WIP - Soren Valor - Day 13

“Focus on a faraway place,” Miss Matchan wrote on the board, her chalk squeaking on the silent e.

Sören squirmed in his seat. He drew his thumb methodically along the pencil tray at the top of his desk, rubbing it as if to deepen its groove. His eyes wandered to the right, seeing nothing, so deep into his thoughts that he was blind to his classmate, Lloyd Thompson, next to him. 

Lloyd squirmed, too. A faraway place? How far? Sebeka? Grand Forks? Thunder Bay? His pencil tip found its way into his mouth and his tongue pushed it out repeatedly. Lloyd looked at Sören’s dreamy face and half-grin. He saw Sören start writing so fast the tip of his pencil broke.

Lloyd…Lloyd, may I borrow a pencil?” Sören asked, but Lloyd already had a spare, sharpened pencil in his hand, held out to the older boy. Sören’s face broke into a full smile, “Thanks,” he whispered. 

The only place on Sören’s mind was Osterhammar, Sweden. His mor had been talking to him last night about how she used to go berry picking in the summer on mid-summer’s eve. Sören could hardly imagine having the sun shine almost all day and night. 

When my mother was a little girl, Sören wrote, she lived in Osterhammar with her mother and father. My mom liked to pick lignin berries and… 

His nose scrunched. This wasn’t how he wanted to write. He wanted to write a story, a real story like Armstrong Sperry wrote when he wrote about Mafatu on an island in the Pacific. The young author drew a heavy line in pencil on his sheet and began again. 

Astrid and her sisters bounded up the hillside, their metal pails banging against their thighs. With the ropes rigged so their hands would be free, they picked berries double-handed, tossing the fruit into their buckets. Without warning, a wild… 

Sören put his pencil in the tray and massaged his right palm with his fingers. His lips pressed together tightly as he tried to remember. “Pssst, Sonja!” he whispered. His sister, seated a seat ahead of him, to his left,  readily looked up, happy for the distraction from this writing task. 

Sören glanced at Miss Matchan. She was squatted down next to another student talking quietly in his ear. “Sonja, what animals do you remember from Sweden?” he asked. 

“Animals? Remember? Sören, I don’t remember any animals, we left when I was only three years old! But far sings that song about the weasel and the monkey so those must be animals over there.” 

He gave a half-snort. “Sonja, there are no monkeys in Sweden. That’s just a folk song. It’s not real. Forget it, I’ll figure it out myself.” 

Sonja stuck her tongue out at her brother. “Smarty-pants!” she mouthed.
Sitting next to Sonja, but paying no attention to her whispering, Becky’s thoughts focused on her cousin, not the one who was in the US Air Force, but her German cousin, Claus Schwartz. His mother was her papa’s older sister by three years. She wondered what he was doing still in Germany.

“Dear Claus,” she began writing. “I’ve been thinking about you in Warnemünde and wonder how you are. The Baltic surely is bitterly cold by now. Do you still fish with your father? How are Anne and Hilde?  I miss my dear cousins and wish I could see you all. I hope you are fine even with the war and that you do not have to fight.
We are fine here in America. Heinz follows my father in occupation and now attends the university and then medical school. Betty and I attend school in District 11 and Burdee and Harold help mother at home until they are old enough for school, too.
Give my love to Onkle Dieter and Tante Tressie. Sincerely, Rebecca Rose Erdmann”

Frank Kern hooted loudly. “You wish you could see Claus, he’s fighting in the war? And your father is in occupation! So who's Clausie?" 

Becky jumped so quickly, her head connected soundly with Frank’s face. “Ouch! Hey, knock it off! What are you doing?” he cried out accusingly.
“You were reading over my shoulder!” 

“You bet I was. I want to keep an eye on you Germans.” 

“What? What are you saying? Your family is also German.” Becky’s whole body tensed in anger. 

