An interview with Louise Swensen in September 2001
I can hear the cries of the starving infants in their worried mother’s arms echoing in my head today. The countless number of desperate bodies lining the sidewalk had overwhelmed me as a child. I was a skinny little girl, with pale skin and not much meat on my bones to offer any warmth. As the oldest, I was constantly worried about my three younger siblings who were never well-fed and suffering from the frost that bit at our flesh. It was a hard, desperate life, but I knew my family would not survive without hope so I tried my best to stay strong. We were always huddled together in that line to protect us from the cold. With every step forward we gave up our current state of warmth to grow closer to our chance at a steaming bowl of watery soup.

I remember the worst of these days so vividly. We hadn’t gotten our early start to the soup kitchens like our usual schedule and the lines were longer than ever. We inched our way to the front of the line and I noticed that the warm aroma of soup was beginning to diminish. Just as our lips began to moisten, a towering man in a dark coat announced that there would be no more soup served that day and the remaining families would have to return to their homes without being fed. The crowd behind us began to shout in anger and shove their way to the front. My siblings, Margaret, Frankie, and Johnny clenched their icy fingers with mine as we became fearful for our safety and health. My mother grabbed our arms and yanked us from the ferocious mob. Once on the other side of the street, we trudged home and I could see my mother’s heart breaking bit by bit.

We lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment in a discreet neighborhood of downtown Chicago. I remember the heavy, rusty, metal door that we had to push through to reach our apartment complex and that day it seemed heavier than the others. Every step down the hallway creaked beneath our feet and we could hear the yells of a drunken man arguing with his crying wife as their new born baby screamed relentlessly and the old widower in the apartment above as he mumbled the lyrics to an old sailors’ song. My disheartened mother mustered up as much strength as her body could manage to push the wooden, paint-chipped door while wiggling the jammed knob to enter our room. I recall dragging my cold, weak body along with my siblings to our only bed where I tucked in Johnny, Margaret, and Frankie and covered their little bodies with a small bundle of coats we used for blankets. My mother sat in the old, wooden rocking chair in the corner of our room after placing a kettle of water on the wood-burning stove to warm for my whimpering brother.

When my father returned later that evening, my mother rose from her chair and greeted him with a hug and a kiss at the door. There was nothing quite like their love for each other. It was beautiful the way they looked at each other with eyes that seemed to say “As long as I have you, things will be alright.” Although my father was unable to acquire a long-lasting job, a wealthy businessman had hired him to work for a few hours in his clothing factory that day. He emptied his pockets of a couple dollars he earned that day and a small loaf of bread to feed us. As we climbed upon his lap he broke off pieces of bread for each of us and pressed his dry, chapped lips against our foreheads. Then he turned up the old radio sitting on the small, tilted dinner table and turned the station to the evening broadcast. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright...” as we listened to the gracious hymn that was sung by the choir we realized it was Christmas Eve.

After savoring the last of our slices, we climbed into bed and drifted off to the sound of the lovely Christmas carols. My parents fell asleep at the dinner table while they contemplated ways they could keep our family alive another year. The night was frigid and fierce as the winds crept through the cracks of our apartment walls and between our toes. My younger brothers and sister cuddled and pressed themselves against me, as they struggled to stay warm. In fear of their health, I gave a majority of my coat to them, leaving me shivering all night until my father awoke in the morning and draped his coat over my frost-bitten body.
As my father prepared for another day of scraping for a job, he cut off a few more slices of bread and toasted them on the stove for his family. While cutting the slices, I could tell he felt ashamed that he could not afford to bring his children any beautiful Christmas presents that year. I began to recall all the lovely gifts he was able to bring us in the past years when he was still successfully employed at the auto parts factory, such as the lovely doll with long burgundy hair and porcelain skin for me and the scrumptious butterscotch candies for Margaret. How I dreamed of returning to those joyous times where Christmas dinner included a nice ham from the market and delicious sweet potatoes.

Just before he left the gloomy room, he slowly and quietly gave each of us a kiss on our cold foreheads then brushed my mother’s hair behind her ear and softly pressed his lips against her rosy cheeks. He wiggled the broken door knob then yanked it open, trying his best not to wake us when suddenly something tumbled and rolled to the ground. He looked down at the toe of his shoe to see a bright, round fruit sitting on the ground. Then just beyond the fruit, he saw two scarlet stockings filled with more fruit. He bent down to pick up the mysterious fruit and examined it, curious of its origin. My father then proceeded to step over the lovely stockings and poke his head out the doorway, to look for any trace of the individual who had left them there.

My mother and the rest of my siblings, who are now awake from the noise, became overjoyed at the sight of the wonderful treat. My father leaned down and picked up the magnificent stockings and began to hand out tasty oranges to us all. We were overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness for this Christmas miracle as we clasped each others’ hands and prayed in thanks unto the Lord for the wonderful blessing we received that morning.

Then we each gave our father a loving hug as he left to hunt for a desperately needed job. Although that Christmas turned out for the best, the next year would be as challenging as the others and my family’s struggle was not over. My mother walked her husband to the busted door, kissed his scruffy, whiskered face goodbye then looked at him with her innocent, brown eyes and gave him a rare, small smile of hope.