by Annika Thor
“Alice Martin? Not in the least!” Harriet sounds indignant. “Alice’s face is a whole different shape. If the actress looked like anyone, it was you.”
“You’re joking,” says Stephie.
“I am not,” insists Harriet. “You’ve got big eyes like hers, and long eyelashes.”
They’re so busy talking they don’t notice the people around them. By the time Stephie spots a familiar face in the crowd, it’s too late to get away.
It’s the round, cheerful face of Miss Holm, the lady from the post office on the island, and the gossip monger of the community.
“Well, if it isn’t our little Stephie,” she says. “So you were at the movies, too? Imagine! I thought the Janssons were religious. This is my sister, who lives here in Göteborg. And I suppose these girls are your classmates. How nice to see you, dear. Drop in to the post office the next time you’re visiting, and we can have a chat.”
Stephie is rigid with fear. On Monday Miss Holm will be behind the window at the post office, telling every single customer about her visit with her sister in Göteborg, about how they went to the movies, and how she happened to see Stephie outside afterward. By Tuesday, at the very latest, Aunt Märta will know all about it, as will all the other members of the Pentecostal church.
whole week after the movies, Stephie keeps expecting Aunt Märta to turn up at the kitchen entrance in her city coat and hat, to give Stephie a good talking-to or even to take her back to the island, away from the temptations of city life.
But Aunt Märta never appears. Could Stephie have been lucky? Could Miss Holm have forgotten all about it? Perhaps she didn’t find it so remarkable to bump into Stephie in Göteborg. She probably had lots of other interesting things to tell people after her visit.
On Thursday after school, Stephie goes to May’s. As they’re walking from the tram, she sees Sven in front of them on the street. This time there is no doubt about it: he’s no more than twenty yards ahead and Stephie knows it really is him. He turns in at the tavern. Stephie slows down enough to have a look through the window. She watches Sven hang up his coat and sit down at a table. His back is to the window and his body is blocking the table, so Stephie can’t tell if there is anyone sitting opposite him.
“What are you looking at?” May asks. “Was that somebody you know?”
“No,” Stephie says. “I got it wrong.”
“That makes sense,” says May. “I didn’t think you knew anybody around here.”
The minute they walk into May’s courtyard, Britten comes running.
“May, May,” she shouts. “Hurry up! Ninni can’t breathe.”
May rushes over with Stephie at her heels. Ninni’s sitting in the pile of gravel that serves as a sandbox, coughing and gasping for air, trying to scream. Her little face is going blue and she looks as if she is choking.
“Ninni,” May screams, picking her up in her arms. “Ninni, don’t die on us!”
Suddenly Stephie remembers something from a very long time ago, when Nellie was little.
“Quick, we have to get her inside,” she instructs May. “Britten, do you know where your mamma is?”
Britten nods.
“Run as fast as you can. Tell her she has to get hold of a doctor. Ninni has the croup.”
“How do you know?” Britten asks.
May just gives her a push. “Didn’t you hear what Stephanie said?” she shouts. “Go on!”
Britten rushes off while May runs up the stairs with Ninni in her arms and Stephie right behind.
“We have to boil some water,” Stephie tells May.
May nods. “Take the big enameled pot from the larder.”
Stephie lights the gas stove and fills the pot with water. Ninni has a hacking cough. It sounds awful, as if something inside her were smashing to pieces.
“Are there some old sheets we can soak and hang up?” Stephie asks.
“Take the twins’ sheets from under the settle.”
Stephie pulls out a set of sheets from beneath the kitchen settle and holds them under the faucet. Once they’re soaked, she hangs them over the kitchen washing line. Dripping water makes a puddle on the floor.
Ninni’s whole body is arched, and she’s gasping for air. Her little round face is blue and pale.
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“An umbrella?” asks May in bewilderment.
“She has to inhale steam,” Stephie explains. “We need an umbrella to keep the steam close to her.”
“No, we don’t have an umbrella,” May says, almost beside herself with fright. “She’s dying, can’t you see she’s dying?”
“We’ll use a blanket instead,” says Stephie.
She pulls a blanket out of the drawer under the settle. May is sitting on a chair, rocking Ninni in her arms and weeping.
Finally the water begins to boil.
“Come over here,” says Stephie. “Hold her as close to the pot as you can without getting scorched.”
May places Ninni’s head over the steaming pot. Stephie takes the blanket and makes a tent of it over Ninni, May, and the boiling water.
After just a few minutes, Ninni is coughing less and breathing more easily. At first she struggles as if to free herself from May’s grip, but a few minutes later she has calmed down and relaxed.
“I can hardly breathe in this heat,” May says from under the blanket. She pops her head out, her face all red and her glasses fogged up.
“Want me to hold her for a while?”
They change places.
Under the blanket the heat is unbearable. Ninni’s little body is sweaty and slippery. Stephie feels a surge of relief when May’s mother comes rushing in with Britten close behind.
“I’ve got a taxi outside. Give me Ninni and I’ll take her to the hospital.”
