The Lily Pond

by Annika Thor

  “Britten,” May shouts through the open window. “Come and get her!”

  Britten’s rapid footsteps clatter on the stairs. When she has taken Ninni back outside, May comes into the other room, where Stephie’s waiting.

  “Which bed is yours?” Stephie asks.

  “That one,” May says, pointing to one of the trundle beds. “I share with Gunnel. Britten shares with Erik. Kurre and Olle sleep in the kitchen, and Ninni sleeps with Mamma and Papa on the sofa bed.”

  They sit down at the table and get out their math books and workbooks. In the beginning Stephie finds all the noise a distraction: loud voices from the courtyard, people running up and down the stairs, a radio blaring from somewhere, and a muffled ringing May says is noise from the workshop in the next yard. Soon, though, she’s so absorbed by the algebra problems she doesn’t hear a thing.

  They have been at it for a couple of hours when the kitchen door opens. First two little kids rush in; then comes a heavyset woman wearing an overcoat with a housedress under it.

  “This is Stephanie,” May says.

  “Tyra Karlsson.” May’s mother introduces herself as she extends a hand. “May has told us so much about you. It’s a terrible thing to separate children from their parents. I wish I could flatten that Hitler between the rollers of the big mangle. We’d see how much harm he could do after a mangling!”

  Stephie can’t help laughing at the thought of Hitler rolled out as flat as a paper doll.

  “And it’s shameful how the government refuses to take in adult refugees,” May’s mother goes on. “As if there weren’t room for a few more people in Sweden. If nine people can live in this apartment, I imagine there are others who could shove over.”

  May’s mother asks whether Stephie will be staying for dinner, but Stephie has promised Elna she will let her know in advance if she won’t be home to eat.

  “Well, you’ll stay next time, then,” May’s mother concludes. “I want you to know you’ll always be welcome here.”

  May walks her to the tram stop. Walking down Kaptensgatan, Stephie notices a young man coming out of a tavern. He looks like … Oh, it really is Sven! He’s walking rapidly toward the tram stop, about twenty yards ahead of her and May. What is he doing here?

  As they pass the tavern, Stephie peers in through the window. It’s an old-fashioned workingmen’s tavern, dimly lit, with scruffy brown furniture and beer glasses on the tables. A few of the tables are occupied by men, all sitting alone and dressed in worn-looking clothes. A young girl is wiping one of the messy tables with a dishcloth. She’s bent forward over the table, her hair falling in front of her face, but just as Stephie passes, she looks up to answer a question from one of the men.

  Stephie sees Sven at the stop from a distance. Before Stephie and May can get there, a tram pulls up. Sven gets into the front car.

  “Run. You can make it,” May says.

  Stephie picks up speed and manages to get through the back doors of the car just as they’re shutting. She pays the conductor for her ticket.

  At Valand, the stop closest to the Söderbergs’ apartment, she sees Sven get off. He turns onto the street that leads home. She continues to another stop and walks from there, not wanting Sven to know she saw him.

  Not until she has figured out what he was doing at a tavern in Mayhill.

  second time Stephie goes home to the island for the weekend, the autumn storms have started. The evening before she leaves, the wind howls outside her window and the rain hammers against the glass. In the morning she can see that huge branches have blown off the trees in the park. The almost leafless treetops along the street are flapping, and the clouds are racing across the sky. The sidewalk is slippery with wet leaves.

  Stephie has a book to read, and as long as the boat is on the river, she sits in the passenger area, engrossed. That changes the instant the boat hits the open sea, and the waves bang wildly at the sides of the boat. Stephie drops her book. Nothing seems to be staying in place; everything is rocking and reeling. Suitcases and baskets slide along the floor, from one side to the other, and back again. A baby begins to wail.

  The stagnant air is overpowering. The scents of coal smoke, damp woolen garments, and perspiration make Stephie nauseous.

  The little baby throws up in its mother’s lap. For Stephie that smell is the last straw. Dizzy and sick to her stomach, she rushes out on deck.

