by Annika Thor
At the altar, Aunt Märta falls to her knees. Stephie and Nellie follow suit, kneeling on either side of her. The thin man puts one of his large hands on Stephie’s head, the other on Nellie’s, and prays in a loud voice.
Stephie can feel everyone in the room staring at them. Has she misbehaved? Should she ask forgiveness? The floor is hard, and a splinter is piercing her stocking and poking her knee.
Take me away from here, she prays silently. She doesn’t know to whom this prayer is addressed. God? Jesus? Papa? Mamma?
“Amen,” says the thin man.
“Amen,” the congregation responds in unison.
Aunt Märta gets up. Stephie totters to her feet, too. It’s over.
Now everyone is singing. They go back to their seats. Auntie Alma gives Nellie a hug. Then she reaches over and pats Stephie on the cheek.
After the revival meeting they go back to Auntie Alma’s.
“My, my,” says Aunt Märta. “I never imagined the girls would embrace Jesus so quickly. Who would have thought it?”
“They’re only girls,” Auntie Alma replies. “There’s not a drop of evil in them. They can’t be blamed for being born outside the true faith.”
“So something good has come of it,” Aunt Märta puffs. “Their souls have found a home.”
“What did you do it for, Stephie?” Nellie asks. “What made you cry?”
“The music,” Stephie answers. “It was so beautiful. And what made you cry?”
“Your tears,” Nellie replies.
Auntie Alma turns to the girls. “How gratified you must be,” she says, “to have found Jesus and been redeemed. I’m very happy for you!”
Found Jesus? Been redeemed? Slowly Stephie begins to understand that Aunt Märta and Auntie Alma imagine it was Jesus who made her weep.
“Well,” she begins hesitantly, “the music was so beautiful …”
But Auntie Alma’s not listening. She’s still talking to Aunt Märta, the two of them discussing the thin pastor.
“He has the gift,” Aunt Märta says. “Yes, he truly has the gift.”
Stephie stays quiet.
A few weeks later she and Nellie are baptized. They don’t protest. And now that they’re members of the Pentecostal Church, they go to Sunday school every week.
Stephie has a feeling she ought to be different now that she’s been redeemed. Maybe nicer, more obedient. Surely that’s what Aunt Märta expects. But Stephie feels exactly the same as before. Sometimes she sits looking at the picture of Jesus above her dresser, trying to feel the love for him about which they speak at Sunday school, but she feels nothing in particular.
“Forgive me, Jesus,” she mumbles softly. “Forgive me if I’m not really and truly redeemed.”
Stephie doesn’t write to her mother and father about being redeemed or baptized. She doesn’t know how she could ever explain it. It might upset them. She wonders if a person can get un-redeemed later. Otherwise she’ll have to keep it secret forever, after the family is reunited.
At least Sunday school offers a break from their everyday routines. The Sunday school teacher is the girl who played the guitar. They often sing. A younger girl named Britta gives Stephie a bookmark angel with dark hair and a pink dress. She has another one, too, a blond one in a blue dress, but she doesn’t want to give that one away. Britta and Stephie are the same age, but Britta’s shorter. She has dull, straggly brown hair. Sometimes she walks Stephie partway home after Sunday school.
Vera doesn’t attend Sunday school. Stephie sees her now and then, but she’s always with the same group of girls, including the blonde whose father is the shopkeeper, plus another who’s much bigger and heavier.
The only one who ever says hello when Stephie sees them is Vera. The others just stare. Once, the blonde shouts something after her, but Stephie doesn’t catch the words.
The schoolhouse for the older children is right in the middle of the village—a yellow, two-story wooden building with a clock over the entrance. On the other side of the street is a second building where the very youngest children’s classrooms are; it’s not much larger than a regular house.
Sometimes Stephie and Nellie pass the school buildings on their ramblings. If it’s recess and the children are out in the schoolyard the sisters walk slowly, peeking at the noisy boys and girls at play.
“When will we start school?” Nellie asks.
