Cold Coffee: V.1 of Trilogy, Saga

By Bert Brun

It's the early 1900s in still-Victorian Bergen, Norway. Little Swanhilde Holmboe has never felt especially loved by her fat, selfish mother Sophie, who also makes her sweet but inept husband, Martin Holmboe, unhappy, by her constant cravings for more money. When the father makes a disastrous investment, hoping to please Sophie, she divorces him to marry her successful distant cousin, Henry Krogh. Young Swanhilde makes the best of it, yearning for the day she's grown and can get

At fourteen, the girl, now nicknamed Bus for her Buster Brown mop of blonde hair, is nearly seduced by her stepfather and flees to share a flat with her older brothers, Johann and Wilhelm Holmboe. Eric Andersen, handsome in his Navy uniform, and the spirited Bus meet at an enchanted Christmas party in 1918. Eric has his own family skeleton, a scandalous divorce by his father, Hans, from his pretty wife, Charlotte-Emily, after learning she has slept with his handsome brother Thorvald. They fall in love and are married the following June. While on their idyllic Sognefjord honeymoon, an offer comes via his father, for Eric to become director of a new bank in Mexico. The newlyweds set out for New York in elegant first class on the liner Stavangerfjord.

The Mexican bank is unexpectedly nationalized and the young Andersens cool their heels in New York, exhausting their finances, before another opportunity arises through Danish businessman Colonel Borg de Rasmussen, one of a group of other city Scandinavian immigrants. Before long the young couple is bound for Casper, Wyoming, where Eric is to be in charge of the drilling of an oil well at the big Salt Creek strike near there. The money for the lease has been raised by Hans Andersen and his wealthy Christiania cronies. The venture ends in a dry hole, and Bus, now pregnant, and Eric head for California.

Los Angeles is entering a tremendous decade of prosperity, and Eric quickly finds work as an accountant for a company supplying props and costumes to the burgeoning film industry. The next few years are good ones, marred only by the news that Hans Andersen has committed suicide in the woods outside Christiania following a fatal tunnel collapse in the subway project he has been overseeing. Also, Alf Andersen, Eric's brother, turns up one day at his brothers Spanish style Inglewood home, on the run from Canada after embezzling $100,000 there.

By the mid-twenties, ambitious Eric Andersen is riding high (though his brother has been nabbed and sent to jail). He has a new home, a good job, a brand new Packard, a growing stock portfolio and two young daughters. Julia Andersen, the six-year old, is a blonde angel, smart as a whip. Firstborn Nora Andersen, now seven, is slower and has never been robust.

In 1927 however, the prop company is about to fold, as many movie companies, inspired by the big profits already garnered by the first talkie, form their own costume departments. The problem is solved for the owner, Leo Laemmler, when the building burns down, and Eric finds himself jobless. Times are still good and he takes a position as a mortgage loan officer with a bank, deciding at the same time, and against his wifes wishes, to plow every dollar he can into the upward-spiraling stock market. The October, 1929 crash wipes him out. He decides to head back to New York, on news from Borg de Rasmussen that a new formula ships' paint will be a surefire success, and that

The venture fails because of the paints cost and, like millions of others, Eric is now seriously out of work. A kind Norwegian family puts the Andersens up in their crude, cold attic in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, where many Norwegians have settled. To add to the difficulties, Bus is pregnant once more. In November, 1932, at the height of the Depression, little Bertel Andersen is born. Roosevelt has just been elected president and a faint hope of relief from the dreadful times has been raised. Eric pays the hospital bill

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 2, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465316141

Bert Brun

Retired oceanographer. Also worked as a high school teacher, rubber plantation inspector in Sumatra, and fisheries administrator in New Zealand. Bachelor and master degrees in science from New York state universities. First got the writing bug while in college and have published eight books in last 10 years plus three plays produced. Lived in eight states, most recently in Alabama, with wife Ann, four dogs and seven cats.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1

Bus Holmboes’s long legs took the steep stairs up to the flat two at a time, her dark blonde pigtails swinging wildly behind her

Mor? Mor? she called, but the place was silent. The fifteen-year old flung her book-containing rucksack onto a kitchen chair and looked about for a note from her mother, but saw none. She started to fix herself a gjedost goatcheese rye bread sandwich, and had grasped a bottle of milk from the icebox when she sensed a pair of eyes upon her. She whirled around, almost dropping the milk.

