{"product_id":"the-childrens-blizzard-isbn-9780593499474","title":"The Children's Blizzard","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Aviator’s Wife\u003c\/i\u003e comes a story of courage on the prairie, inspired by the devastating storm that struck the Great Plains in 1888, threatening the lives of hundreds of immigrant homesteaders, especially schoolchildren.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A nail-biter . . . poignant, powerful, perfect.” —Kate Quinn, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Alice Network\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe morning of January 12, 1888, was unusually mild, following a punishing cold spell. It was warm enough for the homesteaders of the Dakota Territory to venture out again, and for their children to return to school without their heavy coats—leaving them unprepared when disaster struck. At the hour when most prairie schools were letting out for the day, a terrifying, fast-moving blizzard blew in without warning. Schoolteachers as young as sixteen were suddenly faced with life and death decisions: Keep the children inside, to risk freezing to death when fuel ran out, or send them home, praying they wouldn’t get lost in the storm? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBased on actual oral histories of survivors, this gripping novel follows the stories of Raina and Gerda Olsen, two sisters, both schoolteachers—one becomes a hero of the storm and the other finds herself ostracized in the aftermath. It’s also the story of Anette Pedersen, a servant girl whose miraculous survival serves as a turning point in her life and touches the heart of Gavin Woodson, a newspaperman seeking redemption. It was Woodson and others like him who wrote the embellished news stories that lured northern European immigrants across the sea to settle a pitiless land. Boosters needed them to settle territories into states, and they didn’t care what lies they told these families to get them there—or whose land it originally was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt its heart, this is a story of courage, of children forced to grow up too soon, tied to the land because of their parents’ choices. It is a story of love taking root in the hard prairie ground, and of families being torn asunder by a ferocious storm that is little remembered today—because so many of its victims were immigrants to this country.“Melanie Benjamin never fails to create compelling, unforgettable characters and place them against the backdrop of startling history.”\u003cb\u003e—Lisa Wingate, author of\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Book of Lost Friends\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this atmospheric novel, as relentlessly paced as a thriller, you experience the encroaching storm from many perspectives and, in the process, understand something important about the tenacity of the human spirit.”\u003cb\u003e—Christina Baker Kline, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Exiles\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Melanie Benjamin reminds us that immigrant stories are at the heart of American history. She weaves a moving and uplifting tale of courage, family, and sacrifice.”\u003cb\u003e—Jean Kwok, author of \u003ci\u003eSearching for Sylvie Lee\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Benjamin draws you into the lives, hardships, and triumphs of a diverse cast of characters and compels you to care about them deeply. \u003ci\u003eThe Children’s Blizzard\u003c\/i\u003e has a pulse-pounding pace, a giant heart, and a sweep as wide as the prairie itself.”\u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth Letts, author of \u003ci\u003eFinding Dorothy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Melanie Benjamin has a gift for opening up and fleshing out her characters, giving readers unfettered access into their hearts and minds. Beautiful and haunting, this is a story of ordinary people forced to face the most extraordinary of moments.”\u003cb\u003e—Allison Pataki, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Queen’s Fortune \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Chilling, quite literally . . . Benjamin has taken an almost-forgotten historical footnote and created a vivid and poignant story of Midwestern immigrants pursuing the American dream.”\u003cb\u003e—Sarah McCoy, author of \u003ci\u003eMarilla of Green Gables\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Children’s Blizzard\u003c\/i\u003e is that rarest of novels, as riveting in its story as it is delicate and empathetic with its characters. Melanie Benjamin has written an unforgettable tale full of fascinating and forensic historical detail.”\u003cb\u003e—Peter Geye, author of \u003ci\u003eNorthernmost\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fans of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series will be fascinated by \u003ci\u003eThe Children’s Blizzard\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOprah Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Readers will want to curl up with a warm blanket by the fire for this novel inspired by real events. . . . [Benjamin] uses her prodigious gifts for bringing history to life.”\u003cb\u003e—AARP\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this piercingly detailed drama, riveting in its action and psychology, Benjamin reveals the grim aspects of homesteading, from brutal deprivations to violent racism toward Native Americans and African Americans, while orchestrating, with grace and resonance, transformative moral awakenings and sustaining love.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Benjamin revisits the Children’s Blizzard that killed 235 people in January 1888 in this sprawling, well-told story. . . . There’s great suspense inherent to the events. Benjamin achieves a balance of grand drama and devastatingly intimate moments.