Deep Sea

by Annika Thor

  “All right,” says Aunt Märta. “For a couple of days, then. Monday to Wednesday? Will that suit?”

  25

  Aunt Märta spoke to the pastor about taking up a collection for Stephie and Nellie’s parents. He wasn’t prepared to say yes or no on his own, but he promised to invite the girls along to a meeting of the church elders to present the idea.

  Nellie refuses to go.

  “No,” she says, pinching her lips together. “Stephie can do it.”

  Aunt Märta and Auntie Alma try to persuade her. Stephie knows what they’re thinking. A cute eleven-year-old with long braids, who sings like an angel in the church children’s choir to boot, would give a more sympathetic impression than a skinny sixteen-year-old who almost got herself thrown out of the congregation for her “sinful way of life” in town.

  But Nellie stubbornly refuses. No attempts to convince her, no threats or bribes, make her change her mind. Stephie is furious with her, but still, she admires her for the strength of her convictions.

  “No. No. No.”

  In the end, Stephie and Aunt Märta go to the meeting by themselves.

  It’s held in the very same room where Stephie once had to defend herself for having gone to the movies. The same people are there, too. Five men, one woman. And the pastor with his big hands.

  At least this time, Stephie is invited to sit down. The pastor asks her to explain why she has come.

  “My parents are in a camp,” Stephie begins. “Theresienstadt, near Prague. They had to leave behind everything we owned in Vienna. They need food and warm clothing. I think my papa’s managing all right, but Mamma’s quite sickly. She had pneumonia back in Vienna and nearly died. If this is a cold winter, I’m afraid she’ll get sick again.”

  Her voice falters. She isn’t used to talking about her parents in front of strangers.

  “Stephie and I send food boxes,” Aunt Märta adds. “We send what we can afford, and stretch our ration cards as far as they will go. But if we had a couple of hundred crowns extra for clothes and shoes, that would be very helpful.”

  “Remind me,” the woman says. “Your parents aren’t Christian, are they?”

  “No,” says Stephie. “They’re Jewish.”

  “Would it be possible for them to be baptized at the camp?”

  Stephie can’t believe her ears. Here she is talking about cold winters, hunger, and illness, and the lady suggests that her parents change their religion!

  “If they were Christian,” the woman goes on, “I’m sure it would be easier for us to help them. We have an Israel mission that could take on their case.”

  “And another thing,” one of the men says. “Aren’t there thousands of prisoners in those camps? And aren’t there camps all over Europe? With different kinds of prisoners in them, besides the Jews. Prisoners of conscience. Christians, even. And there are civilians, too, suffering because of the war. We can’t help everyone.”

  “That’s true” says the pastor. “We can’t help everyone.”

  “No,” says the woman. “And there are suffering people closer to home as well.”

  Their voices echo in a vacuum around Stephie. Unreal, alien. She feels as if she is about to burst into tears. Her throat thickens. But she’s not going to let them see her cry.

  “But we can still help a few,” Aunt Märta says. “We can help this child’s parents. Isn’t that good enough?”

  “Let us think about it,” says the pastor. “We’ll consider the matter and seek counsel. We can discuss it again in a week or two. All right?”

  No! Stephie wants to shout. That’s not all right at all! But she knows that if she tries to say a single word, she’ll cry.

  The weekend before Judith is due to visit, British planes bomb Hamburg, one of the largest cities in Germany. The radio newscasters call the bombing a firestorm over Hamburg, and report thousands of people dead.

  Stephie has celebrated the Allied victories in the war all spring and summer, but this bombing brings her no joy. Is it really necessary to kill thousands of civilians to bring this war to an end?

  “Yes, it is,” Judith tells her. “The British know what they’re doing. And the Germans bombed English cities early in the war, didn’t they? Not to mention that the German people voted for Hitler and started this war.”

  “Not all the German people,” says Stephie.

  “Are you feeling sorry for them? After all the harm they’ve done to you and your family?”