“But we’ve lived here for generations. My grandpa Kern owned the farm before my pop did. You? You’re probably not even a citizen.” Frank made a grab for Becky’s paper, but she clamped her hand down on it. It tore in half  to Frank’s surprise and delight. He waved his half in the air. The upset girl frantically shoved the remainder into her desk. 

Near tears, she fumed, “You give me my letter back, Frances Kern.”

“Make me.” 

Suddenly Miss Matchan stood between the two seething students. “Whatever is happening will end now. Frank, sit down. Becky, sit in the chair next to my desk.” 

Both children acquiesced and went meekly to their assigned seats.  “We’ll discuss this after lunch.” She clapped her hands twice, “Class, it’s time for lunch and recess. The sun is shining, I think you’ll be okay to spend time outdoors. Stay outside until I ring the bell.”

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 12

 “Mor, what did happen to Tor’s far?”
Astrid stirred the simmering stew before answering. “What brings that up, sötis?”
“Oh, it’s just on my mind…well…really, it was Frank Kern.”
“You don’t seem to get along with him, do you?” She tucked some stray hair behind her ears that had fallen from her bun.
Pacing back and forth, he said angrily, “He’s a big lout and he was bugging Tor during recess yesterday. He told his dumb buddies that Tor was born out of wedlock.”

Astrid wiped her hands on her apron and pursed her lips. “Sören, you know that’s not true.” She handed him a peeler and a handful of carrots and gently pushed him into a chair.

Grabbing a bowl, he dutifully began scraping the orange peels off the long vegetable, catching the peelings in the dish he held between his knees. “I didn’t say it! Frank did. And I know it’s not true. But where did Torsten’s far go?”
“Well, it’s a sensitive subject,” Mor said with hesitation. “Tor’s far was born in Sweden, just like you and I were. He met your far when they both served in the military. In fact, it was your far who introduced Sven Rydén to Marta.” She paused and stared into space thinking of another time.

“Go on, Mor.”
“Oh, the two of them felt matched to one another and they married three days after you were born. Of course, the wedding was planned when Mr. Rydén proposed in the fall. We all thought you would stay put until well after the wedding. But you came a few weeks earlier than we’d expected.”
Astrid took the now peeled carrots from her son and laid them on the counter. She added the onion skin to his bowl of scraps. “When they finally came over to America, Torsten was already on the way—you missed a spot here,” she said and handed the carrot back. “Then Sven decided that he needed to return to Sweden. I don’t know what he’s doing now.”
“You mean, he just abandoned Aunt Marta? And she was pregnant?” Sören’s eyes opened wide in astonishment forgetting that he was holding a carrot.
With her paring knife, Astrid deftly began to chop each carrot into the kettle. “Not exactly. He set up a fund for Marta and he used to send money over every month or two, but he…well, never mind. You don’t need to know everything.”
Collecting the last carrot, she handed her son four brown potatoes, saying, “Please don’t talk to others about this. It’s Marta’s private business.”
“Ouch! That peeler is sharp,” he exclaimed. “Of course, Mor, I wouldn’t blab family business to the neighbors.” Brown skins piled up on the cutting board. “The chickens will eat well today, Mor. I still don’t understand why Mr. Rydén went back to Sweden. Didn’t he love Aunt Marta?”
“Of course he did,” murmured Astrid. “At first, he said he wanted to finish his military service. Eventually, he joined the Finish army when Russian invaded Finland. Then he said he wanted to go help in…oh, I don’t know, Sören. The subject grieves me.”
Sören stood up and put the cleaned potatoes in the kettle and rested the lid on top. “Mor, you should know that I know Mr. Rydén is fighting for the Nazis.” He lifted the lid, shook the potatoes around, and put the lid back. “We didn’t mean to, but Tor and I heard you talking to Aunt Marta. We couldn’t quite understand what you meant, but it makes sense now.”

Suddenly Mor was standing right next to him. Her hand grasped Sören’s. “We don’t know anything thing of the sort,” she said in a flat, low voice that sounded almost spooky.

