for a week, until
they recovered their equilibrium and sent me home. I heard later
that the mother burned the house down shortly after I left, on a
beautiful April afternoon.
There was something about the prairie—the heavy silence, the
blank horizon, our fragility in the face of nature’s will—that
intensi ed everything. One woman told me she often imagined she
had traveled back to Narvik to visit her dead sister, and feared her
soul might refuse one day to return. Another woman believed a
storm would someday blow away all they had—their shanty, their
wheat, their children. When the weather threatened, she felt
compelled to drink brandy until it passed. Another told me she
walked out on the prairie at night but knew not why. Her husband
had gone after her several times. “I know there’s nothing,” she said,
“but still I must go.”
The women asked if I thought they were mad, but what they
feared was often real, so I told them no. Most got better when they
overcame their Nordic reticence and shared what haunted them.
Occasionally, I found wives with bruises or black eyes. They
blamed homestead accidents, though the tension in the house often
suggested a di erent story. When I asked if their husbands hit them,
they said, “Only when he drinks.” The men denied drinking, though
Anders said few could resist the saloons when they had money in
their pockets.
At rst I cared for the women with my mouth shut, but in time I
started urging women to stand up to husbands who hurt them. To
take the children and go to a neighbor’s house or hide in the barn.
For those burdened by many mouths, I even hinted at ways to
protect themselves from more pregnancies, though few could hear
this advice. Most believed it was their sacred duty—to accept
another child or death, whichever was the will of God.
Husbands sometimes caught echoes of what I said. Anders
reported grumbles around the stove in the back of the general store,
often tied to my friendship with the Indian Ann Renville. He
defended the Renvilles when their names came up, but fear of
Indians persisted in this region. Few befriended them as we had.
As for the women I helped, they were usually too ashamed by
what they told me in their darkest hours to welcome me for co ee
after they recovered. I felt like my work had purpose, but it did not
open the community to me. I remained an oddity—strangely well
educated and re ned, too ladylike to be feeding chickens on a
prairie farm. Because I was not like the Norwegian farmers who
settled our county, I was never fully trusted.
I was happiest in Ann’s silent company.

I NEVER AGAIN su ered the deep despair I felt after Tomas’s death, but
sometimes sorrow crept up on me. If Anders and I had had a child,
it might have lled the void, but we agreed to manage our love in
such a way that I would not get pregnant. Neither of us could risk
losing a child again.
When I was sad, I thought obsessively of my own children back in
Norway. I nally sent a letter to my old nurse, Anne-Marie, praying
that she was still alive. I begged her to write with news of the
children and whether she knew if Torvald had remarried. I also
enclosed a letter for the children, asking her to mail it to them when
Ivar turned fteen. But I never heard back.
And, to be honest, the lie I told Anders—that I was free to marry
—festered like a wound that would not heal. Because of it, I felt
unworthy of his love and was afraid that if I opened my heart to
him completely, my secrets would tumble forth and ruin everything.
In time I came to understand the terrible bargain I had made: if I
was to see my children again, I would have to tell Anders of my
falsehood, but if I did that, my marriage would be destroyed.
I learned to start each day thankful for my bowl of porridge and
the quiet husband across from me, as that might be all I would ever
have.

THEN, ONE DAY, a miracle happened. A miracle with a thousand

ripples.
It was a warm spring evening in late May of 1889. I sat outside
shelling peas, the breeze playing around my skirt, the scent of
manure and rebirth thick with the new season. Anders and Jens
were washing up by the well, tired after a day in the elds. I rose
and went inside to put the peas to boil.
By then, Birgitte was teaching school in Lac qui Parle, living
behind the schoolroom and enjoying the bustle of town. She was our
most American child—an impressive young woman with excellent
English and a scholarly bent. She usually came home only on
Sundays, but this Wednesday evening she appeared in the doorway,
breathing hard.
“Birgitte, what is it?”
“Nora! I came right away! There’s—.”
Anders and Jens came in behind her. “Why, Birgitte, you’re just in
time for dinner,” Anders said. Then he saw her face. “What’s
wrong?”
She glanced at her father, then back at me. “There’s a young man
in town, from Norway, and he’s asking for Nora Solberg!”
I looked at her, puzzled; then my knees turned to water. I grabbed
a chair. A erce longing ooded my heart.
“What does he look like?” I said, starting to tremble.
“Well, that’s the strangest part—he looks like you. There’s
something about his eyes and coloring.”
Anders turned to me. “Nora, who is this?”
My pulse began to race. “How old is he, Birgitte?”
“About my age,” she said. “Good-looking. A city boy.”
“Did you speak to him?”
 “No. I stopped by the store, and he was there talking with the
men. I thought I should tell you immediately.”
Anders tugged hard on my hand. “Nora, who is this young man?”
I could not speak. I wanted it to be Ivar more than I had ever
wanted anything else, but if it was, my worlds would collide. Or
perhaps it was Tobias, but, no—he looked nothing like me. It was
Ivar; I knew it.
“Anders, I must go to town.” I untied my apron. “Right now. I’ll
walk back with Birgitte.”
“Nora, we will eat rst, and you will explain,” Anders said. “Then
I’ll hitch up the horses.”
I sat on the edge of my chair. Birgitte got our supper, the peas and
potatoes, the otbrod and butter. Anders watched me over his plate,
waiting for an explanation, but I didn’t know what to say or where
to start. I forced myself to eat a few bites.
“I don’t know who it is, Anders,” I nally said. “It might be a
cousin, or the boy who befriended me at the boardinghouse in Vika.
He meant to immigrate to America.”
“How would he know where to nd you?”
“I wrote to him several years back, telling him where I was.” I
tried to sound nonchalant, but my hands shook. Anders kept a
troubled eye on me until we nished.
He brought the wagon. Birgitte needed to get back to town, and
Jens insisted on coming, so we all climbed in. Bouncing over the
rough track, I shivered with anticipation. Saying it might be a
cousin was untrue, as I had no family in Norway other than my
children. And if it was Ivar, perhaps he brought terrible news—that
Bob or Emma had died.
And how, in God’s name, could I explain this to my husband?
Anders kept glancing at me in the fading light and nally put his
arm around my shoulders. “Nora, it will be all right. Whoever it is.”
I nodded, but tears slipped down my cheeks. How little he knew.

WE STOPPED FIRSTat the general store. The stranger wasn’t there, but
he had left a note. I took it from the storekeeper and stepped away
from everyone, ostensibly so I could see better by the oil lamp in the
window.

Mother, I dearly hope it is you, as I’ve come so far. I’m staying at

the Lac qui Parle Hotel, across the street. Come immediately, day or
night. Your son, Ivar Helmer

Heat rushed up my body, as if I had caught re. I stu ed the note

up my sleeve and tried to compose my face.
I turned to Anders. “It’s my cousin’s son!” Then, before he could
say anything, I darted ahead, running across the street and bursting
through the door of the hotel.
And there was Ivar, sitting in the lobby calmly reading a
newspaper. He looked up.
I would have known him anywhere—the broad cheekbones and
blue-gray, wide-set eyes, the tousled dark-blond hair. Me, him—
mother, son. I could see Torvald’s success in the quality of his sturdy
tweed jacket and leather breeches, in the ne Norwegian boots on
his feet. But I also could see how much he was still my child, despite
everything.
He stepped toward me and pulled me into a desperate grip. I
could feel him trembling with emotion.
I whispered in his ear. “Ivar, oh, Ivar, I am so happy to see you!
But please, darling, let me do the talking, I beg you. Say nothing of
your father until we’re alone. Then I’ll explain everything.”
At that he pulled away; then he saw Anders, Birgitte, and Jens
standing behind me.
Anders stepped forward to shake his hand. “Anders Eriksen,
Nora’s husband.”
Ivar glanced at me, then nodded solemnly and took Anders’s
hand.
I jumped in, before Ivar could speak. “This is Ivar Helmer, my
cousin’s son,” I said. “From Kristiania, now, I believe.” I smiled at
Ivar.
“Yes,” he said, but that was all. He looked lost and suddenly very
young.
 I pulled the others forward. “And this is Birgitte and Jens, Mr.
Eriksen’s children.”
They said hello, then stepped back again, shy before this well-
dressed stranger. Birgitte kept looking at me.
I turned back to Ivar. “And how are your brother and sister, Bob
and Emma? As you know, I haven’t seen them in years.”
“They’re ne,” he said cautiously, searching my face for clues.
“Bob is in his last year of school, and Emma is twelve.”
“And your mother?”
At that, his face clouded over in confusion, and pain. “She is, ah,
well enough,” he said slowly. “And Father. Thank you for asking
after them.”
“Good. Please tell them both that I miss them,” I said, smoothly,
though my heart still raced. “It was kind of them to send you all the
way out here to visit me.” I sat down on the nearest sofa so that I
wouldn’t collapse. I had no idea where this pretense was going.
Everyone sat down as well, all of us awkward with each other. My
mind galloped in circles, trying to gure out what to do.
Anders, polite and unsuspecting, asked Ivar about his journey.
Ivar said he had been traveling for only a few weeks, as the
steamships were faster now, the railroads more direct than a decade
ago, when the Eriksens and I made the passage.
I watched my boy, dazed to see him grown, dazed by the surge of
longing and happiness and confusion to see him again after all this
time.
Jens asked if he could milk a cow, which made us all laugh. Then
Birgitte asked if he was immigrating or if he was just touring and
planned to go back to Norway.
“I don’t know,” Ivar said. “I thought more about coming than
what I would do when I got here. Everyone in Norway either wants
to visit America or wants to immigrate.”
I stood up, before the conversation could get me in trouble. “You
must be very tired after your journey, Ivar,” I said, picking up my
bag to signal it was time to leave. “It’s lovely to see you. I’m glad
you have a room here, as it is far more comfortable than our farm.
Why don’t you get a good night’s rest, and I’ll come to town
tomorrow morning so we can visit.”
He looked at me, dumbfounded. I leaned forward and gave him a
chaste kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry, darling,” I whispered.
Anders clapped his hands and stood. “Well, young man, I guess
we are o . Perhaps you could come out and see our farm
tomorrow.”
“I would like that,” Ivar said cautiously, glancing at me again.
“Good night, um, Aunt.”
I turned to Anders and the children. “Go on ahead and get the
wagon ready. I’ll be out in a moment.” They nodded, surprised that
our visit was so short, but headed out at my urging.
I turned back to Ivar, who stood stone-faced in the middle of the
lobby.
“What have you done?” he said, his voice strangled. He was no
longer the boy he had been; he was a young man and capable of
upsetting my world.
“Darling, in the morning, please, I’ll explain everything.”
His eyes burned into mine. “It’s just not—it’s not what I
expected.”
“I know, and I am sorry. Tomorrow, when it is just you and me. I
promise.”
“You are much altered. If I didn’t know it was you …”
“I’m sure it must be a shock. The prairie ages us. It can’t be
helped.”
“It’s not that, Mother; it’s him.”
I could barely stomach the look on his face. “Please, don’t judge
me yet, not until I can explain.” Tears rose in my eyes. “Please.”
He stepped back. “Tomorrow morning, then. Aunt.”
I turned out the door, heartbroken to leave him there alone but
ghting to regain my composure. I didn’t want Anders to see me
like this.
I could see by the look on her face that Birgitte had a million
questions, but I just gave her a quick hug and said good night.
Anders helped me into the wagon. “Are you all right, Nora?”
 “Oh, yes; it just is so sad to think of my cousin and her family,
whom I haven’t seen for so long.”
“He seems a nice fellow,” Jens said. “Maybe he could stay with us
for a while. I could teach him to milk.”
Anders said nothing until we were clear of town and rattling
slowly back to the farm, but I could sense that his mind was turning.
Finally, he spoke: “Did this boy’s mother, your cousin, live in
Kristiania when we left?”
“Oh, no,” I said, crafting a tale. “They were in Alesund. We both
lived in Hamar when we were little, but she moved away when she
married. She and her children are my only kin; there’s no one else
that I could call family.” I looked away into the darkness of the
prairie, searching for something familiar that would restore my
equilibrium, but there was only the endless grass. “I wrote to her
some time ago, letting her know where I was. It’s such a surprise
that Ivar should come to visit.”
Anders cleared his throat. “I had no idea you were sending letters
back to Norway. Why didn’t you invite him out to our farm, Nora?
That’s what one should do for family.”
“I, well, I haven’t seen him since he was a small child, Anders. I
honestly have no idea what kind of person he is. I thought it best for
me to talk with him more, and then we’ll see.”
“He appears to be a ne young man, Nora, if a bit citi ed. But
still, Jens and I could use help. If he wants to stay in America and is
looking for a place to start out.”
“That’s very kind of you, Anders. I’ll think about it.”

THE NEXT MORNING I put on one of my better dresses and walked back
to town. It felt like dreaming when my son came down the stairs
from his room, but then I saw his troubled face. We hugged, but he
said little. I sat with him in the dining room, where they served him
porridge and eggs and co ee. The sun poured in; the muslin curtains
stirred in the breeze.
“Mother,” he said, nally putting down his spoon and looking up
with an unhappy scowl, “I just don’t know what to make of it. I’ll be
honest, it makes me angry.”
“I’m so sorry, darling.”
“I mean, how can you be living here in this godforsaken place, out
in the middle of nowhere like this? And with them? It’s so
primitive!”
He didn’t just mean the dusty town and the sod houses that still
marked the landscape. He meant the farmers who took me in. It was
almost as if Torvald had spoken.
I took a deep breath. “Ivar, don’t judge Anders Eriksen. You may
judge me but not him. He’s an excellent, honest man; he and his
children saved my life.”
“If he’s so honest, why did he marry someone who already had a
husband?”
I hesitated for a long moment.
“Because he didn’t know, Ivar.”
He squinted, as if seeing me for the rst time. “You didn’t tell
him?”
“I thought your father would have gotten permission to divorce
me by then. I knew he wanted to! And, out here? It didn’t seem to
matter what was true in Kristiania.”
Ivar took a few gulps of his co ee before he responded. Then he
cocked his head to the side. “How do you swear at an altar if you
don’t know whether you’re free to marry? Don’t they have laws
against that sort of thing, even here?” He looked down at his food;
he pushed the plate away, then looked up at me again. “Doesn’t
marriage mean anything to you?”
I glanced nervously around the hotel dining room, wondering if
there were people in the parlor who could hear this. “Please, Ivar,
don’t raise your voice.”
He leaned forward, his face contorted with pain. “Please, Mother.
Don’t marry other people,” he whispered hoarsely. “Honor your
vows, for God’s sake!”
I pulled back, stung. But it was the least I deserved.
He took two photographs from his coat pocket and slapped them
down on the table. The rst was Bob, quite grown up. He looked
like both Torvald and my father—darker than Ivar or me, an
intensity in his eyes and brow. And then the second was Emma. I
gasped—she looked almost exactly like me as a girl. She was very
prettily dressed, with a large white bow in her blond curls and an
expression of self-satisfaction on her hauntingly familiar face. Me
and yet not me.
Now Ivar looked into my eyes, and I could see his anger
hardening. “I just don’t understand, Mother. How could you have
left us for them?”
“Ivar, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t know the Eriksens until later,
much later.”
His mouth worked. “So you left us for nothing? Just to be alone?”
He looked away, blinking hard. “How could you not have loved us?”
he nally croaked.
“Oh, Ivar,” I said, my eyes lling with tears. “I always loved you
and Bob and Emma, and I have missed you terribly. It’s the tragedy
of my life that I couldn’t stay and be your mother!”
“But why couldn’t you? Yes, I realize Father is di cult, but was
he that bad? What could possibly have been so awful about your life
with us?”
“It was complicated, Ivar.”
“I’ve come all this way to understand it, because it is my tragedy,
too. So, please, explain it to me.”
“It will take time.”
“Nothing else matters.”
I nodded and stood up. “Then come with me. We’ll head to the
farm.”

