The Lily Pond

by Annika Thor

  “Yes.”

  “In that case you may go.”

  When they are out on the road again, Aunt Märta speaks first.

  “I’ve never thought so before, but now I see that even God has to be a little flexible now and then,” she says.

  They go to Auntie Alma’s for coffee.

  little while before Stephie has to leave to catch the boat, Aunt Märta slips her a white envelope.

  “Here’s some money from me and Evert, for your Christmas presents,” she says. “Don’t forget to get Mrs. Söderberg some Christmas flowers. And I’m sure you’ll want to give a little something to your friends in Göteborg. And Nellie and Vera, of course.”

  It’s a light, flat envelope, so there must be paper money in it. Five kronor, maybe. Stephie wants to open it right away, but Aunt Märta puts it into her bag, saying, “Don’t take the money out now. You’ll just lose it during your trip back. Wait until you get home.”

  Once she’s on the boat, however, Stephie pulls out the envelope and uses her index finger to slit it open. Carefully, she pulls out the money: it’s a ten-kronor bill!

  She hasn’t had this much money at once since she came to Sweden, except for the scholarship money, which was reserved for buying schoolbooks. When it comes to pocket money, she’s had only small change, or very occasionally one whole krona.

  Her mind is suddenly full of plans for spending the money. For Nellie she’ll buy some pretty stationery to write to Mamma and Papa on. Stephie also plans to give her one of her own German books, an illustrated story. She’ll buy Uncle Evert a thermos, because he’s always complaining that the coffee on their fishing boat is never hot enough. She’s embroidering an eyeglass case for Aunt Märta at school. It’s coming out beautifully, and now she can afford a piece of velvet for the lining.

  She’ll buy something really nice for May so May will see that they’re still friends. Maybe a book. Yes, she’ll ask Sven to help her pick one out. She’ll get Vera a headband, or a lacy collar to attach to a dress.

  But Sven. What will she give Sven? It will have to be something no one but she can give him. Something that shows she knows exactly what he’s been wanting.

  She is so preoccupied she doesn’t even notice they have arrived until the boat is docking at the city pier. With the ten-kronor bill clasped tightly in her pocket, she takes the tram back to the doctor’s family’s apartment.

  With only three weeks left before the Christmas holidays, the atmosphere at school has changed. They still have tests and quizzes, but the teachers are less strict than usual, and in phys ed they get to do folk dancing. Hedvig Björk has a potted hyacinth on her desk, and although she can’t resist writing its Latin name on the blackboard, there’s no question of why she put it there: it smells so nice.

  Only Miss Krantz is precisely as usual, assigning a great deal of homework and giving surprise quizzes.

  “Don’t you go thinking the semester is over already,” she tells them. “Anyone who stops working will find that her grade suffers accordingly.”

  May and Stephie spend their school days together, but May hasn’t asked Stephie if she wants to come home with her after school for ages now. The afternoons are long and dull. Sven is very seldom at home. He comes in after school, takes Putte for a quick walk, and goes back out, not to reappear until dinnertime. Sometimes in the evenings he goes out again.

  One day Stephie heads to the lily pond after school. But it’s too cold now to sit on the bench, and there’s a layer of ice covering the pond. She walks once around, staring at the frozen lily pads in the ice. The swans are nowhere to be seen.

  When she gets home, Sven is in the hall, leafing through the pile of mail on the table. He passes a letter to Stephie. “For you,” he tells her.

  She goes into her room before opening it.

  Stephie!

  Finally some good news after all this time. Mamma and I now have our entry permits for the United States! Only a few formalities remain to be arranged. In a couple of weeks, we expect to leave, traveling via Spain and Cuba. Perhaps we will be able to celebrate the arrival of 1941 in a free country!

  Aunt Emilie and her family will be traveling with us. Uncle Arthur was the one who managed to organize it all. He’s spent all day every day, week after week, going to see the American legation and various authorities, all of whom have to grant permission and issue documents.

  We’ve been fortunate, since what with working all day at the hospital, I would never have had the time or the energy to do it. But now that the Germans have taken over Uncle Arthur’s business, he has had time on his hands. Luckily he was also able to hold on to enough money to pay for his family’s passage. Stephie, there is only one little fly in the ointment. You know how much Mamma and I miss you, and how we want nothing more than to be reunited with you as soon as possible. But the transatlantic journey is both expensive and dangerous with the war on. If anything happened to you during the crossing, I would never be able to forgive myself. Also, our capital has diminished, and at present Mamma and I can only afford tickets for ourselves. Stephie, what I am trying to say is that for the moment it is best for you and Nellie to stay where you are. There is also the fact that we have no idea of what awaits us in the U.S., where we will be living, or whether I will be able to get work. At the very first possible instant, we will, of course, arrange for you to come to us. Be patient, my big, able daughter, and explain the reason for the delay to Nellie as best you can. I will write again as soon as we know exactly when we will be leaving.

  Much love from your papa

  At the very bottom there is a short note from Mamma.

  Darling!

  Isn’t it wonderful news? Every day we have to wait feels like a year. Once we get to America, I am sure everything will work out.