  They’re making their way across the island. Stephie has just picked up Judith in the harbor and has her little suitcase hanging over the handlebars of her bike as she leads it. Judith is walking on the other side of the bicycle. She’s just as pale as ever, but her freckles stand out more against her skin than they did last spring.

  “Have you heard from your parents again, since you had that letter returned?”

  “Yes,” says Stephie. “One card from Papa. But it was quite a while ago now.”

  “Do you write to them?”

  Stephie nods. “Every week. Just like I always have since we got here.”

  “And no more of your letters have been returned?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” says Judith. “As long as they’re still at Theresienstadt, there is nothing to worry about. Are we almost there?”

  “Not quite. Would you like me to ride you on the back of the bike?”

  Judith gives Stephie’s red bicycle a suspicious look.

  “Can you?”

  “Sure,” Stephie replies.

  “No, I’d rather walk,” says Judith. “Whose bike is that, anyway?”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours? Your own?”

  “It was my thirteenth birthday present from Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert.”

  Judith looks thoughtful.

  “They must be very special people,” she says, “to give their foster child such a nice present.”

  “Yes,” Stephie agrees, “they are very special people.”

  She’d like to add, They’ve given me other things that are more important than this bike. But she doesn’t want to sound high-flown.

  Judith introduces herself politely to Aunt Märta and shakes her hand. But she has a suspicious look in her eye. Judith doesn’t trust Swedish people. Perhaps she doesn’t trust anyone.

  And Aunt Märta inspects Judith, too, giving her long frizzy hair and her freckles a skeptical look.

  “So I understand you’re a factory worker, Judith,” she says.

  “At a chocolate factory,” says Judith. “Kanold’s, in Gårda.”

  Dinner is already on the table, in two serving dishes with upside-down plates on top of them to keep the food warm. Stephie peeks under one of the plates and sees, to her relief, that it’s boiled cod. She forgot to tell Aunt Märta that Judith won’t eat pork, because it’s against her religion. She’ll tell her later, when Judith isn’t listening, so Aunt Märta doesn’t serve pork and beans or blood pudding tomorrow.

  But when they are at the table and have uncovered the serving dishes, Aunt Märta walks over to the stove and picks up a skillet.

  “Wait!” Stephie cries.

  “What for?” Aunt Märta is holding the skillet over the bowl, about to pour the contents over the cod. Contents that smell unmistakably of bacon.

  Boiled cod is everyday fare on the island. When Aunt Märta wants to make it a little festive, she crumbles some bacon to put over the top, along with the fat.

  “Judith doesn’t eat pork.” Stephie blushes.

  She’s embarrassed in both directions. For not having told Aunt Märta in advance, and because Judith will realize that Stephie has been eating pork for four years without objecting.

  “That’s all right,” says Judith. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Jansson, I’ll just serve myself before you pour the sauce over the fish.”

  She glances at Stephie, who looks away.

  “Help yourself,” says Aunt Märta, passing the dish of cod to Judith.

/>   Her tone of voice really says, What a way to behave! You should eat what’s put before you.

  They eat their dinner in silence. The bacon, which Stephie usually enjoys, sticks in her throat.

  26

  The first evening has gone all right. Stephie and Judith sit on the jetty, watching the sun set over the sea and talking.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Stephie asks, with a gesture toward the colorful drama in the west.

  “I suppose,” says Judith, “but it’s so empty. I prefer to see buildings, and other people.”

  “When I first got here,” Stephie tells her, “I thought it was awful. The end of the world. Nothing but sea and stone. But now I like it. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Yes,” Judith agrees. “I don’t think I could ever get used to living like this. Though I know there are no big cities in Palestine, either. My brothers live on a kibbutz.”

  “A what?”

  “A farm everyone owns collectively,” Judith explains. “After the war, I’m going there. I guess it will take some getting used to for me, too. But all I want is to be with my own people.”

  She goes silent, staring out over the sea.

  “It is quite beautiful, really,” she says finally.