WE WALKED A LONG WAY before I could begin, each of us in our own

wheel rut, the grass rustling in the breeze around us. When the track
forked toward our house, I hesitated, then led him away, down the
trail toward the lake. I knew by then that I couldn’t take him home.
But I did want to explain. I started by telling him why I left his
father, beginning with Torvald’s illness and the cursed loan,
including my forgery and Krogstad’s subsequent blackmail. He kept
silent, though I could tell he was o ended by some of what he heard
—he had inherited a portion of his father’s moral rigidity. I told him
how hard it was to make a living in Kristiania, my poverty, and how
I ended up living in Vika with the students and working for the
shipping agent. Then, because it was the fulcrum of the story, I told
him about his father’s threat to send me to the asylum and the night
I was arrested.
At that, he stopped walking and reached out to take my hands. By
now we were down near the edge of the lake. “I had no idea,
Mother.”
“There’s more,” I said, leading him to a fallen tree where we
could sit.
He coughed. “This is di cult to hear, Mother. It’s so far outside
the life you could have had, with us, with Father.”
“I know, Ivar, but it’s my truth.”
And so I continued, telling him of the Eriksens and my journey
out of Norway. Finally, I told him about the prairie and the terrible
winter Tomas died. Ivar grew quieter and quieter. I didn’t burden
him with the story of falling through the ice, though I did tell him of
my ight to St. Paul and my work with despondent women.
I had never told my story this way and was surprised to nd the
fragments knitting into a coherent if painful whole. At the end, I
tried to explain why I married Anders—my desperate loneliness, my
hope that Torvald had divorced me, my abiding belief that love was
truer than the law.
We sat in silence for a long while. I could sense him struggling
with this tale, nding it hard from his limited experience to
understand how di cult it was to be female and unprotected in a
harsh world. But he had a tender heart, and I could also feel his
sympathy. Along with it ran a strong current of sadness. Both of us
had lost so much.
“When Father told us you died, I didn’t believe it,” Ivar said. “I
was sure you were alive, and I looked for you around every corner. I
decided Father just didn’t know where you were because I heard
him speaking with men in his study about trying to nd you. And
then I found the letter you sent Nurse.”
“Anne-Marie! So she gave you my letter?”
 “Well, her daughter did. Nurse died a few years ago, but her
daughter got the letter and tried to pass it to me. But Father
intercepted it, because I didn’t see it until one day last fall when I
was looking through his desk and found it. When I confronted him,
he was furious, but I didn’t care anymore. By then, I was angrier
than he was.”
Ivar told me next about growing up with his overbearing father—
how Torvald refused to let Ivar take the matriculation exams for the
university and refused to help him nd a job in the bank or any
other business.
“Instead, he made me work as his personal secretary so he could
keep an eye on me,” Ivar said bitterly. “He didn’t want me leaving
home because he knew I’d try to nd you.”
“Perhaps you can understand then how I felt,” I said. “I thought I
would die if I stayed with him.”
Ivar nodded. “It must have been impossible, or you would have
stayed with us, yes?”
“Yes, darling.”
He coughed again, looking out over the lake. “There’s something I
should tell you, Mother. Father also married again.”
I grabbed his arm. “When? Ivar, when did he marry?”
“A year after he said you died. I was thirteen, so in 1885, I think.
The wedding was in July; then they went to Europe. Anne-Marie left
when they returned.”
That would have been two years after I married Anders. So
Torvald must have gotten a divorce—but when? Could my marriage
to Anders be legal after all?
“Did he get a divorce from the King?”
“No.” Now Ivar looked down at his hands, which were twisted
together. “I’m sorry, Mother, but he had you declared dead!”
“Dead?”
“No one could nd you in Norway, and there was no record of
your leaving the country. They assumed you had died or been killed
somewhere.”
My head swam. I was supposed to be dead?
 “But I knew you weren’t, and I knew that Father always knew you
weren’t. And then I found the letter you sent Anne-Marie.”
“Who did he marry?”
“Johanna Moller. She’s half his age, and she’s spoiling Emma.”
I recalled a young girl we met once at a party. “Are they happy
together?”
Ivar winced. “I suppose, but Father has become quite stupid
around her. I can barely stand it; it’s part of why I left.”
Then he kicked at the dirt with his toe. “There’s something else,
something important. After I found the letter, Father and I had quite
a row. I insisted that, since you were alive, you deserved to know
about your legacy.”
“Legacy?”
“Your legacy from Dr. Rank. He left you his fortune, Mother, all
those years ago. And it’s quite a sum, according to the solicitor.”
“What? How could that be? I was still in Norway when Dr. Rank
died; why wasn’t I told of it?”
“The solicitor must have noti ed Father; apparently, that’s why
the police went looking for you. But when Father had you declared
dead, the legacy passed to me and Bob and Emma.”
My head buzzed. “The money didn’t go to your father?”
“No. Dr. Rank prohibited that in his will. It made Father quite
angry. Even now the solicitor Mr. Paulsrud administers the money,
which drives Father crazy.”
I closed my eyes. Dr. Rank tried to take care of me. The very
thought made me ache. How I wished Dr. Rank had told me himself,
so I could have thanked him. And there were so many times we
could have used that money—the winter after the re, the year we
needed the new plow. And there it was, all that time, waiting for me
in Kristiania.
Then I remembered those last few days in Norway, my arrest,
Torvald fetching me from the police station. Was he about to tell me
of the legacy that night in the cab as we drove toward our at? I
will never know. Instead, I o ered him my deal: I would disappear
into America, and he could make of that what he wanted. I had no
idea a legacy was at stake.
 “Did Mr. Paulsrud give you the money for your passage?”
“Yes. He’s hoping I nd you, so the rest can go to you. He’s with
Nordlands Bank.”
“But he doesn’t know you’ve found me.”
“No, Mother,” he said with a wry smile. “I only found you
yesterday.”
“Does your father know you’re here?”
“He knows I booked passage for America. In fact, he kicked me
out after I told him I was coming to nd you.”
“Oh, Ivar. I’m sure he would take you back if that is what you
wanted.”
“He’s a stubborn man, Mother. Surely you know that.”
I nodded. “Did he read the letter I sent Anne-Marie?”
“Yes; he knows where you live, if that is what you’re wondering.”
At that, Ivar pulled out an envelope. “The solicitor sent money for
you to return to Norway. I changed it in New York.” He handed it to
me.
I looked inside—it was more than I had seen in a long time. The
blood pounded in my ears. “I, I must talk with Anders,” I
stammered. “There’s so much to explain.”
“There’s one other thing—Bobby needs to see you.”
“Did you tell him I was alive?”
“Yes. He needed to know in case something happened to me. It
shocked him to hear it, and infuriated Father, but now Bob’s
desperate to see you.”
“Where does your father live now?”
Ivar named a street of elegant row houses in a wealthy part of
Kristiania. I could see it all, as if I had moved there myself.
“I was half afraid Bobby would try to follow me,” he continued.
“Bob often acts before he thinks. If you came back to Norway and
saw him, that might keep him from doing something rash. Besides,
you must collect the rest of your money.”
Norway? I looked around the dappled wood where we sat, the
birds chattering, the lake glistening. I could not imagine going back
to Norway. It was so far, and who could say what might happen? If I
claimed the money, would I be declared alive again? Would I still be
married to Torvald?
And, worst of all, could I be arrested for marrying Anders?
I looked at Ivar and began to weep, for I saw what I must do.
“Mother, what is it? I know all of this is distressing.” He patted
my shoulder hesitantly, not knowing how to comfort me.
My weeping overtook me. I buried my face in my hands. At long
last, I tried to stop, gulping air and wiping my tears away. “Ivar, oh,
Ivar. Don’t you see? I have no choice.”
“What do you mean? No choice about what?”
“About you.”
He went pale.
“I wish I could take you back with me to the farm, but I see now
that I cannot take you into my life here, darling. I cannot claim you
as my son!”
“What are you talking about? I am your son!”
“But Anders doesn’t know I have a son, or other children, or a
husband who’s alive. And he cannot know!”
“Why the hell not?” Ivar shouted, jumping to his feet. “We came
rst! We’re your children!”
“Yes, darling, yes, but he is my life!” As soon as I said it, I
understood how completely I had knitted myself around my quiet
husband, my ally and my anchor. And I could see how much the
news Ivar brought with him threatened that world.
I looked at my perfect boy. “I need my husband. If you came back
to the farm, Anders would gure it out, and if he found out about
your father, it would destroy my marriage.”
“But with the money from the legacy, you wouldn’t need a
husband,” Ivar said, looking at me in disbelief. “We could go live
somewhere, maybe Chicago, maybe London or Rome. After you
claim the legacy, we could go anywhere. We could bring Bobby and
Emma with us.”
“I will not leave my husband, Ivar. He is everything to me.”
“Even for us? You will choose a bigamist farmer over your own
esh and blood?”
 “But you are an adult now, Ivar! You don’t need me anymore. You
will marry and have your own life, as will Bob and Emma. And then
I would be alone again!”
And hated, I thought to myself. No one would love me by then, I
was sure of it.
“Don’t tell me what I need, Mother,” he said bitterly. “You don’t
have that right.”
“I apologize. But surely you must see how dangerous this is for
me. If anyone found out I had a living husband in Norway, I would
be driven from town, possibly tried and sent to prison. I would be
cast out; I would have nothing!”
“But how would they nd out?”
I looked at him—how naive they are, even when they think they
are grown. “Your father will not let you go that easily, Ivar. If he
thinks you have stayed here with me, he might alert the authorities.
Indeed, I am sure he would.”
“But he has also remarried.”
“But he had the law on his side, Ivar. I did not.”
Ivar’s face grew pinched. “Can you live without me?”
I felt as if I was falling into a well of grief from which I would
never emerge. I just looked at him, unable to speak.
After a long moment, he took that as my answer and stepped
backward, repelled by me. “Is that it then? I came all this way for
you to deny me?”
My heart cracked; I could only weep. My terrible choice was
carrying him away from me so swiftly, it took my breath away.
He watched me, his face hardening. “Well, then,” he said,
brushing the dust from his pants. “I can choose as well, Mother. I
don’t want to have anything to do with a bigamist mother, so go
back to your farm and your farmer.”
“Please don’t call me that, Ivar!”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? You knew you were probably still married
to Father, but you went ahead and married this man anyway.” By
now, he was weeping as well. “As if morality and laws and the
Church didn’t matter!”
“Ivar, please!”
 “Good-bye, Mother,” he said, his voice strangled. Then he turned
on his heel and headed back up the path toward town.
I sank to the ground, sobbing, as he walked out of my life. He
disappeared into the woods without even a backward glance.

I DON’T KNOW how I managed to stumble home after Ivar left me.
When I came through the door, the house was blessedly empty.
Anders had left a note: he and Jens were hunting up on the
tableland for prairie chicken and wouldn’t be home until supper.
I heated water for tea, then washed my dusty, tear-streaked face. I
put the packet of money Ivar had given me on the kitchen table,
then took my mug and sat outside in the soft afternoon light. I
thought of those early days when Birgitte and Jens and I held our
little school in the shade of the sod house, baby Tomas on my lap.
Did I have any idea back then how happy I was? What an
astonishing choice I made to give up my own children and come to
America with the Eriksens, yet it had saved my life. I was sure of it.
But at what cost?
And it wasn’t just about Ivar. It was also about Bob and Emma,
those children in the pictures. The children who had every right to
know me.
I stood and went to the window. Outside, the chickens bickered; a
yellow-headed blackbird perched on the well crank. My beautiful
prairie world. How much I would miss it.
Because I had to return to Norway. I wanted both: my life with
Anders and a life with my children. Before now I had never thought
it possible, but maybe it could be. The key to all of it was Torvald.

“WHERE IS YOUR COUSIN?” Anders said when he came in hours later. “I

thought for sure you would bring him home with you today. Did
you see him in town?”
Then he spied the envelope of cash on the table and picked it up.
“Good Lord,” he said, feeling the weight of it. “What is this, Nora?”
“It’s part of a legacy that was left for me a long time ago.”
“And Ivar brought it to you?”
 “Yes; that was the purpose for his visit. We had lunch and talked.
I tried to get him to come out here for a longer stay, but he wanted
to get back to Chicago. I think perhaps our life here was a bit too
rough for him.”
Anders listened to this with his head cocked to one side. “I’m
sorry to hear that. He seemed like a nice young man.” Then he
narrowed his eyes. “Did you say part of a legacy?”
“Yes, Anders. Please sit down.”
He took a seat, then picked up the envelope again and counted
the bills. “That’s a lot of money, Nora. Why did Ivar give it to you?”
“It’s complicated. Apparently, there was a legacy left for me
shortly after we immigrated to America. But as no one could nd
me in Norway, or any record of my leaving, they had me declared
dead, and the legacy passed to my cousin.”
“And Ivar’s come all this way to share it with you?”
“His mother sent him. Once she knew where I was, she felt it only
right.”
Anders fetched a glass of water for himself, then sat back down.
He suddenly had a wariness about him. “You said part of a legacy. Is
there more?”
“Yes, quite a bit more, at Nordlands Bank, in Kristiania. But I
would have to go back to claim it.”
His eyes grew wide. “You’re going back to Norway? Is that what
this money is for?”
Then, before I could answer, he leaned forward with another
question. “Did you know about this money? Did you ask your cousin
to send her son?”
“No, Anders. I had no idea there was a legacy, or that Ivar would
bring it to me.”
“Was this part of your husband’s estate?”
“What?” I struggled for a moment to remember how little Anders
understood of what was true. “No. He left me nothing.”
“Then who left you this money?”
I swallowed hard. “A gentleman in Kristiania.”
He pulled back, his eyes narrowing. Then he got up and walked
across the room and stood at the window, as if he couldn’t bear to
look at me.
“A gentleman, you say.”
“A doctor.”
Anders turned. “What was this man to you, Nora?”
“He was a friend, Anders. An elderly friend.”
“Why do I feel, Nora, as if I have no idea who you are all of a
sudden? Where are all these secrets coming from?”
“It’s not what you think, I swear to you. His name was Dr. Rank.
He was my husband’s physician and our friend. He was much older
than me. I was kind to him; that was all. By the time my husband
was gone, Dr. Rank was very ill with tuberculosis. I worked as his
companion toward the end, and he died a few months later.”
“Did he love you?”
“Oh, Anders, it was so long ago! Does it matter?”
“Did he love you, Nora? I need to understand.”
I sighed. “Yes, he probably did, but only from afar. I never
allowed it to be more.”
“Did he tell you he was leaving you money?”
“No, but he had no family.”
He stood considering me for a long moment. “So you are going
back.”
I held his gaze. Then I saw something that hadn’t been clear to me
before: I had to be as honest with Anders as I could. If I was to keep
Torvald a secret, everything else had to be true.
“Yes. This legacy could make a great di erence in our life,
Anders.”
He stepped away again, and it felt like he was slipping from my
grasp, just as Ivar had. It felt as if a ood was sweeping through my
life, taking everyone who mattered to me.
“I need to know, Nora—are there others you want to see, back in
Kristiania?”
“Yes, Anders, but please don’t ask me about them.” Tears rose in
my eyes. “Please! It will not help us!”
He looked at me from across the room, across the abyss. His face
grew sad. “If you return to Norway, you may never come back,
Nora. I don’t know who you still have in Norway, nor do I have any
idea why you were so desperate when I met you down near the
docks. But I know now that there is more you aren’t telling me.”
“There is,” I said, trying to keep from weeping. “Which is why I
need to go back. I need to settle these things and collect my money.
And then I will return, and we can have our life again. Our happy
life, Anders.”
He shook his head. “You could collect your money and make your
life there. I know you miss your cultivated world, and you probably
have old friends to return to.”
“Anders, my life is with you. I swear to you I will come back.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “I wish I could believe you,
Nora, but you leave me in the dark, so what am I to think?”
“Then come with me! There’s money enough for us both!” I said
this before thinking of the consequences, but I couldn’t bear the way
he was looking at me. As if he no longer trusted me.
“Back to Norway?” He shook his head. “I cannot return.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t dare, because I’d be engulfed by regret, Nora! For the
mountains, the elds, the hills. I would need to visit Inge’s grave
and go see my brother in Gudbrandsdalen. I might not be able to
leave again.”
“Do you feel that pull here, on our farm?”
“No, because I don’t indulge it. But in my heart I’m still
Norwegian. I’m split in half, Nora, and I’ll never be one again. It’s
the immigrant’s curse, I think.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
He looked at me. “You’re adaptable, Nora, like water—you
change to t any vessel. I am built of rock. It’s much harder to
reshape me.”
“Then if you won’t go with me, you must trust me to return.”
“It will depend on what’s in your heart.”
“You’re in my heart, Anders. You, the children, this farm.”
He considered me for a long moment. “I think you are unhappy
here, Nora. Your cousin’s son has kindled a longing in you; I can see
it in your eyes.”
“I am not unhappy here, Anders.”
 “But someone pulls you back,” he said, watching my face.
“Someone you love.”
“I need to settle something, Anders.”
“You can’t settle it from here?”
“No.” I put my head in my hands. “You have no idea what I’ve
given up.”
“Ah,” he said. Then he relented and sat down next to me. “I’m
sorry, Nora. This is just so bewildering. But you are free to do what
you must. I will not stand in your way.”
At that moment Jens came in from the barn, hungry and
unsuspecting. I rose and gathered dinner together, then put it on the
table. But I could barely eat.
After supper, I could not bear to sit with Anders and Jens as I
usually did. Instead, I slipped into bed. But sleep would not come.
When Anders later climbed in next to me, I curled up against his
warm back. “I’m sorry, Anders. I’m sorry I cannot tell you
everything yet.”
But he didn’t turn to me as he usually did. “I don’t like having
secrets between us, Nora.”
“Anders, please. I will explain it all when I return. There are
things I don’t understand, which is why I need to go back.”
“No doubt,” he said. “But if you return, you must be ready to tell
me everything, the complete truth. No more lies, Nora.” Then he
pulled away.
I turned toward the window, where the stars shone down like bits
of ice. The complete truth. He knew not what he asked.

A FEW WEEKS LATER, I left for Norway.

Anders took me to the train on a clear summer morning, helping
me aboard with a kiss, then waiting until the train chu ed out of
the station.
And so I journeyed back across America in the dust and soot of
the railcars to St. Paul, Chicago, Cleveland, and nally New York. I
spent a night there and bought some better clothes, including a hat
with a short veil. For my passage, I presented Inge Eriksen’s papers,
stamped when I immigrated as her back in 1881. On the ship I
traveled second class and kept to myself. I didn’t want to have to
explain who I was. Sitting on deck looking out over the Atlantic, I
remembered watching for icebergs with Jens, Tomas sleeping in my
lap. How innocent that time seemed to me now.
The ship sailed rst to Bremerhaven and then on to Norway. After
several weeks of travel, I stood at the rail once again as we steamed
up the Oslofjord in glittering sunlight.

I THOUGHT I KNEW KRISTIANIA, but when I stepped o the ship that

afternoon I found the city quite altered. The streets and
neighborhoods had been tidied up, and there were new stone
buildings where rows of humble houses used to stand. Aside from
the cityscape, there was also something di erent about the people, a
new con dence and boldness—the in uence from America, it
seemed. More money and the fresh winds of progress. The exodus
had become an exchange.
I pulled down my demi veil. It felt unnecessary, as no one who
knew me would believe this prairie woman could be the former
Nora Helmer. Still, I was supposed to be dead, so best to stay
hidden.
I checked into a small hotel and settled into a room lled with
gleaming furniture, velvet curtains, and brocade upholstery. I
walked about the room examining these luxuries. I had nearly
forgotten the feel of silk and down. But when I passed the window,
bright with sunlight, the room instantly felt claustrophobic. I went
back outside, heading down Karl Johans Gate and hoping I might
spot Bobby and Emma. The young were everywhere; I searched
their faces as I passed but with no luck.
The midsummer light lingered, and the co eehouses stayed open.
I found the bakery that sold those wonderful macaroons, but as I
gazed at the display case nostalgia washed over me, and in my
confusion I could only point. I sat at a table by the window and
tried to let my feelings settle as I watched the people outside. So
much was familiar—the language, the broad streets, the polite
parade—yet it felt strange and uncomfortable as well. I thought of
our spare world in Minnesota, where the beauty and drama lived in
the sky and the sweeping land, and ached with homesickness. I
nished my co ee and returned to the hotel, lonelier than I had
been in years.

