SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

Norway: a farm above Trondheims fjord

Tears dimmed her eyes as Helga Swanson stared out across the farmlands that had belonged to her people for the past five hundred years. There was a lump in her throat that made it hard to swallow. Soon now, in a few hours or perhaps a little less, she would be leaving the old homestead. Forever.

Below her, beneath the jagged rock that had served as a lookout post for her ancestors the Vikings, she could make out the carriage which was bringing Olaf Hestman the lawyer, and his client Harald Sodermann to the farm. It came slowly, the grey horse trotting in its dignified manner. Yet the carriage moved steadily, inexorably.

Harald Sodermann was going to buy her farm. He was going to pay her money for it, she was going to sign the papers, and then this land that had belonged to her people for so many centuries was going to pass to another person.

The tears stung her eyes and she raised a hand almost angrily to brush them away. There was no help for what she was about to do. She and her younger brother Olvir were alone in the world. They had no one to whom to turn, except perhaps their uncle Andreas. And Andreas Swanson lived in a far country called the United States of America.

"America,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “What will it be like, this America?”

She turned her gaze away from the oncoming wagon and let her eyes run out over the fjord waters, rippling in the afternoon sunlight. A boat moved along slowly over the water, its sail bellied out with wind. In a little while she would be on a boat traveling across the fjord.

Her shoulders rounded with despair as she turned and moved down the little path which led back to the farmhouse. She did not want to sell her home: she wanted to stay here as her mother and all her ancestors, back to the days of Saint Olaf himself, had lived and worked, had loved, married and died. But she could not work the farm and it needed much work. And her brother Olvir was only twelve years old.

"It is best that we go," she murmured. “Uncle Andreas has written that he has a fine farm in a place called Minnesota, where we will both be welcome.”

Helga smiled faintly. Best that they go? They had to go, they had no other option. Oh, she might hang on here for another year or two, making do, but Harald Sodermann had made her a fine offer. He was one of the richest landowners in the entire district, and by buying Swanson Farm he would be able to consolidate all his holdings into a farm that would stretch from the fjord as far inland as one could see.

Her steps were slow, dragging. Her eyes went to the farmhouse, to the barns and outbuildings, studying them. She was selling everything: the furniture, the animals, the hay stored in the barns, even the bedsteads and the cooking pots. She was taking nothing with her, except her clothes. And Olvir was doing the same.

She saw him now, cantering his pony across the grasslands, waving an arm to her. Helga swallowed, telling herself she must be brave, she must put on a good face. Olvir did not understand, to him this was a great adventure, crossing the ocean to America. She must to her best to let him continue to feel this way.

"Olvir, hi," she called, waving an arm in reply.

He came trotting up to her, a big boy with good shoulders and long legs, possessing the great strength that had been in all the Swanson men. His golden hair sparkled in the sunlight as he swung down from the saddle and went to meet her, throwing his arms about her.

His face was troubled as he stared at her.

"Helga, I do not think I want to go,” he said slowly, his young face grave.

“Nor do I, Olvir. Yet we must.”

He turned and stared across the land. “It is too much for you and me to work, isn't? And we have no money to hire men to work for us."

“Yes. You know all this. We have talked about it for the past year or more."

He nodded. “I know. But someday I will come back, Helga. I will be a rich man and I will buy the farm back."

“Yes, Olvir. I hope you may."

His grin was rueful. “That does not help us now, does it?"

"Not very much. You understand why we must sell, don't you? We need the money to travel across the ocean to meet Uncle Andreas. He will see to it that we have a bed to sleep in, enough food to eat."

Olvir nodded gloomily. “I suppose so. They are coming, aren't they? I saw them from the hill. They will have us give them the deed papers, they will give us money, and—and we will be on our way."

Helga nodded even as her brother had done. “Yes, Olvir," she whispered. “That is how it is to be."

His youthful face hardened. “I don't care. It will be exciting in this new land. Do you think Uncle Andreas will have a pony for me to ride?”

“I think so. His farm is a good one, he writes, and he has cows and horses. I am sure there will be a pony or two, and maybe even a nice horse for me to ride, as well.”

They walked toward the farm, hand in hand, the pony trotting after them. When they came to the front steps, Helga turned and saw the carriage approaching.

