A Faraway Island

by Annika Thor

  Stephie ignores her sister’s questions.

  “What if there’s no hotel? And no palm trees, and no dog, and no piano?” Nellie goes on, her voice tense and anxious.

  “Shush now,” Stephie hisses impatiently. “We’re not there yet.”

  At that very moment they stop outside a yellow wooden house with a glass-enclosed veranda. The flower beds on either side of the doorway are full of bright flowers, red, yellow, and blue. Two blond-headed children rush out the door and into Auntie Alma’s arms.

  “They have children!” says Nellie, her voice happy. “And they’re younger than me!”

  Stephie and Nellie leave their coats and suitcases in the vestibule and go into the kitchen. At the table sits a woman with a thin, stern-looking face. Her salt-and-pepper hair is twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her pale eyes inspect Stephie and Nellie from head to toe.

  “What scrawny little things,” the woman says to Auntie Alma. “Pitifully thin. Let us hope we can make something of them.”

  “Aunt Märta,” Auntie Alma says, gesturing toward the older woman. Stephie shakes her hand and curtseys. Aunt Märta’s hand is cold and rough.

  Auntie Alma places a big platter of sticky buns on the kitchen table. She pours four glasses of black currant juice, as well as coffee for herself and Aunt Märta.

  “Bulle,” Auntie Alma says in Swedish, indicating the buns, once all four of them are seated around the table. She goes on to tell Stephie and Nellie the words for glass, table, stool, and cup in this new language.

  Stephie and Nellie try to imitate the strange words. Some are similar to the German words for the same objects, others very different.

  “Stol, Stuhl.” Stephie says the Swedish word first, then the German one. Auntie Alma imitates her, trying to get the German word right. “Schtol,” it comes out. Auntie Alma laughs at herself.

  “Schtol, schtol,” her children parrot with pleasure. Then they point to themselves, shouting: “Elsa!” “John!” “Elsa!” “John!”

  By the time Aunt Märta gets up from the table, Nellie and Stephie know ten words of Swedish. When Aunt Märta comes back into the kitchen, she is carrying Stephie’s coat. She extends it to her.

  “Stephie?” Nellie asks anxiously. “What’s happening? What does she mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Stephie answers. Slowly she puts on her coat and buttons it all the way up. Auntie Alma and the children walk her and Aunt Märta to the door.

  “Are you leaving me here, Stephie?” Nellie whispers. “Why can’t you stay?”

  Aunt Märta walks out the door. Stephie picks up her knapsack and puts it on again.

  “Don’t leave me!” Nellie pleads. “I don’t want to stay here without you!”

  “Don’t make a fuss,” says Stephie. “We have to do as we’re told.”

  “But Mamma promised we’d live together. She said so.”

  “I know. Maybe this is just for tonight. Don’t be afraid.”

  Nellie hugs Stephie tight. “Will you be here in the morning?” she asks, sounding very small.

  “Of course I will,” says Stephie, not knowing whether she’ll be able to keep that promise. She walks through the door behind Aunt Märta.

  Stephie turns around once she’s down the steps. Auntie Alma is in the doorway with Nellie, a protective arm around her shoulders.

  Aunt Märta leads her bicycle out through the gate. Once they’re on the road, she pats the carrier. Stephie climbs up, and Aunt Märta sets her suitcase on her lap. Aunt Märta gets on the seat and starts pedaling.

  Stephie’s never ridden a bicycle. Never had a ride on one, either. Her mother would never allow her to bike on the streets of Vienna, with all those cars and trams. Now she has to balance herself with one hand, holding tightly to the carrier, and balance her suitcase with the other. Every time they hit a bump or a stone, Stephie fears the whole assemblage will veer off its equilibrium and she’ll tumble.

  The farther out along the island road they get, the fewer and farther between the houses are. They pass through a thicket of trees and bushes. The road twists and turns among bare gray rocks. Pale purple heather blooms in the crevices.

  Aunt Märta pedals slowly up a long hill and stops at the crest. In front of them is the endless, leaden-gray ocean. The dark clouds form a ceiling over the water. Gray-brown cliffs and rocks extend along the edge of the ocean. The waves break on the cliffs, tossing showers of white spray. In the distance, just barely visible, there’s the brown silhouette of a sail against the backdrop of sea and sky. After that there’s nothing but the horizon, a thin ribbon of light at the far edge.