THE NEXT MORNING I met with Mr. Paulsrud, Dr. Rank’s solicitor, a
man I had met years ago at several dinner parties but never knew
well. It was a risky step but necessary to learn the truth.
When I was ushered into his o ce, he gasped rst, then reached
out to shake my hand. “My God,” he whispered. “It is you. I can see
it, despite …” He stopped to regain his composure. “Forgive me,
Mrs. Helmer. I hoped Ivar would nd you, but, well, it’s a big
world.”
“Yes,” I said, sitting down. “I never thought one of my children
would show up in Minnesota, but I couldn’t be happier. Thank you
for helping him get to America. He’s traveling around for a bit
before deciding what to do next.”
“Of course. No doubt he told you about the legacy. I knew you’d
come if Ivar found you, as it’s quite a nice sum.” He smiled. “I’d
given up looking for you, especially as your husband was so little
help. They had you declared dead.”
“Yes, Ivar told me.”
“No one knew you’d gone to America, including the authorities.”
He raised his eyebrows. “It was quite puzzling. And then Ivar
showed up and solved the mystery.”
“I had to ee Kristiania, as Mr. Helmer was threatening me. I
went to America on another woman’s ticket, on her papers. In fact,
I’m traveling on her papers now.”
“Now?”
“Because, Mr. Paulsrud, no one must know I am here.”
“And why is that, Mrs. Helmer?”
“Because I am no longer Mrs. Helmer. I’m Mrs. Eriksen. I married
in America. The papers I carry are those of Inge Eriksen, who died
as her family started their emigration journey. They were from
Gudbrandsdalen. She had just borne a son, and her husband hired
me to care for the child and let me travel on her ticket. And then,
some years later, I married him.”
His mouth opened with surprise; I had rendered him speechless.
“And I need to know when Mr. Helmer had our marriage
dissolved,” I continued, “because when I married Mr. Eriksen, I
didn’t know the precise date.”
He shook his head quickly for a moment, as if repulsed by
something. “This is all quite astonishing, Mrs., ah, Eriksen. But let
me see; I think I have a copy of the death decree in the le, but …”
He pushed some papers around on his desk in agitation, then gave
me a look of rebuke. “Why in God’s name did you marry someone
else when you were married to Mr. Helmer?”
“I didn’t think I was married to Mr. Helmer,” I said evenly,
though my stomach tightened into a knot. “He said he would get a
divorce, and there was little Mr. Helmer put his mind to that he
didn’t achieve.”
“But he never asked for a divorce, Mrs. Eriksen. As you are still
alive, you’re still married to Mr. Helmer!” Mr. Paulsrud jumped up
and started pacing behind his desk. “Oh, this is complicated, very
complicated.” He opened a le drawer, peered at the labels, then
pulled out an envelope. “Here, this is your death decree, null and
void, as you sit here before me in perfect health.”
My hands shook as I took it, scanning quickly. It was dated
November 1885. Two years after I married Anders.
“Well, perhaps we can just let it lie, Mr. Paulsrud,” I said, smiling
as if none of this worried me. “I will just take my legacy and return
to America. No one needs to be the wiser.”
He coughed into his handkerchief. “Mrs. Eriksen, I don’t think you
understand. The truth is, to claim Dr. Rank’s legacy, you must
appear before a judge and provide evidence that you are who you
profess to be. And then everyone will be the wiser.” He gave me a
pointed look. “Not just me.”
“Is this an issue of the law or the Church?”
“The state would charge you with bigamy, Mrs. Eriksen.” His face
grew stern. “If the authorities here in Kristiania knew you were
alive, they would no doubt arrest you.”
Awful words again—arrest and criminal, now bigamy. Somehow, I
was always outside the law.
“Well, I didn’t come all the way from Minnesota to be arrested in
Kristiania, Mr. Paulsrud. If my claim to this legacy jeopardizes my
freedom, then I will let it pass to my children.”
He sat staring at me for a long moment. “You would return to
America, back to your bigamous marriage.”
I lifted my chin, in a way I hadn’t done for years. “Mr. Paulsrud,
what I do in America is no business of yours. I will disappear and
never set foot in this country again.”
He blinked a few times, then pawed through his papers again.
“Well, then, of course, but … there might be a fee for, well …” He
gave me a sharp look. “For securing my con dence.”
“Excuse me?”
“So that no one would ever know you appeared in my o ce in
June of 1889.”
My heart sank. Blackmailed once again. “Of course,” I said. “How
much would that be?”
“Well, Mrs. Eriksen, con dences are not cheap.”
I sighed. “No, I’m sure they are not.”
“Come back later in the week, and I’ll have it worked out. And
keep your head down. No one must recognize you.” He smiled now.
No doubt, this was the most interesting thing that had happened to
him in months.
Then he pulled a small envelope from the le. “From your friend
Rank,” he said with a salacious glance, as if he understood all about
me and Dr. Rank.
I slipped the letter into my bag, ghosts rising all around me.

ONCE OUTSIDEI lowered my veil and sought the comfort of the little
co eehouse. I ordered macaroons, then retreated to a table in the
back and opened the letter.
 Dearest Nora: Although you would never let me say it again, you
know I always loved you. Now that you’re in such di cult
circumstances, I hope this legacy will allow you to put sweets in
your pocket and share your life with your children without having to
beg from Torvald.
In deepest gratitude, Dr. Rank

I closed my eyes, overcome. How di erent my life might have

been if I had known he was leaving me this legacy! My children, my
station, everything lost when I left for America. And it would have
helped just to know he tried to take care of me. How much had I
needed to know, back then, that I was loved.
I sat for a long time thinking of him and how I still missed his
puckish humor and warm attention. No one had ever listened to me
quite like Dr. Rank.
I walked to the cemetery and consulted the ledger in the
guardhouse. When I found his grave, I knelt down, whispered my
thanks, and tucked the last macaroon under the leaves against his
stone.

AFTER MEETING with Mr. Paulsrud, I considered my alternatives. It

would be safest to board the next ship back to America, but I
couldn’t bear to be this close to Bobby and Emma and not try to see
them. I decided I would appear at Torvald’s door on Sunday after
church. He would be shocked and angry, no doubt, but I would
make him understand that we must work together. His marriage was
just as illegal as mine.
Sunday dawned cloudy and cool. I woke up jumpy as a squirrel,
so I walked to the harbor to clear my head. I could see Vika in the
distance, looking smaller, as if the authorities had winnowed it
down. I wondered if Tobias was still in Kristiania but had no idea
how to nd him. Those days in the rooming house, so full of talk
and company, now seemed like little more than a gment of my
imagination.
 I was drawn to the water, so I walked out a long pier and gazed
down the fjord. Anders felt closer, as if he was just over the horizon.
I stood there a long time, the wind whipping up the spray.
By the time I headed to Torvald’s, the sun was peeking out. I
found the house, and when a servant opened the door, I told him
my name was Nora Solberg. His brow furrowed as he tried to place
me and nally went to check.
I trembled, with both fear and excitement. The door opened
again, and there was Torvald, so much the same it was as if his
world had stood still while the rest of us had gone tumbling
forward.
He uttered a cynical laugh. “Why, Nora, it is you. Not a new
washerwoman after all. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Ivar
found you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he showed up in our village in Minnesota.”
Torvald stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
Apparently, I was too dangerous to invite inside.
“Did Ivar come back with you?” he asked.
“No. He’s traveling around America. He had no interest in staying
at our farm with us.”
“You live on a farm? That’s quite, well …” His hands ailed as he
tried to nd words. “Remarkable, I must say; I can’t believe you
would be much help on a farm.”
“Torvald, being married to you was the only time in my life I had
little purpose. Since then I’ve lived through things you could
scarcely imagine. And they have made me strong.”
He smiled bitterly. “You boast, Nora.”
“Hardly. You’ve no idea.”
His smile faded, a hint of steel rising in his eye as he registered
my seriousness. “What do you want, Nora?”
“To see Bob and Emma.”
“That’s impossible. They think you’re dead.”
“Bob doesn’t. Ivar said he told him the truth before he left.”
Torvald glared at me. “I don’t want to quibble with you, Nora.
You have no right to see them, and I won’t allow it. It would upset
them terribly. Bob may believe you are alive, but he certainly isn’t
expecting you to pop up at the dinner table.”
I realized something: Torvald was afraid of me, afraid that I
would disrupt his perfect world. I had power over him again, at long
last.
“I thought you might try to block me, Torvald, so consider this. If
you won’t let me see the children, I’ll authorize Mr. Paulsrud to tell
the court I’m alive. Once I’m safely out of Norway, that is. You
could be arrested for bigamy, as you’ve known all along I was in
America.”
His face hardened, but his hands started to twitch, as if he had a
palsy. “You would destroy my life? Haven’t you done enough
damage already?”
“I don’t mean to destroy your life, Torvald, but I must see the
children. They’re older; let them decide.”
“My wife is pregnant, Nora. It would be a great shock to her; it
could endanger the child.”
“Then let me tell you this, as a peace o ering, so you’ll know I’m
not trying to ruin your life. I’ve remarried as well and have two
stepchildren.”
His brow crinkled. “When?”
“After you had me declared dead,” I said, twisting the truth a bit.
“I went to see Mr. Paulsrud.”
“So you claimed your adulterous legacy?”
“Torvald, don’t dishonor Dr. Rank that way, or me. There was
never anything between us, and you know that.”
“Well, Nora, all I can tell you is that his will—when it was read in
court—was deeply humiliating to me. You have no idea what
Kristiania thinks of you.”
“Kristiania must continue to think I’m dead, Torvald. I trust you
can keep your wife and the children quiet, as the truth jeopardizes
all of us. Mr. Paulsrud has agreed to keep my visit con dential, for a
fee, and I will give up the legacy. It will pass straight to the
children.”
His eyes narrowed. “It could be quite di cult for you if the
townspeople in Minnesota—or the Lutheran Church—discovered
you were married to two people.”
“We share that shame, Torvald, you and I. Don’t forget that.”
He glared at me for a long moment, and then something inside
him seemed to give.
“Let me see them, Torvald, just for a few minutes. That’s all I ask.
I beg you.”
He looked away, his jaw working. “I don’t like it, Nora. But I
suppose Emma should know that you are alive. It might do her good
to meet you, to see what you are.” He scowled. “But I need time to
talk with the children, and my wife. Tomorrow would be better.”
I suddenly had a vision of the police waiting for me if I let him
delay. “No, Torvald. Today. Now.”
He grumbled but yielded, escorting me into the parlor, then
disappearing out the door. I looked around. The house was much
larger than the apartment we had shared all that time ago, and the
room was handsomely furnished—Torvald had done well. There was
my old piano against the far wall, with the paintings of Italy above
it. The drapes were a dusky blue silk, the armchairs luxurious,
tasseled. A woman’s touch.
The door creaked. I turned, and there was Bobby, my sweet boy.
He stopped. “Is it really you?” he said, his voice thick with
feeling. He had grown up dark like his father, all curly hair and
hungry eyes.
“Yes, darling.”
He stared at me. “Tell me something only you and I know.”
“Ivar threw a stone at me once.”
He went pale. “Yes,” he whispered. “That was the last time I saw
you.”
I held out my arms. He hesitated, then nally stepped into my
embrace, leaning against me like a falling tree. “Mother!” he said,
and it sounded like a sob.
“I’m so very glad to see you again, Bobby. So glad.”
We stood that way for a long minute, forgetting all else.
When I looked up, Emma was standing in the doorway, her chin
tucked as she eyed me suspiciously.
 I didn’t approach her, but I smiled. “Hello, Emma. How you’ve
grown! But you still look as I remember you.”
She said nothing and walked sti y to the sofa, where she perched
on the edge. Torvald sat down beside her like a protective hawk.
She was dressed in layers of white cotton trimmed with lace, her
blond curls tied back with lilac ribbons. An image of Birgitte at this
age ashed in my mind—competent, knowing, clad in her
homespun skirt, the baby on her hip. I wasn’t sure what to make of
this girl-child before me, so alien and yet once so dear.
“Emma, don’t be rude,” Bob said. “Say hello to your mother.” He
brought me a chair and plunked down on the oor by my knee. I
couldn’t help but smile at him. My boy, restored to me. It was
overwhelming.
“Hello,” Emma nally said, though there was little welcome in
her face. She clasped her hands in her lap, her knuckles white.
“My wife will not be coming down, Nora; I’m sure you
understand,” Torvald said. He meant that I was too sullied to be
introduced to her, but I didn’t care because I was with my precious
children, even if one of them was scowling at me.
To break the ice, I pulled out a package wrapped in tissue. “This
is for you, Emma. I was embroidering it when I had to leave home. I
always hoped to give it to you someday.”
“A present for me?” She relaxed a bit and reached for it.
“Yes, in a way.”
She unwrapped the package—it was the small owered cap I had
carried with me for years. She examined it, then gave me a quizzical
look. “It’s so small. Is it for a doll?”
“It was for you, originally. I thought you might want it. To keep
for when you have a child of your own. I’ve kept it close to me all
these years to remember you.”
She turned it over in her hand. “How old was I when you left?”
“Just two. A toddler, but you were already talking a torrent.”
She looked at the cap again and shivered slightly, like an animal
that smells the hunter. Then she ung it to the oor. “I don’t want
it!”
 “Now, Emma,” said Torvald. He picked up the cap and turned to
me with a triumphant gleam in his eye.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Papa. But I don’t understand!” She
glared at me. “How could you leave a baby? How could a mother do
such a thing?”
I looked at her with sympathy, but I wasn’t sure what to say. “It
was complicated, Emma, but it never meant I didn’t love you.”
“It might’ve been one thing if you had died—that made sense to
me. But this, this coming back from the dead! As if you have any
right to be alive!” She jumped up and turned to Torvald. “May I be
excused? Please, Papa.”
Torvald squeezed her hand. “Of course, my pet.” She bowed
brie y in my direction, the slightest nod of the head, just enough to
register her manners. Then she ran from the room.
“Well, Nora, I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Torvald said.
“Don’t be o ended, Mother,” said Bob. “She doesn’t like
surprises.”
“I’m not o ended. I knew this rst meeting would be hard.”
“This will be the only meeting, Nora,” said Torvald, standing up.
“It’s been quite a shock for her, learning you’re alive. I think you’ve
tortured her enough.”
“I should have waited until she was old enough to understand.”
“It would’ve made little di erence, Nora. She’s never known you
and apparently has no inclination to correct that. I’m surprised you
expected more.” He stepped to the door. “I should see to Emma.
Bob, we have an appointment at half past.”
“Yes, Father,” Bob said.
The door closed. I looked at him, my darling boy, so tall and
strong.
“Did Ivar nd you, Mother? Is he living with you now?”
“Yes, he did nd me. In the town where I live, out on the prairie.
It’s a beautiful farm, with horses and pigs and cows and chickens.”
“A farm? We visited one once, one summer. Up in the mountains.
It was very, well, very poor. Do you milk the cows?”
“I do milk the cows sometimes. I live there with a nice farmer and
his two children who are a little older than you.”
 His brow furrowed. “Are you a servant to them?”
I laughed. “No. We all share the work. We are servants to each
other.”
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t understand such a world, but
then he smiled. “I’d like to see it, Mother. I’d like to come visit and
see Ivar.”
“Well, Ivar must not have liked it much because he didn’t stay. I
think he’s gone to Chicago, which is a big city on a lake so large it
looks like the ocean.”
“Still, I’d like to come to America and see you again.”
I didn’t know quite what to tell him. “I’m not sure your father
would allow it.”
“He didn’t allow Ivar, but Ivar found a way to go.”
“Maybe you should go to university here in Norway rst, Bob,
then come to America later, when you are on your own.”
He nodded, then looked at me wistfully. “But will I ever see you
again, Mother? It’s a bit rough on a boy to see his mother for a few
minutes, then never again.” He looked down and scu ed at the rug
with the toe of his boot. “Since Ivar told me you were alive, I’ve
been hoping you would come back to Norway and live here, where
you belong. This is your home, Mother, isn’t it?”
I sat back. “Oh, Bobby, I wish I could stay here in Norway, but I
cannot. It makes me very sad because I’d like to be near you and
Emma, but this isn’t my home anymore. I have responsibilities back
in Minnesota.”
“Can’t they hire someone to milk the cows?”
“Darling, it’s much more complicated than that. But this doesn’t
mean we won’t see each other again,” I reassured him. “Either you
will come to America, or I will come back to Norway again, when
you are older. I promise.”
“How will I nd you in America?”
“Ivar will know where I am. He will tell you.”
He nodded again, then frowned. “I’m sorry about Emma, Mother.
She has no memories to help her. Besides, she’s very fond of Papa.”
“Maybe it’s better she has no interest in me. It’s my fault, not
hers.”
 “I was angry with you, too, because you didn’t look sick when we
saw you in the park, so I didn’t understand why you couldn’t come
home. But then Papa said you died, and I cried for a week because I
hadn’t believed you.” His face darkened. “How could you leave us,
Mama? I just don’t understand!”
“I can’t explain it right now because it’s a long and grown-up
story. But when I see you again, I’ll explain everything, and I hope
someday you can forgive me. It never meant I didn’t love you or
want to be with you. Please know that!”
Tears rose in his eyes. “I forgive you, Mama. Even if I don’t
understand.”
I kissed his cheeks and rumpled his hair. He wrapped his arms
around me, and I pressed my head against his.
The door creaked again. “It’s time for you to go, Nora,” said
Torvald. “Your visit has upset Emma considerably.”
I gave Bob one last hug, then took Emma’s cap and put it back in
my bag. It had meaning only for me.
Torvald handed me my wrap and guided me out the door. On the
step, I turned. “I told Bobby I would return to Norway, which I will
do when they are a little older. I hope Emma will consent to see me
again someday.”
“I cannot stop the boys from chasing after you, but I can stop
Emma. She’s an obedient girl. She has a sweetness she didn’t get
from you.”
“Well, there must be some shred of rebel in her, Torvald, as she is
my child.”
Now he gazed at me for a long moment. “I would never have
recognized you, Nora; you’re so brown and weathered.”
I laughed. “Everyone on the prairie is brown and weathered, and
it doesn’t matter. My husband loves me deeply, and we work well
together. We have a true marriage of equals.”
“You mean a marriage of inferiors. You married a farmer from the
hills of Norway, and there you’ve found your level. Your father must
be turning in his grave.”
I looked at him. How stunted he was, how tight and small-
minded. I would have to wait to bring my children back into my
life, but now I had hope, a tiny ame I could nurture and grow.
They had seen me; they knew I lived.

I RETURNED to the solicitor’s o ce to ensure that the legacy went to

the children uncontested as soon as each reached their majority,
shaving o a considerable chunk to secure Mr. Paulsrud’s
con dence. I also left my address in his folder, so that the children
could nd me in the future if they cared to do so. Then I bought
myself a return ticket for America.
The next day I took a hansom cab to the wharf. As we bumped
across Kristiania, I wondered how this familiar terrain could now
feel so foreign to me—the broad esplanade, the Akershus Fortress,
the green hills, and beautiful fjord. But it didn’t sadden me. The
American West was big enough to accept an outcast like me, and I
was grateful.
I didn’t need Norway anymore.
 CHAPTER TWENTY

SOLVI
May 1919 Kristiania, Norway

The morning after the scu e with Dominik’s brother, Solvi woke up
to a sharp knock on her bedroom door.
“Miss Lange!” It was Matron.
Solvi climbed wearily out of bed, her body aching and her head
heavy. She cracked the door.
Matron thrust a telegram at her. “This came early. I hope no one
has died,” she said, as if that might be Solvi’s fault.
“Thank you, Matron.” Solvi said, her heart beginning to race. She
shut the door and ripped the telegram open.