“But Mor, I heard you say—“
“You heard nothing, Sören. Do you understand me? You heard nothing. Now go do your homework.”
Feeling dazed, he walked into the dining room. His sister was already settled in at the table reading a book.
Sören found his knapsack and retrieved a piece of paper. “I think I need to write a poem,” he said absently as if to no one at all. 

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 10

“Tomorrow, then, in the afternoon,” said Sören looking expectant. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Look, you go on, I have to stop at Mr. Uselman's today."

"Don't you just hate that job? I mean, killing crows? I think they are so clever and I don't mind their caw."

"It’s not crows this time, too late in the year for that. No, Mr. Uselman wants me to help him patch up some holes in his foundation. He said the mice are looking for ways to get in for the winter."

She shuddered and started walking toward her house. “Ugh. Mice and boys named Frank Kern. I can’t stand either sort,” she began to trot and called more loudly, “I have to go. Chores at home. Bye Sören."

"Becky, wait! What do you mean?" But Becky was out of earshot. Sören scowled. He remembered the time that Frank Kern had been playing ball in the school yard. He felt his cheeks heat up at the memory.

"Swing, batter-batter-batter, swing!" Frank hooted as Sören stepped up to the plate. The batter focused on his grip. Right on top, left is lower, he repeated to himself. He bent his knees with a tiny spring to his stance.
The ball whizzed past. Sören hadn't moved a muscle.
"Strike!"

"This boy's a chicken. He won't hit. Move in boys, no need to worry about this swinger," Frank heckled from first base.

Sören swallowed. He bounced on his feet, peered down the line to first base, cocked his head at the pitcher and waited, the bat hovering over his right shoulder.

Another ball flashed by. Again, Sören hadn't moved a muscle.
"Strike!" called the ump like a crisp snap of an icicle.

Sören's stomach clutched inward. He swung his bat, slicing the air, testing its weight. He shook his shoulders and rotated his head.

"Watchcha waiting for, Markusson? Want me to hit it for youuuu?" Frank continued to razz from his position on the base.

Sören visualized hitting the ball straight into Kern's crotch, ricocheting it off his knees, sending it flying ten feet over his Swiss-cheese head.

The ball appeared in Sören's field of vision. As if it was floating on a stream of air. Sören straightened his left arm, his right arm following suit. He heard a crack as the bat and ball connected. The ball rolled down the bat as it flew out.

Sören dropped the bat where he stood and started running for first. His hat flipped off his head. He kept running. He heard, in the distance, a voice screaming, "Catch it!" Sören kept running.

His right toe touched the base as he barreled into the infield player. Frank stood there like a gorilla, holding Sören's fly ball, grinning so that Sören could see Frank's wad of sorghum caught between his teeth.

"You're out, you little pup. Out like rabid bat" the bigger kid growled. Then Frank elbowed Sören in the ribs, but hollered, "Coach! This kid spit at me!"

Coach Lindgren yelled back, "Don't be a tattletale, Kern!"

That only made Frank sneer; under his breath he said, "Just wait to see what happens this Saturday, little Sorehead."

Sören realized he was clenching his fists like bullets when he knocked on Mr. Uselmann's door. The elderly man opened the screen.

"Come in, Sören, don't pound so hard, you'll break the door."

Sören declined, "Sorry Mr. Uselmann, I'm needing to get straight to work today. My far and I patched up our house two days ago. I know what to do so how about if I got right to it?"

Mr. Uselmann nodded, "There's always time for courtesy, Sören."

The boy looked down at his feet. "Yes, sir. You're right." Soren pulled at a stray thread on his jacket. "Um, would it be alright to visit after I reinforce the foundation? We can talk while the cement is drying."

"Good idea and good response; you've patched up this old man's feelings."

