by Annika Thor
“She’ll have to have a hot bath,” Aunt Märta continues. “You go into the front room, Evert.”
Uncle Evert leaves the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. Aunt Märta heats water on the stove and pours it into the big tub. Stephie tries to unhook her stockings from her garters, but her fingers are too stiff. Aunt Märta has to help her.
The bathwater feels burning hot. As her cold body begins to thaw, her skin aches and prickles. She undoes her damp braids, letting her hair float on the surface of the water.
Aunt Märta brings towels and Stephie’s nightgown. She helps Stephie dry her back, but leaves her to work through her snarled hair herself. Her mother used to comb it gently and part it down the middle. It’s terribly knotted now: Stephie struggles with the comb. It hurts. She can’t be bothered to unsnarl any more; she just brushes the top layer over the worst of the tangles.
Neither Uncle Evert nor Aunt Märta asks her any more questions. Stephie drinks hot milk with honey and goes to bed.
The next morning she has a cold and is allowed to stay home from Sunday school. She ends up having to miss school the whole of the following week.
Uncle Evert stays home, too. There’s a big storm, with winds so strong the Diana can’t be at sea. Uncle Evert amuses Stephie with seamen’s tales, and plays tic-tac-toe with her.
She stiffens every time the telephone rings, but it’s never Britta’s mother calling.
By the time Stephie is well enough to go back to school, it’s snowing. Big, wet flakes fall to the ground and melt.
Svante doesn’t touch her braids. That’s something, anyway.
At recess, Britta takes Stephie aside. Stephie can tell from the look on her face that she has something important to say but that she’s trying to drag out the suspense for as long as possible.
Stephie watches the snowflakes whirl. She has no intention of asking Britta what’s on her mind. If Britta has something to say, let her come out with it.
Britta clears her throat. “I have decided to forgive you,” she says solemnly. “If you honestly repent. I’m sure if you do, Jesus will forgive you, too.”
“Thank you,” says Stephie, trying to look repentant.
“Mamma says we must judge kindly and show forbearance,” Britta goes on. “You have lived your whole life in the Kingdom of Sin. It’s not your fault.”
The Kingdom of Sin! Stephie opens her mouth to protest, but Britta continues.
“I want to help you find the true way,” she says. “May I come home with you after school?”
“I’m not sure …,” Stephie falters.
“My mother’s already asked your aunt,” Britta says. “It’s all right with her.”
“Oh,” Stephie mumbles. Things have been going on behind her back, but she can’t figure out what.
After school they walk to Aunt Märta’s together. Britta chatters about Sunday school, about the new song they learned when Stephie was absent, about the approaching holiday season, beginning with Lucia.
“What’s Lucia?” Stephie asks.
“Don’t you know?” Britta responds in surprise. “That’s when we celebrate the Queen of Light.”
This answer doesn’t tell Stephie very much.
“Who’s the Queen of Light?”
Britta explains excitedly all the details of the festival of Lucia.
“One girl in the class is elected Lucia. And six others are her handmaidens. Everybody votes.”
“Who will it be?”
“Someone pretty,” Britta says, and Stephie notes a tiny sigh. “And with a good singing voice.”
Vera has a good voice. And she’s pretty, too.
“We always choose Sylvia,” Britta tells her.
They’re on the last uphill. Britta’s lagging behind. “Slow down, I’ve got a stitch in my side,” she complains.
Suddenly Stephie has the urge to tease Britta. Instead of slowing down she speeds up.
“Wait up!” Britta shouts.
Stephie doesn’t stop until she reaches the crest of the hill. She gazes out at the ocean. In the distance there’s the blinking of a lighthouse. She sees a white flashing light, and if she steps to the side she can see a red one, too. Uncle Evert has explained to her that the boats have to follow the white light. If they’re off course they see the red one, a warning against heading toward the cliffs and the shallows.
Britta catches up. “Why didn’t you wait?” she asks reproachfully.
“I am waiting,” Stephie retorts.