Saw newspaper yesterday; very alarmed. You must be desperate for

money. Am giving you a legacy. Go to Nordlands Bank and see
solicitor Munk. Please quit photo shop, newspaper, and friends who
led you astray. Mother

Solvi sank back into bed, clutching the telegram. A legacy? Who
could have left a legacy, and why would her mother have hidden
such a thing from her? For a moment Solvi wondered if it was even
true, then shook the thought out of her head. If not, why would her
mother send her to Nordlands Bank?
She rose and began to dress. She would go to the bank but only
because she was tired of mysteries, tired of not understanding her
maddening family. And if there were no answers there, then perhaps
she would give up trying to nd out what happened. She would put
a black border around the photo of her grandfather’s family and
tuck it away for good.
AT THE BANK, Solvi asked for Mr. Munk. A few minutes later, a rotund
little man bustled toward her across the lobby.
“Miss Lange, it’s a pleasure,” said Mr. Munk, ushering her into his
o ce. “I was quite surprised to get the telegram from your mother
about the trust this morning. I had hoped to meet her, but she has
signed everything over to you, so I suppose she won’t be coming in.”
“She lives in Bergen,” Solvi said, taking a seat, more mysti ed
than ever.
“Yes, well, that’s not a problem; I have the documents I need,”
Mr. Munk said. “So, Miss Lange, do you know anything about this
trust?”
“No, Mr. Munk. This is all a surprise. I didn’t even know there
was a trust.”
“Well, it’s an old trust, which I took over from the original
trustee, Mr. Paulsrud, several years after your uncles were given
their shares when they came of age in 1889 and 1891. I’ve waited
thirty years for your mother to claim her portion.”
Solvi leaned forward. “My uncles were given shares in 1889 and
1891? They were alive then?”
“Yes, apparently, but that was many years ago, Miss Lange, before
you were born.” He coughed. “Perhaps I should start at the
beginning.”
“Please. Who is the legacy from?”
“A Dr. Theodor Rank, a friend of your grandparents, left this
legacy for your grandmother Nora Helmer when he died in
November of 1880. The legacy was written so that, if not claimed by
your grandmother, it would pass equally to Ivar and Robert, your
uncles, and Emma, your mother.”
Solvi watched him intently. All of this con rmed what she had
discovered.
“This was unusual,” he said, glancing at her. “At that time,
bequests to women normally became part of the husband’s estate
and bequests to children were managed by their father. This legacy
purposefully blocked that.”
“Why would Dr. Rank have written the legacy that way?”
 “Miss Lange, I do not speculate about such things. Clearly, Dr.
Rank meant to keep the legacy out of the hands of your grandfather
Torvald Helmer.” Solvi’s chest tightened. She thought of the police
report; something bad must have happened.
Mr. Munk picked up another document. “Apparently, your
grandmother Mrs. Helmer refused the legacy when she visited the
bank in 1889. That is why it passed down to her children and,
because your mother has refused her share, on to you.”
Solvi nearly came out of her chair. “My grandmother was here in
1889, here at this bank?”
“According to this record, yes.” Now Mr. Munk picked up another
document. “But this is the complicated part. Look at this, Miss
Lange.” He pushed a death certi cate before her. Nora Helmer, born
in Hamar, Norway, 1850, declared dead by court order, November
1885.
“Yes, I found that in the parish records,” Solvi said. “But if your
records show she was here in 1889, that would mean the death
decree had it wrong. That she was still alive!”
Mr. Munk shu ed the papers about and extracted a handwritten
note. “Yes, and this is what explains it,” he said. “It’s a memo from
Mr. Paulsrud, dated June 23, 1889.”
He started reading out loud. “To Whom It May Concern: Nora
Helmer appeared in my o ce, alive and well on this day. She has
been living in Lac qui Parle, Minnesota, since leaving Norway in
1881 and is married to a Norwegian farmer named Anders Eriksen.
She says she married Mr. Eriksen in America after she was declared
dead by the courts in Kristiania in 1885.”
Mr. Munk couldn’t help looking up at Solvi for an instant, his face
clouded with rebuke; then he continued reading.
“Mrs. Helmer/Eriksen reported to me that when she left Norway
in 1881, she traveled on the papers and ticket issued to Mr.
Eriksen’s rst wife, Inge Eriksen, from Gudbrandsdalen, who had
recently died. Mrs. Helmer/Eriksen said she had traveled back to
Norway in this year, 1889, still using Inge Eriksen’s documents.
“These facts presented a problem, in that Mrs. Helmer was never
divorced from Mr. Helmer. If the state knew she was alive, she
would still be considered married to him. We discussed the
implications of this, and she agreed to let the legacy pass directly to
her children rather than claim it in court, which would have alerted
the authorities. For my assistance and con dence, she agreed to a
consultation fee of 300 crowns. My understanding is she returned to
America as soon as possible on Inge Eriksen’s papers.”
Solvi stared at him. “Does this mean she was married to two
people at the same time?”
Mr. Munk took o his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
“Apparently, Miss Lange.”
Solvi sat back, suddenly unable to breathe. A grandmother with
two husbands? Hysteria, prostitution, that whi of revolution, and
now—bigamy? Her head swam. Yet a hope kindled inside her;
perhaps this strange, confounding grandmother was alive, alive and
living in Minnesota!
Mr. Munk pulled out other documents. “And here’s a notice that
your grandfather Torvald Helmer changed his family name to
Fallesen, by court order in 1891, and moved to Bergen.” He shook
his head. “Little wonder.” Then he glanced at Solvi with an odd
smirk on his lips. “Quite the story, isn’t it, miss?”
“Excuse me?” Solvi said, heat rising in her face.
He coughed again. “Beg your pardon.” He pushed things around
on his desk. “Now if you’ll just sign these papers, Miss Lange, we
can transfer the remainder of the legacy into an account for you
here at the bank.”
Solvi signed where he indicated, then noticed the amount. “This
can’t be right,” she said. “This is much too much.”
But Mr. Munk just muttered something about investments in
sawmills and the need for lumber during the war. “You are a
wealthy young lady, Miss Lange,” he said. “I would be happy to
discuss investment opportunities with you if you would like.”
Solvi blinked at him. “Could I come back later to talk about
investments? I need to think about all this.”
“Of course. Understandable.” With that, he slapped the folder
shut. “That completes the disbursement of Dr. Rank’s legacy. Thank
you for coming in.”
 Solvi stood up but instantly felt faint and had to grab the chair
back. What a relief it was that her mother had not been present for
this, the reading of legal documents detailing her grandmother’s
scandalous behavior.
Then Solvi understood. Her mother already knew, knew all of it,
and had probably known for a long time. That was why she hadn’t
come. It would have shattered her to hear it discussed by the likes
of Mr. Munk.
For the rst time in months, Solvi felt a surge of sympathy for
her.
“Are you all right, Miss Lange?” Mr. Munk asked.
She pulled herself together and lifted her chin. “Of course. I am
ne.”

SOLVI FOUND RIKKA in the library.

“Where have you been?” Rikka whispered. “Matron said you got a
telegram before breakfast.”
“I’ve been at Nordlands Bank,” Solvi said, dragging Rikka upstairs
so they could talk in private. As soon as they closed the door of her
room, Solvi pulled out the telegram and handed it to Rikka. “It was
about a legacy originally left for my grandmother, but now it’s
mine.”
Rikka scanned the telegram. “This was Nora’s legacy? The woman
they thought was hysterical, that consorted with radicals, that got
her head shaved?”
Solvi started to smile. “Yes, and she may be alive.”
Rikka shook her head. “But if she’s alive, why do you get the
legacy? Isn’t it hers?”
“It’s complicated. And, honestly, Rikka, it’s a sordid tale.”
“Well, let’s look at the facts. Where is she living? Do you know
that?”
“Well, she immigrated to America, to a place called Lac qui Parle
in Minnesota.”
Rikka stared at her. “Minnesota?”
 “Yes. And she married a Norwegian farmer after she got over
there. In fact, it appears she made the passage with this farmer.”
“But she was a lady.”
Solvi nodded. “Yes, but that’s the least of it.” Rikka sat down.
“The least of it?”
“Yes. So my grandmother Nora must have left her family, the ones
in the photograph, when my mother was very young, probably soon
after the picture was taken. And it sounds like Nora may have gone
to live with another man, a gentleman. The money in the legacy is
from him, a Dr. Rank. He left his money for Nora when he died. He
would have been quite a bit older than her.”
Rikka’s eyebrows rose, but she said nothing.
“Later, Nora immigrated to Minnesota and eventually married the
farmer. The only problem was that when she married him, she was
still married to my grandfather back here.”
Rikka’s mouth dropped open. “You mean she’s a, a bigamist? Oh,
Solvi!”
“Yes, it’s all quite scandalous,” Solvi sighed. “But it makes so
much sense now, the way my grandfather condemned people for
moral lapses, the way my mother didn’t seem to care whether her
mother was still alive. It explains the big void and the name change,
everything.” Solvi suddenly wished she had known and understood
all this while her grandfather was alive, while they were all still
together. She would have tried to be a better granddaughter.
“How much is the legacy, Solvi?”
“Enough; no, more than enough. Plenty,” Solvi said. “It’s all such
a shock.” She sank onto her bed, holding her head in her hands. “So
much has happened in the last few weeks, everything’s jumbled in
my brain. Writing about the Forgotten One, taking the pictures of
the prostitutes, now my grandmother’s scandal …” Suddenly Solvi
went still, very still. Something was rattling around in her head,
something trying to come together.
She looked at Rikka. “Oh, my. Could it be?”
“What?”
“Rikka, could my grandmother be the Forgotten One? She left her
husband and children in about 1880; then she vanished!”
 Rikka’s eyes grew wide. “Is that possible? Look at your notes.
What do you know about the Forgotten One?”
Solvi pawed through her bag and pulled out her notebook. “Let’s
see … At the talk we heard that she was the wife of a gentleman,
had seven children … But my grandmother had only three.”
“Well, three gets exaggerated in the public imagination into
seven. Makes her seem more of a witch, leaving behind seven
inconsolable children,” Rikka said. “Ignore that. What else do you
know?”
“That she left her family in about 1880 and tried to nd work.
Then from the newspaper articles, I know that the feminist Aasta
Hansteen took up her cause at a public lecture, which turned into a
riot. Then from Professor Wol I learned that she would have lost
her place in society, become classless, would have had a grim time
trying to nd work, that she probably left Kristiania to escape her
scandal. Then, from the daughter of her nurse, I learned that she
was born in Hamar, that her nurse was named Anne-Marie …” And
then Solvi stopped.
Anne-Marie. Her mother had said, I was raised by my nurse, Anne-
Marie …
Solvi jumped up. “I know how to solve it. I’ll be back!”

PROFESSOR WOLFF was just locking his o ce door when Solvi ran up,
out of breath. “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said. “Do you have
a minute?”
“Miss Lange! What is it?”
“I have to talk to you—show you something.” She opened her
purse, pulled out the photograph of her grandmother’s family, and
handed it to him.
He glanced at it, then looked at Solvi with a tender smile.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Yes, that’s her, your Forgotten One.”
“But that’s my grandmother!”
“I know,” said Professor Wol .
 “How could you possibly know?”
“I knew the rst day you came by my o ce. That’s why I told you
her story.”
Solvi’s head swam. “I’m sorry. It’s been a di cult day. Which
story?”
He unlocked his o ce door. “Here. Come in,” he said, pulling o
his coat and o ering Solvi a chair.
She sat down. “Do you mean the story of your friend who taught
you to sew?”
“Yes. Remember I told you how much you reminded me of her,
the well-educated and mannered lady? I knew then that you were
probably her granddaughter, as you looked so much like her. The
part about being from Bergen threw me at rst, but the longer you
talked, the more I could see it: the tilt of your head, your eyes, your
gestures. And then, just as you left, you said your family had been
from Kristiania before you were born.”
Solvi listened, then shook her head again. “But when did you
realize she was the Forgotten One?”
“Oh, well, I’ve always known that. She and I went together to the
talk by Aasta Hansteen that turned into a riot. I helped her escape.”
Solvi stared at him. “I’m confused. Miss Olsen, the daughter of the
woman who was nurse to her children, she said the Forgotten One
was a Mrs. Solberg. My grandmother was Nora Helmer.”
“Solberg was her maiden name; she used it after she left your
grandfather.”
Solvi shook her head. “But you made it sound like she wasn’t real.
Why on earth didn’t you tell me? Why haven’t you told other
people?”
He put his ngertips together. “I wanted you to nd out on your
own, because that’s how you’ll become a better historian, Miss
Lange. As for why I haven’t told anyone else? That’s because she
swore me to secrecy.”
“When?”
“The day before the police raided our rooming house, back in
1881.” He looked at Solvi for a long moment. “I’m only telling you
now, Miss Lange, because I know how much she would want you to
nd her.”
Something welled up in Solvi, a great surge of longing, something
that could sweep her away. “But my grandmother has had such a,
well, such a compromised life, it’s hard to …”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s been challenging for her. She was trying
desperately to get out of Norway when I last saw her because her
husband threatened to commit her to an insane asylum.”
Solvi sucked in a breath. “My grandfather was not a bad man,
Professor Wol . Stubborn, yes, and very old-fashioned, but he must
have loved her. Why would he threaten to commit her?”
“Because she refused to return home to her marriage, and she
kept trying to see her children. She would wait for them in the park
and on the street. One of them threw a stone at her once. It was an
untenable situation.”
In a ash Solvi could see her grandfather, bearish, desperate,
trying to hold on to his wife, trying to protect his children. “Do you
think she was insane?”
He shook his head. “Heavens, no. She was one of the sanest
people I knew. I suspect your grandfather thought the threat of the
asylum would force her home.”
“I found in the police records that she was picked up in a raid on
the rooming house. Were you there that night? Were you one of the
anarchists?”
He cocked his head. “You went through the police records from
back then?”
“Well, I paid a policeman to do it.”
“Impressive, Miss Lange. I was there, though I wouldn’t say I was
an anarchist. The police clubbed me on the head, so I don’t
remember much. That was the last time I saw her.”
“The police report said she refused to inform on the students from
the rooming house. They shaved her head, then released her to my
grandfather.”
“They shaved her head?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Those thugs!”
He turned away, lost for a moment. “She had the most beautiful
golden hair.”
 “Maybe you can help me understand something. I don’t know
what happened to her that night,” Solvi said. “The police record said
she was released into the protection of her husband, but instead of
going home with him she seems to have disappeared.”
“I doubt she went home with him, as she might never have gotten
free again. No, I suspect she made a deal with your grandfather. She
planned to leave on a boat the next morning for America.”
“With the farmer,” Solvi said.
“Yes. How do you know that?”
She told him brie y of the legacy, the memo from Mr. Paulsrud,
the death decree, and the complications of her grandmother’s
remarriage. Solvi didn’t use the word bigamy, but she didn’t have to.
He listened with astonishment, then chuckled. “I tried to dissuade
her from going with this farmer, as they were headed to a primitive
homestead out on the prairie. I thought it extremely risky, but
apparently it worked out ne.” He shook his head.
“Except for her children; I would think it impossible to leave one’s
children,” Solvi said, her voice cracking. “Do you know if she loved
them?”
He gave her another tender look. “Oh, yes, Miss Lange. It was her
greatest sorrow, that she had to leave them to save herself. In the
beginning she hoped her husband would let her keep the children in
the summers or see them on Sundays, but he forbade all of that. He
thought it better for them to think she had died. And he had the law
on his side, after all. She nally realized she had to bow out of their
lives and allow them to grow up in peace, and the best way to do
that was to go to America.”
He shook his head again. “When the rest of us were released the
week after the raid, your grandmother was gone. The landlady said
she had returned, retrieved her bag, and walked o in a homespun
skirt with a shawl over her head. I’ve always thought of her that
way, walking into the unknown dressed as a farmwife. It was so
di erent from her usual elegance, a measure of how much she had
given up.”
He gazed at the photograph again. “She was such a beauty, and
those children. Look how they settle into her, as if they lived in her
lap. How hard it must have been for all of them.”
Solvi closed her eyes. Grief lled her chest, pushing the air from
her lungs. She looked at the professor. “Is it possible to miss
someone you never knew?”
“Ah,” he said, with a wise smile. “Grief gets handed down, Miss
Lange. I suspect a world of it got handed to you, as much as they
may have tried to protect you.”
Solvi looked away for a moment. A resolution was forming in her
mind. “I need to go to America to nd her.”
“How would you do that, Miss Lange?”
“Magnus Clemmensen helped me put an advertisement in a
Norwegian newspaper published in Chicago, the Skandinaven. We
used this photograph and asked for information about the people
pictured. Apparently, the paper is read by Norwegians all over
America. I’m desperately hoping she sees it and responds.”
“Also impressive, Miss Lange.”
“And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just go to the town in Minnesota
where she settled with the farmer. They are probably still there.”
“You should try to nd her, and soon,” he said. “She’s old now, in
her seventies. She won’t live forever.”
Solvi nodded, thinking. “Have you read my essay, Professor
Wol ?”
“Yes. Nicely done. I gave it a strong mark.”
“I might submit it to Dagbladet. I could solve the mystery of the
Forgotten One.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Or perhaps your
grandmother should write her own story, Miss Lange—all of it. Why
she left, where she went, how she survived.”
Solvi’s eyes went wide. “Yes, but …” She hesitated. “She’s so,
well, compromised, isn’t she? There’s so much about her history …”
Professor Wol leaned forward. “Don’t you see, Miss Lange? She
was a true rebel! It didn’t matter to her what the law or the Church
said. She told me once she did everything for love, for reasons
women would understand. I suspect that’s how she ended up on the
prairie married to a farmer when she was still married to your
grandfather.”
 “So she wasn’t a prostitute or an anarchist or some kind of
lunatic?”
“No. Those were things other people said about her because they
didn’t understand.” He looked away, wistful. “I’m glad she found
someone worthy of her love. I always thought I might go to America
and try to nd her, but I couldn’t leave my obligations here.”
Solvi stood. “Thank you, Professor. I can’t tell you what this
means to me.”
He handed her his card. “Please, if you see her, ask her to write to
me. I’ve missed her these many years.”

