Sophie's Journey Chapter 5
Leaving Gentofte
Sophie walked across the frozen grass, her boots making a loud crunch with each step. It was January 1856, and the cold air made her throat ache. She stood at the edge of the property with her hands in her coat pockets, looking at the stone walls Peter had fixed three years ago.
Behind her, the cottage seemed smaller than before. The roof sagged under the snow. This was the only home her children had ever known. Their heights were marked on the doorframe. Selling the house meant admitting her husband was gone and that part of her life was over.
“The appraiser is here, Mother,” Peter said. He stood by the gate, shoulders squared like his father used to stand, though his eyes were wide and unsure. At nine, he had started to see the land not as a place to play but as work he would never get done.
Sophie nodded, her jaw tightening as she turned toward the house. “Bring the children inside, Peter. Keep them away from the parlor while we speak. Anne is restless, and Otto will only want to climb the man’s legs.”
She walked to the door and stopped to touch the apple tree by the well. They planted it when Thomas was born, and it still grew sour apples. She wondered if the new owners would take care of it or see it as something in the way.
Inside, the room was empty. The clock was gone, leaving a pale spot on the wall. A man in a high collar sat at the kitchen table. His nose was red from the cold. He was the land agent’s representative, and he looked around the room, thinking about what everything was worth.
"It is a modest holding, Fru Petersen," the man said, his quill scratching on vellum. "The soil is tired. The north paddock drains poorly for high-yield grain. But the stones are sound, and the road is close."
Sophie sat straight in her chair. "My husband fixed those drains himself. They held through the spring floods of '52 without a breach. The price we discussed is fair, Herr Olsen. I don't want charity, but I won't be cheated."
The man raised his eyes to hers for a moment, then returned to his papers. "I will honor our price," he murmured. "The Mormons are nothing if not efficient. They have already contacted our office regarding the transfer of the proceeds from your sale. Are you absolutely certain you wish to entrust the entire proceeds to them?"
"I'm certain," Sophie replied, voice flat and sure. "Safest path I have. They gave their word to keep every penny safe until I get to Zion. Once I'm there, that money buys me a home, a start, a life with the Saints."
She watched him slide the last paper across the table. She picked up the pen and felt how cold it was. She signed her name, Sophie Cathrine Wilhelmine Petersen. When she finished, she felt empty. Now she owned nothing except her clothes and her faith.
The sale was quick and formal. The farm now belonged to someone else. By noon, the deed would be finished, and all their years here would be reduced to some money and travel papers.
The agent took the keys and the deed book and left. Sophie stood in the kitchen and listened to the silence. The house felt empty now. She went to the hearth, reached behind the mantle, and took out her leather hymnal.
Marianne Lautrup stood in the doorway. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red from crying. She looked at the empty shelves and the bare floor, twisting her apron in her hands. "It's really happening," Marianne said quietly. "We're leaving the graves. My mother, your Peter. They stay here, and we go far away."
"The dead are not just in the ground, Marianne," Sophie said, putting the hymnal in her shawl. "They live on in the promises we keep for our children. If we stay, Emma and Anne will work as maids. Peter, Thomas, and Otto will work hard for a landlord who does not care about them. In Zion, they can have a better life."
Marianne leaned against the doorframe. "I saw Elder Hansen this morning. He talked to the men about crossing the Atlantic. He made it sound easy, but the sea is deep, Sophie. Very deep."
"We will manage," Sophie said, resting her hand on Marianne's shoulder. "We have work to do. Help me gather the children. It's time to go."
As they walked to the edge of the village, Sophie saw her neighbors. Some looked at her with pity, others with suspicion. She did not stop or explain. She carried Otto, and Peter led the others.
At the crossroads, a wooden sign pointed to Copenhagen. The sky was gray and heavy with clouds. Sophie looked back once and saw the Jelling mounds in the distance. They did not change as she left.
"Are we going to see the Prophet now, Mama?" Emma asked, holding onto Sophie's skirt. She looked tired, her face serious for a five-year-old.
"Not yet, my little bird," Sophie said, pulling Emma closer. "First we cross the sea, then the plains, then the mountains. Each step brings us closer to the valley of the Saints."
Peter stood apart, holding a small stone from their garden. He turned it in his hand, then threw it into the woods. He did not wait to see where it landed.
"It's time," Sophie said. "Stay close. Don't talk to strangers, and hold on to your bundles. Everything we have is in those sacks."
The coach arrived, the harness rattling and the air smelling of wet leather and horse. The driver was from the next parish. Peter had traded grain with him before. He looked at Sophie but did not help with the sacks. He said nothing, and Sophie did not complain.
As the coach moved away, the wheels turned in the half-frozen mud. Sophie felt the shaking through the floor and into her boots. Gentofte and her old life disappeared behind them. She reached into her pocket and touched the travel papers, thinking about her children's future.
She leaned her head against the window and watched the Danish countryside pass by. The hills and fields grew darker as they traveled. She sat quietly with her hands folded, waiting to get used to the journey.
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