by Annika Thor
A mottled mother duck and her ducklings are on their way to the water. The ducklings are yellow-brown and fluffy. They follow their mother, swimming behind her in an orderly line.
“Come in for a fitting,” Aunt Märta calls from inside. She’s making Stephie a dress for the last day of school. The fabric is very pretty, white with little pink and blue flowers. Stephie would have liked buttons down the front, a collar and a chest panel. That would look more grown-up, but Aunt Märta says it’s too hard for her. So the front is just an ordinary straight bodice. There’s a little round collar, and a zipper in back.
“Ow!” Stephie complains when Aunt Märta accidentally pokes her in the shoulder while inserting a pin.
“If you’d just stand still, it wouldn’t happen,” Aunt Märta tells her. “Vanity is a sin.”
But she looks quite pleased with her handiwork, pulling a loose thread off the skirt.
The evening before the last day of school, Aunt Märta irons the new dress and starches a petticoat for underneath it. The fabric feels stiff, rustling when Stephie pulls it over her head.
Stephie is solemn. The dress is her first new piece of clothing since arriving on the island, except for underwear and stockings, which Aunt Märta buys by mail order, and the cap and mittens she gave Stephie for Christmas.
Mounting the bike, Stephie’s careful not to wrinkle her skirt. She spreads it out across the carrier, smoothing it with one hand, making sure the fabric won’t get caught in the spokes.
The classes gather at school and they walk in single file to the church. Almost all the girls have new dresses. Sylvia’s buttons down the front, as Stephie would have liked hers to. But no one has such a full skirt as Stephie.
The head teacher’s speech to all the children in the church seems endless. He talks forever about the “dark shadow of war across Europe,” encouraging the children to spend their summer not just having fun but also being extra-obedient because of “these terrible times.”
The wooden pews are hard, and Stephie’s starched petticoat is itchy around her waist.
“Most of you will be coming back to school next autumn,” the head teacher goes on. “But the pupils in the sixth grade are having their very last day of school here today. I would like to wish each and every one of you the best of luck, both those of you who are going on to grammar school in Göteborg and those who are leaving school now. Remember, no matter where you find yourselves later in life, you have a mission: whatever you do, do it well.”
But what you do and where you are are important, too, Stephie thinks. I can do the things I want to do well, but not the things I dislike doing.
“Miss Bergström and I are, of course, especially pleased that so many pupils, five of you, will continue on to grammar school,” the head teacher says. “You are a credit to our elementary school.”
Sylvia, sitting diagonally in front of Stephie, smiles with self-satisfaction, as if the head teacher were speaking to her and her alone.
“And now,” he says, “I will present the achievement awards to the sixth graders. Miss Bergström, would you come forward and assist me, please?”
Stephie’s teacher stands next to the head teacher, a little stack of books in her arms. She passes him a slip of paper.
“Ingrid Andersson,” he reads.
Ingrid walks to the front, is given a book, shakes the head teacher’s hand, and curtseys before returning to her seat.
“Bertil Eriksson.”
Stephie turns toward the side aisle and looks at a painting on the wall. It depicts an old man dressed in black, with a stiff, white collar standing straight up and encircling his face like a flower. She wonders if that collar is as stiff and itchy as her petticoat.
Britta nudges her. “Aren’t you listening?” she hisses. “That was you.”
“Stephanie Steiner,” the head teacher repeats. “Isn’t Stephanie Steiner here today?”
Stephie stands up, bewildered. “Here,” she says.
Miss Bergström smiles. “There you are. Come forward, please, Stephanie,” she says.
Stephie squeezes through the row and into the center aisle, walking up to the head teacher and Miss Bergström.
“May I say a few words?” Miss Bergström asks the head teacher.
“Of course.”
“It is always a pleasure to reward good students,” Miss Bergström begins. “But there is particular satisfaction in presenting an award to a pupil who is so gifted that she is now at the top of the class in spite of the fact that she didn’t speak a word of Swedish a year ago. I wish you the very best of luck, Stephanie.”
The book they hand her is a thick one, with a beautiful cover. The gold lettering on the cover reads: Nils Holgersson’s Wonderful Journey Through Sweden. On the flyleaf Miss Bergström has written, in her elegant script:
To Stephanie Steiner, 7 June 1940
May this book aid you in becoming even better acquainted with your new homeland and its language.
From your teacher,
Agnes Bergström
Back in the pew, Stephie leafs through the book, fascinated by the illustrations. When the organ music begins, Britta has to elbow her in the side again to stand up.
“The summer flowers are blooming …,” they sing. Stephie finds it a lovely song, although she doesn’t understand the whole text. She’s happy about the book, and about what Miss Bergström said. And yet she’s feeling sad. Ordinarily she would have been glad summer vacation was beginning. But a summer vacation that doesn’t end with going back to school isn’t a real summer vacation.
When fall comes, she’ll be taking home economics two days a week. “Learning to run a household,” as Aunt Märta puts it. But there’s so much else to learn in the world!
After the ceremony they return to their classrooms, and their teachers pass out the grades. “Final Grades,” it says at the top of the card. Her name, the date, and the grades are written in blue ink.
