by Annika Thor
Stephie’s so upset she doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching through the kitchen. She doesn’t even react until the door opens, and then it’s too late. Vera has already seen what she’s holding in her hand.
“I see! You’re poking around in my things without permission!”
“I just picked up the magazine to have something to read while I waited for you, and it fell out,” Stephie says defensively.
“Give that to me!” Vera commands.
Stephie hands her the picture. Slowly, Vera tears it to shreds.
“So now we can forget it,” she says.
Stephie doesn’t believe her ears.
“Do you think it will disappear just because we pretend it never existed?”
“This is none of your business,” says Vera. “You’d never understand, anyway. You’ve lost a lot, but you still can’t know what it’s like never to have had anything.”
“What kind of friendship do we have if you lie and keep things from me?” Stephie asks. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you more than anyone,” Vera says softly. “But not completely. Not even you.”
“How could you have let him take that kind of picture? Why, Vera?”
“There were worse poses,” Vera tells her. “Where you can see even more of me. But I burned those.”
She sinks onto the bed and covers her face with her hands. They are both silent for a while. When Vera looks back up, her expression is different, as if a mask had fallen away.
“He made me,” she says. “Step by step. First he took a whole lot of pictures when I was dressed. He told me to smile and look one direction or the other, pull my hair forward across my shoulders, make kissing lips. Then he asked me if I would undo one or two buttons on my blouse. He said it was nice to see a little flesh at the neckline. I didn’t think that sounded bad. He took a few pictures, then walked over and unbuttoned two more buttons, pulling my blouse down over my shoulders.”
She goes quiet once more, takes a deep breath.
“Then he said my bra didn’t look very nice and I should take it off. I didn’t want to, but he said that if there was going to be any point in photographing me, it had to be a full series of shots. And he’d already wasted a whole roll on me, he said. So I did it, and once I had removed my bra, nothing seemed to matter anymore.”
“Wasn’t it awful?” Stephie asks. “Posing like that in front of him and his camera?”
Vera shakes her head slowly. “Not right then,” she says. “Not at all, actually. He told me how pretty I was, the prettiest girl he’d photographed in ages. He said almost all the big movie stars in America had let someone take nude pictures of them before they got famous. He just talked and talked and …”
She goes quiet.
“And …?”
“It was like he was touching me with his words,” Vera tells her. “Though he used his hands, too, of course, coming over and telling me how to stand or lie. But it was his words … No one had ever said things like that to me before. I liked it, Stephie. I liked it!”
“Does Rikard know?”
“Are you out of your mind? He’d kill me if he found out. And he would definitely break off the engagement.”
“Do you really think so?” Stephie asks. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the two of you and the baby.”
“Oh, yes, it does,” says Vera.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know whose baby it is. His or the photographer’s.”
“Vera!”
Vera grimaces. “I told you Rikard would kill me if he found out.”
“Did he make you do it?”
“In a way,” Vera replies. “Not by force, but I felt like I couldn’t refuse.”
“Why not?”
“When he’d shot three rolls, he said he was done. I started to get dressed, but then he said we weren’t finished yet. ‘Do you think I do this kind of thing for free?’ he asked me. ‘Three rolls of film and a whole afternoon’s work!’
“I had some money on me, but when I pulled it out he just laughed and said money wasn’t what he had in mind. He came over and kissed me and started touching my breasts. I said no and tried to pull away, but he said all the girls he photographed went to bed with him afterward. It was part of the procedure. ‘If you don’t, I’ll burn up the film. And how are you going to get famous then?’ I didn’t know what to do. I thought maybe it wasn’t wrong.”
“Oh, Vera,” says Stephie. “Vera, Vera.”
She reaches out a hand and takes Vera’s, holding it tight.
“I was so scared I would get pregnant,” says Vera. “I thought, Well, if I am, I have to find the kid a different father. Rikard had been after me for a long time, and I had let him kiss me after walking me home now and then. He was kind and decent. A future engineer. But I had to hurry him, so the timing would be more or less right.”
Stephie remembers that night in the cabin. The creaking mattress and Vera’s giggles.
“You must’ve thought I was awful,” says Vera. “But it really was the first—no, I mean the second—time for me. And I like him, really I do. You won’t tell him, will you? You’ve got to promise.”
Stephie is quiet for a bit. Vera is asking her to make a pretty big promise. To be party to a lie, a huge lie that will have an impact on the lives of three people. Rikard will spend his whole life sure he is the father of Vera’s child, and the child will feel certain that Rikard is his or her papa.
But it may be true. The child may be Rikard’s. And he cares about Vera, enough to marry her.
“Yes,” Stephie says finally. “I promise, if that’s what you really want. But if it were me, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“I know,” says Vera. “But I’m not you.”
28
The next day when Aunt Märta comes home, she tells Stephie that she has been to a meeting with the pastor and that there will be no collection taken up for the benefit of Stephie’s parents. Instead, the congregation will pray for them and all the other victims of the war at the prayer meeting that Saturday afternoon.
“Pray for them?” Stephie spits out the words as if they were disgusting food. “They don’t need our prayers. They need food and warm clothes!”
