Sophie's Journey Chapter 6
The Road to Liverpool
The carriage groaned and shuddered as they bounced down the road. Sophie sat with her back pressed hard against the wooden bench. She held her arm across Anne and Otto's laps to keep them steady.
Outside the window, the Danish countryside passed by. Sophie knew this land well. She remembered the rye in summer and the smell of clover. Now, everything looked gray in the winter mist. The hills she grew up with faded from view.
She saw a single farmhouse go by, a small white building with a thatched roof. Her jaw ached from clenching it during the bumpy ride.
"Are we there, Mama?" Anne asked. Her voice was small and muffled against Sophie's cloak. The three-year-old's eyes were wide. She had been restless since they left Gentofte. Her legs twitched with nervous energy. Sophie could not soothe her.
"Not yet, little bird," Sophie said. She smoothed the child's hair. "We are going to Copenhagen first. To the big water."
Peter sat hunched across from her. He stared at the floor. In the days since they had committed to the journey, the boy had gone silent. His face tried to look like his father's. Hard. But his cheeks were still round. The hardness did not quite fit.
While the others looked out at the fields, Peter stared at the mud on his boots. The mud was gray and dry. It reminded him of the farm they had just left. Every time the coach bumped, some of it fell off onto the floor.
To Sophie, it was only dirt. To Peter, it felt like the last piece of Denmark he had. He watched it disappear with each mile.
Marianne Lautrup sat next to Peter. She picked at a loose thread on her shawl until it started to fray. She looked out the window, her face confused.
She had not spoken since they got on the carriage. Her silence made the air feel colder.
“The spires,” Emma whispered, pointing toward the horizon where the jagged silhouette of the capital began to rise against the bruised purple of the twilight. “Mama, look. The giants’ fingers.”
Sophie looked through the foggy window as Copenhagen came into view. She saw the stone buildings and the copper church domes above the harbor. The domes were green from the sea air.
Thomas sat by the window, his nose pressed to the glass. He was seven years old, and this was the farthest he had ever been from the farm. He watched the buildings grow taller, the streets grow busier, and the world grow bigger with every turn of the wheels. His eyes were wide. His mouth hung open. He had never seen so many people in one place. So many horses. So many carts. He turned to Sophie, his face lit with wonder, and she saw that for him, this was not an ending. It was a beginning.
Sophie was a widow. She had spent her life on a farm, surrounded by pastures and muddy roads. Now she saw warehouses and tall buildings for merchants and kings. The size of the city made her feel small.
The carriage slowed. The wheels groaned against the cobblestones. The change in motion broke Otto's sleep. He opened his mouth and released a thin, shrill cry. It cut through the compartment's hush.
Other passengers turned to look at them. Their faces showed annoyance. They did not want to be bothered by children or poor travelers.
Sophie picked him up quickly and held him close. His small hands gripped her shawl tightly.
The station was loud with horses and shouting men. Sophie carried her bundles and kept her children close. She did not stop to look at the decorations or the fancy clothes of other women. She kept her eyes on the missionary leading them through the crowd.
The air smelled of the sea and metal from the factories. It reminded Sophie that they were close to the harbor and the world beyond.
They walked through narrow, icy streets toward the docks. The children were tired and stumbled, but Sophie kept them moving.
At the pier, the steamer to Kiel waited. Its black hull was huge. The harbor water was dark and slapped against the posts. Marianne stopped walking.
“I cannot,” Marianne whispered, her voice trembling. “Sophie, look at the water. It is like a throat. It wants to swallow us.”
“The water is just a road, Marianne,” Sophie said, her voice dropping into the low, steady tone she used for skittish horses. “It is no different than the path to the market, only wider. Hold onto Emma’s hand. Do not look down. Look at the light on the mast.”
She led them onto the gangplank. The wood bent a little under their weight. Sophie stepped onto the deck and looked back at the city. The lights of Copenhagen shone in a line against the darkness.
She remembered the graves in Gentofte and the stone walls Peter had built. She had lived there for thirty years, but now that life was over. On the deck, she felt the engine beneath her feet.
The trip to Kiel passed quickly. The air smelled of salt and unwashed sailors. Below deck, they were crowded into steerage. The space was narrow and lit by a weak yellow lantern.