Mathematics and geometry: passed with great distinction. She has top marks in art as well. All her grades are good except for Swedish, where she gets only a “pass.” But in the margin Miss Bergström has written: Stephanie’s native tongue is not Swedish. In consideration of that fact, she has made excellent progress during the school year.
Biking home, Stephie smells lilacs as she passes the yards. The apple trees have almost finished blooming. White blossoms now cover the ground around the trunks like huge snowflakes.
“Take off your best dress” is the first thing Aunt Märta says when Stephie comes through the door. “We’ve got to get things ready for the summer guests today.”
“Here are my grades,” Stephie tells her.
Aunt Märta glances at the report card. “Well done,” she says, handing it back.
“I got a book, too. An achievement award.”
“You don’t say,” Aunt Märta answers. Her voice sounds a bit wobbly.
Stephie goes up to her room and changes to an everyday dress. They clean the entire house, every nook and cranny, just as thoroughly as at Christmastime. Tomorrow the summer guests arrive.
Stephie, Aunt Märta, and Uncle Evert will be moving down into the basement, which has one room and a simple kitchen. Stephie is going to sleep on a trundle bed in the kitchen.
Almost everybody on the island rents out to summer guests. Some people just rent out a room, but most turn their entire house over to the summer tenants and live in their basement. Sylvia’s family has a second house that stands empty all winter and is rented out just for the summer. So they go on living above the shop, as usual.
Stephie empties her dresser drawers and carries all her things down to the basement. There’s a chest of drawers for her in the boiler room, since there’s no space in the little kitchen.
She puts her photographs, jewelry box, and diary into an empty shoebox and stores it under the trundle bed. She leaves the painting of Jesus on the wall for the summer guests.
Their summer guests come in a taxi from th
e harbor the next day. The trunk of the taxi is loaded down with suitcases and boxes.
There are six people in all: an older couple, their two adult children, the daughter’s fiancé, and their housekeeper. Stephie hears Aunt Märta call the man “Doctor.” Like Stephie’s father. He has gray hair and glasses, and looks tired.
His wife is tall and graceful. She was clearly a beautiful young woman once. The daughter is nice-looking, with curly blond hair. She and her fiancé are always holding hands. The son is tall, with contemplative gray eyes and brown hair that hangs down over his forehead.
The best thing is that they have a dog, a brown-and-white fox terrier that jumps right up on Stephie and licks her hand.
“Putte likes you,” the doctor’s daughter says.
“I hope you aren’t afraid of dogs?” the doctor’s wife asks.
“Oh, no,” says Stephie, patting Putte on the head. “I love dogs.”
“You may walk him,” the doctor’s wife tells her, “whenever you like.”
Stephie helps the summer guests carry in their belongings. The son will have her bedroom. She hears his mother call him, and learns that his name is Sven. She wonders how old he is. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
When everything is in order, the doctor’s wife gives Stephie a coin.
“Thank you for helping,” she says.
Stephie blushes. “You don’t need to pay me.”
“Oh, please don’t be offended,” says the doctor’s wife. “Buy yourself some sweets. Incidentally, where do you come from?”
“From Vienna,” Stephie tells her, putting the coin in her dress pocket. “Thank you very much.”
That afternoon Stephie goes to Auntie Alma’s. Their summer guests won’t be arriving until the next day. Auntie Alma, Nellie, Elsa, and John are just moving the last of their things down to the basement.
“I heard you got a book as an award at school,” Auntie Alma says.
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, I want you to know how proud Nellie was of her big sister when she came home and told us. You’re certainly a clever girl, I must say.”
“Not that it will matter,” Stephie answers.
“What do you mean?”
“Being clever at school. Since I’m not to be allowed to continue anyway.”
“To grammar school?”
Stephie nods.
“Well, you have to understand Märta and Evert’s situation,” Auntie Alma tells her. “It’s very expensive to have a child who boards in Göteborg. Not to mention the books and all the other costs.”
“I think Uncle Evert would let me go. Aunt Märta’s the one who’s against it.”
Auntie Alma sits quietly for a few minutes.
“Has it ever occurred to you that Märta might not want to see you go off to Göteborg?” she asks. “That she would miss you?”
It’s so ridiculous Stephie has to laugh. Aunt Märta, miss her!
“She doesn’t even like me,” she answers. “I can’t imagine why she took me in.”
“Has Märta ever told you about Anna-Lisa?” Auntie Alma asks. “Or has Evert, for that matter?”
“No. Who’s Anna-Lisa?”
“Anna-Lisa was Märta and Evert’s daughter,” Auntie Alma tells her. “Their only child.”
“I didn’t know they had children.”
“It’s fourteen years now since she passed away,” says Auntie Alma. “She was twelve when she died.”
“What did she die of?”
“Anna-Lisa was never a healthy child. Even as a baby she was often ill. Märta took wonderful care of her and was always very protective. But when Anna-Lisa was eleven she was diagnosed with tuberculosis. She lived her last six months at a sanatorium on the mainland, far away. The doctors said the dry inland country air would do her good. But it didn’t help.”
“The knitted cap,” Stephie says. “And the sled.”