Henry Krogh, a newspaper in his hand, stood in the doorway leading to the salon. The large, heavy-set man grinned at her startled reaction.

Oh, so it’s you, Bus said. I thought the house was empty. Why didn’t you say something when you heard me come in and call for Mother?

You know, my hearing’s going off a bit. I need to get it checked, I suppose. He jammed an oversized index finger into his hairy right ear, as if to clear it. To her disgust Bus could see a speck of wax perched on his fingernail.

Where’s Mother?

She took Solveig with her and is visiting old Mrs. Swensen, he said, fishing a note from his pocket. She says for you to fix yourself something to eat. I see you’re doing so.

Why didn’t you leave that note for me to see? Never mind. After I eat this I have to go right out again anyway, Bus lied. Liv and I are meeting at the hockey field. Liv was her best friend from school.

In a wheedling tone he said, but can’t you stay and be sociable?

Be sociable? You mean have a chat or something like that?

He shrugged, smiling, raising his eyebrows and affecting a caring smile.

Whatever would we talk about?

Well—there’s the war, I suppose. He held up his copy of the Bergen Aftenposten. March tenth, nineteen sixteen, he read, Thousands of young men were slain today, their bodies littering the no-man’s land between the trenches, as French and German troops struggled to gain control of high ground along the Meuse River.

Ugh. Horrible! The boys at school talk about it constantly. She grimaced. The foolish ones even wish that Norway was fighting. So they could die as heroes I suppose.

"Young men are foolish, aren’t they? He put down the newspaper. Not wise old foxes, like your father."

Father? You’re not my father and you know it! Bus glared at him.

All right, stepfather then.

What are you doing here anyway, at this hour? You’re never here when I come home from school.

One of my clients canceled a meeting, so I left my office early. There’s no law against that, is there?

I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all.

And pleased, I hope. We don’t get that much chance to be friendly.

Bus stared at him. What was all this nonsense about being sociable and friendly? As if she could ever be friendly with the interloper who had replaced her good Papa.

"Now, sit down like a nice girl and have your sandwich. I know! I’ll make us a little pot of hot chocolate. Wouldn’t that be hyggelig?" His heavy-jowled face beamed with the thought.

I suppose so, Bus said.

Krogh looked in this cabinet, then that, in search of the ingredients and utensils he’d need. It was clear that he seldom busied himself in the kitchen.

What time is Mother returning? Bus asked.

The note didn’t say. I should think by four thirty. If I know your mother, then she’ll be after me to take her to dinner, since its Ingrid’s afternoon off. And I’m quite amenable. I was meaning to offer that very thing, when I decided to come home early. For all of us to eat out, I mean.

Was she now supposed to praise his generosity? The way he always tried to show off his money, compared to Papa’s lack of it?

Perhaps I’ll go over to my brothers’ place and take pot luck with them.

Why, Swanhilde! That doesn’t seem sociable at all. Krogh stuck out his lower lip in a tiny pout.

I hate that name. I think you use it to annoy me.

He looked hurt. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just that nicknames, like Bus, are fine for children—

Bus suits me fine. It shows I’m liked. You, I’ll bet you never even had a nickname.

But when they grow up they’re not appropriate. And Swan—he caught himself with a sheepish grin—you certainly are growing up these days.

What was he getting at?

You’re a very attractive young woman already, in case you didn’t realize it—I’ve been hoping there’ll be more chance for you and me to become friends, to have a more adult relationship, I mean.

By now he had managed to fumble his way toward warming some cocoa on the stovetop.

Bus’s head was swimming with all these words. It was true that, all of a sudden it seemed, she looked quite mature. The curves of her bosom, and of her hips and buttocks, had caught up with her hitherto gangly boniness. She felt confused and slightly alarmed by her stepfather. She started gulping down her sandwich, planning to dash out as soon as she could. A chocolaty aroma began to fill the air and, for some reason, was starting to nauseate her, though she usually adored chocolate.