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eMelanie Benjamin\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Children’s Blizzard\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMistress of the Ritz, The Girls in the Picture, The Swans of Fifth Avenue, The Aviator's Wife, The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAlice I Have Been\u003c\/i\u003e. Benjamin lives in Chicago, Illinois, where she is at work on her next historical novel.\u003cb\u003eNortheastern Nebraska, early afternoon, January 12, 1888\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe air was on fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe prairie was burning, snapping and hissing, sparks flying in every direction, propelled by the scorching wind. Sparks falling as thick as snowflakes in winter, burning tiny holes in cloth, stinging exposed skin. Her eyes were dry and scratchy, her hair had escaped its pins so that it fell down her back, and when she picked up one of those pins, it was scalding to the touch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything was hot to the touch, even the wet gunnysacks they were using to beat out the flames were sizzling. When Raina glanced back at the house, she saw the dancing, hellish flames reflected in the windows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To the north,” her father called, and she ran, ran on bare legs and bare feet that stung from earth that was a fiery stovetop as she beat out a daring lick of flame that had jumped the firebreak with all her might. Just beyond the hastily plowed ditch, the emerging bluestem grasses hissed; some exploded, but the fire did not look as if it was going to cross the break.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Save some of that for the others, Raina,” her father called, and even from that distance—­he was at the head of the west break—­and through the sooty air, she recognized the twinkle in his eyes. Then he turned and pointed south. “Gerda! Go!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaina watched her older sister leap toward another vaulting flame, beating it out before it had a chance. It was almost a game, really, a game of chicken. Who would win, the flames or the Olsens? So far, in ten years of homesteading, the Olsens had come out victorious every time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGerda smiled triumphantly, waving back at Raina, the outside row of vulnerable wheat, only a few inches tall, between them. At times like this, when the air was so stifling and smoky, Raina didn’t feel quite so small, quite so inconsequential as when the air was clear. On a cool, still early summer morning, the prairie could make her feel like the smallest of insects, trapped in a great dome of endless pale blue sky, the waving grasses undulating, just like the sea, against an unbroken horizon. But Gerda, Raina knew, never felt this way. Gerda was stronger, bigger. Gerda was untouchable, even from the prairie fires that flared up regularly in Nebraska, spring and fall. Gerda would know what to do in the face of fire, or ice. Or men. Gerda—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGerda wasn’t here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaina blinked, gaped at the McGuffey Reader in her hand. She wasn’t on the prairie; she was in a schoolhouse. Her schoolhouse. The second class was droning the lesson:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod made the little birds to sing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd flit from tree to tree;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e’Tis He who sends them in the spring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo sing for you and me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaina sat straighter, tried to stretch her neck but it was no use; she was smaller than the biggest boy sitting in the last row of benches. Her pupils—­precious minds that were hers to form, or so she’d been told in the letter accompanying her certificate. But the oldest one was fifteen, only a year younger than she. And the way he looked at her made her shiver, made her think of a well that was so deep, the bottom would always remain a mystery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, it wasn’t this boy’s eyes that made her think that; this boy’s eyes were blue, his gaze was measured, and if there was a wildness in them—­only at times, for he was a well-­brought-­up lad—­it was a wildness she believed she could tame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes were chocolate brown and soft with an understanding Raina had never before felt she needed. Until she first beheld that fathomless gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGerda would not feel so silly. Gerda would not allow herself to be so—­understandable. But Gerda was teaching in her own school across the border into Dakota Territory, three days’ drive away, and boarding with a family there. A family not at all like the Pedersens, with whom Raina found herself sharing a roof, food, and air that was becoming too polluted with glances, sighs, and tears. And beds, beds upstairs, beds downstairs. Beds without borders, without walls, too exposed to those glances and sighs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer mother should have prepared her for this, Raina sometimes thought. Her mother should have taught her, warned her as she used to warn Raina not to wander into the tallgrass prairie when she was little, not to touch a hot stove, not to eat the pokeweed berries that flowered late in summer; her mother should have prevented her—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom what? From going out into the world? That was the dream her mother most cherished: that Raina and Gerda would never have to homestead, that they could go to college, then live and teach in a city someday. But life in this new country was hard and expensive and they had no relatives to act as a cushion. First, the two girls had to teach and save their wages.