The Children's Blizzard Read online

  “Help, help,” Gerda kept shouting, and finally a door opened. A worried man and woman peered out, horrified astonishment on their faces as they snatched at coats and rushed out of the house toward her. With her last ounce of strength she pointed toward the haystack and gasped, “Minna, Ingrid,” and then she felt herself fading down into the snow until a strong arm hauled her out and she was being carried into the house and deposited in haste upon the floor nearest the kitchen stove, the faint warmth of the fire surprising her frozen skin into protesting with shocks of pure pain. The arms, attached to the body of Gustav Nillssen, then left, and she heard him call for his girls, his cries mingling with his wife’s.

  Then they were silenced. No more calls; it was quiet. Gerda imagined them lifting up their daughters and any second they’d be back inside. But the seconds passed, the silence continued.

  Gerda’s eyes fluttered, she fell back into what passed for sleep when a body was so frozen and exhausted, her heart so feeble she was aware of its every attempt to beat blood through her body….It was so tempting to just give in and let her heart take a rest; she could sleep forever and ever….

  Then a cry startled her awake, shocking her heart into beating more regularly, remembering its purpose.

  The shrieking kept up, got louder, came closer. Then the door burst open and two adults, their arms around two limp bundles of clothing, were inside, kicking Gerda away from the stove so they could kneel before it, frantically rubbing the bundles, calling their names—Ingrid! Minna!

  But the bundles didn’t move, didn’t stir.

  Gerda pushed herself up on her elbows, confused; she, too, called the girls’ names. But no answer came, and she caught a glimpse of Minna’s deathly white face, blue lips, doll-like blue hands. The stillness that Gerda had seen earlier but not been able to recognize in one so young, the stillness of a body ready for the grave.

  Gerda fell back, shutting her eyes before she could see the Nillssens’ faces. She couldn’t bear it, not now; not with the still-fresh memory of Minna on her back as she took each grueling step, thinking that as she did, she was one step closer to getting her and Ingrid to shelter. Thinking that Minna was still alive—and now she had to wonder. When did the girl die? Was it before they even got in the haystack, that tunnel she’d dug with her own numb hands?

  Had she been carrying a corpse on her back the entire time? The effigy of a child—of all the children—she’d been in charge of keeping safe?

  Where were they? Where were all the others? Feverishly, she began to chant the names of all her pupils out loud, as she did every day when she took the roll: “Minna, Ingrid, Hardus, Johnny, Johannes, Karl, Walter, Sebastian, Lydia.

  “Minna, Ingrid, Hardus, Johnny, Johannes, Karl, Walter, Sebastian, Lydia—”

  “Shut up, shut up!” Someone was shaking her shoulders, forcing her to wake up, to see—

  New grief, etching its way into weathered skin, in the faces of the girls’ parents. Mrs. Nillssen would turn hard in her sorrow, Gerda thought, oddly, as she tried to make sense of the tragedy. Hard, silent, but she would endure. Mr. Nillssen would be plowed under it, just like the fields he worked every day. Maybe that was what truly did make this land yield up its meager harvest: the weight of unbearable sadness pressing down upon it.

  Gerda shut her eyes, pushed Mrs. Nillssen away, desperate for sleep to overtake her. Instead, her feet began to awaken. First they throbbed, then they burned, then they itched, and finally it was as if angry ants were swarming over her flesh, tearing it away with their pincers; she gasped, she moaned, she sat up and screamed, tearing at her boots to get them off, begging for Mrs. Nillssen to cut off her boots because the laces had shrunk as they’d thawed out, anything to relieve the searing pain.

  And when finally the boots were cut off—and some of her flesh seemed to be sheared off with them—she saw skin that was purplish black, dying. Her very flesh was dying, and the metaphor seemed so apt she wanted to laugh.

  But then the ants began their attack again, and all she could do was bite down on the towel Mrs. Nillssen shoved in her mouth to shut her up.

  “Shhh, shhh. You mustn’t disturb the girls,” the woman whispered in Gerda’s ear as she writhed in pain.