Krogh came around to stand beside where she was seated at the table. He put a heavy paw on the back of Bus’s neck. She stiffened immediately.

There, there, you’re so tense, he said. He began to gently massage with both hands the muscles around the top of her spine, first gliding his thick fingers under the pigtails she’d done up for school in the morning.

In spite of her apprehension, the massage was working. Her neck muscles relaxed.

Now, that’s much better, said her stepfather.

He moved behind her chair and leaned his body against it. She could feel his hot breath somewhere close to her right ear. She thought she smelled brandy.

Krogh eased his big hands around to her collarbones and she stiffened again.

I don’t know why we couldn’t be great friends, Swanhilde. I feel nothing but admiration for you, dear girl.

Bus tried to rise from the chair, but he held her in it with his weight. He tried to work his hands inside her school uniform blouse, but encountered trouble with the top button.

What are you doing? she said in a loud voice. Please, Stepfather. Stop it now!

But I can’t, you see, he panted. Finally, he ripped open the button, and then plunged his shaking hands down under Bus’s blouse and upon her warm breasts.

Oh, Swanhilde, he sighed. His fingers caressed the budding nipples and his eyelids began to flutter uncontrollably.

You pig! Stop! she shrieked.

She summoned all her strength and bolted up from the chair, forcing it against her stepfather’s bulk. It was just enough to alter the balance of weight between them and knock him backward. He fell with a crash to the floor. Bus darted for the door, too scared to even scream, hot tears streaming from her eyes.

She scrambled out of the flat.

Krogh called after her. Come back! I meant no harm. Come back, Swanhilde!

Without answering or looking back, Bus dashed headlong down the stairs. At the bottom she stopped, knees quivering. She paused outside the front door, threw up the sandwich, then began to run as fast as she could in the direction of her brothers’ flat, over a mile away.

She ran all the way without stopping, almost being hit once by a horse-drawn wagon as she dashed across the Stromgaten—Lars Hilles Gate intersection. Pedestrians gaped at the madly dashing girl. When she arrived at the flat in Nygard she was exhausted, puffing, but her tears had dried. With her last burst of remaining energy she struggled up the two flights of stairs to her brothers’ flat. Rivulets of perspiration ran down her face. She paused to catch her breath, then knocked at the door. Silence within. She knocked again, loudly. It was only about four o’clock No doubt Johann, Wilhelm and her father were all still at work. She remembered the emergency key atop the doorframe. Yes, she sighed. Still there. Feeling as if she were a burglar, she let herself into the flat.

The place wasn’t large. There was only one bedroom, which the two young men shared. Ever since their father had moved in with them, to sleep on the large sofa in the salon, there’d been talk of possibly getting a bigger flat, but as yet the mutual finances had not been able to swing it. Once a week they had a girl come in to tidy up. The two brothers and the father took turns preparing the meals.

Bus got a glass of water and sprawled on the sofa. The memory of her experience washed over her, this time in slow motion. Was it in any way her fault? What could she have said to cause her stepfather to act so abominably? When she got to the part where he placed his hands on her, and finally, inside her blouse, she began to shake violently and burst into loud sobs. What was she to do now? She couldn’t go back and face the beast. What could she tell her mother? Her tears slowly dried. Her eyelids grew heavy and at last she dozed off.

2

Shortly past five o’clock the first key rattled in the keyhole. In came Johann, humming a little tune. He spied his sister at once and stared at her as she sat up, rubbing her eyes.

Lillevenn, he said, using the old pet name from childhood. What on earth are you doing here?

Of her two brothers, twenty-year-old Johann, he of the big grin and even bigger ears, was her favorite, for his warmth and wit. Oh Johann, she said, springing up and rushing to him and hugging him fiercely. When she’d subsided, he held his sister off and looked at her. This seems serious, Bus, he said. Come sit here on the sofa with me and tell your brother all about it.

They sat and Johann waited. Now that she was safe and calm, Bus didn’t know how to begin. Well, she finally said in a low voice, you see, stepfather and I have had a disagreement.