They carry Ninni down to the taxi and make another little tent in the backseat out of one wet sheet covered by the blanket. May’s mother shuts the door and the taxi takes off.
“How did you know what to do?” asks May.
“My papa’s a doctor,” Stephie says. “That’s what he did when my little sister got the croup.”
After a couple of hours, May’s mother is back. Ninni has to spend the night in the hospital.
“But she’s out of danger,” May’s mother tells them. “The attack passed, and when I left, she was asleep. The doctor said it was lucky she got to inhale steam right away. Things could have been much worse otherwise.”
“I was so scared,” says May. “I thought she was dying.”
“You both did an excellent job,” May’s mother says. “Stephanie, you must know how grateful I am.”
Grateful. For almost a year and a half, Stephie has heard people telling her how grateful she ought to be to everyone who has helped her. Now May’s mother is grateful to her. It’s an unexpected pleasure.
May’s mother doesn’t go back to work. She sits in the kitchen over a cup of coffee for a long time.
“After an experience like this, we deserve a little treat,” she says, sending Britten to buy two Danish pastries. Stephie and May get to split one; May’s mother shares the other one with Britten.
No homework gets done that afternoon. The other women in the building heard the commotion and saw the taxi, and they drop by, one by one, to find out what the excitement was all about. May’s mother pours them coffee and tells the story over and over again. The women share their woes and compliment Stephie and May for saving Ninni.
Stephie finds all the attention a little embarrassing, but at the same time, she’s proud of herself. As she walks to the tram, her head is so full of the afternoon’s events she doesn’t even remember to be on the lookout for Sven.
she gets home that evening, there’s a letter on the table in the hall.
Dearest Stephie,
Thank you for the letter. It gave us great pleasure. And please forgive our delay in answering! We’re working so hard and have such long days, it’s difficult to make time for
the most important thing of all: writing to you and Nellie. Mamma had to stop working for the old woman. She works at a factory now, which means she has even farther to walk than before. In the evenings she spends hours standing in line at the special stores where Jews are permitted to shop, where all they sell is rotting vegetables and meat that has gone bad from the regular shops. As for me, I continue to walk back and forth to the Jewish hospital, as Jews are no longer allowed on tram number 40! Life has become more and more unbearable, and everyone who has a way is trying to get out of Vienna. Your friend Evi and her parents left last week. For a very long time they felt safe, what with Evi’s mother being Catholic, but the persecution is now so pervasive that no one escapes. They have gone to live with their relatives in Brazil, traveling via Portugal. We’ve filed another application with the United States consulate, along with your aunt Emilie and her husband. Aunt Emilie has managed to make contact with a distant relation in New Jersey, who has promised to try to help us. Maybe we will have better luck this time. In any case, we have not given up hope and will not as long as we know our girls are there waiting for us. But if we fail, and if we are not able to write very often, you must know that we are thinking of you and Nellie, that we think of you every day, even every hour.
With much love from your papa
In an instant all the pleasure she was just feeling is swept away.
Imagine if she had been able to come home and tell her parents what she had done that day! They would have been proud of her, she knows.
Why should she be the one with a dark shadow hanging over her all the time?
Why can’t she be like the other girls, who worry most about getting a bad grade, or having a nose that’s too big?
Why did her parents send her away?
For her own good, she knows, but still …
She feels lonely, terribly lonely and abandoned.
She hears a melody coming from the other side of the wall.
Warily, she knocks on Sven’s door.
“Come in.”
She opens the door.
“Oh, it’s you. Come in and sit down.”
Sven lifts a pile of books and papers off a chair and sits down on his bed. Stephie just stands in the middle of the room.
“What’s wrong?” Sven asks. “What’s happened?”
That’s when she begins to weep. Not sobbing, just tears running silently down her cheeks.
“Stephanie,” says Sven. “Poor you. Come here and sit down.”
When she still doesn’t move, he gets up, takes her by the hand, and leads her over to the bed. Sitting down next to her, he puts an arm around her shoulders. She leans her head on his chest, feeling his warmth. He smells faintly of aftershave. She has never been this close to him before.
They sit perfectly still. She wishes that this moment would last forever, that they would never move—Sven with his arm around her, her with her head to his chest. She can hear the beating of his heart.
In the end, he’s the one who shifts. Turning to the side, he puts one hand under her chin and raises her face to his.
Now, she thinks, shutting her eyes. Now he’ll kiss me.
She parts her lips slightly, like the film stars do.
But Sven doesn’t kiss her. Opening her eyes, she sees him take a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe away her tears. Then he releases her, gets up, and walks over to the Victrola. Only now does Stephie realize that the music has ended and that the needle has been scraping the middle of the record.
“Tell me, what happened?” He pulls the desk chair over so he’s sitting opposite her.
“There was a letter from Papa,” she says.
“What was in it?”
“It’s so awful. Mamma has to work in a factory now. They have hardly anything proper to eat. Papa is no longer permitted to take the tram to work. And Evi’s left for Brazil. I may never see her again.”
It’s as if the dam has burst. Everything Stephie’s been keeping pent up inside spills out: all her thoughts and her dreams, all her longing and her worries.
