While my wife was doing genealogy research, she ran across the incredible story of her great-great-grandmother, Sophie. The story is compelling and fascinating. It needs to be told.
Over nine years ago, I wrote, "I have started researching Sophie’s story and am in the process of writing a book about her experience." Nine years and nothing to show for it except a research file.
One of my 2026 resolutions was to get back to the book. I haven't written anything since the summer of 2024, so it has been hard for me to get back in the saddle.
After reviewing all my research and finding some new online sources, I finally sat down to storyboard and outline the book. My outline is finished, and the first few chapters have been written. I am excited about the project, and my goal is to finish the book and publish it by the end of the year. We will see.
Here is the first chapter. There will be revisions and rewrites, I am sure, but I want to document the journey.
SOPHIE'S JOURNEY
Chapter 1
The Scent of Lime
Fog covered the Danish countryside, settling into the potato rows and cart paths. It hid the hedges and obscured the cottages, making Gentofte hardly look real. Nothing dried anymore. The washing on the line stayed damp. The children's clothes were always muddy. Sophie Petersen wore her black mourning shawl from morning until night, and it never dried. Moisture crept into the floor planks, the straw mattress, and the wool stockings by the fire. It seemed to get into everything.
She woke up cold and went to bed the same way. The gray fog never left her. Sorrow had settled in her bones like the damp in the house. When she walked through the village, she felt invisible. The air was wet and cold, but the emptiness inside her was even colder.
After Peter died, Gentofte stopped smelling like bread, hay, and farm work. Now the air smelled of lime. The parish men had scattered it after the sickness came—the sharp smell mixed with other things: sickness, waste, and fear. Grief was always there underneath.
Six weeks before, a yellow cloth had hung from their gate, flapping in the breeze. Neighbors crossed the road to avoid her. Women that Sophie had known since childhood would not meet her eyes. Mothers kept their children close. Cholera separated people before it took them.
She still saw it when she closed her eyes. Peter lay on the narrow bed, his lips blue and his skin cold and damp. He asked for water, but it would not stay down. Men came in with cloths over their faces. She tried to reach for him, but someone grabbed her wrist and told her to stay back.
They took him away while his bed was still warm. The hammer worked quickly. Sophie stood in the doorway with the children close to her, looking at the box she could not open. She wanted to kiss him one last time, to touch his hair, to tell him he was not alone. She was not allowed any of it.
She barely remembered the burial. There was mist, people gathered, a reading from scripture, and men in wet boots. Dirt covered the coffin. Someone said amen. Then everyone went home for supper. Sophie and her children stayed by the new grave, not believing how fast the ground took him back.
Today, Sophie stood at the wash tub in the yard, scrubbing the laundry in gray water until her hands ached. The cloth was rough and heavy. She scrubbed as if she could wash the sickness away. She worked hard, hoping it would help.
Next to her, Emma pinned stockings to the line, serious as could be. Anne chased a hen, laughing when it flapped away. Thomas splashed in a puddle, blond curls stuck to his forehead, happy as a lark.
"Thomas," she scolded, and he grinned back at her, all boy, all life. The smile pierced her. How dare joy still exist? The thought came ugly, and she hated herself for it. She shut her eyes, breathed deep, and waited for the pain to ease.
Near the henhouse, Peter Junior struggled to pick up a sack too big for him. He was only eight. Already carrying what his father should have carried. That was what death did.
As Sophie scrubbed, she thought about the farm. It was falling behind. She saw it in every chore left undone and every loose board. Peter used to take care of these things. A wheel needed fixing. The south fence leaned. One goat had stopped giving milk. They had bought seed on credit, and the debt remained. The work kept piling up, and winter was coming.
At night, when the house was quiet, she opened Peter's ledger. She read the neat columns by candlelight, hoping to find something she had missed. She never did.
She touched her belly without thinking. It was too early to feel anything. She had missed her bleeding and felt sick in the mornings. She knew what that meant. She had been pregnant before and knew the signs.
Pregnant. The word did not make her happy. Another child meant another mouth to feed and another body to clothe. She needed strength, and she was not sure she had enough.
She had not told Marianne when her friend brought broth. She had not told the pastor. She had not even prayed about it. Saying it out loud would make it real. Sophie was learning that surviving could be more frightening than dying.
At twenty-nine, Sophie had to do everything. She was mother and father, breadwinner and bookkeeper, the one who kept the house and the one who gave discipline. She had to comfort the children, even when she had none left for herself. All of it, all at once. The secret she carried inside did not feel like a blessing. It felt like a burden.
The house was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock. In the loft, the children slept close together under patched quilts. Sophie sat alone at the oak table, its wood marked by years of Peter’s tools and the children’s games. Her husband’s leather ledger lay in front of her, worn at the corners. She opened it to the last page and saw Peter’s handwriting listing the debts they still owed. She counted their coins again. It was not enough. It never was. She rubbed her tired eyes until the candlelight blurred. This was what it meant to be a widow. It was not the black shawl she wore, or the food neighbors brought, or the pity in their voices. It was the fear of how they would survive.
Winter was coming. Emma needed boots. Thomas had outgrown his coat. Anne’s cough needed medicine. Now she had another baby on the way.
A sob rose in her throat, full of anger, and she pressed her knuckles to her lips to keep quiet. Outside, the hills disappeared in the night fog. This land had seen many families struggle and disappear into the earth.
Sophie stared out the window, but her mind saw nothing. For the first time in her life, Gentoffe felt like a strange place. She closed Peter’s ledger and pressed her palms flat against the rough wood of the table. No signs came to guide her. No grace fell upon the room. The truth of it was plain and cold: if she stayed here, the walls would keep closing in until there was nothing left of her.
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Sophie's Lament by Faded Chrome, written for the Sophie's Journey companion album.
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