Britta’s eyes narrow in annoyance, but then she appears to remember she is supposed to show forbearance.
“Is that the house down there?” she asks, her voice milder.
“The end of the world,” Stephie says. But Britta doesn’t seem to understand.
“They’re wealthy, aren’t they?” she asks. “The Janssons.”
Stephie’s never thought of Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert as wealthy before. Yes, they do have everything they need. But Aunt Märta does all the housework herself, with no housemaid, and Uncle Evert wears work clothes and smells of fish even when he’s been home for several days.
“Not especially,” Stephie replies.
“What about your family in Vienna?” Britta asks. “They’re rich, aren’t they?”
Stephie remembers the large apartment, the beautiful furniture, the soft rugs. She remembers her mother’s elegant clothes, her fur coats and hats. And Papa’s study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with leather-bound volumes. She remembers all the things they had to leave behind when the Nazis took their apartment and her father’s medical practice away from them.
“Not anymore,” she answers curtly.
Aunt Märta is waiting for them, and she opens the front door as they arrive.
“How nice to see you, Britta,” she says. “Come in.”
As they hang up their coats, Aunt Märta asks Britta how her mother is, how her grandmother is, and other questions about people Stephie has never heard of. Britta answers politely.
“Now you may show Britta your room,” Aunt Märta tells Stephie. “I’ll bring you sweet rolls and fruit drink in a while.”
Stephie leads Britta up the stairs.
Britta looks at Stephie’s room, nodding in recognition at the picture of Jesus, and pointing at the photos on the dresser.
“Are those your parents?”
“Yes.”
Britta looks briefly at the portrait of Papa, and then spends a long time studying Mamma. For an instant, Stephie sees her mother through Britta’s eyes. Her permed hair, her lipsticked lips, the elegant fur stole around her neck. So unlike the women on the island with their tightly twisted buns, their plain faces and cotton dresses.
She can imagine what Britta is thinking about Mamma: shallow and vain. Sinful. Like the film stars in the magazines Sylvia sometimes brings to school to show the other girls.
It’s not true, Stephie wants to say. Mamma’s not like that. Since when is it a crime to be beautiful, anyway?
In her mind’s eye she sees her mother’s face as it looked that morning at the train station, the morning of Stephie and Nellie’s departure. Mamma’s red lips made her face look even paler, and Stephie noticed taut little lines around her mouth she had never seen before. Mamma had been up almost all night packing, having second thoughts and repacking. When they left she forgot the sandwiches she’d made, and they had to go back and get them.
“What other things do you have with you from Vienna?” Britta asks.
Stephie opens the bottom drawer of her dresser and removes her treasures. Britta tries the fountain pen and looks curiously at Stephie’s diary. Stephie doesn’t mind, it’s in German. Britta admires the dancing ballerina and tries on Stephie’s jewelry. Then she catches sight of the balled-up handkerchief at the back of the drawer.
“What’s that?” she asks, and before Stephie can answer she has reached in and pulled out the little ball.
“Give it to me,” Stephie says.
; “Let me just take a peek,” Britta insists, taking a step back from Stephie’s outstretched hand.
“No, leave it alone.”
Stephie grabs Britta by the arm just as Britta opens the handkerchief. And just as Aunt Märta appears in the door-way, carrying a tray. Mimi, the china dog, rolls out of Britta’s hand and shatters on the floor.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Britta begins. “I didn’t break it on purpose.”
But Aunt Märta lift’s Mimi’s head up off the floor.
“What is this?” she asks sharply. “Is it yours?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Britta whines shrilly. “I just wanted to look at it.”
“Alma has a dog like this,” Aunt Märta says. “Is this hers? Did you take it from her?” she asks Stephie.
Stephie stares down at what is left of Mimi. A leg, a tail, the base of the figure. Plus lots of little chips, too small to glue back together.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” Stephie whispers. “But I meant to put it back.”
“That makes you a thief.” Aunt Märta’s voice sounds like the snapping of a whip.
“I’m going home now,” Britta says.