  The end of the world, Stephie thinks. This must be the end of the world.

  The road winds down to an isolated house, pressed up close to a stony cliff, as if seeking protection from the wind. There’s a red boathouse, too, down at the water’s edge. A boat is bobbing in the water, by a dock.

  Thunder rumbles softly in the distance. A blinding streak of lightning illuminates the dark sky. Aunt Märta points down at the house and says something. Although Stephie doesn’t understand the words, she realizes that this is where she is going to be living. Way out at the end of the world.

  The first drops of rain strike Stephie’s forehead as the bicycle rolls down the hill toward the house. The road ends at a gate. From the top of the hill the house looked tiny. Now Stephie sees that it’s two stories high, built upon a tall stone foundation. Steps leading up to the front door are flanked by windows that appear to be staring at Stephie. The house looks stern, with straight lines, flat surfaces, and no frills.

  Aunt Märta props her bicycle against the house and walks up the steps, ahead of Stephie.

  Back in Vienna, when Stephie opened the door to their apartment, she would catch whiffs of Papa’s cigars and Mamma’s perfume. After they moved and had only the single room, plus a kitchen they shared with three other families, there were always the smells of boiled cabbage and baby diapers. Every home has its own special odor. Auntie Alma’s house smelled of fresh bread. Here, Stephie’s nose takes in the sting of cleaning fluid.

  Aunt Märta shows her around the house. In the kitchen everything is neat and tidy. There is an old wood-burning stove with a hood, as well as a modern electric range. The front room has rough wooden furniture. One corner is occupied by a big rocking chair. On top of a table covered with a thick, embroidered tablecloth is an enormous book. Presumably a Bible. There are blue-striped cotton curtains on the windows.

  At the top of the stairs is a bay window under the gable, and a little niche with a bench. This is a spot Stephie instantly likes: light but still cozy, a place to sit and read, or just look out the window. Through an open door she glimpses a room with two beds.

  Aunt Märta leads Stephie into a little room under the eaves, with a sloping ceiling. The drab, brown-patterned wallpaper makes the room feel even smaller than it is. At the far end is a tiny square window, barely large enough to let in any light. Under it are a table and a plain rib-backed wooden chair. Along the longer wall stands a bed with a crocheted spread, and on the other side of the door is a brown dresser with three drawers. That’s all. No decorations or bric-a-brac, no books, no art.

  Unless, of course, you count the framed picture on the wall above the chest of drawers. It’s of a man with long hair and a beard, wearing a pink robe that touches the ground. He’s holding out his arms in a gesture of benediction. Behind him, wide rays of light extend from an invisible source.

  That’s Jesus, Stephie thinks. Why would Aunt Märta put a picture of Jesus in my room? Doesn’t she know I’m Jewish?

  Aunt Märta sets Stephie’s suitcase on the table and opens it. Obediently, Stephie begins to unpack. Aunt Märta shows her a curtained-off area on the landing where she’s supposed to hang her dresses. Behind a second curtain is a little table with a washbasin and a towel.

  Stephie puts her stockings and underwear in the top dresser drawer, her sweaters and blouses in the next. In the
bottom one she puts her books, her diary, her stationery and pens, and her jewelry box. She lays her scruffy teddy bear on the bed. Although it’s been years since she cuddled her bear at night, she couldn’t leave him behind.

  She places her photos on the dresser. Separate portraits of her parents, and a picture of the whole family together on an outing to the Wienerwald park. Her papa is sitting on a log; Stephie is on the ground, leaning against his legs; Nellie is playing horsey, straddling the log; Mamma is standing behind Papa, her hands on his shoulders. She’s leaning forward a little, as if she’s about to whisper something in his ear.

  The picture is two years old. In those days, the Steiners were still an ordinary family, taking the streetcar, going to movies and concerts, enjoying vacations. But less than a year after the picture was taken, the Nazis invaded Austria, annexing the country to Germany. Things the Steiner family had always taken for granted were suddenly prohibited. Forbidden to all people like them, to Jews.

