His Mysterious Ways
by A. Samuel Mattson
Jobs were hard to find in New York City in 1930. Just 19, I was
fresh off the boat from Sweden and didn’t speak any English.
When I'd boarded the train in my hometown of Karlskrona,
Sweden, a woman next to me had asked, "Where are you going?"
“America,” I said. “To make a new start.”
My cousin Lars works in New York City, she informed me. At the
Steinway piano factory. “Look him up when you get there.” She wrote on a piece
of paper, handed it to me and said, “God be with you.”
It was a sweltering New York day when I set out in search of
the factory. I had no idea where it was. I wandered the city for hours, showing
people that scrap of paper, which bore four words: Lars Olsen-Steinway Piano.
Nobody was able to help me.
I was disappointed, and so tired. When I saw a parked car I
opened the door and slid into the front seat. Where I was from anyone could
rest in someone else’s wagon or cart. I hoped the same was true here.
I soon fell asleep, but was jolted awake by the blast of a
whistle. Workmen streamed out of a nearby building. One of them yelled at me,
in English. What is he so upset about? I answered instinctively in Swedish that
I was sorry. Amazingly, he responded in Swedish, “What are you doing in my car?”
I explained, then showed him that piece of paper. The man smiled. He said the
whistle I had heard announced the end of the workday at Steinway & Sons.
Then he walked me around the corner and introduced me to someone who got me a
job as a painter.
By now you’ve probably guessed. The man who owned the car was
Lars Olsen.
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