Well, is that all, Lillevenn? Such things do happen, you know. His smile was reassuring. Perhaps if you go back to him, determine who was at fault, you can make it up somehow. It doesn’t sound so bad, really.

No! Don’t you see, it was a terrible disagreement, Johann! I mean—well, he actually put his big dirty hands on me. Her voice rose nearly to a shout. I screamed and I had to break away from him! I ran all the way here! She began to sob.

Johann was taken aback. But Swanhilde, that does sound awful. I didn’t think he was capable of such things. What on earth were you arguing about?

I—I’d rather not say. But he’s horrible. I’m afraid of him.

Well, said Johann, putting his arm around her. It’s all right now, little sister. How dare he upset you? The brute must be confronted.

Bus ceased her sniffling. She was silent for a few seconds, then, in a small voice, she said, I think it’s better if you don’t speak to him, Johann.

Before he could answer, Wilhelm entered the room. The differences in the brothers’ personalities were great. unlike the lively Johann, yellow-haired Wilhelm, at eighteen, was already becoming stolid and measured in his thoughts and actions. He too was surprised to find his sister there.

Hello, Bus, he said, coming to her to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. What brings you here this afternoon?

Johann answered for her. Lillevenn has had a falling out with Krogh, Wilhelm. She’s to stay with us tonight, or at least till we sort things out.

What? Wilhelm’s eyebrows rose. But there’s not enough room, Johann. You know that. Ever since father moved in we’ve barely enough space for the three of us.

"She shall have my bed, if necessary. I can sleep on the floor. Now, suppose you go and start to prepare some polser or something like that. I think we’ve enough sausage for our charming young guest. Father will be home in half an hour, you know. He’ll be hungry, and so am I."

Wilhelm started to say more, but a certain look in his brother’s eyes dissuaded him. He shrugged his shoulders and marched off toward the kitchen. In the doorway he paused and looked back with a smile. I didn’t mean to not be welcoming, Bus. Really. We can make do somehow.

Bus smiled back, unable to stem another freshet of tears. Did any girl ever have better brothers than she? Johann saw to it that she washed her face before their father rolled in.

After dinner, Wilhelm was dispatched to his mother’s place to inform her that Bus would be staying the night with her brothers. He didn’t seem to mind. It was likely that Sophie would press upon him some delectable pastry from the large supply she always kept for herself.

Martin Holmboe sat at the table with Johann and Bus. It had been nine years now since his wife had divorced him, lonely years spent living in a small furnished room, until his two sons had invited him to join forces with them the previous year, soon after they left the family flat on Nordraksveien. There was a sparkle in his usually sad hazel eyes and he seemed to be relishing again being a parent to his daughter.

Now, we must try to resolve this matter, he said. Johann and I agree, Lillevenn, that it is out of the question for you to go back to the old flat.

It’s not mother who’s the problem, it’s clearly Krogh, Johann said. Even Though Bus won’t tell exactly what happened. Clearly the man can’t be trusted. In fact I’m very tempted to go over there tomorrow and have it out with him.

But that’s a father’s role, Johann, Martin said. He squared his narrow shoulders and thrust out his undersized chin defiantly.

Then we both shall go, Johann said. He’s a big brute but we can handle him. Thrash him soundly if he gives us any trouble!"

Bus looked at the two with alarm. Well—perhaps you shouldn’t. It might just make matters worse with mother.

We’ll decide about that tomorrow, Martin said. For tonight I’ll simply take the streetcar to Bestepapa’s house in Nordnes and sleep there. To be honest about it, I think I’m somewhat in Johann and Wilhelm’s way here. I usually want to go to sleep by ten o’clock and they’re both night owls. Especially Johann.

He smiled at his elder son, who grinned back, his mouth reaching nearly to his ears, the gap between his two front teeth clearly visible.

Later, the flat was silent as Bus lay on the sofa, clad in a shirt of Johann’s for her make-do nightdress. She sought sleep with little success. Yes, the dilemma was solved for one night, but at what cost? Why should her father be uprooted to suit her? The thought of him in a tiny furnished room again was painful. Now she’d feel guilty about that, besides nothing was settled with her mother. She dreaded that unavoidable confrontation. Sophie Holmboe was predictable only in her own self interests, and daughter Swanhilde was not one of them.