WHEN SOLVI RETURNED to the study house, Rikka and Magnus were
huddled in the front hall.
Magnus took Solvi’s hand. “Are you all right? Rikka’s been telling
me a crazy story about a legacy, your mother, your grandmother …”
Solvi just looked from one to the other. “There’s so much to tell
you.”
“Where did you go?” asked Rikka.
“To see Professor Wol . You will never believe it, Magnus, but my
grandmother is the Forgotten One! Professor Wol suspected it all
since the rst day he met me!”
“What?” said Magnus. “Slow down—start at the beginning.”
“Professor Wol knew Nora Helmer, my grandmother, and he
knew she was the Forgotten One. They were friends back in Vika
many years ago. He suspected I was her granddaughter because
apparently I look very much like her. Remember the riot that broke
out when Aasta Hansteen talked about the Forgotten One? Professor
Wol was with Nora at that talk. He helped her escape!”
Magnus let out a low whistle.
Matron, working behind the desk, looked up. “Dinner is being
served, girls. Best say good-bye and go in.”
Magnus grabbed his coat. “Come on, you two. I know an omelet
house not far away. I’ll have you back by curfew, I promise.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER they were seated at a wooden table before an old
hearth, low beams overhead, oil lamps glimmering from the walls.
Magnus ordered cider and mushroom omelets.
Solvi started with her mother’s telegram and the legacy, then told
them how her grandmother immigrated to America and married a
farmer, including its shameful interpretation. Then, nally,
Professor Wol ’s account of the Forgotten One. Solvi hesitated only
when she got to the part about her grandmother’s bigamous
marriage, watching Magnus to see if he would be repelled. But he
listened to all of it with a gentle smile.
When she was done, Magnus nudged her plate. “Eat up, Solvi.
You’ve hardly touched your omelet.”
She took a large bite. Had she had lunch? She was ravenous.
Rikka, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up. “Magnus, I think
you’re hiding something. You look like the cat who ate the canary.”
“I was just going to let Solvi eat before I tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Solvi asked, her mouth full of egg.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter. “We got
a reply to the advertisement.”
Solvi dropped her napkin and snatched the letter. It was from a
Nora Eriksen in Spokane, Washington. She looked up at Rikka and
Magnus, her lower lip quivering.
Silently, reverently, she opened it up and began reading out loud.

Dear Child of Mine,

I am not sure which one of you posted the advertisement in the
“Skandinaven,” but please know I am so grateful. For years I have
longed to nd my way back to all of you, and it appears now that
might be possible.
Please write to me at post o ce box 216 in Spokane,
Washington.
I await your response with happy anticipation.
All my love, your mother

Solvi reread it, then clutched it to her chest. It was everything she
wanted, the long-lost grandmother reaching for her with open arms.
And even though her grandmother didn’t know yet that she existed,
Solvi felt remade. All her life she had been like a rowboat dragging
anchor, but now, nally, the anchor had caught and held.
She turned to the others. “Ivar and Bob and Emma aren’t the only
ones; I am also a child of hers.”
Magnus smiled. “I’m so glad it worked! I had no idea anyone
would even notice the advertisement. So, Solvi, now we know
where she is. Do you think you might want to go to America to see
her?”
Solvi looked at Rikka, then back at Magnus. “Yes. It’s far away,
but I have to meet her, to get to know her. No matter what she has
done. At this point, it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I just need to
know her.”
Magnus nodded. “I understand, Solvi. It will be a great
adventure.”
“And now I can a ord it, with the legacy,” Solvi said. “Professor
Wol urged me to go this summer, as she’s getting old.”
“Well, if you’re going, I’m going with you,” said Rikka.
Solvi turned to her. “Rikka! Really? Would you?”
“Well, I’ll go as far as New York. There’s a woman there I’d like to
work with this summer, an advocate for birth prevention. I’ll stay in
New York while you go visit your family out west. Then we can
travel back together.”
“Oh, Rikka! That’s a wonderful plan! When did you think of it?”
“Just now. It seems like a good time to leave Norway.” Rikka
glanced at Magnus.
“What do you mean, Rikka?” he asked.
Rikka and Solvi looked at each other. “I suppose we should tell
you what happened last night,” Solvi said.
“What?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
“As I was walking home, Dominik’s brother, Edvard, came
running up and pushed me against a wall,” Solvi said, watching his
face. She didn’t mention the hand on her throat or her arms pinned
back. “He wanted to throw my camera in the fjord. He was angry
about the pictures in the newspaper and told me to keep quiet about
Greta or he would report us to the police for trespassing.”
 “Did he hurt you?”
“Only a little; mostly he scared me. Fortunately, Dominik came
along—he must have followed him. He pulled Edvard o me and
returned my camera.”
“I’m so sorry, Solvi,” Magnus said. “We’ll have to tell Mr. Blehr.”
“I meant to speak to him today, but then all this happened,” Solvi
said.
Magnus squeezed her hand. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow. Mr.
Blehr can speak to the family and make sure Edvard doesn’t bother
you again. Until then, I think you two should stick together. Don’t
go out alone at night and be sure to stay on main streets.”
They nished and headed back to the study house, but when they
got there, Magnus took hold of Solvi’s hand.
Rikka noticed, gave them a big yawn, and stretched her arms over
her head. “I’m exhausted! See you two tomorrow.”
She went inside, leaving Magnus and Solvi alone.

THEY SAT DOWN TOGETHER on the steps of the study house. The sun
hovered low on the horizon, giving the world a soft, dusky light.
“That is quite the story about your grandmother,” he said. “I
wonder if meeting her might be a bit disappointing. She could be
very di erent from the woman in that picture.”
Solvi shrugged. “You’re right; it’s a strange story, but in a way it
makes sense to me. She must have been desperate at every turn. I
think she was trying to survive and, in the end, needed someone to
love.” Solvi looked at him. “You come from a big family, don’t
you?”
“Yes, and my grandparents live with us. There’s hardly a quiet
spot in the house back in Molde.”
“You’ve no idea how lovely that sounds.” Her eyes brimmed.
“See, I needed more family, especially after my father died. And
ever since I found that photograph, I’ve wanted to nd the missing
pieces. It doesn’t matter to me if they aren’t perfect. I know my
grandmother has lived a life of di cult compromises, but I still need
to nd her.”
 Magnus took Solvi’s hand. “I see a future for you lled with
people, Solvi, loving people. I don’t think you’ll be lonely much
again.”
She nodded, unable for a moment to speak. “Do you think you’ll
go back to Molde when you’re done with university?”
“No,” he said. “I want to see the world—Alaska, South America. I
also want adventures.”
Her eyes lled again. She suddenly saw that she, too, would never
go home again, except to visit.
“Solvi, what’s wrong? What did I say?”
She wiped the tears away. “No, it’s nothing you said, Magnus,
other than you unearthed my truth before I knew it myself.”
“Which truth?” he asked in a soft voice.
“I just realized I’ll never go home again, either, certainly not to
live there. It’s both exciting and sad.”
He gazed at her. “That’s exactly how I feel, Solvi. It’s the curse of
the educated; we don’t t into that familiar world anymore.”
She laughed. “My mother told me a university education would
make me unmarriageable. Maybe this is what she meant.”
“No, Solvi. You may not be able to go home again, but it
de nitely has not made you unmarriageable. Not at all.” He looked
at her. “I have a question.”
She went very still. “A question?”
“Do you think you’ll ever want to introduce me to your mother?”
“Why do you say that, Magnus?”
He held his hands out to her, palms up. “Calluses, Solvi. I chopped
wood for money during the coal shortages. I have the telltale
calluses of the working class.”
She took his hands in hers. “Well, Rikka says I’m my own person
now, so it’s my decision who matters to me, not my mother’s. And I
admire your calluses.”
He smiled. “Then I have another question.”
She held still as a mouse.
“May I kiss you, Solvi Lange?”
Warmth ooded her body. “I thought you’d never ask.”
THE NEXT MORNING Solvi wrote her mother a letter.

Dear Mama: Thank you for the legacy. I now know what happened
to your family. I am sorry you have had to carry this secret for so
long. I understand that it has been di cult.
You will be surprised to hear that I have found your mother, my
grandmother, Nora Helmer. She lives in Spokane, Washington, with
her husband, Anders Eriksen. She sent me a short letter. I need to
meet her, so I am going to spend some of the legacy to travel to
America this summer. I know you may be unhappy about this plan,
but it is what I need to do. I promise I will return to Kristiania by
the end of the summer to nish my studies.
I must tell you that I will also continue working at the
photography studio and selling my photographs to the newspaper.
Because this is what I do, Mother: I take pictures of things that are
important, either problems that need to be corrected or mysteries
and beauties that would otherwise go unappreciated. I am good at
it, and I trust that, occasionally, my work will make a di erence in
the world.
I hope you can forgive me and, along the way, perhaps you can
forgive your mother. If you want to come with me this summer to
visit her, I would be thrilled, but that is up to you.
Love, Solvi

Over the next few weeks, Solvi and Rikka nished their classes
and prepared for their trip to America. After hearing nothing in
return from her mother, Solvi packed a small bag and boarded the
train to Bergen. It was late May, and the snow was melting from the
high plateau, swelling the streams into torrents and sending a
thousand waterfalls over the cli s into the fjords. Solvi watched her
beloved landscape pass by and marveled at how much she had
changed since her journey to Kristiania the November before.
When she stepped into her childhood home, her mother dropped
her book with a small cry and wrapped her daughter in a hug.
“I knew you would come, darling,” Emma said. “There was too
much to say. I couldn’t write because I knew I would never be able
to stop.”
Solvi understood and let her mother pick the time. A few days
later, they sat down together after supper in the parlor.
“Mama, please tell me what happened, everything you know. It’s
a terrible humiliation, Grandmother’s story, but it will be better if
you share it with me. We will weather it together.”
Emma took a deep breath and arranged her silk gown around her.
“I suppose you’re right. I’ve tried all my life to protect you from the
shame of your grandmother, just as Grandfather tried to protect me,
but it’s been a terrible burden.”
“I am sorry for you, Mama. But please tell me. I want to know.”
“My mother, Nora, left us when I was two. Remember the
photograph you found? That must have been taken a few months
before.”
“Do you know why she left?”
“No. I suppose she and Grandfather had a terrible ght about
something. I don’t remember any of it, just Ivar and Bob whispering
about it years later. When Dr. Rank died and the incriminating
legacy came out, it was assumed Nora left us to be with him, though
he was at death’s door. Dr. Rank had been a trusted friend of your
grandfather’s, indeed his only real friend, so Grandfather took the
announcement of the legacy very badly. All this I was told only
years later.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“Once, when I was twelve. Ivar had left us that spring to go to
America, which was upsetting enough. Then Nora appeared. I
thought she was dead, so it was quite a shock to have her show up
at our house.”
“It must have been strange,” Solvi said.
“It was awful. Grandfather invited her in, though I’m not sure
why because he was angry that she had returned to Kristiania. She
was so ugly—all brown and wrinkled and badly dressed. I had no
memories of her and didn’t want to think such a woman could be
my mother. Bobby remembered her, though, and was very happy to
see her, which was also unsettling.”
 Emma stopped, lost in that time. “She gave me the most
disturbing present, a little embroidered cap. She said she’d been
working on it when she left and had kept it to give to me someday.
But it had yellowed and was so small, as if made for a doll. It
troubled me; she left when I was still just a baby. I threw the cap on
the oor.”
“What happened to Ivar and Bobby?”
“Before Ivar left for America, he had found a letter from Nora. He
fought with Father about it, then booked his passage to New York.
Apparently, he went to see her on the farm in Minnesota where she
was living and told her about the legacy. That was why she came
back. But there must have been a complication, because she signed
the legacy over to us. Bobby took his share a year later and followed
Ivar to America.”
“Are they still there?”
“As far as I know.”
“Have you never tried to nd them?”
Her mother shook her head. “Why should I go looking for them?
They chose her over us, your grandfather and me. They abandoned
us, just as she did.” She stopped to breathe. “Your grandfather never
got over it. He refused to let me answer their letters or take any of
the legacy. He was desperate to keep me out of her clutches,
especially after it was clear she had committed bigamy.”
Solvi watched her mother carefully. “Yes, I was shocked to hear
that.”
“The shame of it,” Emma said, shaking her head. “It was bad
enough that she left us, but then to commit such an abomination,
and at an altar before God. Grandfather spoke quite bitterly of her.”
“But didn’t Grandfather remarry as well? Someone named
Johanna?”
“Yes, but his marriage was legal because Nora had been declared
dead years earlier when she couldn’t be found. No one knew she
was in America until her letter came.”
Solvi thought of the grave site at Our Saviour. “What happened to
Johanna?”
 “Johanna was pregnant, and we were all excited a new baby was
coming. But the day after Nora appeared, poor Johanna started
hemorrhaging. She lost the child and bled to death a few days later.
It crushed your grandfather. He blamed it on your grandmother’s
visit, as Johanna grew quite upset when she found out Nora had
come to the house.” She stopped for a moment and closed her eyes.
“She was very kind to me, Johanna.”
Solvi thought of her grandfather—his heavy-handed manner, his
secretiveness, his bond with her mother. Puzzle pieces shifted into
place.
“Was that when he changed the family name and moved you to
Bergen?”
“He did that after Bobby left. That was the nal straw.
Grandfather said he couldn’t hold his head up in Kristiania after
that.”
Solvi took a deep breath. “Why do you think Grandmother left?”
“Because she didn’t love us,” Emma said, without hesitation. “If
she had loved us, she couldn’t have done it. I knew that for certain
once I had you.”
“But what if there was some reason she couldn’t live with
Grandfather? What if her leaving was a terrible, painful choice? I
mean, it could’ve been a brave thing that she did.”
“Brave?” Emma said now, sitting up in her chair. “Brave, Solvi?
How is any of it brave? I thought her a coward to slink back into
Norway dressed in her cheap American clothes, o ering to love us
when we had nally gotten over her. I was deeply troubled and
confused by her return. Then she stole Bobby’s heart and upset
Johanna so badly she miscarried and died.” Emma shook her head.
“Everything your grandmother did hurt us. Everything, except
leaving for America. That was the only thing I was grateful for.”
Solvi rose and paced about. She could feel this bitter story wrap
around her, like ropes at her ankles. How could the elegant woman
in the photograph, the grandmother who looked so knowing and
strong, how could she be the person her mother described? How
much Solvi had wanted this grandmother to prove herself ne and
uplifting, worthy of Solvi’s e ort to nd her, worthy of redemption.
 She felt it like an ache in her stomach, unrelenting. “Mama,
maybe that’s just one side of the story. If you came with me to
America, we could nd out together. Perhaps she is an awful
person, but perhaps not! Maybe she had to leave for reasons you
never thought of. Maybe it broke her heart to leave you!”
Solvi’s mother just looked at her, grim-faced.
“And you could forgive her,” Solvi said. “It might do you good to
forgive her. I’m sure she misses you.”
“She has my brothers, Solvi. That should be enough for her.”
“But that’s not true, Mama; she doesn’t have them. She doesn’t
even know where they are.” Solvi took out the letter from Nora.
“See? I don’t know why, but they are not with her.”
Her mother read it, then gave Solvi a look. “Because of the
bigamy, no doubt.”
“But she’s not a bigamist anymore. Not since Grandfather died.”
“That hardly absolves her,” her mother said, rising and taking the
letter to the stove. “Perhaps we should burn this, Solvi, just forget
she ever sent it. We could go on with our lives.”
“No, Mama, don’t!” Solvi jumped up and snatched the letter from
her hand. “I can’t, Mama. I’m going to America, to Spokane. I’ve
already written to her.”
“But why, Solveig?”
“Because I think she deserves to be forgiven! Or at least she
deserves to be understood. I don’t know what happened between
her and Grandfather, but it must have been awful if she had to
leave. And think of all she lost, how harrowing her life must have
been! I think she’s worthy of our sympathy, and I need to know her
story. I need to.”
Her mother looked at her now with a sad smile. “See, this was
always my concern. I’ve tried, more than anything, to protect you
from her.”
“Protect me from my own grandmother?”
“You were always rebellious, Solvi, even as a small child,
questioning things, resisting my rules, wanting to make your own
way. Sometimes your grandfather would take me aside, concerned
you were turning out to be like her. We tried to make sure you
never knew anything about your grandmother, but I can see now
that e ort was useless.”
“People can’t help who they are meant to be, Mama.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Emma said. Then she leaned over and
tugged gently on Solvi’s short hair. “See what I mean? Rebellious.
But I’m learning to live with that. You need to make your own way,
Solveig, I know that now, and in a way I admire you. Going to
Kristiania, starting your studies, taking those photographs, though I
will never understand what you have against employing
housemaids. But I see now that it is your life, to do with as you will.
Your father was right; you are a mostly sensible young woman.”
“So will you consider coming with me to America?”
“No, darling. That is your adventure, not mine.”
“Do you want me to take her a letter from you?”
Her mother bowed her head. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
Solvi sighed. “You could forgive her, Mama. It would mean
everything to her.”
Her mother turned and went to stand at a window, looking out
into the midsummer dusk. After a few minutes, she nally spoke.
“This is how I’m forgiving her, darling.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am giving you to her.”