“Go put your pony away, Olvir. Then come into the living room. They may need your signature on the papers as well as mine."

She watched him walk away through the tears misting her eyes. No matter what she said, it was not going to be easy in that new land. No matter how kind and under standing Uncle Andreas was, they were still poor relations.

The carriage halted and Olaf Hestman clambered down to wave a hand at her. The man beside him was older than the lawyer, he had white hair and a white beard, and he was one of the richest men in this part of Norway. Helga saw him run his eyes over the farmhouse, over the land, before he stepped down to join the lawyer.

Harald Sodermann was a kind man, she knew. He might have held out on her, he might have tried to force down the price he was willing to pay for Swanson Farm, but he did not. His original offer still stood, Olaf Hestman had told her. He was not a man to go back on his word.

He took off his hat now, and held out his hand. His blue eyes were kindly as he regarded her. "Helga Swanson, how are you? Or is that a foolish thing to say? You are sorrowful at leaving your homeland, and I cannot say I blame you."

Helga smiled. “It is something that must be done, Harald Sodermann. I am grateful to you for your offer."

“I am a just man, I take pride in it. I want your farmlands, Helga. I am willing to pay good money for them."

The lawyer asked, "Shall we go inside?”

Helga led the way, opening the front door and pausing there by the hall mirror as they entered. Her eyes went to the mirror, seeing her reflection. Her face was pale, though still as pretty as always, with its cornflower-blue eyes and the long golden hair that seemed filled with sunlight.

Her hand gestured them into the front parlor.

Olaf Hestman went to the big library table and spread out his papers on it. He waited until Helga and Harald Sodermann had seated themselves, and then he began to talk.

Helga listened carefully, vaguely understanding what it was the lawyer was saying. She and her brother would sign the necessary papers and then it would be over. The farm would belong to Harald Sodermann, and she and young Olvir would then be on their way.

Helga swallowed, aware that tears were once more misting her eyes.

Olvir came in then, moving across the room to stand beside her chair. His face was grave, his eyes troubled. Helga put out her hand to him, felt it clasped and held tightly.

She signed where the lawyer told her, and accepted the money, in a small leather carrying-bag, which Olaf Hestman gave her. It was over, all over. Helga stood and her gaze went around the room, seeing all the furniture which she had polished so carefully and with such devotion over the years, the plates and the pictures which had been bought from time to time by her ancestors.

There was a lump in her throat. Twice she tried to speak before any words would come to her. Then she said, “It is time, now. My brother and I will leave."

Olaf Hestman murmured, “I will take you to the town, Helga. To the dock where the boat is waiting to carry you to England.”

She nodded. Harald Sodermann cleared his throat, looking vaguely embarrassed. “If you would care to sleep here overnight, you are free to do so. I am not a man to drive two young people out into the night, you know."

Helga shook her had, smiling. “No, thank you. It is best that we leave now. We have made all our arrangements."

She turned to her brother, caught his hand. “Come, Olvir. It is time.”

They went out into the later afternoon sunlight and walked toward the waiting carriage. Tears stung her eyes as she walked, not daring to turn and stare back at the farmhouse. If she did, she would break down. Her back was very stiff, she held her head high. The hand with which she held her brother's clung with all the strength she could muster, as though she might draw calmness from him.

She stepped into the carriage, watched as Olvir swung up to sit beside her. She waited then, her hands folded, for Harald Sodermann and the lawyer to join them.

This part of her life was behind her. Inside herself, Helga felt dead, as though she had lost all feeling.

Perhaps it was better that way...

Germany: A graveyard near Graudenz, Prussia

He was a tall man with wide shoulders, and he bore himself stiffly, as though on parade, as he cantered down the little dirt road that would take him toward the cemetery. He did not look to left nor right, but kept his eyes straight ahead, and his hands on the reins of his black horse were steady.

Karl Eberhardt felt as though his heart were turned to stone. There was a complete lack of emotion inside him. His face, always disciplined to reveal nothing of his feelings, was like a mask. His lips were set in a straight line, and even under the dark tan of his face, there seemed a pallor.