  The next morning, Stephie goes upstairs to have her lessons with Miss Björk as usual. Judith promises to do the breakfast dishes and make the beds, chores Stephie normally does before going upstairs.

  When she comes back out, Judith is in the garden, sitting with Janice, who is teaching her to count to ten in English.

  “Wan, too, sri,” Judith says with difficulty.

  Janice laughs. “After the war,” she says, “everyone’s going to have to learn English. It’s going to be the new world language. German will become a dead language, like Latin.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” says Miss Björk. “Hitler’s Germany is going to lose the war, but the Germans aren’t going to die out. And remember, German is these girls’ mother tongue. Come along, Janice, I’m longing for a swim.”

  Hedvig Björk and Janice have found a little out-of-the-way cove where no one else goes. They skinny-dip from the cliffs there, all day.

  “Will you join us, girls?” asks Miss Björk.

  “I don’t think so,” Stephie is quick to reply.

  She can’t imagine how Judith would react to the skinny-dipping.

  “I think we’ll go to the regular beach,” Stephie says. “I want to show Judith around the island, too.”

  On her way to the beach, Stephie makes her usual stop at the post office. She hasn’t heard from Mamma or Papa for six weeks now. There’s no card today, either.

  “I’m sure you’ll get one soon,” Judith comforts her. “You know how slow the mail service can be.”

  As they leave the post office, they bump into Vera, who is on her way in.

  “Vera, I’d like you to meet Judith Liebermann from Vienna,” Stephie says.

  Vera inspects Judith’s curly hair and translucent skin, while Judith can’t help staring at Vera’s protruding belly.

  “Do you have tomorrow night off?” Stephie asks.

  Vera nods.

  “I’ll come by for you,” says Stephie, “after I see Judith off at the boat.”

  She wants to make it clear to Vera that Judith isn’t staying long. She remembers how jealous Vera was the first time May visited her.

  “Fine,” says Vera. “Time for me to collect the mail. The lady of the house won’t get out of bed until she’s read the newspaper and the day’s letters.”

  “She’s getting married in the fall,” Stephie hurries to say as soon as Vera is out of earshot. She doesn’t want Judith to get the impression that Vera’s some little tramp who got pregnant by mistake. But Judith doesn’t seem very interested.

  “I see” is all she says.

  Out on the cliffs, Stephie sees Sylvia, the shopkeeper’s daughter, and her friend Barbro, so she stays on the beach even though she prefers swimming from the cliffs.

  They spread out their towels on the gravelly sand and lie in the sun, which is very strong that day.

  “Come on,” Stephie says after a few minutes. “Let’s swim!”

  Side by side, they run down to the shore and out into the water. But when they get in up to their knees, Judith slows down and treads carefully, one step at a time.

  “Does it get very deep?” she asks.

  “Not for a while,” Stephie tells her. “The shallow part’s pretty big.”

  Soon she’s in up to her chest and waiting impatiently for Judith.

  “Come on!”

  Judith takes a couple of hesitant steps toward her. Stephie takes her hands and pulls her on. Then she throws herself into the water and swims a few strokes, expecting Judith to swim alongside her. But Judith doesn’t come along. Stephie turns back in her direction.

  Behind her, Judith’s head emerges from the water, her hair dripping around her face and shoulders. She’s spitting and hissing, blowing water out of her nose and mouth. Her blue eyes are terrified.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Judith shouts. “Trying to drown me?”

  “Sorry,” says Stephie. “Did you lose your footing?”

  Then it strikes her. Judith doesn’t know how to swim.

  When they stay in the shallow area, like little children, Judith is happy again, splashing and playing. Stephie sees Sylvia and Barbro watching them and giggling.

  But she doesn’t care. It no longer matters what Sylvia thinks of her.

  That evening, Stephie and Judith go upstairs to listen to the news on the radio. But there isn’t much about the war, and after a short time, Miss Björk turns the radio off.

  “Do you want to show your friend around?” she asks. “This is your home, after all.”