  Over a year ago, when Stephie first went to the island on the boat, she was seasick, even though the wind wasn’t blowing nearly as hard then as it is today. She’s never dared to tell anyone, but last summer when Uncle Evert wanted to take her along on a fishing expedition on the Diana, she said no.

  The boat trip out to the island takes only a couple of hours. We’re almost there, she tells herself, but soon she has to lean over the rail and vomit. When her stomach is empty, she leans her head back, letting the rain rinse the cold sweat from her brow.

  When the boat finally pulls up along the pier on the island, Stephie is exhausted and soaked through. Her knees feel like jelly and her head is spinning. She has to hold tight to the railing as she walks down the gangway.

  “Stephie?”

  It’s Uncle Evert’s voice. Looking around the pier and boathouses, Stephie doesn’t see him.

  “Stephie, over here!”

  His voice is coming from one of the little jetties. Uncle Evert is standing by the dinghy. Weak-legged, she makes her way over to him.

  “I came by boat,” he says. “It’s such terrible weather for you and Märta to have to bike in.”

  Stephie’s forgotten the rain that was whipping at her face. All she knows is that she’s still feeling seasick. The very thought of getting into another boat, even to travel the short way around to the other side of the island, makes her feel ready to throw up again.

  “Goodness, you look terrible,” Uncle Evert goes on. “Like a drowned cat. Did you spend the whole trip on deck?”

  Stephie nods faintly. “I was seasick,” she whispers.

  “Good gracious!” Uncle Evert replies. “How shall we get you home? Can you manage a second boat ride?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We’ll give it a try. You need to get indoors and change to dry clothes if you don’t want to end up in bed with pneumonia.”

  Uncle Evert takes her hand, supporting her as she gets into the boat. He helps her off with her wet coat and pulls a big woolen sweater over her head. It’s an extra he had stowed away under the front bench. Then he helps her into a slicker that hangs way below her knees. After that, Uncle Evert spreads another slicker along the wooden plank bottom and rolls a scarf up for a pillow.

  “You lie there,” he says. “And focus on the horizon the whole time. That helps.”

  He starts the motor and pulls out from the jetty.

  The rain rinses her face again. Even though the little rowboat rides the waves heavily, her seasickness does not get worse. She’s not even cold. Instead, she feels as if her body is going numb. Fatigue engulfs her. She closes her eyes.

  When she wakes up, she’s in her bed in the little room under the eaves. Someone has removed her shoes and the slicker, but she’s still wearing the heavy sweater. It smells of fish, oil, and Uncle Evert. It’s nearly dark outside. She must have been asleep for some time.

  Cautiously, she tries to sit up. She’s no longer dizzy. Actually, she’s ravenous.

  In the kitchen, Aunt Märta is preparing dinner.

  “I surely didn’t expect you to come home like that!” Aunt Märta says by way of a greeting. “When Evert came in with you in his arms, I was sure there had been an accident. You’d better change your clothes now. I imagine you’re damp through and through.”

  “May I please have a glass of milk first?”

  Aunt Märta nods. “Would you like me to heat it up?”

  The milk smells sweet and mild. Stephie sniffs at the steam rising from the cup before she takes a sip. The smooth warmth spreads from her stomach to h
er whole body.

  Aunt Märta has lit the wood-burning stove. The heat in the kitchen fogs up the windows. The sound of the rain outside combines with the crackling of the burning wood and the soft scrape of Aunt Märta’s peeling potatoes for dinner. Soon they’ll be sitting at the table: Stephie, Aunt Märta, and Uncle Evert. Like a family.

  She spends Sunday morning with Vera. In the afternoon she and Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert go to Auntie Alma’s. Since the Diana is not out fishing, Auntie Alma’s husband, Uncle Sigurd, is also at home. While the grown-ups sit around the table, Stephie goes up to Nellie’s room with her.

  “Stephie?” Nellie asks. “Do you think God loves Mamma and Papa?”

  “Of course he does,” says Stephie. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  She has to bite her tongue to resist adding, “If there is a God, of course.”