  Stephie sinks down onto the bed. Her head is pounding from exhaustion. She longs to sleep, and finds herself unable to get up off the bed until Aunt Märta returns to open each of the dresser drawers and scrutinize the contents. Aunt Märta takes out one or two garments and refolds them even more neatly.

  When Stephie stands up, Aunt Märta smoothes out the bedspread, removing every wrinkle and crease. She signals to Stephie to follow her and goes back downstairs. Stephie walks slowly behind her, feeling as if she is entering unknown territory.

  The table in the kitchen is set for two. Aunt Märta puts out their dinner: a steaming bowl of boiled potatoes and a serving platter with two fried fish on it. Whole fish, with the heads still on.

  When they are seated, Aunt Märta clasps her hands and says a few soft words. After placing one of the fish on Stephie’s plate, she passes her the potatoes.

  Stephie stares at the fish, and it stares right back at her with its dead, white eye. Aunt Märta cuts the head off hers and uses her knife to remove the skin. Stephie watches and imitates. The fish head is parted from the body with a horrid crack.

  Aunt Märta pours two glasses of milk and hands Stephie a bowl of red preserves. Back home, they had jam with their pancakes, and sometimes raspberry jam in their tea. Papa always said his mother, who was born in Russia, drank her tea with a spoonful of jam in it. But jam with fish? Stephie takes a spoonful and puts it on her plate. To her relief, she sees Aunt Märta do so as well.

  She pokes at the fish with her fork, then puts a tiny bite in her mouth and takes a deep drink of milk, swallowing as fast as she can. The milk masks the fishy taste.

  If only she didn’t have that sickening fish head on her plate! She tries not to look at it. But pretending it isn’t there only earns her a mouthful of bones in her next bite. The bones stick in her throat.

  She’s nearly emptied her glass. Does she dare ask for more milk? And what should she say?

  She drinks up the last drop and points to the pitcher.

  “Bitte,” she says. The German word for “please.”

  Aunt Märta nods and pours her another glass. Stephie chews and swallows, chews and swallows. She hides as much of the fish as she can under the pile of skin and bones on her plate. Once again her milk glass is empty. She can’t possibly ask for even more, and can just barely get the last bite of fish to go down.

  Aunt Märta’s finished eating. She gets up from the table, takes a pot of hot water from the stove, and pours it into the sink. Then she points to the plates and to the sink filled with water.

  In the days when they lived in their own large apartment, Stephie’s family had a cook, a housemaid, and a cleaning lady who came once a week. After they moved, Mamma did all the housework herself. Papa thought Stephie and Nellie should help with simpler tasks like the dishes and dusting. But Mamma refused.

  “My daughters are never going to be household slaves,” she told him.

  Well, she should see Stephie now, awkwardly scraping the remains of the fish from the plates down into the slop pail. One at a time, Stephie slides the plates into the hot water. Finding the dishcloth, she washes away the fatty remains; then she rinses each plate in fresh water.

  By the time Stephie has cleaned up after the meal, her hands are swollen and red. She wipes the table and rinses the dishcloth under the cold-water tap. The dishcloth has a sour smell.

  Aunt Märta sweeps the floor and wipes the stove. She inspects each plate and, pointing with one finger, shows Stephie where she hasn’t done a good job on one of them.

  When they’re finished, Aunt Märta unties her apron, turns on the radio in the front room, and settles into the rocking chair. Stephie finds herself standing in the kitchen. If there had been music on the radio she would have gone in and listened. But it’s just the voice of a man speaking words she cannot understand. Aunt Märta doesn’t seem bothered about her right now, so Stephie decides to go up to her room.

  Stephie tiptoes quietly up the stairs and into the little room under the eaves. She opens the bottom dresser drawer and removes her stationery and her fountain pen. The pen is new, a gift from her father on her last evening at home.

  “So that you can write us beautiful letters,” he said as he lifted it out of the little box lined in dark blue velvet.

  Stephie takes a sheet of writing paper, along with the pen, and settles herself in at the bay window. She unscrews the cap on the pen and looks out at the landscape.