He rode automatically, as he had ridden for the past few years when he had served as an Oberlieutenant in a crack regiment of the Kaiser's Uhlans. He was not in uniform now, nor did a sabre dangle at his side, yet it seemed that he still wore the colors of his regiment.

Inside him, his heart was numb. It seemed that he had not laughed in years; certainly, not since he had lost his Gerda. Indeed, he was vaguely aware that he had no feelings at all, within him.

Karl Eberhardt had contemplated suicide for a time. But he was too strong a man for that. To his way of looking at things, to have put a pistol to his head and blown out his brains would have smacked of cowardice. And he was no coward.

He shifted in the saddle, remembering ...

Gerda had been a happy girl, when he had first met her four years ago, at a lawn party given by his cousin. He had been attracted to her at once, to her merry laugh, to her sparkling black eyes, to the curving body nestled within the red gown she wore. It has been love at first sight.

Three months later, he had married her.

She had been everything a man could ask. She had come to their bed a virgin, but there had been a hunger for fleshy delights in her, almost a wantonness where he was concerned. She had insisted that he remove her wedding dress, and when she had stood naked before him, she had not been shy.

Gerda had walked across the room for him, letting him run his gaze all over her, and then she had come back to undress him, to toy with him, to tease and tantalize him until he had taken her, throwing her on the bed.

For almost four years they had been happy, so happy that now, since her death there was an emptiness within him that was like a gnawing ache. Moisture was in his eyes as he recalled those years, the nights together and the days when he had boated with her on the Vistula. Always, she had been so merry, so filled with laughter, with delight.

He could see her now as she had been, then; leaning back in the little boat and glancing around to make certain they were not observed and then gathering up her skirts and lifting them, revealing her stockinged legs and the bare thighs above them, the darkness of her groin. She had spread her legs to tempt him and laughed softly as the desire flooded into him.

Then she had covered herself, had been as modest and as demure as anyone could ask. But the memory had been in him all the rest of the time they had spent in the boat.

He smiled now, memory strong in his mind. She was a tease, was his Gerda. She had loved to tempt him in such ways, when she knew he could do nothing about it. There were those times, too, when she had undone her dress and exposed her firm, plump breasts, making certain that he could see them and then covering them up before he could touch them.

“Later, my love,” she would whisper. "Just keep them in your memory."

As though he could forget!

She was always willing, later. It seemed that by ex posing herself to him at those times, she had ignited a fire in her own flesh as well as in his. With open mouth she would kiss him, gently rubbing her breasts to his chest, and her hands would come swiftly to disrobe him, to have him naked for her caresses.

Karl Eberhardt growled low in his throat. “My God, Gerda! What am I without you?”

It had never occurred to him that she might get sick, that she might die. She was always so vivacious, so excitable! So filled with life and a love for life! When she had begun that cough, neither of them had thought anything of it.

She had become pale, and she had lost a little of her plumpness. When they had finally become alarmed and had gone to visit a doctor, they learned that she had consumption. After that ...

Karl Eberhardt sighed. He had done what he could for her. He had resigned his commission in the army, he had spent those last few months beside her, caring for her. They had wept together, sometimes, because each knew that she was going to die.

“You must go on, my darling," she would tell him. “You must not let this be the end of everything."

“How can I? Will you tell me that?”

“You will find a way. You are a brave, strong man, and there will be another woman."

“Never," he had vowed. "Never will I find another woman. I swear it, Gerda."

She had covered his mouth with her palm at times like that, and had shaken her head at him in gentle reproof. “We have had so much happiness, my Karl! Sometimes I think the angels are jealous of us and that is why I must die. But you! You are big and strong, there will be someone—-somewhere— who will need you."

He had denied all this, he vowed no one would ever replace her in his heart, in his mind.

Now she was dead.

He reined in the horse at the edge of the cemetery. For a moment he sat the saddle, then swing down to stare in at the headstones, at the marble statuary. Al most mechanically, his hands tied the reins to an iron hitching post.

He walked along the pathway, head down, his hands tightened into fists at his side. True, his heart was dead within him, but he could still feel. What he felt now was an ache, so deep and so intense that it was difficult to breathe.

In a sense, he was being a traitor to their love. But Gerda would understand.

