It is 1869 and Ole and Helena Branjord are Norwegian immigrants attempting to make a new life on forty acres of central Iowa farmland. Ole is a kind, gentle man who questions his ability to provide for his family. Helena is pining for a real house, but has sadly learned through her past experiences that promises, no matter how sincere, are never certain. But Ole has lofty dreams to prove all the naysayers wrong and double his farmstead. The Branjord children each possess talents and challenges. Eleven-year-old Oline loves music. Martin is intelligent beyond his eight years. Four-year-old Berent wants to wear pants instead of the dresses Norwegian custom dictates he don every day. Populating the Branjord's world are other immigrants that include a giant, strong man who can make a violin sing; a Civil War veteran with disfiguring physical scars; and members of the local Lutheran church determined to save their congregation. But among all the good is one enemy from Helena's past who wants nothing more than to destroy the Branjords. Twedt's well-researched novel deserves to be awarded a place next to Rolvaag's work on the book shelves of home, public, and college libraries. It is apparent that Twedt has devoted many years to perfecting his craft as a storyteller. -Brad Steiger

Land of Promise, Land of Tears

By Jerry L. Twedt

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Jerry L. Twedt
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4678-7400-7

Chapter One

"Berent! Berent Branjord! Where are you?" Helena called as she stood, hands on hips, in the cabin doorway. She listened carefully for the telltale giggle of her mischievous four-year-old, but heard only the squawking of two angry blue jays circling overhead. "Berent! I don't have time to play this game. Answer me!"

He did not.

Helena's dark blue eyes narrowed. Her full, generally upturned lips became a straight, narrow line. She studied the barn and hog house, which squatted like sagging haystacks forty yards to the south. No movement. "He could be there," she thought, "but the little stinker is afraid of the two sows. No, he is most likely in the corncrib." She stepped out onto the small porch, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun, and looked west to the log corncrib Ole and Big Per Larson had erected a year ago March.

"Berent, come here or I'm getting the big wooden spoon!"

Her threat was answered by a rooster, who flapped his wings and strutted atop the chicken coop just south of the crib. Helena glared at the bird. "I don't need any remarks from you," she said as she walked the twenty yards to the crib.

The fresh prairie grass tickled her bare feet and, despite her anger at Berent, she smiled. After all, she reminded herself, it was a beautiful April day. So, to celebrate, she raised her long gingham dress above her calves and enjoyed the soft spring breeze, although it made her feel slightly sinful.

The corncrib was not Berent's hiding place, nor was the wagon parked beside it. Helena looked east past the seeded oat and wheat fields to the Skunk River woods. He certainly had not walked the quarter mile to reach the river, had he?

Fear began to replace anger. There were all sorts of animals in the woods: weasels, muskrats, mink, fox, even wolves. But most feared of all were badgers. A shiver went through her. She hated badgers. Four years before, in 1865, a badger had carried off a two-month-old infant from a basket sitting in the doorway of a cabin in Hardin County.

She turned quickly to the north, where her husband Ole was plowing the corn ground. The movement sent her long blond hair, which was done up in a loose, single braid, flying over her right shoulder, coming to rest on her right breast. Even though Ole was two hundred yards away, she could see the matched pair of bays straining to pull the steel plow blade through the deep, black soil. To the west was nothing but prairie that seemed to go on forever. Was Berent out there? Alone? Lost?

Helena took a deep breath, forcing herself to count to ten. Berent wasn't lost. He was hiding. The little stinker was just hiding! She had an idea. "Berent, I see you hiding behind the cabin. You come out now!"

There was a short pause, then, from behind the outhouse, which was north and west of the cabin, stepped a curly-haired blond boy wearing a faded calico dress that by some miracle had survived his older brother and sister. Helena knew it would never survive Berent. "You do not, Mama! I am not behind the cabin. You can't see me there!"

"Well, I can see you now. Get into the cabin!"

Berent put his hands on his hips and stomped his right foot. "You didn't find me, Mama. You cheated!"

"I wasn't playing. You can play hide-n-seek with Oline and Martin, not with me. When I call, you come! Understand?"

"But Oline and Martin are in school. There's nobody to play with," Berent moaned.

"That's no excuse. You do not hide from me. Now get into the cabin or I'll get the big wooden spoon!"

Berent stuck out his lower lip but began walking to the cabin door. "You don't play fair, Mama. You cheat."

Helena watched him and, despite her anger, smiled. He was always into something but was such a delight. She fought the urge to snatch him up in her arms and squeeze him until he giggled.

Berent squatted on the cabin porch, crossed his arms, and glared up at his mother. "You cheat."

"So you've told me," Helena said, tousling the boy's hair. "Want a drink of water?"

"No!"

"Suit yourself." Helena smiled, entering the cabin to prepare supper. "It must be four o'clock," she thought, wishing again they had a clock. She loved clocks. Especially chiming ones. She loved doing things by the clock. There was comfort in the precision of it: eating supper at six, going to bed at nine, getting up at five. Helena sighed. A clock was a luxury they could not afford.

A box elder bug had the effrontery to scurry across the plank floor. Helena grabbed her broom and swished the bug out the door, past Berent's left ear, and onto the ground. The four-year-old immediately pounced on the bug.

"Don't you bring that bug back into the house!" Helena ordered.

Berent retrieved the dead insect and returned to the porch, where he resumed his monumental pout.

"House," Helena muttered. She had called the cabin a house. How she wished it were a house. A real house with rooms. Rooms with doors. Doors that could close, giving a person private space for private thoughts. She sighed again. Would she ever have a real house? Ole promised she would. But thirty-two years of life had taught her that promises, no matter how sincere, were as substantial as a morning mist over a Norwegian fjord.

"Stop it!" she scolded herself. Then thought, "If the Lord wishes us to have a house, he will provide a house. Blessed be the name of the Lord." After all, what did she have to complain about? The cabin was larger than most, sturdy, well caulked, with a shingled roof, a plank floor, and a loft. It was so much better than the hovel in Hardin County. Helena shuddered. No! She would not even think about their two years in Hardin County.

Enough of this! It was time to start supper.

Helena was correct about the cabin being sound. It was also well designed. In fact, due to her and Ole's hard work, it was considered one of the finest log cabins in north Story County. The cabin faced south, with a solid door in the center and windows on each side of the door. Reaching from the doorway to the inside west wall was a bench built into the south wall, in front of which was a plank table. At the head and foot of the table were store-bought captain's chairs. Tucked under the table were three stools.

The west wall was dominated by the fireplace and Helena's most prized possession—a small cook range. In the northwest corner was a sink which drained into a large wooden bucket. Next to the sink, resting on a tree stump, was a pail of drinking water. Along the north wall were two clothing trunks, a spinning wheel, a churn, and a mostly empty bookcase.

Ole and Helena's rope bed, which lay against the east wall, had a mattress stuffed with prairie grass and corn husks and was covered with worn sheets and a quilt Helena had made while still in Norway. At the foot of the bed was a trap door that opened to the root cellar, and next to the trap door was a ladder that led to the loft where the children slept.

The southeast corner and the south wall up to the door were devoted to Ole's cluttered workbench. It was also the bane of Helena's existence and the cause of numerous sharp words and sour looks. Near the door were pegs on the wall for winter coats and capes, beneath which was a rack of overshoes made of buffalo and muskrat hide, and the children's wooden shoes. The only leather shoes belonged to Ole and Helena, and, as much as possible, were saved for church and...