by Annika Thor
“Yes?
“Wait until Friday. Uncle Evert’s coming home then.”
“Will he be easier to persuade?”
Stephie nods. “I think so. And Miss Bergström? Please don’t say anything in class. About me not being allowed to go on.”
Miss Bergström understands. “No, I won’t.”
On the way home Stephie stops in at the post office as usual. There is nothing but a brown envelope with a typed address, to Evert Jansson. Aunt Märta sets it on the side-board for Uncle Evert’s return.
On Friday there’s fried mackerel for dinner, as usual.
“Stephie’s teacher is coming over this evening,” Aunt Märta says when they are finished eating. “She wants a word with us.”
“What kind of trouble are you in now?” Uncle Evert asks Stephie, but she can hear from his tone that he’s joking.
“None at all,” Stephie replies. She doesn’t want to talk about grammar school when Aunt Märta’s listening.
“We’ll see about that,” Aunt Märta says.
After dinner Stephie is instructed to dust the front room, although she dusted it just a couple of days before. Aunt Märta says things have to be spic and span when Miss Bergström comes.
Uncle Evert comes in while she’s straightening up.
“Uncle Evert,” Stephie begins.
“Yes?”
Just then he catches sight of the brown envelope on the sideboard. He takes out his pocketknife and cuts the seal.
“You know,” Stephie goes on, “Miss Bergström’s coming over because … well, not because of anything I’ve done wrong.”
“Now don’t you worry,” Uncle Evert tells her distractedly, pulling a typed sheet of stationery out of the envelope.
“I’m not worried,” Stephie replies. “But I … I’d really like …”
She stops talking because she can tell Uncle Evert isn’t listening. The more of the letter he reads, the deeper the crease in his forehead becomes.
Stephie lifts a potted plant to dust the windowsill.
“Stephie,” Uncle Evert says, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“What’s that?”
“This letter. Remember how I wrote to our member of parliament?”
As if she could have forgotten!
“Well, this is his answer,” Uncle Evert continues.
“What does he say?”
Uncle Evert sighs. “He says there’s nothing he can do for your mother and father.”
The plant slips out of Stephie’s hands, crashing to the floor.
“They can go to the Swedish embassy in Vienna and apply for entry permits, but their chances aren’t good. He writes that he has investigated the matter and as far as he can determine hardly any adult Jewish refugees are being granted entry to Sweden.”
Aunt Märta hurries into the room. “What broke?” she wants to know.
She sees the pot, and the soil and pieces of plant on the floor.
“Good grief, you are the clumsiest thing! My best geranium! And now, of all times.”
“Let the girl be,” Uncle Evert scolds. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”
He passes the letter to Aunt Märta. She reads it, then says in a gentler voice, “Would you please get the broom and clean up before Miss Bergström arrives?”
Stephie does as she’s told. When she’s finished she asks Uncle Evert if she may read the letter herself. She takes it up to her room and tries to decipher the difficult Swedish: “… a certain amount of restriction regarding the issuing of visas …”
She hears the front door open downstairs.
“Good to see you, Miss Bergström,” Aunt Märta says. “Do come in.”
“Thank you,” Miss Bergström replies. “Is Stephanie at home?”
“Yes, but—”
“I just want to say hello to her, too,” Miss Bergström adds.
“Stephie!” Aunt Märta calls up the stairs.
Stephie sets the letter aside and goes down.
“Good evening, Stephanie,” Miss Bergström greets her.
She sounds so formal. Miss Bergström is the only person on the island who calls her Stephanie.
“Good evening, Miss Bergström.”
“How fortunate you are to live here,” Miss Bergström begins. “You even have a room of your own.”
“Yes, it’s upstairs.”
“Good heavens,” Miss Bergström goes on. “I’m sure I haven’t been in this house for fifteen years. Not since Anna-Lisa—”
“Please come in,” Aunt Märta interrupts. “Come in and sit down.”