3

Bus woke first next morning, after a fitful sleep. To be useful, she made coffee for her brothers, as she waited for the first loud yawns to resound from the bedroom. They quickly gulped down a little breakfast before dashing off to work. The girl sat at the kitchen table by herself, her chin on her hand. She sighed and rose, to don the same sweaty school clothes she’d worn the day before, intending to sneak into the Nordraksveien flat for her books and a clean blouse at least. If she were lucky, maybe her mother would still be asleep.

She was almost ready to leave when, to her surprise, the door sprang open and her father rushed in. His eyes were wild and his thinning hair disheveled.

Papa, she said. What is it? Won’t you be late for work?

I have it, Lillevenn! The solution.

She stared at him, confused.

You shall simply stay here from now on, with your brothers. It’s definitely best.

Yes, but what about—"

Martin held up both hands to halt her. Your old Papa will go back to live in the house where he was born. Last night I had a powerful dream, a happy dream, back to my schooldays. And in the same old bed in the little room in the attic. It felt completely right. I woke up so excited I rushed down to Clara and Frieda’s room. They agree completely. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it long ago. I’ll simply move back there.

Bus blinked back tears of joy. Are you sure, Papa?

Of course, Lillevenn. They hugged each other tightly. Now I must dash off to work.

"Pa gentsyn, Papa. I love you," his daughter said, kissing his cheek.

Later, as she waited concealed in an opposite doorway for Krogh to emerge from the old flat, a cannonball of leaden anxiety squatted in the pit of Bus’s stomach. Finally her stepfather departed, tapping his walking stick as he strode down the street.

Bus took a deep breath and went up the cabbage-smelling stairs to the flat, carrying the small valise she’d brought with her. The maid Ella’s eyes grew big at the sight of her, but she nodded when Bus held her fingers to her lips.

Where’s my mother? Bus whispered.

Ella simply pointed towards the flat’s interior. Bad luck; if only she were still asleep. Now she’d have to speak with her.

And Solveig?

Ingrid put her hands to the side of her head, closed her eyes and smiled.

Thanks, Ella, Bus said, and ventured inside.

Sophie was in the salon daubing genteelly at a speck of pastry at one corner of her little rosebud mouth. When she saw Bus, the expression on her plump face was at first one of surprise and relief. But it quickly hardened to anger.

Well, my girl, it’s about time you showed up, she said in a loud voice. And so late that you’ll surely be questioned at school, too! What do you mean by behaving so rudely to your stepfather yesterday?

Before Bus could reply her mother went on. And then worrying me half to death until Wilhelm came to tell me that you were staying there overnight. Completely without permission, as well! She glared at Bus.

Bus stammered, I had to do it, Mother.

Had to do it! What on earth do you mean?

Stepfather, he—

"He what? He said he had just made a hyggellig pot of cocoa for you both when for some reason you began to scream at him. Then you ran out of the door like a crazy person."

How foolish I am, Bus smiled wryly. Of course he wouldn’t tell.

Yes, you’re foolish, and rude, too. Here he was, trying to be friendly and you insult your kind stepfather—the man who buys your clothes and food, I might add—by running off that way. What are you saying? Tell what?

Bus felt suddenly quite calm. It’s time you knew the truth about stepfather, Mother, she said.

You’ve never liked poor Henry. I won’t listen to your lies. She looked away from Bus.

He’s a lecher. His true colors have finally begun to show.

Sophie’s head swung about. Shut your dirty mouth, Swanhilde! Where do you learn such dirty words?

You need to hear it, Mother. You can believe it or not, just as you please. Yesterday afternoon your ‘kind, friendly man’ tried his best to seduce me in this very flat.

No! Sophie shrieked. I won’t listen to such filth!

I shall never allow myself to be in the same room alone again with the monster.

No! Sophie gulped in huge breaths of air much like a large fish landed up, gills heaving, on the rocks. Tears streamed down her twisted face. It’s a lie, she wailed. He couldn’t do such a thing! I refuse, I absolutely refuse to believe it!

"Don’t you