A MONTH LATER, Solvi and Rikka checked their luggage at the

steamship o ce in Kristiania and walked with Magnus to the foot of
the gangplank. He had been so good to Solvi, convincing Mr. Blehr
to talk with Dominik’s family, then helping her write a story to
accompany her photographs of the prostitutes in Vika. Solvi was
proud of her work but also a little bit relieved she would be out of
the country when the story ran. Magnus had promised to buy a
hundred copies.
Now that everything was settled, Solvi was beginning to regret
leaving him behind.
He gazed at her with sad eyes.
 “Good gracious, Magnus, you look like an abandoned puppy,”
Rikka said.
“I feel like an abandoned puppy,” he said, still looking at Solvi.
She smiled up at him. “I’ll write to you, Magnus. I promise.”
“No, there’s something else,” he said.
“What, Magnus?” Solvi said. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ll just check our luggage,” Rikka said, sliding away.
Magnus took Solvi’s hands in his. “I’m worried you won’t come
back. Perhaps you have an America dream, like so many others.
Maybe you’ll move in with your grandmother and learn to ride a
cow pony, or stay in Chicago to sell photos to the Skandinaven. I’m
terri ed I’ll never see you again!”
Solvi burst out laughing, rose up on her toes, and gave him a kiss.
“Don’t worry, Magnus. I’ll come back. At least long enough to get
you.”
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NORA
June 1889 Lac qui Parle, Minnesota

The trip back across the Atlantic proved sunny and calm, but as I
watched the water roll by, I began to worry about what to tell
Anders. I was returning empty-handed, having left the legacy
behind, and I had no idea how to explain it. I was deeply grateful to
have seen my children and glad that Bob had forgiven me. But I
knew I must pack them up tight in my heart again until Torvald
died. There was no alternative—I could not talk about them or tell
Anders anything until my rst marriage ended. I crafted a simple
explanation about the legacy and hoped that would su ce.
The journey, however, gave me too much time to think, and
before long my conscience began to take me to task. What kind of
woman had I become? How often had I believed myself bigger or
more important than I was? I had donned costumes, pretended to
know more than I did, imagined myself heroic when I often just
blundered. I even considered myself a good wife to Anders, yet I had
not been honest about the most important thing.
Over the years, I told myself I had my own moral code built on
love, but there had been a cost to it all—marrying Torvald, forging
the loan, lying to Anders so he would marry me. I saw now that I
had also lied to myself—lied about the pain I had in icted, lied
about who I was and what I had done, lied before God and the
minister and the man I loved.
I was not bigger than life; I was small and misguided. Out here on
the empty ocean, I also felt inconsequential, which was the only
thing that brought any relief. I began to think it unfair to burden
Anders with my bigamous shame, that it would be kinder to never
return.
 Perhaps I should get o the train in Chicago, I thought, and try to
nd Ivar. With his portion of the legacy we could set up
housekeeping. He could attend university, and I could tend to
women again, but as my own person with my own home to return
to each night.
It was cold comfort, but the possibility ickered in my mind.

WE DOCKED IN NEW YORK, and within hours I was on a train, rattling

west. Watching out the window I spotted farm after farm—women
with chickens around their feet, boys driving cows, farmers
harnessing their horses. Each scene made me homesick.
I grew nervous as we approached Chicago, unsure, my heart
aching. But as soon as I stepped o the train, I knew I could not
stay. I made my way to the western station and bought a ticket to
Minnesota. I needed to see Anders again, feel his arms around me,
return to our quiet life together.
I made a choice the day I sent Ivar away, a terrible choice but a
necessary one.
Now I must learn to live with it.

WHEN I ARRIVED at the end of the line in Milan, I hired a buggy to take
me home. The driver let the mare do the work, pulling his hat down
and leaving me alone with my knot of worries. The hot prairie wind
washed across the grass. I watched the western horizon for storm
clouds, as it was that kind of day, but there was only the
shimmering heat.
I came through the door just as Birgitte was putting dinner on the
table. I knew she had come to stay with Anders and Jens while I was
away, and I was grateful to see her. She gave me a hug and a kiss.
Then I noticed that she had set just two places at the table, for her
and her brother.
“Birgitte, is your father away?”
“Yes; he’s hunting up the river. He said he wouldn’t be back till
tomorrow.”
 I could scarcely breathe. I never thought Anders would not be
here to greet me.
Jens came in a few minutes later, giving me a hug and telling me
all the news from the barn. Birgitte pulled the cornbread from the
oven. I was suddenly famished for it all—the simple meal, my
familiar home, the company of these two who meant so much to
me.
We talked of Norway and my trip; I smiled and answered as best I
could, but I was anxious now. Perhaps Anders had decided not to
take me back; maybe that was why he was away.
Before she headed to bed, Birgitte gave me another hug, as she
could see I was troubled. “You must be very tired, Nora. I’m sure
everything will look better in the morning.”
“Thank you, Birgitte.” I closed my bedroom door, washed o the
grit, and slid into my own bed, a place of so much tenderness.
Would it ever be that way again?

THE NEXT MORNING I rose early and made biscuits to give my nervous
hands something to do. As I placed the pan in the stove, my
husband appeared in the doorway with the milk bucket.
We looked at each other across the room, across the abyss. This
was the moment—my life could tip either way. He set down the
bucket; I wiped the our from my hands. And then we both stepped
forward at the same instant and sank into each other’s arms.
“I’ve missed you, Nora,” he said, gru ness in his voice. “I am very
glad to have you home again.”
I wanted to stay buried in his chest, to say nothing, to just hold
him. Because the moment we started talking, I feared everything
would teeter and crash.
But he pulled back, holding me by the shoulders and looking deep
into my eyes. “Are you ready to tell me the truth, Nora?”
I nodded, but my throat was a vice.
He led me to a chair, then sat beside me. “Tell me of your
journey. How was Norway?”
 I smoothed my skirts because it was hard to look at him. “Norway
was beautiful, Anders, very green. But it was also con ning. I felt
closed in all the time. You can see the in uence from America.
People dress di erently, and there’s new wealth. I can’t quite
describe it.”
He listened but said nothing. He was waiting.
“I don’t have the legacy, Anders. I couldn’t get it.”
He frowned slightly. “No? What happened?”
“It was complicated. Because the court had me declared dead
some time ago, I could not claim the legacy without going back to
court to prove who I was, and if I did that I risked legal trouble for
having left the country on Inge’s papers.”
He looked at me, puzzled. “You would be in trouble for that, after
all these years?”
“Yes, for that and for using her papers to get back into Norway,” I
said. “In Kristiania, there is no Nora Solberg. She is dead, and there
is only Inge Eriksen. But if the court looks into Inge’s papers, they
will nd she is also dead.”
He sighed.
“In the end, I let my cousin keep the money,” I said. “They are my
kin, after all, and it has helped them substantially.”
I could see the disappointment in his face, as the money would
have helped us substantially as well. It could have sent Birgitte to
college, helped Jens nd a livelihood, and helped support us as we
grew old.
I took his hand. “I am so sorry, Anders. I know you were counting
on it. But I couldn’t risk going to court; I was afraid I might never
get back to you.”
He nodded solemnly.
“The entire time I was over there, all I wanted was to return to
you,” I said. “I missed you every day. The only place that brought
me solace was standing on the dock looking down the fjord, because
that was the way home to you.”
He gave me a sad smile. “I understand, Nora, and perhaps it’s for
the best. I didn’t like the idea of money that came to us through
another man’s a ection for you. Our lives will continue as they
were, as if Ivar never found us.”
As if Ivar never found us—that was how I should proceed. But at
that moment, in the pale, disappointing present of that prairie
morning, I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep my children a
secret until Torvald died. Everything inside me seemed to be
collapsing.
“And who did you see while you were there?” Anders asked.
I hesitated. I desperately wanted to tell him of my joy in seeing
Bob and Emma, the possibility that the future might bring me close
to them again. But I couldn’t.
“I stayed with my cousin and her younger children for a few days.
They were very kind to me.”
“Did you see others? Perhaps the young men you knew in Vika?”
“No. I didn’t know how to nd them, and I had to keep myself
hidden.”
“Do you think you will want to return to Norway again, Nora?”
Tears lled my eyes. “Oh, Anders, I can’t imagine why I would.
There’s no one there for me anymore.”
At that moment the scent of scorched biscuits drifted across the
room. I jumped up and took them out—burned, all of them. I began
to weep.
This was my life now; I must nd a way to make my peace with
it.
Anders pulled me silently into his arms. We could hear the
children stirring overhead. It would have been a happy sound if
only mine were here with us.
I wiped my eyes and set the table.

THE NEXT FEW DAYSI struggled to return to my settled life. I forgot to

feed the chickens one morning, then failed to soak the beans the
next. Anders seemed to have accepted my explanation about the
legacy, but he kept his distance, spending more time in the barn
than usual, as if he was working something out. Perhaps he
suspected I had not shared the whole truth; perhaps he was more
disturbed over the loss of the money than he let on. When he came
in, he carried his disappointment on his shoulders.
I also found it impossible to pack my own children away in my
memory again, as I had in the past. Having seen them older gave me
rich new scope to think about their lives and experiences, and my
imagination chased them across Kristiania. Hope could be a terrible
master, especially when it refused to be snu ed out.
In the midst of all that went unsaid, Anders and I orbited around
each other like lost stars.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, on a still summer night, we were working quietly

in the parlor when we heard footsteps outside, then a loud knock.
Anders went to open the door, and I came up behind him to see if it
was a family in need of help.
But instead of a poor homesteader, it was Pastor Aasen, the
Lutheran minister, with several of the church fathers.
“Pastor, brothers, please, come in,” Anders said, stepping aside to
let them pass.
But Pastor Aasen shook his head. “We cannot enter a house such
as yours, Anders Eriksen, I’m sorry to say.” The others nodded in
agreement, and two of them glared at me.
My blood went cold.
Pastor Aasen pulled a paper from his breast pocket. “We received
this today from the Lutheran Synod in Minneapolis with information
from Norway. It says that a woman known in America as Nora
Eriksen and wife to Anders Eriksen is married to another man who
lives today in Kristiania, Torvald Helmer. Nora Helmer has
committed the sin of bigamy by marrying you, Mr. Eriksen.”
Anders stood motionless, staring at Pastor Aasen. I stumbled back.
Did Torvald go to the authorities after all?
“Given that you have entered into a bigamous marriage,” the
pastor continued, “you both are now excluded from Church
membership.” He waved a certi cate of some sort. “Your marriage
has been annulled by the Synod, and we have applied kjerketukt.
You may not attend Lutheran services, and no God-fearing
Lutherans will speak to you from this day forward. You will be
shunned.”
Anders grabbed the certi cate.
“But Mr. Helmer said he would divorce me!” I cried out.
Anders turned and looked at me with disbelief. “Divorce you? You
said your husband was dead!”
Pastor Aasen shook his head. “Mr. Helmer has sworn before the
dean of the parish that he saw you recently in Kristiania. As he
never secured a divorce, you are still married to him.”
“Nora, is that why you went back to Norway? To see your
husband?” Anders said, his face going ashen.
My pulse hammered. I couldn’t answer Anders, not in that
moment. I turned instead to the pastor. “But Mr. Helmer must have
divorced me, because he has married again as well!”
Pastor Aasen squinted at a letter he also held in his hands.
“According to the dean, Mr. Helmer believed he was free to remarry
because the court had declared you dead. Mr. Helmer’s second wife,
however, has recently passed away. So, as you see, Mrs. Helmer,
you are the one in the bigamous marriage.”
I felt the ground give way beneath my feet. There would be no
defending myself from this.
Now one of the church fathers spoke up. “You must return to your
husband in Norway, Mrs. Helmer. We will not have one such as you
in our midst!”
Anders looked at me again, hurt but also de ant. He shook
himself and stepped forward. “Just a minute! This is a free land, sir.
You have no right to banish my wife from our farm. You are not the
law in America.”
“No, but we can bring the law, if that is what you prefer, Mr.
Eriksen,” the pastor said. “I have no doubt the sheri will be as
concerned as we are. Bigamy will not be tolerated by either Church
or state.”
“It’s not fair to expel Mr. Eriksen from his land,” I said. “He knew
nothing of any of this. He married me in good faith.”
“Nora, hush,” Anders said. He gripped my hand.
 Pastor Aasen turned to me. “If you leave, Mrs. Helmer, we will
reinstate Mr. Eriksen to the Church. But if you stay, well, God help
you.” He looked at Anders. “We trust you’ll do what’s right.”
With that, they turned and disappeared into the night.

WE STUMBLED BACK INSIDE and bolted the door. Birgitte and Jens
hovered nearby, but I couldn’t look at any of them. I turned toward
the bedroom. There was only one thing to do.
“Nora,” Anders said, his voice shaking.
“I’m going to pack my bag, Anders.”
“No, Nora,” he said, setting out a chair. “Sit and explain every last
shred of truth. I need to understand what I’m dealing with.”
Then he looked at Birgitte and Jens. “Go check on the stock. Make
sure they’re inside.”
“Yes, Father,” they said in unison, quickly slipping out.
Anders pulled out a chair for himself and sat in front of me, just
as Torvald and I had sat in the darkened dining room the night I left
him all those years ago.
“Please just let me leave!” I said, trying to stand. “Let me go, and
you won’t have to worry about any of this anymore!” I couldn’t bear
the pain in his face.
“Nora, look at me! I need to understand, or I’ll never be able to
live with it.”
“You won’t love me if you know the truth. You will hate me!”
“I could never hate you, Nora, but you have not been honest with
me, and that is hard to accept. I know you had a di cult life in
Norway. I never understood why a beauty like you was in such
desperate circumstances when I met you on the docks. Just tell me
what’s true. Are you married to this man Helmer in Norway?”
“I don’t, I …”
“Tell me, Nora! No more lies! Did you have a husband when you
married me?”
“Oh, Anders, I thought he had divorced me, but I didn’t know, not
for sure!”
 “How could you have married me when you didn’t know!” he
thundered.
I pulled back. Anders had never raised his voice with me in all
our years together.
“My husband said he would divorce me, Anders, and I was sure
he would do it. He was that kind of man. But it turned out that to
divorce me, he had to nd me.” I stopped to gulp air. “As I had
already come to America with you, on Inge’s papers, they couldn’t
nd me in Norway or in the emigration records. That’s when they
assumed I had died and had me declared dead instead of giving him
a divorce.”
“But you said at the altar that you were free to marry me, Nora!
How could you lie about such a thing, and before God?” His face
lled with pain. “And the priest blessed our union! Why didn’t you
tell me the truth back then?”
I started to say I did it for love, but something stopped me. I had
said that so often in my life, excused so much with it. Instead, I
reached for the deepest truth, which came out as a savage cry.
“Because I would have lost you,” I howled. “Because I couldn’t bear
to let you go! I was so alone in the world, Anders. I wanted to
belong to you again, to have what we have here—our whole life
together!”
“Even if we’re living in sin?”
“I don’t care! I don’t care what the Church says, and I don’t care
what others think. I only care what you think!”
“But now we could be arrested!”
I covered my face with my hands because I couldn’t look at him.
“That is why you must let me go. They will not arrest you if I am
gone.”
He pulled my hands away. “Look at me, Nora.”
I glanced up for a moment, but it was impossible to hold his erce
gaze.
“These are di cult truths, Nora. To realize how much you’ve
deceived me.”
“I am so very sorry, Anders, and I understand now how much this
matters. But when you asked me to marry you, I didn’t see it. My
marriage to Torvald was long dead, as if it happened to someone
else rather than the Nora who worked in St. Paul, alone in the
world, with no one. Torvald and Norway seemed so far away. I
never imagined my former life would nd me here.”
He sighed. “These must have been painful secrets to hold, all this
time. Tell me how this happened. Why you left your husband.”
“You will not love me if you know the truth.”
He looked at me sideways. “Is this about the older gentleman?”
“No! It has nothing to do with him, and it’s not what you think.
But still, you will not love me.”
“Nora, I will always love you. And if you leave me, I’ll never get
over you. But I need to know what’s true. How could this happen?”
I swallowed hard. “When I met you in Kristiania, I was running
from my husband, this Torvald Helmer.”
“But you told me you lost your husband and children. You dressed
as a widow!”
“Yes, and I apologize. I know I wasn’t honest with you, but I was
desperate, as you said. I had left my husband because I couldn’t be
married to him anymore, and then he refused to let me see my
children.”
He shook his head, as if bothered by a y. “Your children? Nora,
are your children also alive?”
Sudden relief ooded through me. I could tell him. I could tell
him all of it. “Yes. Ivar is one of them.”
He looked at me, his eyes widening. “Ivar? Your cousin’s son?”
Then he jumped to his feet and walked to the other side of the room
before turning to me again. “Did you send him away, your own
son?”
“Yes,” I said, bursting into tears. “I had to! I couldn’t claim him as
my son without risking our marriage! I had to send him away
because of my terrible secret, and it broke my heart!” I doubled
over, sobbing in earnest.
Anders sat down again and took my hands. “Nora, Nora. Calm
yourself. And where are the other children?”
“In Kristiania, with their father. I saw them, Anders. You can’t
imagine what it’s meant to me. My younger son, Bobby, was very
glad to see me.”
“This is all very bewildering, Nora. You have three children and a
husband in Norway. I never would have imagined.”
I wept. I had lost my children, and now I would lose Anders and
his children. Everyone I loved.
He came and sat down again before me. “Leaving your children
behind in Norway doesn’t sound like you, Nora. How could such a
thing have happened? Tell me so I understand.”
My story. He wanted to hear my story.
I took some deep breaths, then told him how I came to marry
Torvald, and about Torvald’s sickness and my forging of the loan,
and how I worked for years paying o the loan surreptitiously, the
anxiety and anguish of that burdensome secret. And then the
Christmas when it all came crashing down—the blackmail, our
ght, my sudden realization that Torvald could never accept or
understand me. How painful it was to leave my children but that I
knew I would die if I stayed with Torvald.
He sighed. “Like you nearly died here, on the ice?”
“Yes. One night I went down to the wharf in Kristiania, but the
fjord was so cold. A constable found me.”
“Did Torvald beat you?”
“No. He never hit me, but he treated me like a child—no, worse,
like his little doll. Not the way you treat me, as your partner. He
could never accept me as his equal; he couldn’t even imagine it. He
had to be my master in everything—what I said, what I ate, what I
thought. After I left him, he threatened to nd me and send me to
the asylum because I kept trying to see the children. The only way
to escape him was to leave Norway. But I couldn’t a ord the
passage.”
“Ah,” Anders said. “Then you met me, with a baby that needed
care and a ticket I couldn’t use.”
“It felt like an act of God, Anders,” I said. “But then Torvald sent
the police after me, and I was desperately afraid I wouldn’t get free
from the prison in time to go with you. When the police handed me
over to Torvald, I knew that was my only chance to escape, so I
o ered him a promise. If he agreed to let me go to America, I would
not contact the children until they were grown.”
He listened but said nothing.
“I couldn’t tell you the truth in Kristiania because you wouldn’t
have taken me with you,” I said. “I know that was wrong, Anders,
but I don’t regret it! Because of you, I escaped the asylum or having
to live for years as my husband’s property without my own
freedom.” I started to cry again. “I am so grateful, Anders; you saved
my life.”
Finally, he spoke. “Didn’t you think about seeing your children
again?”
“Yes, but that seemed so far in the future. It wasn’t until after you
and I married that I saw the trap I’d created. I dreamed of returning
to Norway to see them when they were grown, but I realized I
couldn’t do that without confessing everything to you. And then I
would have lost you! It’s been a torture, and it’s drawn me away
from you. So I hoped for a miracle. To be honest, I prayed that
Torvald would die.”
He looked at me, as if seeing me di erently.
“I knew that was a sin, but I didn’t care. And then a miracle
happened, but it wasn’t what I expected. It was Ivar.” I looked
down; I was twisting my apron mercilessly. “You’ve no idea, Anders,
how it felt to have Ivar nd me.”
“It must have been like having him return from the dead.”
“Yes, it was. But then I had an agonizing choice: you or Ivar. It
felt like one of God’s cruel jokes.”
“It pains me to hear you speak of God that way, Nora.”
“Forgive me, Anders.” I tried to fold my hands in my lap, to resign
to my fate.
“You should ask for God’s mercy, Nora.”
“Anders, I am not a God-fearing person, you know that. And now
that I’ve lost my way in the world, I doubt God can help me. I must
help myself, not depend on others anymore. That’s why you must let
me leave.”
He looked at me, so troubled. This man who could not lie, tied to
a woman who struggled, always, with the truth. He pushed the hair
out of his eyes. “It would be a great sorrow to lose you, Nora. I
wrapped you around me like a bearskin, and it was only then that I
could build a life here. What would you have me do?”
“Let me go to Chicago. Put me on the train tomorrow. Then you
can think about whether you want to stay on the farm or join me. In
a big city I think we could continue to live as man and wife, and no
one would know the di erence. It would be up to you and me to
decide what we are to each other.”
“But isn’t that best left to the ministers? My life has been built on
their guidance and authority.”
“If we are shunned by the Church, then we must decide what God
would have us do.”
“God wants us to abide by his laws, Nora.”
“But God’s laws are di erent in di erent lands. There are great
debates about God’s laws, many opinions. There’s no one law,
Anders, not that I can see.”
“And so you would make your own morality, Nora?”
I hesitated—this was the question Torvald asked the night I left so
long ago. I didn’t have an answer, then, but now, baring my soul to
the man who meant everything to me, I realized that a moral code
built on love was the only one that felt true.
“Yes,” I said. “I believe a marriage is what two people build
together, and you and I have such a marriage, one that supports two
other people and a farm. I cannot see what good would come from
breaking us apart. Why would God wish such a sorrow on us and
the children, after all our other losses?”
“Perhaps you’re right, but, still—it’s hard for me to accept, to see
the world as you do. It doesn’t feel honorable.”
I sighed. Must it always be honor on one side and love on the
other? My life kept leading me back to this choice, over and over.
“Anders, I considered staying in Chicago when I returned from
Norway. I thought that would be the honorable thing to do. That if I
really loved you, I would release you.”
He looked at me, his gaze intense. “And yet you came back.”
“Yes. Because in every way that matters, I am your wife! I know
what it means when you sigh; I know when you need my help. I
know your history and your sorrows and joys. We have a thousand
bonds, Anders! This farm and the many responsibilities here,
Birgitte and Jens, even our grief for Tomas. I’ve been safe with you
in a way I’ve never been with anyone else. My marriage to Torvald
was a sham—not like this, a partnership where I’m loved and
appreciated. Even if I never see you again, you will be my husband
until I die. There can be no other.”
A sad tenderness stole across his face. “Nora. Dear, complicated
Nora.” He hesitated for a long moment. “I understand what you’re
saying, but my honor stands before me like a stone wall. I don’t
know how our marriage got built on a lie. Perhaps my silence has
prevented us from understanding each other. There’s so much we
should have said to each other, Nora, starting on the dock in
Kristiania.” He put his head in his hands. “Truly, I don’t know what
to do.”
“I will go. And if you want me, sell this farm and join me in
Chicago.”
“I don’t want to make you leave. This is your home, as much as it
is mine.”
“I’ve lost the right to live here, Anders. That is my sorrow to
carry. Only join me if you can choose me.”
And with that I went into my room to pack.