  May doesn’t believe in God. Stephie isn’t sure about him herself. But she doesn’t say anything about it to Nellie.

  “Well, because Mamma and Papa don’t believe in Jesus,” Nellie says. “I was thinking that was why God isn’t looking after them. Because they—what are the words?—have denied God’s only begotten son?”

  “Who’s been putting ideas like that into your head?” asks Stephie. She knows Nellie could never have come up with anything like that herself.

  “The new parson.” Nellie frowns. “He says the Jews murdered Jesus and that God is angry with them for it. Stephie, are we still Jews even though we’ve been redeemed?” Her big brown eyes are glassy, and her bottom lip is trembling.

  “Yes,” Stephie tells her. “We are Jews. And it’s nothing for you to be ashamed of. We didn’t murder Jesus. You didn’t, I didn’t, and Mamma and Papa didn’t. Nobody we know did. That all happened two thousand years ago. And it’s nothing to blame people who are alive today for. One thousand years ago the Swedes were Vikings who pillaged and murdered wherever they went. Imagine trying to blame the Swedish people who are alive today for what the Vikings did. See what I mean? You mustn’t believe what the new parson has been telling you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “On your honor?”

  Stephie looks Nellie right in the eye and says, “Honest to goodness.” Nellie looks relieved.

  “Stephie?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I don’t like you living in Göteborg. I wish you still lived here.”

  “But I can’t go to school here.”

  Nellie thinks about that. “Couldn’t I move into the city with you, then?”

  “You wouldn’t be happy there,” Stephie tells her. “You’d miss Auntie Alma and the little ones and your classmates. You’re much better off here.”

  “I want us all to be together,” Nellie says. “You and me and Auntie Alma and Uncle Sigurd and Elsa and John and Sonja and everybody in my class except Mats, because he’s such a nuisance. And Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert and the family you’re living with now and Vera and May or whatever her name is. And Mamma and Papa. I miss Mamma and Papa. I’m going to pray to God to arrange for them to come here.”

  “Yes, do,” Stephie says, although she doesn’t really think God has much say in the matter. “Do that, Nellie.”

  spreads over Göteborg like a wet gray blanket. The humidity rises off the river and the canals, and although it’s still above freezing, the winds are icy cold.

  Darkness in the city is different from darkness on the island. It’s not black; it’s gray, lessened by all the city lights: streetlights and neon signs, the sharp glare from the street-level shop windows, and the gentler glow from the apartments upstairs. It never gets truly dark, but it’s never really light, either; dusk falls almost imperceptibly in the late afternoon.

  The winter coat Stephie’s parents gave her before she left Vienna is getting snug. Her wrists are cold; she has to pull down the sleeves of her sweater to cover them. She wishes she could get a pair of gloves with long cuffs, like most of the girls in the class have. She’s embarrassed about wearing the mittens Aunt Märta knitted. But she’s going to have to wear them soon, even on the schoolyard. Her hands are getting chapped and red from the cold.

  Since the first time Stephie went to May’s after school, she has been going home with her once or twice a week. She helps May with her algebra, and May helps her with her Swedish. Sometimes she stays for dinner with May’s noisy, lively family. May’s father is very funny; his jokes make the children double up with laughter.

  Every time Stephie walks between May’s door and the tram stop at Kaptensgatan, she’s on the lookout for Sven. Once, she thinks she sees him walking into the tavern, but she’s far away and knows she might be mistaking someone else for him.

  One day in early November, Harriet and Lilian take her aside on the schoolyard.

  “Has he kissed you yet?” Lilian asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Strange,” Harriet says, “considering he’s almost grown up.”

  “He’s holding back for my sake,” Stephie lies. “Because I’m so young. He doesn’t want to do anything that might get me in trouble.”

  “Oooh, how romantic,” Lilian replies. “Like in a movie.”

  “Speaking of movies,” Harriet says, “they say the one that’s showing at the Lorensberg is really good.”

  “What’s it called?” Stephie asks, mainly to change the subject.

  “ ’Til We Meet Again,” Harriet says. “A love story. But they let you in even if you’re under fifteen.”