“As soon as our Swedish is good enough,” Stephie answers.
“I’m good at Swedish,” Nellie says with pride. “Auntie Alma says I’m a real chatterbox.”
It’s true that Nellie already speaks very good Swedish, better than Stephie. That’s because she can talk to both Auntie Alma and Elsa whenever she pleases. Aunt Märta isn’t exactly generous with words, and Uncle Evert is seldom home.
“We’ll be fluent enough to start school soon,” Stephie says. She gazes longingly over the fence, glimpsing a head of red hair that has to be Vera’s. If only Stephie were allowed to go to school, she’d see Vera every day and surely they’d become friends.
At dinner she tries extra hard to pronounce the Swedish words correctly. Hasn’t Aunt Märta noticed how much Swedish she has learned? As if she has been reading Stephie’s thoughts, Aunt Märta speaks up before she leaves the table.
“I was talking with Auntie Alma this afternoon. We think the time has come for you and Nellie to start school. You can’t just wander around all day long. I’m going to speak with the head teacher tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be able to start on Monday.”
The next morning Aunt Märta bikes over to the school. In the afternoon she tells Stephie she’ll be entering sixth grade.
“But I’ve already completed sixth grade,” Stephie protests. “Last year in Vienna.”
“You’re twelve, aren’t you?” Aunt Märta snaps. “So you will be in sixth grade with the other children your age. Where would you go if you weren’t? To the grammar school in Göteborg?”
After some time Stephie realizes that Swedish children start school at age seven, not at six as she did back home. So the children her age are in sixth grade, the final year of compulsory school.
Thinking about it, she sees it’s probably just as well to repeat sixth grade. She’s already missed nearly two months of the fall semester.
Besides, last year in Vienna she didn’t really learn very much. First her family had to move to the cramped room, and Stephie had to walk twice as far to school as before. In the crowded quarters, and with the noise of the other tenants, it wasn’t easy to concentrate on homework, either. Later in the year she had to change schools, when the Jewish children were no longer allowed to attend regular school.
The classrooms in the Jewish school were overcrowded, the teachers pale from exhaustion and worry. There were no gold stars for their exercise books.
The next day Aunt Märta goes to see someone and returns with a pile of schoolbooks. There’s a math book, a history book, a science book, an atlas, and a songbook. All are dirty and dog-eared, with the name Per-Erik penned in round, childish letters on the front page of each.
The books belonged to the same Per-Erik who is the youngest member of Uncle Evert’s fishing crew. He finished school two years ago. Now Stephie will have to use his old books. Aunt Märta even has a math exercise book with her, less than half full. Stephie stares at the books, blinking back her tears.
“Couldn’t I have a new exercise book of my own?” she asks softly.
“Hardly any of this one’s been used,” Aunt Märta tells her. “Finish it first, then you can have a new one.”
Stephie leafs through the roughly treated books. The spine of the science book is ragged. When she opens the book there is no resistance; it opens out like a broken fan. Some of the pages are loose. She remembers the feeling of opening a brand-new book: the way the spine won’t give when you try to open it wide, the smell of new paper.
“Don’t look so downhearted,” Aunt Märta scolds. “I don’t have money to waste on new
books for your last year of school. Besides, you may not even be here for the entire school year. Old ones will do.”
They’ll do for me, Stephie finds herself thinking. Old, worn-out books will do for a foreign child. Old, worn-out books, not to mention an ugly, old lady’s bathing suit that will do for a refugee child who has to live off the charity of others. If Aunt Märta had a child of her own, that child would never be getting hand-me-down books.
“Here,” says Aunt Märta, holding out a roll of brown wrapping paper. “Once you’ve covered them they’ll look much nicer.”
Auntie Alma goes all the way to Göteborg to buy school books for Nellie. Aunt Märta sends some money along to buy the things Stephie still needs: two more exercise books, a few pencils, an eraser, and a New Testament.
“You’ll have the Testament for the rest of your life,” Aunt Märta tells her. “Schoolbooks are a different matter.”
