THE GREAT BRÄNNVIN BRAWL
Ever since the inn closed a long time ago, travelers wishing to put up in Kungsäter have been out of luck. In my case the problem with accommodations is solved when my uncle Bengt offers me the use of the cabin in which Anders and Lotta once lived. Bengt has bought it as a summer house for his family, but much of the time it stands empty. Besides, Bengt adds, the geraniums in the window boxes need watering. As for the old inn, I walk past it almost daily, peering through the keyhole and summoning back the past.
Anders Svensson, the innkeeper, had done well, at least in the early years. He often sat down with his guests, fueling the conversation which would last long after closing time. However, his taste for the good life grew faster than his income, and in 1894 he was forced to declare bankruptcy. He knew it was coming. Like a shabby stranger, it had followed him around for quite some time, but always at a distance, not yet ready to make itself known. Now that it actually introduced itself by name, he felt relieved. At last he knew what he was up against. No less than 63 debtors were called in by the bankruptcy court, among them Carl Börjesson of Torp, Reverend Henrik Lindström, a local dairy, and several outside business firms.
Svensson’s successor, Gottfried Hilding Bergenheim, was a relative newcomer to the village. The son of a sergeant-major, he was born in 1862 in the nearby province of Halland, south of Västergötland. His wife Minnie was born von Scheele, an aristocratic family of Pomeranian origin. The Bergenheims had spent the latter part of the 1880s in California, where Gottfried grew grapes in the Livermore valley. Minnie’s health, however, was poor, and after three successive nights of frost destroyed the harvest, they returned to Sweden with their two small children.
In 1892 the Bergenheim family moved in at Faggared, a farm in Kungsäter, which Gottfried bought from two brothers he had met in America. Gottfried’s past misfortune had tempered him and now he showed what he was made of. As the village watched, he began plowing fields which had lain fallow for the past couple of years. He also replanted the forest; large tracts of virgin pine and fir had been cut down in the mid-1870s, when Faggared was owned, short term, by two businessmen from Gothenburg.
In the fall of 1894 Gottfried Bergenheim signed a contract with Carl Börjesson, renewable in five years, to lease the inn and the adjoining store. The initial payment was 750 crowns; 300 crowns were due at the end of each year, with an additional 100 crowns should Bergenheim, like Svensson, decide to sell brännvin.
Under Bergenheim’s management, the inn was soon restored to its old glory. Travelers, mostly salesmen, arrived dusty and tired after long hours next to the coachmen on unforgiving wooden seats. Bergenheim himself met them at the front steps. Short and dapper, in his early thirties, he pulled his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gave their boots and clothes a few swipes, more well-intended than effective. After they washed up in their rooms on the upper floor, the travelers took their meals in the large downstairs dining room, where the waitresses fended off their caresses and swallowed their witticisms which grew cruder as the evening wore on.
Commerce at the store next door was brisk. Aromas of cinnamon, cardamom, and roasted coffee blended with smells of rubber, leather, and tar. Loaves of bread, rings of sausages, wooden clogs, skates, and carbide lamps hung from the ceiling. Bergenheim’s voice could be heard everywhere, as he ordered his assistants up and down the stairs to the cellar to restock supplies. For children hiding behind their mothers’ skirts, he rolled up sugar-candy in paper cones. He told the men to help themselves to snuff out of a large box on the counter, next to the scales, rolls of string, and a shining cash register.
In 1896, Bergenheim ran an enthusiastic advertisement in the local almanac: “For the season: Modern and tasteful fabrics for suits, overcoats, and trousers. Wool material for dresses, black and colors, elegant patterns. Bleached, unbleached, dyed and printed cotton cloth. Hats and caps. My supply of lumber includes girders, rafters, floorings, shavings, and chips. Orders taken; questions promptly answered. I also recommend my newly arrived shipment of Norrahammar stoves and farming tools. Please note, everything is brand new and will be sold at extremely low, but firm, prices! G.H. Bergenheim.”
But all was not well. Bergenheim surprised almost everyone when he did not put in for a license to sell brännvin. Lowering the cost of the lease did not seem to be his motive, for selling brännvin was a lucrative business and well worth the initial investment. Rather, he wanted to reduce parish drunkenness which clearly began at the inn. Others shared his concern. On a few occasions, the men at the county council had voted on whether or not Svensson should be allowed to keep his license. The votes were taken according to fyrk, which gave well-to-do men more votes than others. The system was quite arbitrary, and it was no secret that the vote count could be nudged one way or the other to bring about the desired result.
Almost inevitably, the desired result was for brännvin to remain at the inn. Certainly, the profit motive played no mean part. The county benefited from taxes levied on the local sale of brännvin — had in fact come to depend on them. Also, argued the councilors, not selling brännvin at the inn would encourage private distilling, prohibited by law since 1860. Already there was no lack of illicit brännvin makers in the area. The most famous was probably the woman who ran a small “establishment” out of her cottage by one of the lakes. It was fondly referred to as Hotel du Nord, and drinking was not the only sin committed there. Supposedly there was not a man in the parish who had not gone to see her — except one who lacked the funds and one unable to perform.