“We all need prayers,” Aunt Märta placates her.
“What kind of prayers will these be?” Stephie asks. “For Jesus Christ to come back to earth and make five loaves and two fishes be enough for all the Jews in Theresienstadt?”
“That’s quite enough,” Aunt Märta says sternly. “No blasphemy, young lady!”
“They didn’t listen to me,” says Stephie. “They didn’t understand at all. Aunt Märta, didn’t you hear them at that meeting?”
“Yes, I did,” says Aunt Märta. “I heard them, and I grieve the fact that there is so much hardness of heart among people who ought to know what love of one’s fellow man implies. But we must display patience and humility in the face of God and of mankind.”
Stephie doesn’t answer. No one who knows Aunt Märta could possibly claim that patience and humility are her strong suits. But perhaps she is always struggling to be better at them herself, struggling to be the way her religion prescribes that she ought to be.
On Saturday, Stephie, in a freshly ironed dress, sits next to Aunt Märta in the house of worship. Nellie’s there, too, with her tightly pulled braids and a scornful expression on her face.
“Let us pray,” the pastor says, clasping those huge hands of his.
The congregation stands. There is the rustle of stiff dresses, the uneasy trampling of feet, a prayer book falling to the floor.
“I would like the Steiner girls to come forward,” says the pastor.
Stephie is unable to move. She holds tightly to the back of the pew in front of her. Her throat constricts. Her heart throbs. Her eyes look straight ahead, but she senses Nellie not moving, either.
“Please come forward,” the pastor repeats.
Aunt Märta nudges S
tephie, as if she thinks Stephie didn’t hear or was too bashful to step up.
“No,” Stephie hisses out of the corner of her mouth.
The pastor looks bewildered.
“Let us pray,” he repeats. “For all those who suffer because of the war, all those who have lost house and home …”
Stephie gets up. But she doesn’t join the pastor at the front of the room. Upright as a ramrod, and without looking right or left, she walks out of the church.
In the kitchen, she finds Uncle Evert. He asks no questions, says nothing about her coming home alone.
“There you are” is all he says. “I’m glad you’re here. I was thinking of going out in the rowboat for a while. It’s such a nice day. Won’t you come along?”
Stephie nods eagerly. “I’ll just get changed.”
She lays out her dress on the kitchen settle, planning to hang it back in the little passage by the food cellar when she gets back. She pulls on an old skirt and blouse, and quickly ties her shoes.
Janice is lying on her stomach in the sun on the dock in nothing but a pair of shorts and a halter top. She’s reading as usual, her eyes shaded by that big sun hat of hers.
When she hears footsteps, she sits up. Her hat falls off and her frizzy head of hair looks like a halo around her head. Squinting up at the sun, she smiles.
“Hedvig’s gone into town,” she tells Stephie. “She had some errands to do, but I promised to tell you she’ll be back this evening, so there will be lessons as usual tomorrow morning.”
Uncle Evert pulls the boat over. Stephie notices how hard he tries not to look at Janice. She wonders what he thinks about when he sees such a beautiful woman. What does he think about Janice’s exposed, sun-warmed skin, her pretty hair, her long, lazing dancer’s legs?
Suddenly, Stephie feels angry with Janice. Why doesn’t she cover up? And if she wants to sunbathe practically naked, she could at least go farther from the house.
Janice seems to read her thoughts, because she gets up and pulls the towel she’s been lying on around her shoulders. But perhaps she does so only because the sun’s suddenly gone behind a little cloud.
“Going for a spin in the boat?” Janice asks.
“Yes,” Stephie answers curtly.
She’s afraid Janice is going to ask if she can come along. She wants this time alone with Uncle Evert.
“Coming, Stephie?” Uncle Evert asks.
“Right away!”
Stephie’s sitting in the stern, listening to the creaking of the oars in the wooden oarlocks, the heavy splash as the blades hit the surface, the clucking of the water against the sides of the boat. Those rhythmic sounds make her feel calmer, but her chest is still tight.
“Have you heard from your parents again?”
Uncle Evert rests on the oars and searches Stephie’s face.
“No,” Stephie replies. “It’s been weeks.”
“You mustn’t lose hope,” says Uncle Evert. “I know how upsetting it is, but you mustn’t lose hope. The war is going to end. The Allies are already in Italy. It may all be over in a matter of months now. In the long run, evil will not be the victor. Do you believe me?”
Stephie nods.
“Bear up,” says Uncle Evert. “No matter how hard it may be, we must bear up. And the weight of the entire world isn’t on your shoulders, thank goodness, since they are quite small.”
He pulls on one oar to straighten the rowboat’s drifting course.
“Your turn to row,” he says.
They change seats. Stephie rows with long, powerful strokes, as Uncle Evert has taught her. It feels good to be exerting herself, putting in some effort, using her arms. Her lungs fill with air. She breathes more easily, feels stronger.
Yes, she will bear up. She will!
29
The following day is the first sunny Sunday of August, so May and her family finally come to visit. All seven children are here, as well as May’s mother, panting in the heat.