AN HOUR LATER, we heard a commotion approaching our house—

many footsteps this time, shouting, and, just as Anders reached to
open the door again, another loud knock. Birgitte gasped. There
were men with torches outside the kitchen window.
Anders turned to me quickly. “Go in the bedroom, Nora, and shut
the door.” He snatched his ri e from the corner. “Jens, come with
me.”
I retreated but left the door ajar so I could see and hear. Anders
stepped out onto the stone stoop, and Jens stood behind him,
blocking the doorway.
“Anders Eriksen, you must take your family and leave this
county!” shouted a rough voice. “We will not have bigamists here!”
 Other voices took up the cry. “Leave, bigamist! Go!” I could see
the torches ickering, hear boots and horses stamping. Then a fresh
voice among the others, louder. “It’s that witch who must go. She’s
the one who has sinned!”
I pulled out my bag and started throwing clothing into it. My
mind tumbled.
Then I heard Anders’s voice. “Quiet! Let me speak!” The shouting
died down. “If you say my wife is a witch, then you forget what
she’s done, how many women she’s helped!”
“But she heals by black magic!” shouted someone else. “She must
have one of those black books, the devil’s medicine. That’s how she
heals when the doctor can do nothing!”
“And she consorts with that svartz, the one that doesn’t speak,”
yelled another. “We see them in the woods together!”
“Yes, she’s friends with Ann Renville, but that’s not against the
law!” Anders shouted.
I put on my traveling dress, though I could scarcely button the
front, my hands were shaking so. I stu ed my sewing bag in my
suitcase and snapped it shut.
“There is confusion about the status of my wife’s rst marriage in
Norway,” Anders said. “That is true. And I need to talk with the
Church fathers in Minneapolis to sort it out. But we have lived
among you peacefully for six years, and there is no reason we
should be forced to leave at this point.”
“Besides,” he said, “Nora has helped many of your wives.” He
started to pick people out in the crowd. “You, Pieter, didn’t Nora
help your wife when she lost the last baby? And you, Lars Mark; she
stayed with your family for two weeks when your wife could no
longer cook or clean. Do you people have such little gratitude?
Don’t you recognize a woman of God among you?”
“But she preaches disobedience!”
At this my stomach clenched. Anders didn’t know how often I told
women to stand up to their husbands or leave if they hit them. All
my subtle preaching was catching up with me.
But Anders abruptly laughed. “Is that it? That your wives have
become disobedient? Perhaps you should tend to them with more
a ection. Then you might not need her help.”
There was a silence, then another voice. “This is about bigamy,
Eriksen. We won’t go until you promise to leave.”
“I swear that if the law of the land—not this crowd—requires we
leave, we will leave!” Anders shouted. “But not a moment before.
You, my friends, are not the law.”
I carried my bag to the door, squeezed past Jens, and stepped into
the yard, facing the crowd. Anders reached to pull me back, but I
shook him o .
“There’s no need for this; I’m leaving,” I said in a loud voice.
Anders grabbed for me. “Nora, no!”
“Please, Anders, just get the wagon. We’ll wait at the station in
Milan, and I’ll take the train in the morning.”
“We’ll take her to Milan, Eriksen!” Some started to laugh.
“Absolutely not!” Anders yelled, pulling me back toward the door.
“Don’t give in to this ungrateful mob, Nora!”
“But they’re right—I should go!”
“Tomorrow, we’ll go together tomorrow. But don’t let them …”
Now Anders raised his voice again. “It’s late; no one’s going
anywhere tonight. If you disband, I won’t have you charged with
trespassing, and I give you my word I’ll speak to the justice of the
peace tomorrow.” He waved his ri e at them.
There was grumbling, muttering, a few more shouts. One man
pushed forward and shook his torch at us. “You wouldn’t want to
lose your barn, now, would you, Eriksen?”
Anders froze. “Are you threatening my animals?” I could see
torchlight glinting o several bottles in the crowd.
Someone grabbed the man with the torch and dragged him away.
“Just keep your promise, Eriksen, or we can’t say what might
happen,” someone said. The gures backed o into the darkness, the
torches moving down the path toward town. We turned inside and
closed the door.
I fell against Anders’s chest. “Oh, Anders, no one has ever
defended me before!”
He wrapped me in his arms. “Nora, Nora.” After a long moment,
he pushed me away so he could look into my face. “Listen, we must
leave tonight, as soon as we can pack. We cannot wait for the law to
come to us.”
“No, Anders. I don’t want you to give up the farm! Tomorrow I’ll
go. It’s for the best.”
He looked at me. Then he looked past me and out the back
window. “The henhouse!”
We all turned—my chicken coop was a ame.
Anders grabbed the hatchet and shouted orders. “Jens, water!
Birgitte, Nora, the sackcloths!” We grabbed what we could and ran
outside, but the coop was already engulfed. I tried to get to the
door, but the heat came toward me in a sickening wave, lling my
lungs with smoke. Anders pulled me away, then managed to hack a
hole in the back wall, but only ames came licking out. There was
no hope. Anders and Jens went to calm the horses, while Birgitte
smacked at the cinders in the grass with wet rags.
I sank to the ground and wept into the folds of my dress.

THE HENHOUSE BURNED to ashes in a few hours. Anders stationed Jens

at the smoking ruin with the sackcloths and the gun—to keep an eye
on the embers and the road. Then he took me inside, into our
bedroom, and gently started to unbutton my traveling dress.
I pushed his hands away. “I need to leave, Anders. Once I’m gone
they’ll have no reason to hurt you.”
He looked at me with great tenderness. “No, Nora. We’ll go
together. Change into your work clothes, for we must pack. I’ll
never have peace here, not now. It shocks me that they would
threaten us this way. It’s a measure of their resolve.”
“But you cannot lose the farm! You’ve worked so hard for it!”
He shook his head and helped me step out of my dress. “No, it’s
you I cannot lose. I saw that tonight. You’re right; we’re husband
and wife. There’s no abandoning each another now.”
I looked at him, speechless. I was forgiven.
He dropped my day dress over my head and gave me a kiss.
“Come.”
 We stepped back into the main room, where Birgitte was making
sandwiches.
“We must all pack,” says Anders. “We’re leaving at dawn.”
“Where are we going?” asked Birgitte,
“West,” said Anders.
“Not back to Minneapolis or Chicago?” I asked.
“No. West, where there’s still land and we can escape our
history.”
“How far west?” said Birgitte.
“To Alaska territory, if that’s what it takes,” Anders said. “Pack
your woolens.”

WE FELL TO OUR CHORES—sorting, packing, and tending to the animals.

I opened up Inge’s rosemaled chest and lled it with our books and
better things, carefully stowing Anders’s woodworking tools and my
beautiful quilt from Mrs. Madsen in the bottom. Most of the
cookware and household things, however, we had to leave behind.
Along with our chest, each of us would carry just a bag of clothing
and a rolled blanket.
We soon heard a horse approaching. Birgitte shot me a nervous
glance, but when I looked outside it was James Renville, pounding
up on his pony.
I rushed out. “Mr. Renville!”
He jumped down, taking in the half- lled wagon. “Nora, are you
all right? There was a nasty crowd in the saloon—it’s all over town.”
He sni ed. “What’s burning?
“They torched my henhouse and my poor chickens.”
He strode around the side of the house to see the ruins, and I
followed, though it was hard for me to look at the smoldering pile.
Mr. Renville shook his head in dismay. “Nora, how could they
turn on you, you who’ve done so much for them?”
“Anders and I are not legally married, not according to the
Church. We’ve been shunned and must leave. They threatened to
burn the barn, so I think we got o lightly, at least in their eyes.”
 Anders appeared with a crate for the wagon. “Well, James, I guess
you heard. You’re the only friends we have left in Lac qui Parle.”
“You’ll always have us,” Mr. Renville said. “Must you go?”
“Yes, we’re heading west,” said Anders. “Can we stop with you for
a day or so, just until we get things sorted out? We’re not safe here.”
“Of course. Ann will want to say good-bye.”
“You may have our animals,” Anders said. “We can bring the
cows with us now, but you’ll have to come back for the pigs.”
“And there will be many things left in the house,” I said. “Ann can
take what she wants.”
Mr. Renville sighed, then turned to help Anders with the stock.
There seemed to be no words for what we were all feeling. It was
shocking how quickly our life on this beautiful piece of prairie had
unraveled.

WE LEFT OUR FARM in the pale light just before dawn, the wagon
heaped with luggage, the heifers plodding behind. Anders didn’t
look back, but I could not steel myself that way. I twisted on the
wagon seat, gazing at our graceful green-trimmed house, the garden
and barnyard, the corn and oats ripening in the distance. Everything
spoke of toil and care.
Perhaps this was our paradise, I thought in that moment, my
stomach knotting with despair. Perhaps it would never be that good
again.
We stopped at the graveyard to say good-bye to little Tomas, then
headed toward the lake and the Renvilles’ cabin. I realized, then,
that I would never return to either of my two homes. I could never
return to Lac qui Parle, and now that the authorities in Norway
knew I was alive, I could never return to Kristiania.
And if I couldn’t return, my children would never be able to nd
me.

TWO DAYS LATER,

after hiring a lawyer to sell the farm for us, we said
good-bye to Lac qui Parle. Ann just smiled into my eyes, nodding
gently. Our farewell was like everything else between us—deeper
than words.
Mr. Renville drove us to the station in Milan under a bluebird sky.
It was too ne a day to leave, he said wistfully, then he bid us safe
travel and clattered away.
“I’ll get the tickets,” Anders said, turning toward the ticket booth.
“Wait!” said Birgitte, stepping forward. “I’m not going west with
you.”
“What?” I said, clutching my stomach. I wasn’t sure I could
survive more losses. “Birgitte, what do you mean by this?” Anders
asked.
She squared her shoulders. “I want to go to Minneapolis and work
until I have enough to enroll at St. Olaf. I want to be a teacher, not a
farmer.”
We stared at her, our robust girl, brimming with health and
purpose. The breeze rose, lling our skirts and tugging at our
jackets. How much she had become a child of this vibrant land, this
American place.
Anders reached for her hand. “I’d always hoped for this, Birgitte.
We’ll miss you, but you’re an adult now and must make your own
life.”
I wasn’t so easily molli ed. “Are you sure?” I said. “You could
work out west until you have enough money to enroll.”
“Yes, come west with us!” Jens begged. He looked stricken by her
decision.
“It’s best if I stay here in Minnesota,” she said. “I’ve already
written to the college. I’ll miss you all, but I’ll come visit. I
promise.”
I took her into my arms. “Truly, you will make an excellent
scholar. I’m so proud of you.”
“We will send what money we can,” Anders promised her, with a
tender kiss on her forehead.
“And you best come visit at Christmas,” Jens said, punching her
on the arm, then grabbing her in a bear hug. “The Julenisse won’t
come unless you’re with us.”
 She looked around with a sad smile. “I’ll write as soon as I am
settled.”
I told her where to nd the mission in St. Paul, in case she needed
help, and we agreed to send letters to each other through the
Renvilles until we settled.
Anders went to buy our tickets, and we waited, talking softly
about the mysteries ahead for all of us. The westbound train arrived
rst. Birgitte helped us board, then clung to each of us one last time.
It broke my heart to say good-bye to her, this girl who at rst
refused to accept me and then grew to be my closest friend. How
strange life is; how big it makes us.
As our train pulled out for the Dakotas, Jens and I leaned out the
window, waving back at her. Before I was ready, her dear gure
resolved to little more than a silhouette. Then the station was
swallowed up by the wide land.
I nally pulled back into the car and sat down, wiping the soot
and tears from my eyes. Anders took my hand.
Wherever we were going, I hoped the sky was vast—the very
vault of heaven.
 EPILOGUE

July 1919 Spokane, Washington

NORA
Memory is a ckle muse, one day comforting, the next condemning.
My granddaughter wants me to write my story, the true story of
Nora Helmer, she calls it, but I sit frozen before the empty page,
unable to begin.
I can’t even say when everything started. Was it the morning I
married Torvald, the day I forged my father’s signature, or the night
I walked away? I gave up making sense of it when Anders and I left
Minnesota. To unearth it now, after nally nding a place of peace,
seems unwise. Besides, how can I say what is true? I’ve had trouble
with the truth my entire life.

AFTER WHAT HAPPENED IN LAC QUI PARLE, Anders and I never again
questioned whether we were husband and wife. When we arrived in
Spokane, we went on living as we had, keeping our heads down and
trying to avoid suspicion. A great re burned through the city a year
later, which destroyed most of the downtown and gave the
townspeople other things to worry about.
We never again dared to go to church, and I knew Anders felt the
loss of that. Sometimes I found him reading sermons or the Bible he
brought from Norway.
Instead of Bible verses, I planted my morality in an e ort to be
scrupulous with my word, though it sometimes cost me. Still,
Anders seemed comforted by my e ort. We wore each other like old
cloaks, grateful for the warmth.
Our love never felt like sin to me, even if it meant I couldn’t
return to church. But then, I never felt God’s presence in church
anyway, even as a child. I tried looking to the hills for God, but the
prairie taught me that nature is indi erent to my troubles and can
be merciless in its erce beauty.
I didn’t nd God until I returned to working with women. Instead
of helping in private homes, I work in a mission for immigrants who
have landed in Spokane penniless and alone. The women come from
all the corners of Europe, and even from the East, dressed in
outlandish costumes and speaking strange languages. But if I look
past their haunted eyes and bad teeth, I see the light of God.
Because every woman wants what I wanted—her family around her,
meaningful work, and the freedom to live honestly in the world. We
are all the same, and that is how I’ve come to know, nally, that
God is true.

ANDERS AND I ARE OLD NOW, and the dry western wind has left us
wrinkled as gnomes. Our life is spare, but our work and children
remind us the world is rich. We keep a happy home, particularly
with Jens and Katrin and the grandchildren here. In the evenings,
Anders plays a hand organ I bought him, and Katrin teaches the
children to dance. After we settled at the orchard, Anders found and
repaired an old piano, a great pleasure for me. Sometimes I play
Chopin and wonder if Mrs. Burnley still lives or has gone to her
grave.
Birgitte went to live in St. Paul and eventually enrolled at St. Olaf
College, her longtime dream. When she graduated, she married a
fellow student and moved to Wisconsin to teach. They’ve given us
several more grandchildren and keep a home lled with books and
learning.
I wrote to Emma when she was grown, telling her where I was,
but I never heard back. Most likely, Torvald burned the letter before
she even saw it. I’ve thought of her often over the years, wondering
whom she married, but it was di cult to imagine her as an adult.
She would always be a baby to me.
As for her brothers, I do not know where they are. I hope they are
happy in their lives.
AND THEN ONE SPRING DAY,after the Great War was nally over, I found
that astonishing advertisement in the Skandinaven. Soon after
writing my answer, I received a letter in return. But it wasn’t from
Ivar or Bobby or Emma. It was from a granddaughter I didn’t even
know existed, Solveig. It turned out she was the one who put the
advertisement in the newspaper, this surprising girl. She told me her
grandfather Torvald died of complications from the Spanish u in
October of 1918, but her mother—Emma—was ne and living in
Bergen. At the end of the note she said she was coming to America
and asked if she could visit us here in Spokane.

