But the seriousness of the Crash didn’t truly sink in until 1931, when Ingrid revealed she was having another baby. Kennet distinctly remembered being told when both his youngest brothers were on the way, and the air of celebration and happiness. Now, Ingrid’s voice was dull as she shared the news. As if announcing it would rain horse manure for the next year and a half and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Emil just leaned an elbow on the table with his mouth shut up in a palm.

“Maybe it’ll be a girl,” Minor ventured.

Nobody said anything.

“Or twins.”

Emil’s whole face disappeared into his palm and Ingrid whispered, “Minor, please,” her voice cracking around the edges.

“There’s an art to keeping your mouth shut, punk,” Major said testily to his nephew, and Minor’s eyes filled with tears.

Nalle got up from his chair and went around the table to Ingrid. His finger pushed at the deep furrow between her eyebrows. “Don’t do that,” he said, a little desperately. “Ma, stop. I don’t like when you wrinkle…”

That got Ingrid to smile, but only a little. The wrinkle smoothed out, but then it reappeared. The warm, pleasant kitchen suddenly felt cold and oppressive and Kennet found it hard to breathe. Something was wrong. If a baby on the way wasn’t joyful… If Emil was hiding his face, and Major was snapping at Minor, and not even Nalle could cheer Ingrid up, then something was very, very wrong in the world.

Ingrid’s fifth pregnancy nearly killed her. At long last, she had the daughter she always wanted, but at a price. Her body took long to recover. Her spirit even longer. She couldn’t nurse Trudy, and was both mortified and terrorized by the thought of feeding her infant an unnatural, suspicious and expensive substance called formula. Every other week she was sure Trudy was developing scurvy or rickets, or otherwise suffering needlessly due to her failure of a mother. The added financial stress and anxiety chiseled away what little strength she had. All up and down the St. Lawrence, the hotel business was dying. Times were terrible, money was tight, but something had to be done. Ingrid could no longer manage alone.

And so Marta Toivonen came to the Fisher Hotel in 1931, inquiring within about the sign in the window reading Help Wanted: Cook/Housekeeper.

The hotel desk clerk sent Marta to Major Fiskare in the bar. Major sent Marta to the marina to talk to Emil Fiskare, who directed the woman to his house behind the hotel, where Marta should talk to Mrs. Fiskare.

“Just rap on the kitchen screen door,” Emil said. “Follow the sound of the shrieking.”