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 aren’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.

nineteen

“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.

Stephie’s on the edge of her chair, holding one hand on each side of the seat, as if afraid she’s going to fall off. She can hear Nellie and the little ones in the kitchen.

“Why did you take it?” Auntie Alma begins. Her voice has a sharp tone Stephie’s never heard before.

“I’m sorry,” Stephie whispers. “I’m so terribly sorry it broke.”

“I don’t mind about the dog,” Auntie Alma explains. “What I’m upset about is that you took it without asking. Don’t you know that’s stealing?”

“I meant to put it back,” Stephie says so softly she’s almost breathing the words.

“But it’s wrong to take things that belong to others,” Auntie Alma goes on. “‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Haven’t you learned that at Sunday school?”

“I already knew it,” Stephie says in a louder, more defiant tone. Auntie Alma must think she never learned anything at home. As if the Ten Commandments had been invented by these islanders.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Auntie Alma tells her. “I’ve always stood up for you until now.” She sounds offended, as if she thinks Stephie took the dog just to make her feel bad. “Why did you do it?”

Stephie doesn’t say anything. Auntie Alma glares at her sternly.

After some time Stephie speaks up. “I just wanted to hold it,” she says.

Auntie Alma sighs.

“I regret it,” Stephie says. “I truly repent. I will never do anything like that again. Please forgive me, Auntie Alma.”

At those words Auntie Alma smiles and pats Stephie on the cheek.

“Good girl,” she says. “I forgive you. As long as you are truly repentant.”

But that’s not the end of it. That evening there is a prayer meeting at the Pentecostal Church. Stephie has to go along with Aunt Märta; it doesn’t help that she was at Sunday school just that very morning. At the meeting, Aunt Märta instructs her to kneel down.

“We must pray together,” she says.

Aunt Märta begins to pray out loud, in her powerful voice. She prays for Jesus to guide Stephie on the true path and to help her refrain from sin. Stephie’s cheeks are on fire. She peeks out of the corner of her eye to see whether others are listening.

“Pray,” Aunt Märta commands, nudging her in the side.

“Dear Jesus,” Stephie begins, but then doesn’t know how to go on. “Dear Jesus, help me not to be a bad girl. Make me good. And make Sylvia nicer, too. And let me soon be with Mamma and Papa again.”

“Pray for forgiveness,” Aunt Märta whispers.

“And forgive me for taking Mimi from Auntie Alma’s cupboard.”

“Mimi? What kind of foolish talk is that?” Aunt Märta scolds as they are leaving the meeting. “Names are a privilege reserved for the living. And boats, of course.”

Stephie keeps quiet. She’s thinking about a real little dog named Mimi. A little dog with brown patches in her white fur and a damp, black nose.

Before she goes to bed she gets her knapsack ready for school the next day. There’s a piece of paper with the text to the song for Lucia. She has to know it by heart before Wednesday, Lucia Day. It’s a difficult melody, but she plans to sing softly, and mouth the words.

It’s Sunday, and she still hasn’t spoken to Aunt Märta about the white gown she needs. Soon it will be too late. Aunt Märta probably won’t want to go all the way to Göteborg to get one. Will there be one she can borrow? Or could they make one?