“Yes, I think you’d better,” Aunt Märta confirms. “Stephie, you get the broom and dustpan and clean up in here. Then you will go see Auntie Alma and apologize.”
Aunt Märta sees Britta to the door. Stephie gets the broom and dustpan, sweeps up the bits and pieces of china, and carries them down to the rubbish pail.
Aunt Märta has a long phone conversation with Auntie Alma. Stephie sits on her bed awaiting judgment. Will she have to walk all the way to Auntie Alma’s and back in the dark? Will she be punished?
Aunt Märta’s eagle eyes find a tiny sliver of china on the floor that Stephie missed.
“Pick that up,” she commands.
Stephie picks up the sliver obediently. It’s so small she can just barely grip it between her thumb and index finger.
“Auntie Alma and I have agreed that you won’t go over there this evening,” she tells Stephie. “You need time to reflect upon what you have done and sincerely regret it. After Sunday school this weekend you will accompany Nellie to Auntie Alma’s and ask forgiveness.”
At first Stephie is relieved. But as the hours pass she begins to feel that it would have been better to just get it over with. It’s only Wednesday. There are four days until Sunday. Four long days.
The next morning Britta turns her back on Stephie in the school hallway and sits at the far edge of the bench they share in class. It’s as if Stephie has some contagious disease.
“Today we’re going to elect this year’s Lucia,” Miss Bergström tells the class. “Are there any nominations?”
Barbro raises her hand eagerly.
“Barbro?”
“I nominate Sylvia as our Lucia.”
“Any other nominations?”
The class is silent. No other hands are raised.
“Are you certain?”
Margit, a small girl who sometimes jumps rope with Britta, raises a hand shyly.
“Margit?”
“Sylvia,” she more or less whispers.
“Sylvia has already been nominated,” Miss Bergström replies.” “No other names, then?”
“Yes, please,” Stephie says.
“In this class we raise our hands if we wish to speak,” Miss Bergström scolds. “Yes?”
“Vera,” says Stephie. “I nominate Vera to be Lucia.”
There’s a giggle. A pen drops to the floor. Vera turns around and glares strangely at Stephie. Sylvia cocks her head, a smile glued to her lips.
“All right,” Miss Bergström tells the class. “We’ll have to vote, then.”
Vera raises her hand. “I don’t want to be Lucia,” she says. “Sylvia fits the part much better than me.”
“That will be up to the class to decide,” Miss Bergström declares, giving Ingrid, the class monitor, pieces of paper to pass out. Each pupil is supposed to take one, write the name of the person he or she votes for, and fold it in half. Miss Bergström writes Sylvia’s and Vera’s names at the top of the blackboard.
When everyone has voted, Ingrid collects the ballots and gives them to Miss Bergström. The teacher unfolds the first one.
“Vera,” she says, making a vertical mark under Vera’s name on the board.
Stephie wonders if that was her ballot. Will hers be the only vote in favor of Vera?
“Vera,” says Miss Bergström again, making a new mark on the board. “Vera. Vera.”
One ballot after the next, one mark after the next under Vera’s name. Hardly any under Sylvia’s.
“Vera. Vera. Vera. Sylvia.”
When the votes have all been counted, Vera has twenty-six votes and Sylvia only five.
“A redheaded Lucia,” Sylvia says loudly, without raising her hand. “Well, that’ll be a first!”
“All right, then, Vera,” says Miss Bergström. “You will be the class Lucia this year.”
Vera looks miserable. “My gown’s too short,” she says.
“Let the hem down,” says Miss Bergström. “Or add some lace edging if need be. There’s a crown you can borrow, of course.”
“We won’t need any candles,” Barbro says. “Her hair’s already in flames.”
“What’s got into all of you today?” Miss Bergström scolds. “The next person who speaks without raising a hand will be sent out to stand in the hall. Sylvia will be one of the handmaidens. Understood?”
The class mumbles agreement.
“I have one more suggestion,” Miss Bergström continues. “Stephanie has never celebrated Lucia before. In fact, this may be her only opportunity. I propose we let her be a handmaiden as well.”