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer mother couldn’t have prevented this, and Raina knew it. Her mother had met her father when they were barely out of childhood. Her mother was soft and childlike, in the best way—­she loved to sing songs and make up games as she went about her work. Her mother wasn’t meant for homesteading, for harsh environments and cruel blows; the entire family, Raina and Gerda included, tried to protect her as best they could in this elemental place, a place of life and death and not much in between except backbreaking work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs for her father—­well, she couldn’t even meet his eyes on the weekends he came to take her home. Steffen Olsen was a man but he was a god, too, a Norse god, untouchable, unknowable except in wise words and stupendous feats of physical labor. He could tie a mile-­long barbed-­wire fence in half a day. He could plant an entire field of wheat in twice that time. He could eat enormous meals and at sundown fall into a blameless sleep that would leave him refreshed and ready to go at first light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer father was not a man but a myth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGunner Pedersen, however, was real: flesh, blood, sinew. He was a man in the way her father was not, a man to dream about, to hunger for. To imagine in your arms. A man who would pause in his work to tell a funny story to a frightened girl boarding out for the very first time. A man who would fill a glass with cattails and prairie grass, because he thought it looked pretty, and present it to her without a word, only a kind look that told her he knew how lonely she must be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA man with a wife who saw these things and stored them up. The way Raina stored them up, as well. But for what purpose? Neither woman, at least in the beginning, could answer that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter this past week, however . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sound like a thunderclap startled her. Little Anette Pedersen had dropped her reader on the floor; the girl jerked her head up, a red spot on her cheek where she must have been pressing it against the desk. She had probably fallen asleep again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was another thing no one had prepared Raina for; it hadn’t been covered in any of the textbooks or on the examination she’d passed with flying colors. In all her studying, she had never come across what to do if one of your pupils was so mistreated and overworked, she fell asleep during class.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaina stood; the children all put away their readers and looked up at her. Carefully, in her best, most precise En­glish, she instructed the children to go outside for recess; the weather was warm enough, this January day, for them to get some fresh air. It was so unexpected, this gift of a day, the temperature hovering around thirty degrees, the sun shining so brightly this morning although it was turning cloudy now. It would do everyone good to play outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaina could never tell if all the children understood her; she longed to talk to them in Norwegian, even to the Swedes and the Germans, because surely they’d pick out a word or two, these languages were so similar. But the school superintendent had warned her that this was the most important rule for a prairie schoolteacher: English only. These children of immigrants had to learn; their parents could not teach them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe children rose, dutifully went to the cloakroom—­just a tiny shed, no bigger than a broom closet tacked on to the main room—­and brought out their light coats. It had been so warm this morning—­comparatively warm, anyway—they all had come to school clad as if it were May, not January. After the long cold snap last week that kept everyone cooped up at home, this day had a holiday feel to it. Chattering excitedly in a mixture of languages, they ran off in groups to the bare little schoolyard that the biggest boy, Tor Halvorsan, had swept without being asked. Raina was pleased to see little Fredrik Halvorsan, Tor’s younger brother, tug on Anette’s apron strings as the two of them ran off together.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaina longed to join her pupils; it was only last year she was a pupil herself in her home district, sitting with her friends on a tree stump during recess and chatting about dress patterns and boys, occasionally allowing her dignity to fall off her like a discarded shawl to play tag with the younger students. She still felt stiff and awkward sitting alone at her desk inside while her pupils played. She should go outside and take in the fresh air herself; after the stifling nightmare of this last week, she needed it. But she felt like an intruder as the children played their games; they would grow shy whenever she ventured outside, afraid to be themselves in front of the schoolteacher.New York Times bestselling author of The Aviator's Wife","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301839032549,"sku":"NP9780593499474","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593499474.jpg?v=1767738671","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-childrens-blizzard-isbn-9780593499474","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}