“What about them?” asks Auntie Alma.
“Presents I’ve been given. They must have been hers. Anna-Lisa’s.”
It’s strange to think that the cap and mittens she wore all winter once belonged to another girl, a girl who died before she herself was born. Did Anna-Lisa ever wear them? Or did she die before Aunt Märta finished knitting them?
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Stephie asks. “Why don’t they have any photographs of her at home?”
“It was terribly painful for Märta,” Auntie Alma tells her. “She couldn’t even bear to see a picture of her after-ward. For over a year, Märta walked around more dead than alive herself. If she hadn’t had her faith in God, who knows where it would have ended. You should have seen her before, when Anna-Lisa was alive. So different from the way she is now. Full of life and afraid of nothing. She had an answer to every question and never hesitated to speak her mind. Though there was never a harsh word to Anna-Lisa, I’m sure. Märta was as careful of her as if she had been made of china.”
“But why did she take me in?”
“I don’t know. I’ve wondered myself. Perhaps out of the desire to save a child, because she wasn’t able to save Anna-Lisa.”
“Why couldn’t I live with you?” The words slip out of Stephie’s mouth before she can stop them. “We were supposed to stay with the same family. They promised.”
“I know,” said Auntie Alma. “I would have been happy to take you both, but Sigurd was against it. He felt one was enough. So the relief committee asked if I could find another family on the island, so you’d at least be close to each other. Märta never hesitated. But she didn’t want a little child, and so it was you.”
“Stephie!” Nellie shouts from behind the house. “Stephie, come see what we found!”
Auntie Alma smiles. “Run along and play,” she says. “It’s no use brooding. We have to make the best of our lot in life.”
Stephie goes around to the backyard. Nellie and the little ones have pulled up a fat worm in Auntie Alma’s potato patch. It’s suspended between Nellie’s thumb and index finger.
“Just look at this yucky thing,” Nellie shouts gleefully.
Stephie takes the worm from Nellie. It squirms between her fingers.
“Let’s put it back now,” she says. “It wants to be in the soil.”
Carefully, she places the worm next to a potato plant. It vanishes quickly down into the ground.
“The worm went home,” says John. “To his house.”
When Stephie is ready to leave, Auntie Alma calls her inside.
“I’ve got something for you,” she says secretively.
On the kitchen table is a flat, soft package.
“For me?”
“Yes, for you.”
“But why? My birthday’s not until July.”
“I know, but it’s something you need now. Aren’t you going to open it?”
Stephie removes the ribbon and unwraps her present. It’s a bathing suit. Red with white polka dots and a frilly neckline.
“It’s beautiful!” Stephie gushes. She holds the bathing suit up to her front. It looks just right.
“I think it should fit you,” Auntie Alma says. She smiles. “So now you can swim a lot this summer and not have to spend your time sitting on the beach.”
“Do you think,” Stephie asks her, “that if Anna-Lisa had lived she would have had to wear some old, hand-me-down bathing suit?”
“If Anna-Lisa had lived,” Auntie Alma replies, “you might not have been here at all.” She smiles again. “You know, I’d really like to see you try the bathing suit on before you go home.”
Stephie goes up to Nellie’s room and pulls the bathing suit on. It’s perfect. Tomorrow she’s going to the beach.
There’s a separate door to the basement at the back of the house. Every morning Stephie goes out through it, around the house, and up the front steps. She knocks on the door and waits.
Sometimes the doctor’s wife answers, but more often it’s the daughter, Karin. The moment the door opens Putte comes running, wagging his t
ail and licking Stephie’s hands and knees. Karin goes and gets his leash from its hook in the hall and clips it onto his collar.
“Do you need any errands run?” Stephie always asks.
Some days there’s a letter to mail or something the doctor’s wife has forgotten to order from the shop. The shopkeeper hires a messenger boy for the summer, and the boy delivers orders to the summer guests on a bicycle with a big metal box on the front. The summer guests phone in their orders.
If she’s going to do an errand at the post office or the shop, Stephie usually takes the bike, tying Putte’s leash to the handlebars. He runs alongside. Otherwise she takes him for a walk along little paths too narrow to bike on. Putte noses around, sniffing, straining eagerly at the leash. Stephie almost has to run to keep up.
She’s not allowed to take off Putte’s leash, but sometimes she can’t resist. He just loves to fetch sticks she throws, and always comes when she calls. If Stephie’s sitting on a rock, he often comes over and puts his head in her lap, wanting to be scratched behind the ears and under the chin.
When Stephie returns with Putte, she usually finds the doctor’s wife and Karin and her fiancé enjoying their morning coffee at the table in the yard. Uncle Evert set up the furniture in the shade over by the rock face. The doctor works in Göteborg all week, and joins his family only on weekends. Stephie doesn’t know where Sven spends his time. She imagines him sleeping late.
One morning when she’s out walking Putte up among the rocks and the scraggly vegetation, she bumps into Sven. She’s standing on a boulder gazing out across the ocean. Luckily, Putte’s on his leash. She’s afraid if anyone in the doctor’s family were to see that she sometimes lets him run freely, she wouldn’t be allowed to walk him anymore.