  Rain clatters against the windowpane. The wind is gusty, but she can see the stony slope that leads down to the water. Patches of grass sprout up here and there, as do a few gnarled juniper bushes. The water’s edge is marked by a rocky shore, stones and pebbles as far as the eye can see. Waves are crashing against the shore so loudly that Stephie can hear them through the closed window. Everything in sight is gray—gray stones, a gray ocean, a gray sky.

  Dearest Mamma and Papa, she writes. I miss you so. We have now arrived at the place where we will be staying. It’s a faraway island. We came out by boat, but I don’t know how long the ride took as I was seasick and then I fell asleep.

  Nellie and I weren’t put in the same family. I don’t know why. Nellie’s living with Auntie Alma. She’s nice and has two little children of her own. I’m at Aunt Märta’s house. She’s …

  Stephie stops, her pen resting on the paper. How to describe Aunt Märta? She imagines the woman’s stern face, her tightly pulled-back knot of hair, the sharp lines around her mouth, and eyes so pale gray they appear almost colorless.

  Fish eyes, Stephie thinks with a little shiver.

  … quite strict, she writes. She doesn’t speak German. Neither does Auntie Alma. I’m not sure Nellie and I will have anyone but each other to talk to.

  Something wet strikes the paper, dissolving the last word into a puddle.

  Mamma! she writes. Oh, Mamma, please come and get us. This place is nothing but sea and stones. I can’t live here. If you don’t come and get me, I think I’m going to die.

  Stephie pushes the letter aside. Her throat aches with held-back tears. She runs into the little room and is about to throw herself onto the bed when she remembers that she mustn’t wrinkle the bedspread. Instead she sinks to the floor, resting her head against the edge of the bed.

  When she finally stops sobbing, Stephie feels emptied out, as if she had nothing inside but a gaping hole. She goes out to the little washstand on the landing and rinses her face with cold water.

  Her letter is still on the windowsill. Stephie picks it up and reads through it. … come and get us. What was she thinking? Mamma and Papa don’t have entry visas for Sweden. They couldn’t come if they wanted to.

  She can’t send a letter like that home. Mamma would be distraught. She might even regret having allowed them to leave. Papa would be disappointed in Stephie, his “big girl.”

  With great determination Stephie crumples the letter into a hard ball. She looks for a wastepaper basket, but doesn’t find one anywhere. By the window in her room is a little vent w
ith a pull-string attached. She tugs the string, opens the vent, and stuffs her ball of paper in. Then she sits down at the writing table with a fresh piece of paper in front of her, and starts a new letter.

  Dearest Mamma and Papa!

  We have now arrived at the place where we will be staying. It’s an island in the sea. We came out by boat, which was very exciting. I have a second-floor room with a view of the sea. Everyone is very kind. We’ve already learned a little Swedish. It’s not very hard.

  I hope you will soon be getting your entry visas for America. Then all four of us will be together again. But until that day, you needn’t worry about Nellie and me. We are fine here, and there is even a dog. It’s brown and white, and we are allowed to play with it all the time. I will write again soon and tell you more.

  Your daughter,

  Stephie

  She writes the address on the envelope, folds the letter, and slips it in. She licks the flap and presses the envelope closed. Now all she needs is a stamp.

  Aunt Märta is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Stephie shows her the letter.

  “A stamp,” she tries to say. “I need a stamp.”

  She points to the top right-hand corner of the envelope. Aunt Märta nods and says something. Stephie thinks she recognizes the word “post.” Maybe they will have to go to the post office for stamps. Probably.

  “Coffee?” Aunt Märta asks, pointing to her own cup. Stephie shakes her head. Coffee is for grown-ups. Aunt Märta goes to the larder and brings out the pitcher of milk. She holds it in one hand and pretends to lift a glass to her lips with the other. Stephie nods and smiles. Aunt Märta looks kind of funny when she tries to talk to her.

  We’re like two deaf-mutes, Stephie thinks. Deaf-mutes who can’t communicate in any language.

  Aunt Märta gives Stephie a glass of milk, and Stephie drinks it to the last drop. Then Aunt Märta puts the palms of her hands together, leans her cheek on her hands, and shuts her eyes. Stephie nods again. She’s very tired now.