Nellie’s books also get covered in brown paper.
“I promise to take very good care of them,” Nellie says.
When Auntie Alma’s back is turned, Stephie sticks out her tongue. “Butter her up all you can,” she teases.
“You’re just jealous,” Nellie tells her. “If you were a little nicer, you might get new books, too, you know.”
Almost immediately, Nellie regrets her words and extends her math exercise book to Stephie.
“You can have this one if you want,” she says.
“What would you do your math homework in, then?” Stephie asks.
“Math’s so boring,” Nellie answers, making a face.
On Saturday Uncle Evert comes home. He’s obviously been told that Stephie’s going to start school, because he has brought her a present wrapped in paper from a shop in Göteborg.
The parcel contains a wooden pencil case. The sliding top fits perfectly in its grooves. Along one side of the top are measurement markings. If you slide the top all the way off, you can use it as a ruler. The box has two long, narrow compartments for pens, and a special little space for an eraser.
“Oh, thank you!” Stephie exclaims. “Thank you so much, Uncle Evert.”
“You’re spoiling the girl,” mutters Aunt Märta.
Uncle Evert ignores the comment. “I think you’re going to do well in school,” he tells Stephie. “You’re so alert and interested.”
On Sunday evening Stephie packs her things for school, putting all her pencils and her fountain pen into the pencil box, along with her new eraser. The knapsack is heavy.
“It really is a shame you can’t ride a bicycle,” Aunt Märta says. “I’d let you use mine and you could do the shopping on your way home. It would save me a trip to the village, since you’ll be there anyway.”
Everyone on the island rides a bike, or at least all the adults and all the children Stephie’s age do. The little ones ride on the carrier or sit on the handlebars. The big kids ride in crowds, jabbering as loudly as the flocks of seagulls that come in from the ocean to gobble morsels on land.
Stephie is the only one who can’t ride a bike. And she’s positive she’ll never learn.
On her first school day, Stephie heads off early. It’s a cold morning, so she buttons her blue coat all the way up.
Nellie’s waiting for her by the gate at Auntie Alma’s. Her hair is in braids, with big pink ribbons tied at the ends. Auntie Alma comes out and stands on the steps to wave them off.
The elementary school classrooms are in a white building opposite the big schoolhouse. Nellie’s teacher comes out to greet her. She’s young and pretty, with blond braids fastened around her head.
Stephie heads across the street and stands outside the fence of the other schoolyard. She watches as lots of children run around, shouting and laughing. The clock over the door is at ten minutes to eight. Ten minutes to go. As she walks through the gate, she scours the yard for Vera, then for Britta from Sunday school, but there’s no one she knows.
The time passes slowly. Stephie wishes she could make herself invisible. Although no one seems to notice her, she feels as if everyone is staring. She shouldn’t have worn her coat and hat. The other girls just have sweaters over their dresses and are bareheaded, even though it’s October. The boys are in shorts and knee socks, which slip down when they run and climb.
The school bell rings. At last, Britta comes running with a jump rope in her hands.
“Come on,” she says to Stephie. “You’re in my class.”
The sixth-grade room is upstairs. The children form two lines, girls to the left of the door, boys to the right.
Vera smiles at Stephie, the special kind of smile you smile at someone with whom you share a secret. Stephie tries to stand next to her in line, but the blond girl shoves her roughly.
“That’s my place,” she says.
Stephie goes to the back to the line. Britta is right in front of her.
“Pay no attention to Sylvia,” Britta whispers, turning around. “She thinks she’s in charge.”
The bell rings a second time and the classroom door opens. The teacher stands in the doorway, greeting each pupil as they go in, first the girls, and then the boys. Each child remains standing behind his or her desk, except for Stephie, who waits by the door.
The teacher is tall and thin and wears her hair in a bun just like Aunt Märta’s.
“Good morning, children,” she says to the class.
“Good morning, Miss Bergström,” thirty high and low voices reply.
“You may take your seats.”
There is slamming and banging as the children settle in.