Sophie spent the night perched on a rough coil of rope. She anchored Otto in the crook of her arm. The other children sought warmth beneath a single weighted quilt. They tangled their limbs together.
The lantern swung back and forth. Sophie stayed alert, watching over her children. She focused only on keeping them safe.
She listened to Anne's coughs and Peter's restless movements. Sophie stayed determined to get them through the journey.
By dawn, they left the steamer and got on a train heading toward Altona. The land was flat, and the winter wind had stripped the trees bare.
The language had changed. The familiar Danish vowels were gone, replaced by sharp, guttural consonants. Sophie felt as though she were becoming deaf. She watched the ticket collectors. The station masters. Her eyes searched their faces for some sign of the world she knew. She found only professional indifference. These were men who moved cargo. To them, she was not Sophie Petersen, daughter of a farmer. She was a unit of passage. A head to be counted. A ticket to be punched.
“They sound like dogs barking,” Thomas whispered, leaning toward his mother as a German official shouted instructions on the platform at Altona. “I don't like it, Mama. Why don't they speak right?”
“They speak their own way, Thomas,” Sophie said, tightening the knot on a sack. “The Lord understands all languages. We only need to follow the Brother who leads us. Keep your pack high on your shoulders. We must walk to the other station.”
Getting through Altona was hard. They walked a long way through dirty streets. The children fell behind, and Sophie carried Otto and her bundle. Her back hurt, and the city air made it hard to breathe.
Sophie watched Marianne, who walked quietly, staring at the person ahead. Marianne seemed lost, as if the world she knew was gone.
Sophie wanted to comfort Marianne, but she was too tired. All her strength went into keeping her children moving forward.
The North Sea crossing was different from the Baltic. They boarded the ship for Hull. The wind was strong and cold, and the air smelled of salt.
The sky was dark and cloudy. Sophie found a corner of the deck and gathered the children near a wooden crate to protect them from the spray. The ship started to roll before they left the harbor, and a tray of tins slid across the deck.
A storm hit three hours after they left. Freezing rain made the deck slippery. Sophie held the railing with one hand and Emma's collar with the other, trying to protect her children from the wind.
The waves were high, and their tops broke into white foam. The air tasted salty. In the dark, Sophie heard the ship creak and groan. Marianne was sick into a bucket, her face pale. The children held onto Sophie's skirts, scared and quiet.
"Are we sinking, Mama?" Peter asked. His voice cracked. He was most like his father. He had a quiet logic. It usually kept him calm. But now his hands shook. He could barely hold his cap.
"The ship is built for this," Sophie said. Her own stomach churned with every drop into the trough of a wave. "The men know the way. We are just crossing a valley of water. Think of the mountain in the dream. It doesn't move. We are going to the mountain."
She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing with the movement of the ship. As long as she kept her hands on the children, she felt they would be safe.
Sophie sat in the rain all night. Her clothes were soaked. She did not move until she saw the first gray light of England through the mist.
The port of Hull was crowded with ships and people. The city was full of brick buildings and coal smoke. The air was heavy. They hurried from the ship to the train, carrying their bags through the crowd.
Sophie felt tired and numb after the storm. She sat on the train to Liverpool and watched the English countryside go by, seeing dark hedges and dirty cottages.
By the time they reached Liverpool, the sun was setting behind a wall of fog. The station was a cathedral of iron. The roof soared so high the pigeons looked like dust motes in the rafters. The noise was absolute. The hiss of steam. The clatter of trolleys. The endless, rhythmic thrum of a world that never stopped.
Sophie stood on the platform with her children close by. Her hands were cracked and stained from the journey. Her children looked tired and pale.
“Is this Zion, Mama?” Anne asked, her voice thick with sleep. She looked around at the dark brick walls and the flickering gaslights, her bottom lip trembling.
“No, Anne,” Sophie said, her voice sounding thin and unfamiliar in the vastness of the station. “This is only the place where we wait. The beginning is over.”
She looked up at the large iron clock above the tracks. Its hands moved steadily.
The green fields of Gentofte were gone, replaced by soot and iron and the long road ahead. Sophie sat quietly for a moment, then picked up the heaviest sack. Its weight felt familiar against her hip. She did not look back toward the station; she looked toward the crowded, noisy streets of Liverpool. Then she gathered her children and moved forward into the dark.
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