What followed was a complicated series of events, described in court papers now held by archives in Gothenburg. At first, Carl Börjesson and his followers tried to nail Bergenheim the legal way. Though he chose not to sell brännvin, Bergenheim had retained his right to sell beer. Providing travelers with beer was in fact his duty as an innkeeper. In addition he was expected to sell beer to locals, but only with meals, which barred most villagers who could not afford such luxuries.
Though common enough, these stipulations had always allowed for a great deal of individual interpretation. Yet, all of a sudden, the county council showed an unexpected regard for the law. In 1896, Bergenheim found himself summoned to the district court, which held its sessions in Skene, a neighboring village. Carl Börjesson, for one, testified that Bergenheim had indeed been selling beer to locals, but not just with meals. Others came forward with the same observation. Bergenheim had been selling beer to anyone who asked for it, indoors as well as outdoors, particularly at the fairs, held outside the inn on the last Thursday of each month. The church organist, walking past the inn on his way home after a funeral, had heard “clamor and curses, in connection with fights.” Another witness, inside the inn, had seen Bergenheim himself lying among a mass of empty beer bottles, after he was knocked down by his inebriated guests.
The case continued through the summer session of 1898. Bergenheim declared that he might indeed have sold beer to locals but only because he was new to the area and might have mistaken them for travelers. The county constable, who had reprimanded Bergenheim in the past, testified that Bergenheim was no longer serving beer outdoors at the fairs. On the whole, said the constable, it seemed like much ado about nothing. Matters were no worse in Kungsäter than anywhere else. In addition, several people living near the inn denied ever hearing anything that might indicate disturbances of any kind. Even the assistant vicar testified to this effect, though, ideally, he would like to see all alcohol, including beer, banned at the inn. In the end Bergenheim was fined 90 crowns, distributed among the prosecutor, the plaintiffs, and the parish poor-relief. From then on Bergenheim ran his business by the book. He also stood by his old principle: brännvin was not to be served at Kungsäter inn.
A few years later Carl Börjesson apparently took matters into his own hands. The villagers say he hired roughnecks, treated them to ample amounts of alcohol, and sent them off to persuade Bergenheim to reconsider his decision not to serve brännvin at the inn. Official records dating back to the period in question do indeed mention several episodes that support this scenario. At one time a kerosene drum was stolen from the courtyard outside the inn. Later follows mention of kicked-in doors and other vandalism. Around Easter 1904 someone attacked Harry Jonsson, Bergenheim’s store manager. The assailant used a knife and “a so-called boxing glove,” which seems to refer to an ordinary boxing glove with iron knuckles concealed beneath the padding. Blood flowed; Jonsson had to see a doctor and stay in bed for several days. On these occasions the enormous county constable arrived at the scene, pushing down the springs on his side of the carriage, as the coachman sat perched beside him like a child on a seesaw. His interrogations never led beyond the hired roughnecks, the most prominent of whom seemed to be a former sailor and one of the men working at the village sawmill. They never did reveal whether Carl Börjesson was behind the harassments or not.
Yet, however circumstantial, the evidence certainly points in Carl Börjesson’s direction. He was no stranger to violence. As a young man, at village dances, he used to challenge outsiders courting village girls. He liked to fight and he never stopped until his adversary was on the ground.
Furthermore, taking matters in one’s own hands had been farmers’ ways since time immemorial. One such example is the case of Anders Skott, a discharged soldier. Skott, in the early 1850s, lived in a small cottage with his wife and five children. The couple apparently supported themselves by selling home-made brännvin on the sly. One night, after burglars broke in at a nearby farm, Skott was seized by a group of villagers, including Börje, Carl Börjesson’s father. Skott’s wife watched as her husband was taken away by his captors, after Skott had ordered her to treat them all to brännvin. Before Skott climbed onto the carriage, a few of the men rapped him with sticks to hurry him along.
As the men stopped for more brännvin along the way, the blows allegedly grew more vicious and more frequent. Skott’s condition deteriorated. At one point he had to lie down; someone apparently felt compassion and put bundles of straw under his head. A few hours later, as the men delivered him to the county jail, Skott was dead. The men were fined according to the number of blows they had administered. Börje paid 1 rixdollar and 16 shillings for 2 blows; though he had been less active than some of the others, it is difficult to view his guilt by degrees. What happened to Skott’s widow and the children the court papers do not reveal. They may have been auctioned out for maintenance by the lowest bidder. This custom, common throughout Sweden, survived well into the 20th century.
Finally, in the conflict between Gottfried Bergenheim and Carl Börjesson, there was more at stake than Bergenheim’s brännvin license. Bergenheim was an outsider, with ambitions to introduce new ideas and change the village way of life. Any concession on Carl Börjesson’s part might have been seen as a sign of weakness and thus a danger to his position as the village leader. This he could not afford.
Bergenheim, however, stood his ground. For as long as he lived, brännvin would continue to be banned at Kungsäter Inn.
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