  CHAPTER 23

  •••••

  THIS MORNING AT FIRST LIGHT, Anna had watched as her husband harnessed the horse, strapped the blanket around its girth, then climbed up in the sleigh and rode off, fast as lightning, over the log bridge straddling the ravine, toward the tundra of the prairie. She couldn’t watch him for long; the rising sun was already too fierce, little glints of ice reflecting it everywhere. Something blinding did catch her eye out by the ravine, but she had to cover her eyes with her hands, the glare actually hurt.

  What a fool her husband was, going out there in this cold. But he thought himself a paragon of the community, so he had to ride to the rescue of the Schoolteacher, the girl, all the children who must have spent the night in the schoolhouse. The Great Gunner Pedersen, Hero of the Storm. Ha! What an idiot, a preening idiot, he was. At least now the storm was over; he wouldn’t get lost, he wouldn’t perish. Although she wished he would, at least five times a day, practicality had won out last night. She couldn’t risk losing him in the middle of winter; she couldn’t deal with the horses, the house, the children all by herself. In the spring, she could leave him—she knew that now. But until they were through the winter, she needed him.

  So she’d held him at gunpoint all night. What a fantastic thing to recall! She’d pointed the gun, the one her sister had given her the night before they moved away from Minneapolis to this desolate wasteland—“To use if there is only one way out, my darling,” Margit had whispered fiercely in Anna’s ear—right at his heart. All night long, she held her husband hostage. She, Anna Pedersen, who used to weep whenever mice had to be killed, back when she was young and tender, untouched.

  She blamed the prairie. She blamed her husband. She would not blame herself.

  Let the man ride off now with his gallant steed; he wouldn’t come to any harm. She was sure everyone was safe—maybe a little cold and hungry—at the schoolhouse. The Schoolteacher had sense; she wouldn’t have risked the children’s lives. What a simpleton Gunner was—he did not understand women at all. Only as figures of romance and fancy, to be saved, protected. Their strength downright terrified him, she had seen that herself too many times to count. So naturally, the moment a new woman came into his life, outwardly uncertain and shy, he had behaved like a romantic patsy. Oh, the poor, pretty young thing, this Raina Olsen, boarding out for the first time, so homesick! She needed his protection, his assurance—just as he’d thought Anna had, back when they were courting.

  But Anna hadn’t been deceived at all by the Schoolteacher. She could see the young woman was stronger than she appeared, even though her head had been decidedly turned by Gunner’s ridiculous behavior. What Anna had feared was that the young woman would use that strength to persuade Gunner to run off, something that Gunner would never do on his own, despite his seductive words and actions.

  Anna didn’t fear that any longer. Something had happened during the long night while the wind broke against the windows and her husband sat like a hostage before the gun in her hand. She’d seen her husband for who he was. Six foot two, and terrified of a woman a full foot shorter. A boy who only pretended he was a man. She’d realized she could pull the trigger anytime, and she wouldn’t feel remorse, only justification.

  It was a powerful feeling. It gave her back control of her life.

  Busy at the stove, baking a loaf of bread she’d set out to rise earlier, she bustled about the kitchen; anyone looking at her would see the Anna of old: the sweetheart, the dazzler, the icon of femininity. It was just her and the children. She was humming a contented little tune when she heard horses pull up outside. She looked out the window in surprise; Gunner couldn’t be bac
k so soon, could he?

  The sleigh outside belonged to Doc Eriksen, the only physician around. He had practiced in the old country and was beyond the age when a man of medicine should be expected to retire peacefully. The prairie, of course, had forced him back into service; the ruthless prairie, with its endless dangers to people formerly used to living close together, relying upon one another. To have a doctor in a community out here was nothing less than a miracle, even if he was a doctor who looked as if he required medical care himself. He waved at Anna, shouted something; she glanced at the children—they were sitting close to the stove, maybe too close, so she snapped at them to stay back—then she threw on a shawl and went outside.

