Aunt Märta’s in the rocking chair, reading the newspaper.

“Excuse me,” Stephie begins. “It’s Lucia Day on Wednesday.”

Aunt Märta looks up. “Is it?” she replies.

“I’m going to be one of the handmaidens.”

Aunt Märta nods. “That’s nice.” She turns the page.

Stephie gathers her courage. “I’ll need a long white gown.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Aunt Märta says in a voice that is almost gentle. “Off to bed with you, now.”

The evening before Lucia Day Stephie finds a folded, neatly ironed garment on her bed. She unfolds it. It’s a long, cotton flannel nightgown that buttons all the way up. White, but with a faded pattern of little blue flowers still slightly visible.

Stephie had imagined a Lucia gown as different, prettier, with lace and ribbons like a wedding dress. But Aunt Märta must know best. Stephie folds it back up neatly, wraps it in tissue paper, and packs it in her schoolbag.

The next morning she leaves a whole hour earlier than usual. They’re going to rehearse the Lucia performance before the rest of the class arrives. It’s snowy and windy-an easterly wind for once, so it’s against her as she walks to school.

Miss Bergström has already let the other children in. The girls are getting ready in the classroom, while two boys who are participating change in the map room down the hall.

Vera has on a simple white gown with a little round collar. Miss Bergström is tying a wide red silk sash around her waist. Sylvia is twirling around, showing off her lovely cotton gown with wide lace edging on the collar and sleeves.

Ingrid, the class monitor, is changing in the corner. She, too, is pulling a completely white cotton gown over her head. All the girls have solid white gowns.

Stephie goes over by Ingrid and starts changing. She shivers with the cold, hurrying to remove Aunt Märta’s flannel gown from her schoolbag. Ingrid, peeking out of the corner of her eye, does a double take.

Stephie pulls the gown over her head and starts buttoning all the little buttons. The sleeves are a bit too long and keep getting in her way.

“Look,” Barbro calls out. “Look at Stephie!”

Everyone looks. Sylvia bursts into loud laughter.

“She’s just got an old nightgown!”

“Flowered!” Barbro snorts.

Gunvor and Majbritt join in the laughter. Ingrid looks toward Miss Bergström and laughs behind her hand. Vera, pale and nervous, doesn’t seem to notice what’s going on. And she isn’t laughing.

“Quiet,” Miss Bergström shouts. “Stop, this very instant.”

“She can’t wear that, can she?” Sylvia asks. “It will ruin the whole Lucia procession. It’s bad enough she can’t sing.”

Miss Bergström sighs. “Just wait here,” the teacher says. “I’ll organize a different gown. Ingrid, you keep everyone in order, please.”

It feels as if Miss Bergström’s gone for a very long time, though it’s probably no longer than ten minutes. Stephie removes the nightgown and pulls on her cardigan over her undergarments so she won’t freeze. The other girls brush their hair and gossip in whispers. Vera repeats the Lucia verses over and over again.

“We’re not going to have much time to rehearse now,” Ingrid complains.

“Right,” Sylvia agrees. “And whose fault is that?”

Finally Miss Bergström reappears with a gown. It’s too short for Stephie, but Miss Bergström lets down the hem.

“No one will notice,” she tells Stephie. “But you’ll have to take it home and hem it back up. I borrowed it from the caretaker’s wife. It’s too small for her daughter this year.”

They rehearse the songs a couple of times. Then they stand waiting in the map room.

“Now,” Miss Bergström says, opening the door to the hall. She lights the six candles in Vera’s heavy crown. The handmaidens each carry a lit candle between their clasped hands. Slowly the group walks down the hallway, where the rest of the class is lining the walls, watching. Stephie and Ingrid are right behind Vera, with Sylvia and Barbro next, followed by Gunvor and Majbritt and, last of all, the two boys, dressed in long white robes and pointed hats topped with gold stars.

They are nearly at the classroom door when Stephie feels a hand grab one of her braids. She hardly has time to react before she hears a hissing sound and smells a nasty, burnt odor.

“Fire!” someone shouts.

Stephie has her right braid in her hand now and is staring at it. All the hair below the rubber band is singed, leaving only scorched ends.

“What on earth happened here?” Miss Bergström asks.

“I don’t know,” says Sylvia innocently. “Stephie must have tossed her head and her braid touched my candle. Or Barbro’s.

“Right,” Barbro agrees. “That must be what happened.”

Stephie says nothing. Sylvia is her enemy, and she’s stronger than Stephie.

twenty

The big scissors from the kitchen drawer rest heavily in Stephie’s hand. She lifts her scorched braid and looks at it. The burnt ends reek.

The house is silent. She’s all alone.

She tests the scissors on the hair just below the rubber band holding her braid tight. Then she raises the scissors a little higher up, and higher again, until they graze her neck.

In the mirror over the washbasin, Stephie’s face is pale. She looks herself straight in the eyes and cuts.

The sharp edges eat their way into the thick braid. Stephie tightens her grip until the blades meet with a firm clink.

Her cut-off braid hangs loose in her hand like a dead snake. Looking into the mirror again, Stephie sees a strange sight. Half her face looks like the Stephie she knows, the other like a strange creature with wild black hair sticking out every which way.

She hears the front door open and shut.

“Stephie,” Aunt Märta calls, “are you home?”

“Yes,” she calls back, never taking her eyes off the mirror.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing much.”

“You’ve got mail,” Aunt Märta says.

Braid in hand, Stephie goes downstairs. Aunt Märta stares at her.

“What have you done, girl? Have you lost your mind?”

“I only meant to cut off a little,” Stephie tells her. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“Ah, well,” says Aunt Märta. “Short hair’s very practical, really.”

Stephie sits on a chair in the kitchen with an old towel around her neck. Aunt Märta unbraids the other side of her hair and cuts it all to an even length. Big tufts fall onto the newspapers Aunt Märta has spread out on the floor.

Then Aunt Märta gets smaller scissors from her mending basket and evens off the ends. Stephie shuts her eyes. She can hardly believe the hands so gently and carefully touching her hair are the rough hands she knows as Aunt Märta’s.

When Aunt Märta is done, Stephie goes to the hall mirror to have a look. Her hair doesn’t look funny now, but she barely recognizes herself. Her neck appears to be long and thin and her eyes look larger. The weight of the braids she always felt when she moved her head is gone. She feels naked.

Aunt Märta passes by with her cut-off braid, throwing it and the rest of the hair into the rubbish pail. When Stephie sees her braid lying among potato peels and fish bones, she wishes she had saved it. But it’s too late now.

After Stephie has cleaned up the newspaper and swept the loose strands of hair off the floor, Aunt Märta opens her bag and gives her two letters.

One has a German stamp and Papa’s handwriting on the envelope. The other is postmarked in Göteborg and bears the return address of the Swedish relief committee.

Stephie’s heart is pounding. It must mean something that these two letters arrived on the same day. Just think if everything is arranged! Just think if Mamma and Papa have their entry visas for America!

Aunt Märta pulls the letter opener through the flap on the envelope from the Swedish relief committee, even though it’s addressed to Stephie.