He came to her grave after a time, his eyes stared down at the headstone. GERDA EBERHARDT 1831 1859. A cold, late winter wind came out of the trees and blew past him.

"I'm going, Gerda,” he whispered. “I am leaving you, forever.”

He waited, almost as though he expected to hear her voice. Then he murmured, “I can't stay here in Germany any longer. Everything I see, everyone I meet, reminds me of you. Of our love. Of the days and nights we shared. I can stand that no more, my love."

Once more he waited, standing tall and strong, the only living thing here among the dead. His hand rubbed against his trouserleg, and he told himself he should have brought flowers, as a last gift to this woman who had been his wife.

“You understand, my darling," he whispered. “You know how happy we were. I cannot go on any longer, alone. My nights are empty, I cannot sleep. It is better to go away, to strange places where something or someone will not always be reminding me of you."

For an instant, it seemed that he heard her soft laugh ripple through the air. He stiffened and glanced around him. No. Of course not. Gerda was dead. She could not laugh. Yet perhaps she had laughed, from wherever it was she might be.

"Do you mind, Gerda? Is it all right to go away?"

There was no answer. He had known there would be no answer of course, but he had hoped for some sign—for anything at all which might indicate to him that his Gerda understood.

His lips curved into a sad smile. "I am a fool, eh? You always called me a fool, my Gerda, when I got nonsensical ideas. You said it very gently, very tenderly, you did not mean to hurt me and you did not.

“Because I am a fool, I suppose. But I must go away. If I want to live, I must go to this land across the sea, this United States of America. It is a new land, I will know no one there, I will be able to take up a new life.”

He drew a deep breath. He turned away from the grave and moved up and down along the narrow path, head down, lost in thought. He came to a stop before the grave and smiled wearily.

"This is goodbye, then, Gerda. I am leaving today for America. I doubt that I will ever come back."

He took off his hat, held it in his hands for a moment. His eyes were wistful as they ran over the headstone, over the mound of grass, the few flowers. His lips trembled, it seemed that he would speak.

Then he replaced his hat, turned and moved away. He walked firmly, aware of how heavily his heart was beating. He was not a man who ever cried, yet there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes.

He came to where he had tied his horse. His hands fumbled, untying the reins, and then he slid a foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. He touched the black horse with a toe, urging it into a canter.

Karl Eberhardt did not look back.

Hungary: along the road to Budapest

The man stretched lazily, still half asleep, as he felt the weight of the bedclothes on him. Vaguely he was aware of the drumming of the rain on the windows of the inn room where he had spent the night. He turned lazily, and became aware that there was another person in the bed with him.

Victor Czuczor opened his eyes, stared upward at the pale white ceiling, at the papered walls. His hand slid to one side, touched bare flesh.

He turned then, seeing the pretty face on the pillow beside his own. He blinked, trying to remember, even as his eyes took in the spill of brown hair that fell partway across that face.

Of course. The maid at the inn. What was her name? Amelia, yes. The man smiled lazily, remembering how he had enticed her into his bed last night, after she was done serving the tables.

She was a pretty thing, though somewhat older than the girls to whom he was accustomed. She had been wearing a low peasant blouse as she had served him his evening meal, she had afforded him a glimpse of heavy white breasts when she had bent to put his plates on the table.

Victor Czuczor had been impressed by those breasts. They had been full and firm, and they had jiggled delightfully under the thin blouse. He had been able to make out her nipples.

“It's lonely here for a traveling man," he had murmured.

Her brown eyes had smiled at him, even as her full red lips curved. "Mightn't need to be lonely, pet.” There had been something in her bold stare that had touched his manhood.

“Maybe we could talk a little, after you get through work," he had suggested.

Her shrug made her breasts bounce. "I'll be serving at the bar, later."

He had gone into the bar, of course, choosing a table in a darkened corner of the room. Amelia had come to bring him his beer in a big stein, and when business fell off, she came to sit beside him.

"You must earn good money, working so hard," he had said after a time.

“Not so much that I couldn't use more.”

He had edged his chair closer at that, and put his arm about the back of her own chair. "I'm a man who's willing to pay for his fun.”