“Gustav didn’t come along in the end,” Mrs. Karlsson says. “My husband is not too keen on sun and swimming. He’s happier in the city.”
In her net bag, she has a coffee cake from the bakery in Sandarna, and although Aunt Märta usually turns up her nose at bought baked goods, she thanks May’s mother politely and slices it up to go with the coffee.
Aunt Märta spent the morning in church. Stephie didn’t have to go along, since she was meeting May’s family when they arrived. That was a relief. She was even less eager to go to church than usual, after the previous day.
The normally quiet house is full of noise once May’s brothers and sisters feel comfortable there. When Miss Björk heard that the whole Karlsson family was coming to visit, she said they were free to use the real kitchen and sitting room instead of crowding into the basement rooms. She and Janice are on a boat outing and aren’t expected back until evening.
Kurre and Olle are out on the lawn kicking a soccer ball. Their loud shouts can be heard through the open window. Erik is running up and down the stairs between the hall and the bedrooms. He’s never been in a home that has a staircase inside. Ninni is playing with Stephie’s old teddy bear, talking to herself as she puts it to bed in a sugar crate under a piece of cloth. Britten turns the knobs on the radio, until May scolds her.
“Leave that radio alone, Britten!” May tells her. “There’s enough noise in here already.”
May knows, of course, that the only thing Aunt Märta allows the radio to be used for is to listen to the news and religious music. Not to mention that it’s Sunday. Listening to secular music on a Sunday is even more sinful in Aunt Märta’s eyes.
While they’re having their coffee, Uncle Evert appears in his Sunday suit and a tie. He went to church with Aunt Märta this morning, and then stopped by the harbor to hear if there was any news.
“They’ve raised up the Wolf,” he tells them. “Apparently, they’re taking her right to Göteborg. I guess they’ll pass this way this afternoon.”
The efforts to tow the Wolf have been ongoing all summer. Although divers have been down to look, no one yet knows what caused the accident.
May’s mother has brought a picnic, sandwiches, and cold fried eggs for herself and the children. Aunt Märta wants to treat them to a meal, but May’s mother says it’s out of the question.
“There are far too many of us, Mrs. Jansson. We’d eat you out of house and home! If a woman has seven children, she has to take responsibility for them herself.”
After they’ve been for a swim and eaten, the group makes its way in procession to the harbor. Uncle Evert heads it up, with Kurre and Olle marching proudly, one on each side of him. Uncle Evert has promised to show them around the Diana. They’ll get to go on board and look at all the fishing equipment and the instruments used to guide the boat. Erik runs eagerly on their heels. Next come May and Stephie, arm in arm, each holding the hand of one of the younger girls. Britten follows them closely, trying to get in on their conversation.
Last are Aunt Märta and Mrs. Karlsson. One tall, slim woman with a tight bun at the nape of her neck, one short and stout in a flowered summer dress with perspiration stains at the underarms. In spite of looking so different, they seem to be getting along well.
All over the island, flags fly at half-mast. Before they left home, Uncle Evert pulled their own flag halfway down. They are showing their respect for the crew of the Wolf. Sundays are always solemn days on the island, but today, people’s faces are even graver than usual, and lots of people have kept their Sunday clothes on after having been at one of the three churches on the island.
A crowd has gathered on a little point not far from the harbor. They’re waiting to see the Wolf as she is towed past. Uncle Evert’s group stops here, in spite of Kurre and Olle’s eagerness to go aboard the Diana.
“Take it easy,” says Uncle Evert. “There’s plenty of time. The boat back to town isn’t until six.”
Aunt Märta and May’s mother sit down on the rocks. M
ay sits down, too, with Ninni on her lap and Stephie close by. Erik and Gunnel run around. Uncle Evert recites the names of the nearby islands to Kurre and Olle.
It doesn’t take long for the little convoy to appear to the northwest. There’s the ship towing the Wolf, along with various other ships. They move in a silent formation, proceeding slowly on the way to the mouth of the harbor in Göteborg.
“They’re taking her to the Eriksberg shipyard,” says Kurre. “Papa says they’ve been preparing the big dry dock for her all week.”
The people on the shore are silent as the naval ships pass close enough that they can see the contours of the submarine clearly at the waterline.
Inside, thirty-three crewmen lie dead, many of them not much older than Stephie and May, in a coffin of steel.
Everyone stays until the convoy is out of sight behind the next island. Slowly, the solemn gathering disperses. But Stephie feels pensive.
She feels as if a gust of icy cold wind has blown through the hot summer day.
30
“Aunt Märta?”
“Yes?”
Aunt Märta looks up from the fisherman’s overalls she is mending.
“I …,” Stephie begins. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Aunt Märta.”
She has been putting this conversation off for days now. In spite of having made up her mind and being sure she’s doing the right thing, it’s still difficult to tell Aunt Märta.
“What is it?”
Aunt Märta snaps off a thread with a decisive pull.
She has to say it now. Once you’ve started something, you’ve got to go through with it, as Aunt Märta often says.
“Well … I …”
“My dear girl, what on earth is the matter? Has the cat got your tongue?”
Now. She’s got to say it now.
“I’m going to resign from the Pentecostal congregation.”