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.

eighteen

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?”