Her brown eyes had laughed at him, “I'm glad to hear that. What room are you in? I get off in a little while.” Her eyes had gone to the window, against which the rain was already starting to beat. “It's a long walk home, and on a night such as this, it might be a good idea to stay here."

He had told her the number of his room, and later, opened the door so she could slip inside. He had watched her undress and scamper naked toward the bed.

After that ...

Victor Czuczor stirred again. She had been fun, this plump waitress. She had known what a man liked, and she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into his em braces. She was well worth the two hundred schillings she was costing him.

His hand moved again, and now he found himself stroking the curve of her naked hip. Amelia moaned, turned slightly so that his hand rested on her belly. He saw her eyelids quiver.

"Are you awake?” he whispered.

Her large mouth had twisted into a grin, even as her eyelids rose and she looked at him. "You're pretty good," she murmured, lifting her bare arms out from under the covers and putting them around his neck. "Besides, I like it in the morning, when I'm rested."

He bent over her, kissing her soft mouth. His hands slid over her body, fondling. She was warm and soft, and every exciting. It had been some time since he had enjoyed a woman—excluding last night, that is—and his manhood rose swiftly.

But he did not hurry. He bent his mouth to the soft breasts and nuzzled them, kissing them hungrily and then settling his lips about a thrusting nipple. Amelia moaned and let her hands roam over his body.

Victor Czuczor felt his manhood gripped by one of her hands and shifted so she could part her thighs. That hand guided him, he thrust deep, felt his flesh clutched and gripped, and began to move slowly, gently.

It was like a farewell, in a sense. It was as if this woman beneath him was Mother Hungary herself. Soon now he would be leaving his homeland, adventuring westward to England and then on to that land called the United States of America. All that he was, he owed to his mother country. It seemed a good idea to try to pay her back for all she had done for him.

He drove himself furiously, he was as strong as a stallion. Under him the woman grunted and gasped, her hips rising and falling to his beat. She muttered broken words, but he caught enough of their meaning to know he was pleasing her immensely.

When his control gave way, she drew him in against her even more tightly, holding him with arms and legs. He knew he was pleasing her.

He did not withdraw yet, he remained within her, and kissed her pretty face, her mouth. “Pretty Amelia," he whispered. “I'll not soon forget you."

“You're going away?”

Her legs slipped away from him, lay apart on the bottom sheet. Yet her bare arms still clutched him. Under him, her brown eyes studied his face.

Victor shrugged. “I am traveling. I—don't know when I'll be coming back.”

“That's always the way. As soon as I meet someone I really like, he has to go away."

"You could come with me, perhaps.”

“Where are you going?”

"To a place called New York in the United States.”

Amelia stared up at him in amazement. “You are leaving Hungary? But why? What is there in this place called New York that you cannot find here?”

"An opportunity to make a living. I am a saddler, I am very good when I work with leather. The man I worked for died, he left me some money in his will. I have a cousin in New York who has written to me, telling me about that place. It sounds good.”

She turned her eyes away. “I cannot go. I must stay here. I have an old mother to care for, and a sister."

"It would be good to have you with me."

She shook her head even as her hands pushed him back and away from her. "I would like to go but it is no use. I cannot. And I must dress and report for work."

He lay back and watched her throw back the covers and move across the room toward her clothing. She had a good body, with fine legs and broad hips, and her breasts were big and full. Victor Czuczor wondered if he would be able to find a woman like her in America.

He watched her dress, staring as she sat naked on the bed to pull on her black woolen stockings. Desire moved in him again but he did not move to embrace her.

As she slid the peasant blouse down over her shoulders, he rose and went to her, catching her in his arms and hugging her, kissing her hungrily. She responded, her hands sliding up and down his naked body, rousing him, but when he went to draw her back onto the bed, she shook her head.

"I do not have the time. I must go and make up the fire in the stove." She kissed him again, as though to take any sting from her words.

Then she was gone, and Victor Czuczor was left alone. Ah, well. There would be other women, where he was going. He began to dress, telling himself he would eat a good breakfast because he had a long walk ahead of him..

The rain was still coming down, though not quite as hard, when he put his pack on his back and adjusted the straps. It was many miles to Budapest, he might as well get started.

For hours he walked in the light drizzle, glad that he was wearing rough clothes. Around his middle was a moneybelt that contained all the wealth he could lay hands on. It was more than enough to see him to England, to let him purchase passage on a ship.