  The cold slapped her across the face, lifted her almost out of her shoes; she gasped, she wiped away tears. She didn’t imagine how anyone could last out in it, and she thought of Gunner. And then—reluctantly—of the Schoolteacher. And finally, of Anette.

  “Mrs. Pedersen, is your husband at home?” Doc Eriksen remained in his sleigh, even after she urged him to come inside and warm up. He was covered in robes, and only his eyes were visible; his brows were frosted over, his voice muffled.

  “No, he went to the schoolhouse to get the children.”

  “Ah. I was just out at the Blickenstaffs’. Their children didn’t come home. So I’m heading up to the schoolhouse, too. Are you all well here? Are you missing anyone?”

  “No. Well…” She had to tell him, didn’t she? “Except for the Schoolteacher. And Anette, of course. But certainly they’re all together, with the others. Gunner and the children and I, we were inside all night.”

  “Good. I’m afraid there are many people who weren’t inside last night. Well, I’m off.” The doctor shook the reins, turned the horse around, and skimmed across the log bridge, heading out to where Gunner had gone earlier; the tracks were still visible in the snow, now that the wind had blown itself out.

  Anna was turning to go inside—she could not remain in this cold one more minute—when that dancing light out on the other side of the ravine, about ten yards away from the bridge, caught her eye once more. Shading her eyes from the sun, she took several steps toward it, squinting, trying to make it out. She kept walking, the cold grabbing at her, snaking up her skirts, wrapping her limbs in its icy tendrils, but now she could make it out, that glint—it was something silver, maybe, or something steel. It was—

  It couldn’t be, surely? It couldn’t be Anette’s lunch pail?

  Anna stopped, her hand on her heart; her breath came in short gasps. No, no, it wasn’t that, it must be something else; she shook her head, blinked rapidly to clear her vision from that brilliant sun, then looked again. And she saw it, plain as day—the glistening lunch pail, sticking out of the snow.

  “Anette? Anette!” Anna cupped her hands about her mouth, shouting with all her might. She listened; she concentrated on the air, she heard nothing but a gentle swoop of snow dancing across the landscape. She shouted once more.

  Then she heard something—a faint cry. Like a kitten, or a newborn.

  “Anette?”

  The cry grew louder, and it seemed to be coming from beneath the earth—

  It seemed to be coming from the ravine.

  Anna’s feet propelled her back to the house. She flew inside, and in no time she was in her coat, her scarf covered her face, her ears, and she had gloves on her hands. She shouted at the children to stay away from the stove, she grabbed every blanket she could find, and then she was racing out the door, plowing through the snow toward the ravine. She got to the edge, stopped herself just in time before tumbling over it; her chest was on fire from the exertion in this frigid air.

  Dropping to her knees, she peered over the edge but at first couldn’t make anything out; it was shadowy down there, and her eyes were blinded from the fierce whiteness of the snow, the sun. Snow blindness—that’s what it was called, she thought crazily.

  “Anette?” She called it softly, almost afraid to be heard.

  “Ye-yes?”

  It was her, she was down there! Anna leaned farther over the edge; it was only about five feet down, but with the snow, she knew that if she fell in, she might not get back out. She peered and peered into the gloom, and then she finally was able to make something out—a shape, two shapes, in the snow below.

  “Anette, is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the voice called out, so tiny, so scared. Tinged with exhaustion, with tears. “I’m sorry, I tried—I left the others, so I could come home—I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t—don’t move, I’ll be there in a moment.” Don’t be sorry, is what Anna nearly blurted out. Don’t apologize.

  For the lunch pail—she glanced over to the other lip of the ravine, to where it lay like an accusing stare—told her everything she didn’t want to know. It was because of her—all the times she’d scolded Anette not to dawdle, nagged her about the cost of the pail, the slate—that Anette must have spent this past terrible night in the ravine. Alone.

  No—Anna peered back down in the ravine, and now she could clearly see Anette, her head and hand the only things exposed, for she was buried in a pile of garments. Garments that were not all hers. There was an unfamiliar grey coat on top of her, boy’s brown pants, a boy’s crimson shirt.