She shows Miss Bergström into the front room, where she’s set the table with coffee cups, a creamer, and a sugar bowl. It’s the best china, with gold edging and a flower pattern, not their everyday tableware. On a tall cake plate, there’s a sponge cake waiting to be served.
“Stephie, would you bring in the coffee, please?” Aunt Märta says while Miss Bergström is shaking Uncle Evert’s hand.
Stephie pours the hot coffee from the stove into the china pot Aunt Märta has taken out. Carefully she carries it in and sets it on the table. It’s heavy. Aunt Märta pours.
“Why don’t you take a piece of cake up to your room?” she says to Stephie.
So she’s not to be allowed to hear the discussion! Stephie looks at Miss Bergström, who just sits silently, stirring her coffee.
Stephie cuts a piece of cake and carries it out on a saucer.
“Please shut the door behind you.”
Stephie stands out in the hall for a while, listening to the mumble of voices through the closed door, unable to make out the words. Just as well to go upstairs, then.
She sits on her bed, eating her cake nervously. She gets crumbs on her bed, but doesn’t care.
Half an hour later she hears the front room door open.
“But Miss Bergström, you know I’d be very happy to walk you home,” she hears Uncle Evert say.
“There’s no need at all,” Miss Bergström replies. “Do promise me you’ll consider the matter.”
“We’ll think it over,” Aunt Märta answers.
“Thank you for the coffee and the delicious cake,” Miss Bergström concludes.
“It was nothing. Thank you for coming.”
They’re out in the hall now.
“Good night, Stephanie,” calls Miss Bergström up the stairs.
“Good night.”
“See you on Monday.”
The front door opens and closes. Miss Bergström’s visit is over.
“Things don’t always work out as we hope,” Uncle Evert tells Stephie. “We have to take life as it comes and make the best of it.”
Stephie draws her fingernail across the oilcloth on the table, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say. They’ve made up their minds. She’s not going to grammar school come fall.
“Don’t sit there moping,” says Aunt Märta. “You’ve nothing to be dissatisfied about. We care for you as if you were our own. You should be grateful.”
“I am,” says Stephie, her voice breaking.
“Chin up, now,” Uncle Evert says. “Everything will be all right, you’ll see. If you end up staying here for a long time, we will make sure you learn a useful trade in the end.”
“May I please be excused?”
Aunt Märta nods. “All right.”
“Thank you for a nice dinner.”
Stephie puts on her coat and walks down to the beach.
The spring sun has melted the ice during the last few days, and the snow is melting, too, dripping from the boat-house roof. A black-backed gull is crying overhead. “Caw, caw, caw!” He sounds as if he’s laughing at her.
She sits down on the upturned dinghy, gazing out across the water. There are still a few sheets of ice in the inlet. The water glistens, clear blue. Far away, on the other side of the ocean, is America. Will she ever get there?
For the second time, Stephie carries the books back to Miss Bergström,
who accepts only the math book.
“Please keep this one, anyway,” she says, passing Ensign Stål back to Stephie once again. “You can read it and return it to me when you’re done.”
Stephie reads a few of the verses in the book, about a long-ago war. It’s not the kind of poetry she likes.
Every day after school when Stephie sees Sylvia, Ingrid, and the three boys who are staying on for extra tutoring, her heart aches. If she had been one of them, wild horses wouldn’t have been able to keep her away from school. As things are, she feels some satisfaction when a spring cold forces her to stay home for a few days.
Because Stephie’s sick, Aunt Märta lets her sleep as late as she likes in the morning. One day Aunt Märta has already left for the village when Stephie gets up. Barefoot, she tiptoes downstairs in her long nightgown.
The morning sun slants in through the window of the front room. Stephie turns on the radio, raising the volume so she can hear it in the kitchen. She slices some bread, and then gets the butter cooler and the milk pitcher from the pantry.