Toward early afternoon, the storm worsened. Lightning streaked the dark sky and thunder rolled ominously overhead. The rain came down more heavily.

"I must find a place to stay, to get out of the rain before it drowns me," he muttered.

There was some sort of building up ahead, he could see. It looked like an old ruin of some sort, with walls still standing but the roof long ago fallen away. Victor Czuczor hurried his steps, broke into a loping run.

Yes, there was shelter here, of a sort. Those stone walls were strong and thick, and though there was no roof, he could make out a big archway where he could find shelter. He ran swiftly now, head bent against the driving downpour.

Propping his back to the stonework, he sat huddled, his pack beside him. The wind blew some rain in on him, but it was mist for the most part. Besides, there was nothing that he could do about it.

He dozed for a time, waking when the thunder was especially loud. He marveled at the fury of the rain; the very heavens seemed to be opening up and spilling water on the world. Victor Czuczor settled himself more comfortably. He had plenty of time, there was no hurry.

He slept. Toward morning he woke, to discover that a cool wind was blowing. He humped his back and moved closer in against the stone wall, where there was more protection. He fell asleep again.

The sun was out when he opened his eyes. He stirred, stretching, glancing upward at the blue sky. Today was going to be a fine one, he could make a lot of progress if he rose now and began his walk.

He got to his feet, bending to brush away some mud that clung to his garments. As he straightened, his eyes went to the interior of the old ruin.

At one time, long ago, this had been a castle. Not a very big one, it had probably been built to keep back the Tartars when they had surged across the plains from Russia and the east, intent on attacking all Europe.

He reached for his pack, raising it to put it on his back. As he did so, his eyes went around the ruin once again-—then halted. A touch of sunlight on something bright had caught his eyes.

His hands tied the straps even as he contemplated that shining thing. What could it be? Not steel, certainly, steel would have long ago rusted. It was very bright, it reflected back the sunlight.

Curious, he strode toward it.

His eyes saw that the heavy rains had caused a small landslide. The dirt was pulled away from one of the walls, in which there was a niche. The sunlight touched on something that was inside that niche.

When he came to a halt, his eyes widened.

It was a round something, that shone with yellow and with white stones. There was mud still around it, but mud would come off easily enough.

Victor Czuczor put out his hand and lifted the round thing. He held it in his big hand and his heart hammered crazily. If he was not mistaken, this round disc, this plaque, was of solid gold. And it was encrusted with diamonds!

He did not trust himself to do anything, just yet. But his eyes devoured this thing in his hand, and a voice whispered in his mind that he had found a treasure. All that gold! All those diamonds! Something like this could have belonged only to a king or a nobleman.

Heart pounding, he walked toward a pool of water, formed in a little hollow from the rains. Victor squatted down and washed away the mud. When he was done, he licked his suddenly dry lips with his tongue.

He had found a fortune!

Though he was a saddler, he was not unacquainted with precious stones. He had a friend who was a jeweler, and sometimes when things were slack in his shop, he had worked with his friend. He had come to know diamonds. Not as well as Sigismund, but well enough.

This plaque held two dozen diamonds, and of those, at least five were big. Each of the five was of many carats, each would be worth a small fortune. All together—

Victor Czuczor shook his head. He could not possibly guess at their worth, but all told, the plaque must certainly bring close to several million schillings! He went on staring down at what he held, until caution moved within him.

He lifted his eyes and stared about the ruins. No one had seen him, he felt certain. And no one knew this plaque had been here. It belonged to him, now. His hand pushed it into a coat pocket.

Later, when he was alone in an inn room, he could hide it in his moneybelt. Right now, his pocket was the safest place for it to be. He must remember, as he walked, not to take it out and look at it. A man might be murdered for such a jewel.

He walked away from the ruins after glancing up and down the road to make certain that it was empty. His lightheartedness had vanished, now he was a worried man. He had a treasure in his pocket, a treasure which, when he reached America, would enable him to open his own leather goods store.

From time to time he touched that heaviness in his coat pocket. What incredible fortune! It was a good sign, an omen. Some of his worry fell away from him as he walked along the road.

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