  Kisses from your mamma

  Stephie’s heart is turning somersaults in her chest. They are going to be able to leave! For America, as they have long been hoping. A country where they’ll be safe, and where no one will persecute them for being Jewish.

  But she has to stay in Sweden. She won’t be seeing her mamma and papa; she may not see them again until the war is over.

  Still, if she were going to America, she wouldn’t be seeing May or Vera again, and not Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert, either. And not Sven, especially not Sven.

  Stephie wants to laugh and cry and shout out loud, all at the same time. She wrenches open the door to Sven’s room.

  “What on earth is it?” he asks, startled.

  She tries to tell him, but it all comes out as a mishmash of incoherent words, a big muddle of Swedish mixed with German. So she just passes him the letter.

  Sven reads it.

  “Stephanie, this is fantastic! I had a feeling that letter contained good news at last.”

  He turns up the volume on his Victrola, lifts her up, and twirls her around to the beat of the swing tune.

  Then he sets her down. “But what do you say?” he asks. “Do you wish you could be joining them right away?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I’d miss you if you left,” says Sven.

  “You would?”

  “You know I would. I like you, Stephanie.”

  He doesn’t say “I love you.” But “I like you” is nearly the same thing.

  She’s about to respond, “And I love you.”

  But at that very instant, there is a knock on the door from the hall. It’s Sven’s mother.

  “What’s going on in here?” she asks as she opens the door. “What’s all the noise about?”

  “Stephanie’s parents have their entry visas to the United States,” Sven announces.

  “Ah, well, how nice,” says Mrs. Söderberg. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving us soon?”

  “No, my parents want me to wait a while longer here.”

  “I see,” says Mrs. Söderberg. “Naturally you are welcome to stay as long as you need to. A promise is a promise.”

  That night Stephie falls a
sleep with the letter under her pillow and dreams that she and Sven are walking among the skyscrapers in America.

  a couple of weeks, we expect to leave, her father had written. The letter was dated November 28, 1940. It’s mid-December now, but there has been no new letter. Stephie understands that her parents must be very busy, but couldn’t they at least write and tell her when they’re leaving and to what address she should write?

  Soon the semester will end and Stephie will be going out to the island. She’s worried that an important letter from Mamma and Papa will gather dust on the Söderbergs’ hall table while she is gone. The doctor, his wife, and Sven are going to spend Christmas with relatives in the province of Värmland, and then they’re going to Stockholm. They won’t be home again until after New Year’s Day.

  Elna is going to celebrate Christmas with her family, who lives quite a ways outside Göteborg. She’ll be back in the apartment between Christmas and New Year’s, but Stephie isn’t at all sure that Elna would go to the trouble of visiting the post office to forward a letter to her.

  With every passing day she feels more concerned. Have they left? Perhaps they had to go in such a rush they didn’t have time to write before departing. Where could they be now? In geography class she studies the map of Europe in her atlas, tracing the possible routes from Vienna to the Atlantic Ocean with her finger. Via northern Italy to Marseille and from there by boat? Or a northerly way, through Switzerland and France, arriving at the Atlantic coast in Bordeaux? No, Papa wrote that they would be traveling from Spain to Cuba. What Spanish port would that be? Bilbao?

  Stephie sets her mind on a route through Italy and the South of France, over the Pyrenees to Bilbao. After that, she finds the map of the world and traces a line straight across, like a bridge over the blue sea, from northern Spain to the chain of islands near the line that separates North America from South America. She’s not sure which island is Cuba, so she has to turn to a more detailed map, and she is pleased to see how narrow the body of water between Cuba and the American mainland is. Once they get to Cuba, they’ll be nearly there.

  “Stephanie?”

  Stephie looks up to find the sharp end of the pointer bobbing about a foot in front of her nose. Mr. Lundkvist, their only male teacher, has the unpleasant habit of sticking the pointer in the face of a student from whom he expects an answer. If the answer comes quickly, the pointer disappears, but if you’re slow, he moves the pointer closer and closer, until it almost touches the tip of your nose.

  Stephie didn’t even hear the question.

  “Well?”

  The pointer comes a few inches closer.

  “The rivers of Russia,” May whispers, so softly only Stephie can hear, and almost without opening her mouth.

  “The Volga, the Dnieper, the Desna, the Don …”

  She’s memorized them. Mr. Lundkvist withdraws the pointer, using it instead to show the courses of the rivers on the big map he has pulled down over the blackboard.

  “The Ob and Yenisey.”

  “Thank you,” says Mr. Lundkvist. “However, if my eyesight serves, a few minutes ago Stephanie was on an entirely different continent. I would be grateful, Miss Steiner, if you would be so kind as to pay attention in class. If you did so, the young woman in the desk next to you would not have to violate the rules of the school by whispering, would she?”

  “No,” Stephie says softly.

  “Pardon me, Stephanie? I didn’t catch that.”

  “No,” Stephie says in a louder voice. “I won’t do it again.”

  But Mr. Lundkvist still isn’t satisfied.

  “Stephanie, since you appear to take such an interest in the islands of the Caribbean, would you please tell me and the class a little about that area?”

  Stephie hesitates. Whatever she does now, it will be wrong. She may as well tell the truth.