No one says anything. No objections, no support.
The class elects the other handmaidens: Barbro, Gunvor, Majbritt, and Ingrid. Plus Sylvia and Stephie. Except for Ingrid, all the others are part of Sylvia’s crowd.
When recess begins Miss Bergström asks Stephie to stay behind.
“You’ll need a long white cotton gown,” she tells her. “Ask your foster mother to get you one. And a green wreath for your head. Crowberry greens will do, we have so few lingon berry bushes on the island.”
In the schoolyard Stephie looks for Vera, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Sylvia glares at Stephie and whispers with her friends.
“I’ll get you back for this,” she says into Stephie’s ear on their way up the stairs.
The day passes slowly. Stephie has trouble concentrating, and is reprimanded by Miss Bergström. She tries to focus on King Karl XII going to war with Russia. But the broken china dog and the prospect of apologizing to Auntie Alma preoccupy her. So, too, do Vera’s strange expression, Sylvia’s threat, and the white cotton gown she somehow has to get. She barely hears Miss Bergström talking.
“Stephanie?” Her own name penetrates the fog of her thoughts.
“Excuse me?” she mumbles.
Miss Bergström lets Britta answer the question. She always knows the answer to things you can learn by heart—verses of hymns, dates when things happened, names of mountain peaks and capital cities.
The last hour of the day they have dictation. This is Stephie’s least favorite subject in Swedish school. Although she has learned to speak reasonably well, she finds it almost impossible to master the spelling.
“The ship’s captain had already embarked,” Miss Bergström reads, “and they headed out to sea to intercept the drifting vessel …”
Stephie dips her pen in the inkwell and writes. She stops. How do you spell “intercept”?
“… to intersept the drifting vessel,” she writes.
“… zigzagging between the giant waves,” Miss Bergström continues.
She must have missed something. What could it have been? Stephie thinks hard, trying to re-create the missing words. Now she’s forgotten what Miss Bergström has just read.
“Stephanie,” Miss Bergström says. “Why a
ren’t you writing?”
“I don’t know the words.”
“What’s the trouble with you today?” Miss Bergström asks impatiently. “Are you ill again?”
Stephie shakes her head and instantly wishes she hadn’t. She could have said she felt as if she had a temperature. Then she would have been sent home.
“Keep at it, then,” Miss Bergström scolds, continuing the dictation. Stephie picks up her pen. The words continue to misbehave. At last the bell rings.
She walks home alone. Britta hasn’t said a word to her all day.
Down the road she sees a head of red hair. She picks up speed and catches up with Vera. She can’t imagine her being anything but pleased to have been chosen to be Lucia.
Vera rebukes her angrily. “What did you go and do that for?” she wants to know.
“What?”
“Don’t stick your nose into places where it has no business!” Vera says sharply. “Sylvia’s never going to forgive me.”
“You? I’m the one she’s angry at.”
“You just don’t get it,” Vera screams. “Idiot! You’ve ruined everything.”
“I didn’t mean …,” Stephie begins, but Vera isn’t listening. She takes a turn in the road and disappears, her red hair shimmering behind her.
“Will they send you home now, Stephie?” Nellie asks once they leave Sunday school.
“No,” Stephie says. “We can’t go home. There’s a war on, stupid.”
They can’t send her back to Vienna, no matter what she does. But maybe they can send her somewhere else. To a different family, or an orphanage. A new place where she won’t even have Nellie.
Nellie is quiet. When they get to Auntie Alma’s, she tries to be comforting.
“Well, if they send you home, at least you’ll get to be with Mamma and Papa.” She opens the front door and shouts, “Mother, here we are!”
Mother! Is Nellie calling Auntie Alma mother now? Stephie goes hot with rage.
“Auntie Alma’s not your mother,” she begins, but that’s all there’s time to say before Auntie Alma walks into the hall.
She ushers Stephie into the front room, closing the door behind them, and sits down at the table.