  “Want to go?” Lilian asks eagerly. “All three of us?”

  “Sure,” says Harriet. “How about Saturday?”

  Stephie hesitates. She knows that to Aunt Märta, going to the movies is worse than going to a concert. On the other hand, how would Aunt Märta ever find out if, just this once, she went to the movies in Göteborg?

  “How much is it?” she asks.

  “Ninety-two öre for the cheapest seats,” Harriet tells her.

  Stephie has only fifty öre in her piggy bank. She’ll have to borrow another fifty and repay it from the allowance Mrs. Söderberg gives her every Sunday. But who can she borrow from? May never has any money, and anyway, Stephie wouldn’t want May to know she was going to the movies with Harriet and Lilian.

  “Could I borrow fifty öre?” Stephie asks Sven.

  “Sure. What are you going to buy?”

  It would be easy to lie and say a book. But Sven would want to know what book, and he might ask her how it was later. She decides to tell it like it is.

  “I’m going to the movies,” she says. “With two of my classmates.”

  “What are you going to see?” Sven asks. “The Grapes of Wrath? It’s supposed to be really good. I’m going to see it.”

  Stephie wishes that were the film she was going to.

  “No,” she says. “ ’Til We Meet Again.”

  “Oh, a romance,” Sven says in a teasing voice. “What could you know about love? You’re only thirteen!”

  “I might know more than you think.”

  “Ah,” Sven replies. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”

  Wishing she hadn’t said anything, she doesn’t answer. If only she hadn’t told him the name of the film. And if only she hadn’t asked Sven to lend her the money.

  “Some film star, I bet,” Sven continues. “Let me guess! Cary Grant? Leslie Howard? Maybe Clark Gable?”

  “Cut it out!” Stephie says, ready to burst into tears. What on earth does he think of her?

  “I was only joking,” Sven tells her. “Don’t get upset.”

  When Saturday evening comes around, she combs her hair extra well and puts on her best dress, even though she knows no one will see it under her coat. They’re meeting outside the movie theater at a quarter to seven. It’s not far away, only on the other side of the main avenue.

  She arrives in good time. There’s already a long line outside the door. The building is brightly lit and reminds her of a Greek temple, with fluted columns on the facade. S
tephie gets in line, and soon Lilian arrives, followed shortly by Harriet.

  They buy their tickets and a bag of toffees to share. An usher in a uniform takes their tickets.

  “Well, girls, I hope you have your handkerchiefs ready,” he says, smiling. “This one’s a real tearjerker.”

  First come the newsreels, beginning with one about a bicycle race for delivery boys. The winner is Lasse, a freckle-faced young man with a crooked front tooth that stands out when he smiles and waves at the camera.

  Then there’s a German newsreel from the war, showing an airfield near the English Channel and aircraft being loaded with bombs. When the planes take off, the camera follows them. The German planes search out an English fighter plane and shoot it down. In flames, the English plane nose-dives to the ground.

  Stephie wonders if the pilot had time to parachute out. The cheery voice of the speaker doesn’t mention him.

  The curtain closes and then opens again slowly to music, and the feature film begins.

  A man who was condemned to death in San Francisco has escaped but is caught by a detective in Hong Kong. On board the ship that is to transport him back to be executed, he meets a beautiful woman, pale and dark-haired. She’s suffering from a fatal heart disease and doesn’t have long to live. They fall in love but don’t dare to reveal to each other that their days are numbered. When they embrace for the last time, they both know they will never meet again, but each is trying so hard to spare the other’s feelings that they don’t speak of it.

  It’s a sad and beautiful story. Stephie’s tears run down her cheeks, and she hears Lilian sniffle loudly.

  In a daze, they walk out through the side door along with the rest of the audience.

  “I thought it was just wonderful,” says Lilian. “And she was so gorgeous in that long gown.”

  “Dark hair is so attractive,” Harriet says. “You’re lucky, Stephanie. Brunettes are definitely more mysterious than blondes. More romantic, too.”

  “She reminded me of Alice,” Stephie says.