I WROTE TO THIS MYSTERIOUS GRANDDAUGHTER, welcoming her to our

home. A few weeks later, Anders and I took the train to Seattle to be
married before a justice of the peace. Jens stood up as our witness,
and at the end of that day I was nally, honestly, Mrs. Nora Eriksen.

WE DROVE INTO TOWN to meet Solveig’s train on a bright July day. As

we waited I realized I was expecting Emma—that I had confused my
granddaughter with my daughter. I could not deny a longing that
Emma might be with her, though I knew better. My gloved hands
twisted together. I had no idea who this child would be.
When the train arrived, Solveig stepped from the carriage all
modern and con dent, in a short skirt and cloche hat, a camera bag
on her shoulder. We spotted her rst, and my heart, nervous all day,
leaped in gladness. All I could think was, yes, this was my own, my
granddaughter. I would have known her anywhere.
We called to her in Norwegian. She turned, scanning the crowd,
then saw me. She stared for a long moment, then her modern facade
crumbled and she was a child again, a lost child. Tears slid down
her dusty cheeks as she stepped, hesitantly, into my arms.
“Grandmother! I, oh …”
I held her until she was ready, and then she pulled back, laughing
through her tears. “I’m sorry. I’ve just, well, I wanted you to be alive
so much, and you are, you are! It’s almost beyond belief.”
 She was an only child, raised mostly by Emma and Torvald. I
could just imagine her lonely life.
I smiled, my own feelings surging in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I
wasn’t quite sure what I expected from this mysterious
granddaughter, but I could already see she was not her mother.
“Welcome, Solveig,” Anders said, handling the niceties. “I’ll go
fetch your luggage.”
Solvi and I just smiled and clutched each other.
Anders decided to leave us at a hotel for lunch and headed o to
do errands, so we could be alone. Solvi dried her tears and ordered
competently in English, looking at me all the while. In my worn
clothes I knew I appeared more authentically American than she
could have imagined. Still, she leaned eagerly across the table,
chattering in Norwegian.
I tingled with joy just to behold her, this daughter of Emma, but I
soon understood that her visit wouldn’t be easy. She pulled a
photograph from her purse—the one from the advertisement.
Torvald tried to burn it just before he died, she told me, showing me
the scorched edge, but fate intervened. The picture was the rst
evidence that her mother had been part of a larger family, and ever
since Solvi saw it, she said, she’s been searching for me.
In the beginning she thought her uncles and I would be in
Kristiania, or at least in Norway, but she could nd no trace of us.
Then she heard a story, something about a forgotten woman who
became an iconic gure in Norway, and she was haunted by it. Now
she was convinced I was this forgotten heroine who slammed the
door on an unhappy marriage and started a revolution.
I stared at her, astonished.
“I’m an old story, Solvi,” I said. “No one remembers me.”
“Oh, but they do, Grandmother.” Then she opened her purse and
pulled out a card. I peered at it. Dr. Tobias Wol , Professor of History.
My old friend!
Solvi smiled. “He’s my professor. He helped me gure out that my
missing grandmother and the Forgotten One were the same person.”
I just stared at her, astonished.
 “He asked that you write to him. He still misses you, after all
these years.” Now she leaned forward again. “And there are others,
many who are curious about you. They call you the woman who
rst said no!”
“Who calls me that?”
“The feminists, the women who have changed Norway! It started
with you and Aasta Hansteen, but you are just a shadow because no
one knows what happened to you. I’m hoping I can convince you to
write your story, so everyone will understand.”
How strange. I have lived in America nearly forty years. How
could I become important to Norwegians in my absence?
I gazed at her across the table, taking her measure. She had more
of Torvald in her than she would likely admit, the high forehead,
the certainty—but, no. I mustn’t blame her for her grandfather. He
was my mistake, not hers. Still, she was the most precious gift, with
her bobbed blond curls tucked behind her ears—fresh, unbent, a
crusader. She had been to university; that was the problem.
I couldn’t hold the intensity of her eyes, so I looked down past the
tea cakes to the frayed sleeve of my jacket. I reached out, my
gnarled hands palms up in supplication. She took them in her own
fair hands and rubbed the knobby skin with her thumbs.
“This is why, Grandmother, because your life is much more
interesting than the story they’re parading about,” she said. “Why,
no one even knows you’re alive! They think you’re dead and so say
whatever they want. You must write the true story of Nora Helmer,
so they’ll understand what you endured, how you survived.”
The true story of Nora Helmer? I shook my head. When I left
Torvald, I wondered who would prove to be right, me or the world.
I still didn’t know. And even if I were sure, I would probably dress it
up, make myself virtuous, imply wisdom and forethought when
there was little of either in what I did. I would make myself a myth
whether I wanted to or not, because all that had happened seemed
to make sense only as myth, something larger than life.
And yet, and yet. My drab clothes reminded me of our orchard
home and the humble mission where I worked, listening to women
poorer yet more mythic than I could ever be. Some had escaped the
czar; others had run from pogroms, or soldiers, or the hunger of the
Great War. So who was I? Just Nora.

TO HUMOR HER, I said I would consider it. “But, rst, Solveig, you
must help me understand the family. I left a long time ago. Tell me
what I missed.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. She wanted to help.
I rummaged in my bag and pulled out something dear to me:
Emma’s cap. “I was embroidering this for your mother when I left.
Please tell me about her. When I visited thirty years ago she refused
to speak with me.”
Solvi ngered the little cap. “Mother told me about this. I was not
surprised she wouldn’t talk to you back then. No one in the family
ever spoke of you, because Grandfather wouldn’t allow it. She was
quite shocked that you reappeared when she’d been told you were
dead.”
“She had no memory of me to help her,” I said. “I was a stranger
to her.”
Solvi nodded sadly. “I tried to get her to come with me to
America, but she doesn’t venture far from her parlor in Bergen.” She
paused, looking into my eyes. “I begged her to forgive you.”
“Shush, child; it’s enough that you’re here.”
A long moment passed before she spoke again. “That’s what
Mama said—that I was her gift to you.”
Tears rose in my eyes. I was forgiven; it nearly took my breath
away.
“So tell me about your mother. I’ve really only known her as a
small child.”
Solvi gave me another sad smile. “She is loving, beautiful,
conventional, and stubborn. I think she got that from Grandfather.
She seems to hate all things modern.” Solvi paused. “I know it’s
disrespectful of me to criticize my mother,” she nally said, “but we
must be honest about life, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but we must also be understanding.”
 “Of course,” she said, measuring her words. “Mama was very
precious to Grandfather; we lived with him in his house. He and
Mama almost seemed like an old married couple sometimes, the
way they sat and talked while my father retreated to his study. It
made me angry for Papa, but he was resigned to it.” She stopped to
breathe. “Mama also got very sick with the in uenza, and when
Grandfather died I was terri ed she would too, just because she
couldn’t live without him. At the worst moment, when we both
thought she was dying, she asked me to promise I would marry the
boy Grandfather had picked for me. But I couldn’t do it.” Solvi
looked at me with anguish. “It was her deathbed request, and I said
no.”
I squeezed her hand. “Sometimes we face harrowing decisions in
life, Solveig. But choosing whom to marry and to love must come
from our own hearts.”
She nodded fervently. “Oh, I’ve always believed that! But Mama—
well, after that I couldn’t stay in Bergen anymore. I actually ran
away to university.”
How alike we were, this child and I! “Have you reconciled with
her, Solveig?”
“Yes. I went to visit her before I came to America. It wasn’t easy,
but I think we understand each other better now.”
For all her con dence, I sensed how di cult this was for her. She
was one of mine, after all, one of those I injured. She wanted my
story so she could understand her own.
“The strange thing about my mother,” Solvi said, “is that I never
quite felt like her child. We are so di erent. Sometimes I imagined
myself an orphan she had adopted, someone whose real mother had
left her behind.”
“As your mother was left behind, as I was. We’ve been lonely
children, Solvi dear. You, me, your mother.”
“Oh, Grandmother,” she said, pulling out her handkerchief and
dabbing at her eyes. “Don’t you see? There’s so much I need to
understand, or I’ll never know who I am. Please write your story.
Why you left Grandfather, where you went, how you survived. If not
for the others, please, write it for me.”
 SOLVI
The rst night at the orchard Solvi found herself swept into the
family embrace. Jens and his wife, Katrin, brought supper and their
four children for a noisy evening lled with laughter, music, and a
staccato mixture of Norwegian and English. Solvi spent the evening
answering the children’s questions, taking their pictures, and letting
the littlest sit in her lap and eat her pie. Whenever Solvi looked up
from the mayhem, there was her grandmother, smiling at her.
Over the next few weeks Solvi helped in the kitchen, walked with
her grandmother in the orchard, and photographed the children
climbing the trees, monkeys all of them. Slowly, she told her
grandmother the full story of solving the mystery: following her trail
in the newspaper clippings, talking with Anne-Marie’s daughter,
searching cemeteries and parish records. Nora listened with
astonishment, asking the occasional question, but mostly just
nodding and sighing. She appeared to remember everything, yet
there was an emotional guardedness, it seemed to Solvi, a
reluctance to go back to the world she left behind. Solvi sat with her
sometimes just holding her hand, retreating to the love that was
wordless. They were kindred, but also strangers.

AFTER THE FIRST WEEK,Solvi sat down to write her mother a letter, but
when she could not even pen the rst sentence, she realized she
must tell her in person, when she would be able to see her face and
watch for tears. Solvi knew it wouldn’t be easy for either of them.
But she could tell Magnus, and so she wrote to him.

Dear Magnus: There aren’t enough words to describe how wonderful

it’s been—the voyage across the Atlantic with Rikka, traveling
through the endless expanse of America to reach Spokane, seeing
my grandmother for the rst time, and settling in with her and my
American family at their beautiful orchard outside the city. The
other grandchildren are a passel of blond imps, three stair-step boys
in knee britches and a fearless, pinafored little girl who follows her
brothers around like a wolf pup, sneaking about and playing tricks.
Their father, Jens, runs the orchard for my grandmother’s husband,
Anders. Their mother is Katrin, an able farmwife with a lovely
singing voice and laughing manner. When I’m surrounded by them
at dinner each night, I think of your vision of me having a life full of
people, as it seems to have come true. These are evenings of sublime
happiness for me.
Their life is very rustic. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time,
especially when I ride in the orchard wagon, which is pulled by
mules, or light the oil lamps in the evening. There is no electricity
and few modern comforts. And yet, the farm is cozy and happy. It
can be quite hot during the day, but at night a breeze blows down
from the mountains, cooling everything. The land is dry, but there
are green pines and spruce on the hills.
My grandmother is quite wrinkled but beautiful and elegant
nonetheless, with her gray-blond hair swept up on her head and her
lace collars (all handmade). Anders has shown me every kindness.
We sit and talk of Norway sometimes; he has a nostalgia for the
fjords and mountains that she doesn’t share and enjoys hearing of
my days tramping the uplands with my father. My grandmother has
told me of some of her adventures in Norway and here in America,
and they are by turns grim and fascinating. She has worked for
many years with grieving, despondent women and now helps
immigrant mothers settle into America. She believes this is her
special calling. I went with her yesterday to the mission, and it was
sobering to see the poverty of these women. My grandmother moves
like a swan among the most squalid gures, dispensing advice,
medicine, packets of knitted goods, and hope. She reminds me a bit
of Rikka, though she’s much better behaved.
I’m trying to get my grandmother to write her story, as Professor
Wol suggested—so that Norwegian history can make a place for
her and the feminists of Kristiania can nally claim her as their
sister. I’m not sure I’ve convinced her, though. I haven’t had the
courage to ask why she left my grandfather, or why she married Mr.
Eriksen when she was still married to someone else. I’m not sure I
have the right. My grandmother is silent about many things, a
silence learned, I suspect, from a lifetime of secrets and living on the
 prairie. There’s no way to describe the distances here, how empty
the horizon can feel here in the West. You’ll just have to come back
with me someday and see it for yourself.
So, dear Magnus, I am being changed. Finding my grandmother
and living for a time in her pioneer life has stretched me in ways I
never imagined. I’ve taken many photographs. The world is so much
bigger than our little country, perched there on the Arctic Circle,
and humanity is so much more varied. America seems lled with
those who are di erent—Chinese, Indians, Africans. I’m sure you’ll
nd it quite exhilarating when we travel here together someday.
I don’t ever want to leave, but I look forward to my return. Will
life always be made of these contradictions? Maybe you can help
me make sense of that.
Your a ectionate, Solvi

NORA

Solvi is gone now, headed back to nish her studies in Norway and
to see her mother and her beau, Magnus. I miss her with an ache
that will not quiet. When she told me how she searched for me, I
was quite moved by her hunger and her deep intuition that I was
alive. At rst I didn’t feel worthy of it, but the longer we were
together, the more I understood the deep bond between us—not just
of blood, but of spirit and heart. She completes my life; she is the
ending of my story. I may never see Emma again or the boys, but,
despite that sorrow, I feel whole.
We nally talked of Ivar and Bobby. Neither of us knows where
they are, though Solvi said her mother assumed they were in
America with me. No doubt they have gone on to have full lives,
possibly somewhere in this great country. Solvi promised to try—
along with her beau, who works as a journalist—to nd them,
wherever they are, and attempt to reunite us. I smiled at her naive
belief that such a thing would be easy, but it is possible there are
more miracles to be revealed.
 As for her hope that I will write my story, by the time we said
good-bye, we had come to an agreement. I would write it, and she
would get it published. I nally realized that Aasta Hansteen was
right: it might help other women to understand my experience, to
hear my truth. I couldn’t speak out before, when she asked me so
many years ago back in St. Paul, but I can now.

SO HERE I SIT,pen in hand, a virgin notebook before me. Anders has

fashioned me a little desk and placed it by the window in our
bedroom so I can work in peace. Yet there is no peace in this
project. To nd the beginning I must unearth the memories of my
life with Torvald, and as soon as I scratch at the surface, it all rushes
back—the slanting light of those winter afternoons I sat
eavesdropping on Torvald and Dr. Rank at the study door, the
children bouncing in their chairs around the kitchen table as Nurse
served their supper, Torvald putting a proprietary hand on my back
when we went out so everyone would know I was his.
And I can feel, even now, how hard it was to breathe.
So, perhaps that is where I’ll start: with that frigid night so long
ago, when I took my rst real breath.
 APPRECIATION

Any serious work of historical ction is built on considerable

research. I would like to thank the many people who helped me
understand the work of Henrik Ibsen, the Norwegian diaspora and
the conditions in Minnesota during the late nineteenth century. In
Norway, I would like to thank Dina Tolfsby and Benedikte Berntzen
at the National Library of Norway, Astrid Saether of the Center for
Ibsen Studies at the University of Oslo, Knut Djupedal at the
Norwegian Emigrant Museum in Hamar, as well as the guides at the
Ibsen Museum and the Norwegian Folk Museum in Oslo, and the
Bergen Art Museum. In Minnesota, I was ably aided by Je Sauve of
the Norwegian American Historical Association in North eld, Billy
and Ann Thompson of the Arv Hus Museum in Milan, Janet E. Liebl
of the Lac qui Parle County Historical Society, the sta of the
Minnesota Historical Society, Katherine Linstrom for her
presentation on Helga Estby, the delightful grandmothers of the
Sons of Norway in Montevideo, and Mark Odegard for his family’s
immigration story.
My agent Ann Rittenberg was very helpful in shaping the
narrative, and editors Carolyn Carlson and Liz van Hoose provided
additional useful insights. My thanks to all of you.
This book was also improved by the close reading and comments
of various friends, relatives and colleagues. Some of the best advice
came from my “sister brigade,” including Anne Swallow Gillis,
Laura Swallow, Penny Dwyer, Carrie Shepard and Andra Georges.
Among other readers and advisors, special thanks go to Betty Miller
(who read at least eight versions), Susan Kellam, Sandra Eskin, Amy
Eisman, Kathleen Eisman, Beth Brophy, Ann Keniston, Irene Tudor,
Carolyn Oxsen, Steve Piacente, Carol Francis, Jane Hall, David
DeLong, Almut Hennings, Maggie Heyward, Dara LaPorte, Julie
Stewart, Liza Tucker, Edward Robinson, Marcella Gillis, Mary
Swallow, Cadi Simon, Josephine Shepard, Ben Shepard, Fred
Williams, Joe Williams, Christine Bachman, and Joanne Lipman.
Kathleen Szawiola was one of my earliest and sharpest readers, and
she also designed the book and managed the production. Many,
many thanks to her, and my skilled copy editor Annette Wenda, as
well as Kimberly Glyder, who created the luminous cover. I am
deeply grateful for all the frank discussion, thoughtful assistance,
and encouraging words.
Thanks, as well, to my mother Edie Swallow, and all the Swallows
and Shepards who bore witness to the long process of writing this
book, especially my boys Ben, Joe, Sam and Geo . But my deepest
gratitude goes to my husband Charlie Shepard, who supported me
for the ten years it took, always believed in my vision for Nora,
listened tirelessly as I worked out the plot and characters, and took
copious notes on our trip to Norway.
I could never have persevered without the support and wisdom of
everyone here.
WENDY SWALLOW writes about women’s challenges, now and in the
tender past. A memoirist, journalist and professor, Swallow spent
ten years working on Searching for Nora, traveling to Norway to
interview Ibsen scholars and Norwegian historians, and driving
across western Minnesota to hear the stories of immigrant
grandparents and experience the wide, empty land. She is also the
author of Breaking Apart, a Memoir of Divorce (Hyperion/Thea) and
The Triumph of Love over Experience, a Memoir of Remarriage
(Hyperion). Her work has been critically acclaimed by Publishers
Weekly, Elle, Booklist, Newsday, and The Washington Post, among
others, and reprinted in many magazines. She and her husband split
their time between Reno, Nevada, and Cape Cod.

For a Book Club Guide or to request an interview with the author,

go to www.searchingfornora.com. At that site you will nd more
about Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, and can link to a free online
edition of the 1879 play. Searchingfornora.com also o ers a trove of
information about Nora Helmer, Ibsen’s iconic protagonist,
including details of Norway in Nora’s day. The website features
Wendy’s blog about her adventures researching and writing the
book, her social media links, and “Nora’s Journey,” a photo essay
that brings to life Nora’s world and experiences.

[Twitter] @SwallowWendy
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[Instagram] wendywswallow
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