Sven listens.
“I wish I could help you,” he says when she finally stops. “That I could do something so your parents would be able to come here.”
Stephie nods without saying anything. She knows there is no more to be done. Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert, and even Mrs. Söderberg, have already done all they can to help Mamma and Papa get entry visas for Sweden.
“Friends have to be able to talk to each other about everything, don’t they?” Sven asks her then.
Stephie nods again. But she can’t help wondering whether Sven really talks to her about everything—or whether he’s keeping certain things secret. Things having to do with Mayhill and a tavern.
week has passed since Stephie was at the movies, and no punishment has yet been called down on her, by God or by Aunt Märta. Still, she’s worried about what will happen the next time she goes to the island.
The fall semester is drawing to a close, and schoolwork is taking more and more of Stephie’s time. There are several quizzes and tests each week.
Stephie isn’t particularly worried about her grades. She knows that she’s at the top of the class, along with Alice and a girl named Gunnel. Of course, her Swedish isn’t perfect, but the last time they turned in compositions, Miss Ahlberg said that she had a surprisingly large Swedish vocabulary, and that her spelling had improved greatly since the start of the school year.
“Not to mention, Stephanie, that you have such an active imagination,” she added.
In math and biology Stephie is sure of getting a top grade. Hedvig Björk isn’t the kind to have favorites, but she does appreciate the girls who show an interest in her subjects.
Miss Krantz continues to be critical of Stephie’s German pronunciation, but she usually turns to Stephie if she wants the right answer to a grammar question. Stephie always knows, though she can’t always explain why a certain answer is correct, and she isn’t always able to refer to the correct chapter of their grammar book. Stephie doesn’t really know why she should be. If she knows the right answers from the wrong ones, why on earth does she have to be able to quote the rule?
German tests are always translations, both from Swedish into German and the other way around. When Stephie does translations to Swedish, Miss Krantz takes off points for her Swedish mistakes. Still, she has never caught Stephie making a single error when she translates to German.
One afternoon, just after they’ve had a test returned, May says to Stephie, “It’s not fair of Miss Krantz to deduct for your Swedish. She’s our German teacher. What does your Swedish have to do with it?”
Basically, Stephie agrees. But there’s nothing she can do about it.
Toward the end of November, they’re having the last math test that’s going to count toward their grades for the first semester. The day before the test, Stephie forgets to take her math book home. She realizes it’s still in her desk when she and May have left the schoolyard and are turning the corner by the city theater.
“You go on ahead,” she tells May.
“I have time to wait.”
“That’s all right. You go on.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Stephie runs back, crosses the schoolyard, and bounds up the steps. She hopes Hedvig Björk, whose class they had during the last period that day, will still be there.
The classroom door is open; Hedvig Björk is wiping the blackboard. “Excuse me. I forgot my book,” Stephie pants, out of breath.
Hedvig Björk smiles. “You sound like you’ve been running for your life.”
Stephie gets her book from her desk and is about to leave.
“Since you’re here,” Hedvig Björk says then, “would you mind doing me a favor, Stephanie?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Take this book to Miss Hamberg. I think you’ll find her in the staff room, but if she isn’t there, you can just put it on her desk, the one over in the far c
orner, next to mine. You do know where the staff room is, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for helping me.”
The school building is quiet and empty. Stephie’s footsteps echo in the hallways.
She knocks on the door to the staff room, but no one comes to open it. She pushes at the door and finds that it’s unlocked.
She doesn’t feel completely comfortable walking in when no one is there, but she opens the door.
The light coming through the window hits her eyes, but Stephie discerns a figure inside. It’s not a teacher.
It’s Alice.
She’s standing at Hedvig Björk’s desk, bent forward as if she has been rummaging through the piles of paper on it. She straightens up and sees Stephie. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to leave this book for Miss Hamberg.”
“Miss Björk asked me to get something for her,” Alice says, “but I can’t find it. You can put the book over there, on Miss Hamberg’s desk.”
There’s something fishy going on. If Hedvig Björk asked Alice to go and get her something, she could also have sent the book for Miss Hamberg with her. But if she didn’t send Alice, what is Alice doing in the staff room? What has she been looking for on Miss Björk’s desk?
“Don’t worry,” Stephie says. “I won’t tell.”
Alice avoids her gaze. “What do you mean? Tell what? You’re always imagining things. You’ve been spying on me since the very first day of school. Sitting by the pond in the afternoons—staring at me when I pass. I’ve told you to leave me alone. Don’t you get it?”
Stephie hears her own voice, clear but distant, as if it belongs to someone else: “Why do you hate me?”
“Because you make me so ashamed.”
“Me? Why?”
“My family has lived here for four generations,” says Alice. “We’ve never had to be embarrassed about being Jewish. My parents and even my grandparents speak perfect Swedish. My father’s a prominent businessman. We socialize with everyone worth knowing in this city. But now you refugees are turning up. People who have nothing, and who can’t even speak Swedish. That makes it different for us, too. People might think we’re like you.”