Right in the middle of a piece of music, there is an interruption. First silence, then static, then a solemn voice comes on:
“This is a special broadcast from the Swedish news agency. German troops have invaded Norway and Denmark. Norwegian radio reports that the Germans took control of the Norwegian ports at three in the morning. German battle ships are now in the Oslo fjord….”
Stephie stands still as a statue in the middle of the kitchen floor, pitcher in one hand, butter cooler in the other.
Oslo’s not far away at all. If the Germans have gone to war against Denmark and Norway, Sweden will probably be next.
When Aunt Märta gets back, she finds Stephie sitting on a chair with her feet tucked in under her, still in her nightgown. Her breakfast is on the kitchen table, untouched. The news broadcast has ended but she hasn’t turned the radio off. Ordinarily Aunt Märta would have been annoyed and scolded Stephie for listening to music.
“You’ve heard?” is all she says now.
“Yes.”
“I found out at the post office,” Aunt Märta says. “It’s awful. Just terrible.”
They keep the radio on all day. Stephie stays in the front room, wrapped in a blanket. Every time there is a news broadcast, they hear how more and more towns in Norway have fallen to the Germans.
“Owing to the danger of deep-sea mines, Swedish fishermen are warned against going into the straits of the Skagerrak, and possibly also the Kattegatt,” a crackling voice announces at noon.
The Diana is out on a long fishing trip, somewhere in the Skagerrak. Uncle Evert and the others aren’t expected home until the day after tomorrow.
“Uncle Evert …,” says Stephie.
“Don’t worry,” Aunt Märta says brusquely, but Stephie sees that her hands are tense, pale fists.
Just as the reporter is describing the ongoing battle between German and British warships in the North Sea, the telephone rings.
“… severe storm, seas extremely choppy …,” the voice on the radio says.
Stephie and Aunt Märta look at each other. Stephie is sure she and Aunt Märta are having the same thought: What if something has happened to Uncle Evert? Aunt Märta gets up and answers the phone.
“Hello?” She listens for a moment, then passes the receiver to Stephie. “It’s for you.”
Stephie exhales. “Hello?” she repeats into the black receiver.
At first all she can hear is sniffling. Then Nellie’s voice:
“Stephie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so scared. Do you think they’ll come here?”
“I don’t know. I’m frightened, too.”
“Can I come be with you?”
“Just a minute, let me ask.”
Aunt Märta doesn’t mind if Nellie comes over.
Auntie Alma and the little ones come, too. Auntie Alma seems very upset. She and Aunt Märta speak in hushed tones.
“… taken in at some port …”
“… maybe by radio …”
At five in the afternoon the newscaster reports that the Germans have occupied the main post office and the police station in Oslo, and that German aircraft have landed in southern Norway. Aunt Märta turns the radio off.
“I’m going to make some dinner,” she says. “We have to eat, in any case. You’re all welcome to spend the night, if you like.”
They put Auntie Alma and the little ones up in the guest room, and Nellie is supposed to sleep on a mattress on the floor of Stephie’s bedroom. This is the first time in nearly eight months they’ve shared a room.
“Stephie?” Nellie asks when they’ve turned out the lights.
“Mmm?”
“Can I sleep in your bed?”
“I’ve got a cold. You’ll catch it.”
“I don’t care.”
Nellie cuddles up in Stephie’s bed with her. Her feet are icy cold on Stephie’s legs. Stephie puts her arms around her.
“If they come here, what will you and I do?” Nellie asks.
“We’ll move somewhere else,” Stephie replies.
“Where to?”
“To … Portugal.”
“Portugal,” Nellie says. “It’s hot there, isn’t it? They don’t have snow, do they?”
“Right,” Stephie answers. “Only sandy beaches and palm trees as far as the eye can see.”
“That was what you said it would be like here, too,” Nellie reminds her.
“I remember. I was wrong.”
“Will Mamma and Papa also be able to go to Portugal?”
“I don’t know,” Stephie says. “We’d better go to sleep now.”