Sören grinned. Mr. Uselmann was like a grandfather to him. His own grandfathers lived across the Atlantic. Farfar Markusson still preached at Uppsala Cathedral. His mor's far lived in Osthammar, north of Stockholm, on the coast of the Baltic Sea.

Later, when the work was done, Sören walked home whistling Spring efter vatten, a tune his far had taught him just last night on the nyckleharpa.

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 9

(I'm struggling with the timeline. This is out of order and needs a continuity revision.)

“Those pump-action shotguns are like min-cannons they are so powerful! A lot more bang than the souped up BB gun I’d been using. Thanks, Mr. Uselman!” Sören shook his employer’s hand and left with a swing in his stride. Ahead he saw Becky’s brunette curls hanging from under her knit cap. The autumn air, while refreshing, also chilled.

“Hey, Becky! Wait up!,” he called, but to his surprise and embarrassment, his voice broke mid-sentence. I sound like a frog, he thought self-consciously.
Becky noted his changing voice, but knew it’d be a while before the 14 year old was as grown up as an adult. She was glad he wasn’t a man, not yet anyway. Her cousin had enlisted with the US Air Force as soon as he’d turned 18 and that was over two years ago. She wondered if her adopted country would be able to stay out of the war. Seemed like all of Europe was engulfed in it.
“You look chipper today, Sören, what’s your secret?” Becky asked as he drew close to where she waited under the oak tree.
“Aww, I was sure Mr. Uselmann was going to chew me out back there. I’d wasted two whole shots trying to take down a pair of pesky crows that was stealing his corn. Instead he showed me how to use his new shotgun and Becky does that shooter have a kick to it! Plus it took out both birds with one squeeze of the trigger!”
Sören looked at his friend with bright eyes before remembering that she wasn’t fond of shooting animals and especially not crows. “Sören, I hardly know what to say,” the tender-hearted girl replied, “but I’m sure it’s good to not waste ammunition. I wonder if you’ll even be able to keep doing that chore for Mr. Uselmann. Pa says they’re going to start rationing metal and bullets next.”
Sören considered her words. “You know, I like the money and I do like target-shooting, but birds aren’t targets. I don’t like the killing part. I guess it’ll be for the best if that chore ends. You know, Becks, it’s a little scary how the government is making us save stuff or not use rubber and gun powder. Far said that his cousins in California have a curfew! I don’t like the authorities to take so much control.”
Becky began to walk home, turning up the collar on her coat. “It makes me feel safer, Sören, when the government does stuff like that for our own good.”
“Yeah, but how does the government know what’s best for me,” he protested. “They don’t even know me!”
“We’re their citizens, Sören. Just like your pa knows what’s best for you so does the government.”
Sören didn’t argue that logic, but his heart twisted up a bit. His far didn’t know how he wanted to be a writer not a farmer when he grew up. He didn’t know how Sören was already hanging out at the newspaper office looking for ways to help. One thing pappa did know, Sören admitted to himself, was how much they both loved polskas and making music.

WIP - Soren Valor - Day 6

     "Thank you, Mr. Uselman," Sören said, but not feeling right about it.  It didn't seem honorable to earn money for killing birds, not even thievin' crows.  Didn't seem right to take money from Mr. Uselman, either.  The old man would shoot the birds himself if he could only hold the rifle steady, Far had said to Mor, explaining that Otto Uselmann had the shaking palsy.
     "You've done a good job, Sören.  Someday, son, when I'm up in Heaven, if the good Lord'll take me, I'll be holding my Winchester with my eye staring down the barrel and bam! I'm gonna get me them crows," Mr. Uselman said, sighing.
     Sören smiled politely and said, "I sure hope so, Mr. Uselman."
     "Come back in two weeks when I have a fresh round of shot, why don’tcha?"
     "Sure will, Mr. Uselman, thanks again!" Sören waved as he walked down the dirt road humming Gåsvihorn, the tune Far had taught him the previous night.  A sturdy little polska, Far had said, played slowly enough for new dancers to dance the hambo.
     Sören had been allowed to hold Far's nyckelharpa and even try tuning a few of the strings, but he'd had to whistle the tune through his lips last night.
     Uncle Sven owned a durspel.  Even now, Sören felt breathless remembering the time he'd squeezed the bellows and pressed the keys. Out came a too-loud-for-the-closet sound quickly exposing his secret hide-away at Uncle Sven's place. It was hard to believe Far and Sven were brothers the way each had reacted.
     Far had hurried to the closet first. His eyes and lips formed narrow straight lines. He worked his left palm like he was polishing silver. Then big, blond Sven and found them and burst out laughing. “Sören, my son, you’ve ratted yourself out!” Then he’d thumped his brother’s shoulder and said, “Nils, looks like you’ve raised up a replica of yourself, another musician in the family!” Sören was sure music was the only way he resembled his far.