  Stephie thanks Miss Björk and takes Judith another flight up.

  “This is my bedroom,” she tells her, opening the door to the room directly under the roof. “I mean, when we don’t have summer tenants.”

  Judith walks into the narrow room, with Stephie behind her.

  It smells stuffy, but everything looks as usual. The bed, the chair, the dresser.

  And the painting of Jesus.

  Stephie sees it at the same moment Judith does. Over the dresser, hanging from its nail.

  Jesus, arms outstretched, in a light red mantle, with rays of light around him and a halo over his head.

  Judith stares at the painting, and then at Stephie.

  “What have they done to you?” she asks. “Did they force you to convert to Christianity?”

  Force her? Well, maybe. But she went along with it. She never refused. She didn’t dare to object. She let herself be baptized, she went to Sunday school, and she sang their songs and prayed their prayers. She did.

  “They didn’t have to force me,” says Stephie. “I was willing to do what they wanted me to do.”

  “How could you?” asks Judith. “How could you betray your own people?”

  27

  The rest of the evening and the next morning, Judith is withdrawn and quiet. At breakfast, she says she’s decided to take the ten o’clock boat back to Göteborg.

  “You don’t need to walk me, I know the way now.”

  Judith’s disappointment stands between them like a wall. Stephie can’t find a crack. They say good-bye to each other as formally as if they were strangers. Stephie stands at the gate watching Judith walk away resolutely, suitcase in hand.

  “What’s gotten into her?” Aunt Märta asks. “Did you have an argument?”

  “No,” says Stephie, “not exactly.”

  How could she possibly explain to Aunt Märta?

  She ponders it all day herself. Was Judith right? Has she betrayed her own people? Has she betrayed Mamma and Papa?

  She remembers the pastor and the council of elders. Their unsympathetic looks when she explained her parents’ need of help. The pastor’s way of clasping his hands in prayer.

  What does she have in comm
on with them?

  What does she have in common with their sugary sweet Jesus?

  Slowly, a decision begins to take root.

  As evening approaches, Stephie remembers she promised to call for Vera. It’s Wednesday, Vera’s evening off.

  At six-thirty she knocks on the kitchen door of the shopkeeper’s summer cottage. It doesn’t open for a long time, and the person who opens it isn’t Vera. It’s the lady of the house herself.

  “No, Vera’s not in,” she says. “I believe she went for a walk. But you’re welcome to come in and wait in her room.”

  Stephie walks behind Vera’s employer through the kitchen and to Vera’s bedroom. It’s really more like a walk-in closet with a bed in it, along with a tiny dresser and a rib-backed wooden chair with one broken leg.

  The door shuts behind her and Stephie sits down. Vera’s sure to be back soon. They always spend Wednesday evenings together.

  But it gets later. The clock on the kitchen wall ticks noisily, and after a while, she hears it strike seven. Stephie is getting impatient. She leafs through an old magazine she finds on the dresser. A magazine clipping falls to the floor. Stephie leans down to pick it up.

  There’s a picture of a girl leaning back, her hair cascading over her bare shoulders. Her blouse is mostly unbuttoned, revealing her round breasts almost entirely. Her hands are pulling at the blouse as if she wants to take it off. Her mouth is open, her eyes half shut.

  At first Stephie doesn’t want to believe it. But she recognizes the reclining girl in the picture beyond a doubt.

  The girl in the photograph is Vera.

  That photographer. The one who was going to make Vera a famous movie star. So this is the kind of picture he was taking!

  It would have been nice if you’d come along. The example from German class shoots through Stephie’s mind like a bolt of lightning.

  If she had just gone along with Vera to the photographer’s studio, this would never have happened. She would have pulled Vera out of there faster than anything.

  Stephie feels like tearing up the picture and forgetting that it ever existed. But it’s been cut from a magazine. That means it must have been printed in thousands of copies. Thousands and thousands of people must have seen it. Thousands of men gaping at Vera’s body, just as Bengt’s hands had crawled over her own body on the cabin porch.