“We have a new pupil in our class today,” Miss Bergström says. “Come to the front, Stephanie.”
Stephie walks toward the teacher’s desk.
“Stephanie has been on a long journey to get here,” Miss Bergström tells the class. “All the way from Vienna. What country is Vienna in? Sylvia?”
“Austria,” Sylvia answers.
Miss Bergström pulls on a string and down comes a map in front of the blackboard. A map of Europe.
“Stephanie, would you show us the country you come from?”
Stephie walks over to the map. But she cannot find the familiar outline of Austria. Instead, she just sees Germany, round as a balloon.
“It ought to be here,” she says in bewilderment, pointing to the lower part of the balloon.
Miss Bergström studies the map a moment. “Austria has become part of the German Reich,” she says with composure. She points. “This is Vienna, the musical capital of the world. And here is the highest mountain chain in Europe. What is it called? Vera?”
“The Himalayas,” Vera replies.
The whole class laughs.
Miss Bergström sighs, then asks Britta if she knows the right answer.
“The Alps.”
“Stephanie, have you been to the Alps?”
Stephie shakes her head.
“The Alpine landscape,” Miss Bergström tells them, “is very fertile and—”
There is a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Miss Bergström says in an annoyed tone.
An awkward figure enters the room. It’s the boy from down at the dock, the one who offered Stephie and Nellie a ride in his boat.
He has to be at least fourteen. What’s he doing here, in the sixth grade?
“Excuse me for being late,” the boy mumbles.
Miss Bergström sighs. “Just sit down, Svante.”
Svante walks sluggishly, taking a seat at the back of the room. He’s so big he just barely fits behind the desk.
Miss Bergström brings the geography lesson to an end.
“Stephanie is a foreigner among us,” she says. “Because of this terrible war she has had to leave her home and family.”
Stephie gazes out over the fair-haired boys and girls. She meets their gazes, some curious, others sympathetic. Thirty pairs of blue, gray, or green eyes meet her brown ones.
“I hope you will be very kind to Stephanie,” Miss Ber
gström continues. “And that you can overlook the fact that she doesn’t talk the way you do. That is because she isn’t Swedish, wasn’t born here like all of you.”
Not-like-you-not-like-you echoes in Stephanie’s head. It reminds her of the chug-chugging of the train on the tracks. She feels weak-kneed and dizzy.
“May I sit down now?” she asks.
Miss Bergström nods.
Britta raises her hand. “Could she sit next to me? I know her.”
“So do I,” says Svante.
Sylvia laughs, whispering something to the heavyset girl at the desk next to hers.
They have math for the first hour. The problems are easy, simple division Stephie learned in fifth grade. She waves her hand eagerly and finally gets a chance to solve one problem at the blackboard.
“Quite right,” Miss Bergström tells Stephie when she is done. “Very good.”
“Verrrrry good,” Sylvia imitates in a whisper. Miss Bergström pretends she hasn’t heard.
When recess comes, Stephie hopes Vera will find her, but she doesn’t. Vera spends recess in a corner of the schoolyard, among a crowd of girls that includes Sylvia. Sometimes Stephie senses them looking at her. She wonders what they’re saying.
Britta, though, seeks her out and asks if she wants to jump rope. Stephie does just fine until she notices Svante staring. Then she gets nervous and misses a step. So she has to turn the rope.
While Britta is jumping, someone comes up behind Stephie. She turns her head and sees Sylvia’s whole crowd, with Sylvia in the lead.
“Say something in German,” Sylvia commands.
Stephie shakes her head and keeps turning the rope.
“Say something!” Sylvia repeats. “You can talk, can’t you?”
“Sure.”
“So say something, then,” Sylvia nags. “We want to hear how it sounds.”
“Say something,” one of her friends urges. It’s Barbro, the girl who’s always with Sylvia.
The group encircles Stephie. Vera stays in the background, pulling up a sock and rummaging through her dress pocket.
“How about a yodel?” Sylvia asks. “You’re from the Alps, after all.”