     A glint of metal caught Sören's eye. He turned his head just in time to see a black crow swoop down and pluck up a coin, a dime even, and fly away to a tree limb.  Once landed, the crow guardedly dropped the coin into a hollowed out cavity at the limb's fork.
     It wasn't that high up, Sören mused.  If he stretched, maybe he could...no...it certainly was higher up than that.  He was still shorter than Mor.  Sören looked around. There was nothing nearby that could boost him.  He stepped closer to the tree and tentatively put his arms around it.
     That wasn't too bad.  Maybe he could shimmy up the trunk.  His right hand reached up to find a knot, giving him enough purchase to pull upward and hoist a foot off the ground.  Then his foot wedged in between two deep grooves of the bark and he heaved himself higher.
     Now his right foot was pushing the air, blindly searching for a spot to dig in.  Suddenly he found his foot pushed up a whole half-yard.  He looked down.  There stood Becky Erdmann.
     "Heya, Becky!" he grinned.  "Thanks for helping me, but don't let me hurt you."
     "I'm fine, Sören.  Whatcha looking for up there?  A bird's nest?" Becky asked.
     "I saw a crow drop a coin in a hole up there and I wanted to get it, maybe get lucky and find even more than that," replied Sören.  "Whadda ya know! My fingers can touch something!"
     Sören's index finger poked around the hole, sending crazy messages to his brain. "I feel something sticky and then something thin and round, like that coin, but no, it's got a hole in...it's a ring!  Well, but there's something...ouch!"
     "Sören!  Did something bite you?  What happened?  Also, my arms are wearing out, if you don't mind," Becky said.
     Sören quickly stretched up just enough to grab a handful of mishmash from the crow's stash of treasures.  In doing so, he felt the muscle in his side smart, as if snapped by a rubber band.  "Okay, I've grabbed whatever I can.  I'm going to drop down.  Let go, Becky."
     Becky stepped back as Sören let go of his hold on the tree.  His entire body plunged downward and he found himself suddenly standing so close to Becky, they might as well have been dancing. They both exclaimed in harmony, "Oh!"
     Shyly, Becky shrank back, but then grasped Sören's hand.  "Let me look at your hand," she cried.
     "I haven't even looked at what I nabbed from the bird," Sören protested with a smile.
     "No, I'm not thinking about that, I see you're bleeding," Becky said.
     "Oh, that.  It's nothing.  See?" He held out his finger, surprised to see it was dripping red. "It doesn't even hurt now,” he claimed, but he still wrapped his handkerchief around it. “Let's look at what that bird stole."
     "You mean, what you stole from the bird," she chided.
     Sheepishly Sören nodded his head.  "I guess I stole it, too."
     The two classmates examined the contents of Sören's hand.  A foil wrapper with a wad of chewed gum, “There’s your ‘something sticky’," said Becky. A lady's brooch with its sharp pin resolved the question of what had stuck him.  There was the dime as hoped for, but something much more valuable was underneath it.
     Sören carefully picked up the ring.  He turned it over and fitted on his pinkie.  It just went over the tip.
     "This is a small ring," Sören said.
     "It's a wedding ring," Becky observed.
     "How can you tell?"
     "Look at the inside, there's something engraved.  It's a woman's ring with a cross etched onto the outside.”
     Sören peered at the engraving. "R-R-M" he read. "Do you know anyone with those initials?"
     Becky blushed, but shook her head. "What do you think we should do," she said.