  “I was just trying to figure out what route my parents will be taking to America.”

  Mr. Lundkvist smiles dubiously. The pointer lands on her shoulder.

  “I see,” he says. “So your parents are going to America, Stephanie? And what will they be doing there, if I may ask?”

  She has a feeling the question is not as innocent as it sounds; he’s got her trapped.

  “They have to leave,” she tells him. “They can’t stay in Vienna.”

  “And why not?”

  Mr. Lundkvist’s voice still sounds soft and almost kindly. But the look in his gray eyes is icy cold.

  “They are Jews,” Stephie says.

  Mr. Lundkvist nods. “Quite right,” he says. “A people without a country. An alien element in Europe. The Germans have understood.”

  The classroom is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. There’s not so much as a foot scraping the floor or a pencil scratching on paper. The pointer feels so heavy against her shoulder that Stephie is afraid her chair is going to tip.

  “Excuse me, sir,” May interrupts, her voice loud and clear. “But you have no right to speak like that, Mr. Lundkvist.”

  “I see,” Mr. Lundkvist repeats. “May, would you please explain in detail exactly what you are alleging that I have done wrong?”

  “You have no right, sir, to speak ill of Stephanie’s parents. It is not their fault they have to flee their country. The Germans are the ones who are forcing them to leave, and it’s wrong of you to defend them, sir.”

  “Are you quite finished now, May?” Mr. Lundkvist’s voice is harsh. “In that case you may now go out into the hall. And count on it, May, there will be consequences of your behavior.”

  May stands up, putting her atlas away.

  Suddenly Stephie is no longer frightened. She feels happy, and proud that May is her friend.

  “If May is leaving the classroom, so am I,” she says, standing up.

  “Sit down, Stephanie!” Mr. Lundkvist roars.

  But Stephanie does not obey. She and May walk to the door together. She can feel that the class is on her side. The other girls give her encouraging looks, and most of them nod as she passes.

  Alice, however, doesn’t look up. She’s staring down at the top of her desk, pale and scared.

  “Stephanie, this is going to be worst for you,” Mr. Lundkvist says behind her.

  Stephie pulls the door closed behind them. The hall is empty and silent.

  “I apologize,” Stephie says to May. “I’m so sorry I treated you badly that day in my room. I didn’t think you could understand.”

  “It’s all right,” May says. “I wish you could be with your parents again.” She gives Stephie’s hand a squeeze. “Did you see the look on his face? He thinks he can intimidate us into obedience with that pointer of his and his nasty attitude.”

  “What do you think will happen now?”

  “I suppose we’ll get a detention,” says May. “But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Stephie answers, “it sure was.”

  department store windows are beautiful at Christmastime, full of Santas and decorated trees, garlands and bright glass ornaments. It’s a pleasure just to window-shop, but with a ten-kronor Christmas bill in her pocket for presents, it’s even more delightful. Stephie buys the stationery for Nellie, the thermos for Uncle Evert, and a piece of velvet to line Aunt Märta’s eyeglass case with. For Vera she finds a green silk headband that will look really nice in her red hair. Finally she buys May a book. But she hasn’t yet found a Christmas present for Sven. The right one—the one that will make him understand that she knows exactly what he’s been wanting. Soon the shops will close and it will be too late. Tomorrow is the last day of school, and when that’s over, she’ll be taking the boat out to the island. In her pocket she still has two kronor, a fifty-öre coin, and two twenty-five-öre coins. It has to be enough for a present for Sven and a Christmas bouquet for Mrs. Söderberg.

  The shop assistants are already beginning to let out the last customers before locking the doors. It’s really almost too late.

  Suddenly Stephie sees i
t, in a shop window she didn’t notice before. It’s on a bed of blue satin, and it’s all of one piece, made of some ivory-looking material, with a sharp point and a patterned carved handle. A letter opener Sven can use to separate the pages of new books.

  The perfect present for him!

  She tries the door, but it’s already locked. In the dim light inside, she sees someone walking around. She knocks, at first gently, then harder.

  The face of an elderly gray-haired man appears at the glass of the door. He shakes his head, his mouth forming words Stephie can’t hear. But she knows what he’s saying: “We’re closed.”

  “Oh, please,” she cries, not knowing whether he can hear her. “Please let me in.”

  The man sighs and turns the key in the lock. He opens the door a crack, peering out.

  “We’re closed, young lady.”

  “I just wanted … Couldn’t I please …” The words stick in Stephie’s throat. “Please, the letter opener. The one in the window.”

  “You want to buy that opener?” the man asks with such a heavy accent it sounds like he’s saying, “You want a boy ze obener?”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  “Well, come in.”

  The narrow shop is chockablock with merchandise. Stephie can’t see much in the dusky light, except for the gleam from brass objects and highly polished wood. The air is heavy with a sweet smell.

  The man opens the grille that separates the shop window from the inside of the store, and puts in a hand.

  “This one?”

  He sets the opener on the counter in front of her. She touches the sharp edge carefully, then lets her finger follow the intricate carved pattern on the handle.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “It’s real ivory,” the man tells her. “The price is three kronor.”