Nellie stops talking and turns over. Stephie thinks she’s fallen asleep, but then she hears her sister’s voice again in the darkness.
“Stephie? Just think if the war goes on for so long Mamma and Papa don’t recognize us when it’s over.”
“They’ll recognize us,” says Stephie. “Even if the war goes on for years. I know they will.”
They fall asleep cuddled close together. Like when they were little, in the nursery at home.
Uncle Evert comes home the next evening, earlier than expected. He is pale and exhausted. A fishing vessel from one of the nearby islands was blown up by a mine.
“Six men dead,” Uncle Evert tells them. “It could just as easily have been us. We were only a couple of hundred yards away.”
His hands tremble slightly as he peels his potatoes. Stephie notices and realizes that Uncle Evert is frightened, too.
“Will you be able to go on fishing?” Aunt Märta asks.
Uncle Evert nods. “We can’t stop fishing. We must simply place our destinies in the hands of the Good Lord. And pray for the war to end quickly.”
Stephie tries to say something, but her throat has constricted and she can’t get the words out. She swallows hard.
“Do you have to fish so far out at sea?” she finally manages to ask. “Can’t you stay closer to the coast?”
“We only get the big catches way out. The ocean is full of fish there.”
“And of dangers,” Aunt Märta adds. “Dangers enough without people making it even riskier. That’s a sin.”
Stephie looks at Uncle Evert and notices that his eyes have an expression she’s never seen before. The same expression her mother had when she looked at Stephie’s father after he’d returned from the labor camp. It was when the two of them were sitting talking in the evenings, thinking the children were asleep. Stephie would lie awake, squinting at her parents and straining to hear their whispers, though she never caught more than occasional words.
“When we passed Marstrand we saw warships shooting at each other out by the Pater Noster lighthouse,” Uncle Evert is telling Aunt Märta. “It was a terrible sight, and an awful sound.”
It’s not very far to Marstrand, Stephie knows. The war is close to them now.
Orders are given on the radio for everyone to ready
their houses for the blackout. If the Germans attack at night, it is important that they not be able to see, from the air or the sea, where there are people and buildings. Aunt Märta sews blackout curtains out of heavy, dark fabric and hangs them up. At dusk, when they turn on the lights inside, they’re supposed to pull the curtains shut. Fortunately, it’s spring and the evenings are long and light.
At school they are told that all the children living on islands may have to be evacuated to the mainland. Every child is to have a suitcase packed in case the order comes suddenly. Most of the kids seem to find this exciting. Stephie finds it frightening. She doesn’t want to be uprooted again, or to have to make another journey to an unknown place with unfamiliar people.
She packs her suitcase with two sets of clothes, her jewelry, and her photographs. Who knows—if she has to leave she may never come back.
What worries her most is that her parents won’t know where she is. No one is given an address in advance. And what if she and Nellie are separated?
But after a couple of weeks the official plans change; there will be no evacuation. They unpack their suitcases again.
Sugar is rationed now, like coffee has been since Easter. No one can just go to the shop and buy as much as he or she pleases, only as much as the ration coupons allow. Aunt Märta collects their coupons from the post office, and keeps an eagle eye on Stephie so that she doesn’t sweeten her oatmeal too much.
Stephie’s hair is getting longer. It’s down to her shoulders already and she can make two short braids. She figures it will be really long again by the time she gets to America.
The wind off the ocean is getting warmer. Uncle Evert makes the dinghy seaworthy for the summer, and takes Stephie out rowing.
“Sit over here now and I’ll teach you to row,” he tells her. “If you’re going to live in the islands, it’s a skill you’ll need.”
She sits in front of Uncle Evert, who kneels behind her, helping her control the heavy oars.
At first Stephie finds it very difficult, and the oars shift uncontrollably in the oarlocks. After a while she begins to master the strokes, but it takes practice for her to get the strength right so that both oars glide through the water evenly. Time after time she is too strong on the right side, and so the boat circles left.