     Sören liked how Becky had joined him in this adventure.  He liked the idea of the two of them solving a mystery together.  He tried not to, but he grinned and remarked, “You’re blushing.”
     "Oh, it’s just me being silly. It’s nothing. Could the ring belong to Mrs. Mork?  Her first name is Rachel," offered Becky.
     "I’m not sure I know her, but maybe it's Moen.  Do you know Mrs. Ruth Moen?"
     "Yes, but Sören, she's, you know, she's not very tiny.  This ring is small."
     "Let's see how it fits on your finger," suggested Sören.
     Becky hid her hands behind her back. "Oh, no.  I don't think so."
     "C'mon, Becky.  Just try it on so we can see how big a person might be who'd wear this ring."
     Sören coaxed Becky's arm from around her back.  He uncurled her fingers and started to slide the ring on her fourth digit.  Becky nearly shouted, "Stop! Let me put it on," her cheeks turning crimson.
     To her amazement, the ring, with pressure, slipped over her knuckle and popped into place at the base of her finger.  But when she went to remove it, it wouldn't budge.
     "Sören, I can't take it off!" she said in alarm.
     "Here.  Hold your hand over your head.  Stick your fingers straight up.  Now let me try." Sören worked at the ring.  He slowly eased it upward, but when he had pushed it to the first knuckle, it stuck.
     "I bet if we used some oil, we'd get it off."
     "I don't have any oil."
     "No, I don't either.  What have you got?"
     Becky gave a half-hearted laugh. "Sören, young ladies don't carry stuff around in their pockets.  We're not boys, you know."
     Sören's eyebrows arched and his eyes widened as he looked at the young woman standing before him, her hand in his.  "No, I can see you're not a boy," he breathed.  "I know, I've got some soap in my pocket."
     "Soap!  Well, at least you're clean.  Let's rub some of that on my finger."
     He dug out the small soap chip that he used to stick a spare fish hook into when he went fishing at Opperman Lake and rubbed the soap on Becky’s finger. With effort, the two of them worked at the ring until at last it flew off.  Sören scrambled on his knees immediately so as not to lose it.  Shoving it into his pocket, he promised to find the owner.  "I'll take it to my far.  He'll know what to do. And Becky, ‘fess up, why’d you turn red when we were looking at the initials on the ring…wait a minute. What’s you middle name?”

Becky clamped her mouth together and slowly shook her head, but a smile crept into her eyes. She squeaked out, “Rose.” 

    Sören laughed, “Ha! That’s it! Rebecca Rose Erdmann…well, that’s not right. The ring’s initials are RRM.” He looked at her bewildered.
    Becky looked up at the sky and drew in a huge breath. Finally she said, “Sören, what’s your last name?”
    “Markusson. But I still don’t get it.”
     Becky stifled an embarrassed giggle and quickly started walking, “Which way are you going?”
     After a pause, the puzzled boy said, “I’m headed home. You?”
     “To home as well, we can walk together for a block or two.”
     Their footsteps fell into a rhythm, each thinking very different thoughts.
     Suddenly, Sören burst out, "You know, the church Octoberfest is in two weeks and I've got a dime now, plus another twenty cents at home.  We could go to and I'll buy you a glass of root beer.  Do you wanna?"
     Becky became shy again, “I’ll think about it,” she proffered. “Maybe if we practiced singing a hymn, I'd be able to make up my mind," she teased. 
     To her surprise, Sören broke out, "For all the saints who from their labors rest, Who thee by faith..." Becky began to sing, too, "...before the world confess, Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest, Alleluia! Alleluia!"