  And next to Anette, a nearly naked body. Grey, almost blue, against the snow.

  CHAPTER 24

  •••••

  THE HORSE PLOWED ON, HEAD bobbing with each steady step, sometimes nickering softly, his breath blowing puffs of air that turned into moist clouds that froze into tiny crystals that scattered like diamond dust in the air, and the effect was beautiful. If you overlooked the fact that it was horse snot. The hardware on his bridle jingled, the leather harness and reins creaked and moaned, and the runners on the sleigh swished through the snow like a constant admonition—shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh.

  The man plowed on, as well—a large man made larger by the massive buffalo robe that covered him from head to toe, a wild, mahogany-colored curly coat, surely having seen better days, since it was matted in patches, as if the beast had just rolled up from sleep. Perched atop a comically dainty sleigh being pulled by the horse—a sleigh more fitted for an elegant lady on her way to a tea party—the man loomed even more ponderously than usual. Faded, horsehair-covered blankets were piled up on his knees. He resembled nothing less than a humiliated bear in a circus, forced to wear human clothing and ride about in a pony-drawn kiddie sleigh.

  He was alone. As far as the eye could see, there was this: an undulating carpet of various shades of white as pure as an angel’s robes; a garish, vicious yellow-white sun that turned the snow into dangerous shards of brilliance, aiming right for the eye; telegraph poles; and the bear in the kiddie sleigh.

  The runners swishing, the creaking, the jingling, his own occasional mutterings; those were the only sounds Gavin heard for a very long time as he kept his head bent against the cold. As he trusted to the horse and whatever God had time to spare for a miserable soul like himself, on a miserable mission for a miserable reason he couldn’t begin to parse.

  Gavin Woodson, tenderfoot extraordinaire, colossal joke of a man, was headed out onto the Great Plains by himself in a hired sleigh with a hired horse, a few feedbags of oats at his feet, a carpetbag full of paper and pens and ink and a change of woolen underwear by his side.

  He, the horse, and the sleigh were the only creatures on this earth, or so he could easily believe; he saw no one else, heard not a sound save those mentioned.

  He’d never felt so pathetic.

  He was a city man who felt most at home in stifling, sweat-infused enclosures, on busy streets bordered with tall buildings that kept the horizon at bay. On the rare occasion that his lungs desired fresh air, he was content with a park or a street corner. But there was little fresh air in Omaha; the canning facilities, the stockyards filled
the air with odors whose sources were best left unquestioned. That he’d been inspired, that morning of the blizzard, to walk away from the city and toward the prairie, had puzzled him. That he’d been so captivated by the sight of the girl had worried him.

  That he could not shake her from his thoughts, no matter how much he tried through drink and poker and the machinations of the newspaper—well, that was the reason he was out here on the Godforsaken Prairie.

  Heading out, to find her.

  It was a fool’s mission and he knew it. But Gavin Woodson was no stranger to fools’ missions. It was the reason he’d been fired from The World, all over a bullish inability to back away from a story involving one of Pulitzer’s college friends. “I know I’m a stubborn cuss, but…” he’d kept saying to anyone who would listen as he blundered on, but in the end, it didn’t matter. It turned out that announcing your own stupidity was more than a little redundant.

  In the first days after the blizzard, when reports started being telegraphed in from the north and west about casualties beyond imagination—entire schoolrooms of children frozen where they sat! trapped train passengers reduced to cannibalism!—Gavin became restless with an anxiety, a need. Of course, he scoffed at some of these reports as too ridiculous, but they gave him the chance he was looking for—the chance to head out and search for the girl, while also reporting, firsthand, on the aftermath. Setting the record straight, he assured Rosewater and his cronies, the men who paid his salary. We don’t want those eastern newspapers overreporting the damage, do we? They can only report on hearsay. We can do the responsible thing, be there on the ground, talk to the poor sons of bitches—the homesteaders—themselves. And mitigate the disaster before the eastern papers blow it out of proportion.