“Stephie,” Uncle Evert says, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What’s that?”

“This letter. Remember how I wrote to our member of parliament?”

As if she could have forgotten!

“Well, this is his answer,” Uncle Evert continues.

“What does he say?”

Uncle Evert sighs. “He says there’s nothing he can do for your mother and father.”

The plant slips out of Stephie’s hands, crashing to the floor.

“They can go to the Swedish embassy in Vienna and apply for entry permits, but their chances aren’t good. He writes that he has investigated the matter and as far as he can determine hardly any adult Jewish refugees are being granted entry to Sweden.”

Aunt Märta hurries into the room. “What broke?” she wants to know.

She sees the pot, and the soil and pieces of plant on the floor.

“Good grief, you are the clumsiest thing! My best geranium! And now, of all times.”

“Let the girl be,” Uncle Evert scolds. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”

He passes the letter to Aunt Märta. She reads it, then says in a gentler voice, “Would you please get the broom and clean up before Miss Bergström arrives?”

Stephie does as she’s told. When she’s finished she asks Uncle Evert if she may read the letter herself. She takes it up to her room and tries to decipher the difficult Swedish: “… a certain amount of restriction regarding the issuing of visas…”

She hears the front door open downstairs.

“Good to see you, Miss Bergström,” Aunt Märta says. “Do come in.”

“Thank you,” Miss Bergström replies. “Is Stephanie at home?”

“Yes, but-”

“I just want to say hello to her, too,” Miss Bergström adds.

“Stephie!” Aunt Märta calls up the stairs.

Stephie sets the letter aside and goes down.

“Good evening, Stephanie,” Miss Bergström greets her.

She sounds so formal. Miss Bergström is the only person on the island who calls her Stephanie.

“Good evening, Miss Bergström.”

“How fortunate you are to live here,” Miss Bergström begins. “You even have a room of your own.”

“Yes, it’s upstairs.”

“Good heavens,” Miss Bergström goes on. “I’m sure I haven’t been in this house for fifteen years. Not since Anna-Lisa-”

“Please come in,” Aunt Märta interrupts. “Come in and sit down.”

She shows Miss Bergström into the front room, where she’s set the table with coffee cups, a creamer, and a sugar bowl. It’s the best china, with gold edging and a flower pattern, not their everyday tableware. On a tall cake plate, there’s a sponge cake waiting to be served.

“Stephie, would you bring in the coffee, please?” Aunt Märta says while Miss Bergström is shaking Uncle Evert’s hand.

Stephie pours the hot coffee from the stove into the china pot Aunt Märta has taken out. Carefully she carries it in and sets it on the table. It’s heavy. Aunt Märta pours.

“Why don’t you take a piece of cake up to your room?” she says to Stephie.

So she’s not to be allowed to hear the discussion! Stephie looks at Miss Bergström, who just sits silently, stirring her coffee.

Stephie cuts a piece of cake and carries it out on a saucer.

“Please shut the door behind you.”

Stephie stands out in the hall for a while, listening to the mumble of voices through the closed door, unable to make out the words. Just as well to go upstairs, then.

She sits on her bed, eating her cake nervously. She gets crumbs on her bed, but doesn’t care.

Half an hour later she hears the front room door open.

“But Miss Bergström, you know I’d be very happy to walk you home,” she hears Uncle Evert say.

“There’s no need at all,” Miss Bergström replies. “Do promise me you’ll consider the matter.”

“We’ll think it over,” Aunt Märta answers.

“Thank you for the coffee and the delicious cake,” Miss Bergström concludes.

“It was nothing. Thank you for coming.”

They’re out in the hall now.

“Good night, Stephanie,” calls Miss Bergström up the stairs.

“Good night.”

“See you on Monday.”

The front door opens and closes. Miss Bergström’s visit is over.

thirty

“Things don’t always work out as we hope,” Uncle Evert tells Stephie. “We have to take life as it comes and make the best of it.”

Stephie draws her fingernail across the oilcloth on the table, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say. They’ve made up their minds. She’s not going to grammar school come fall.

“Don’t sit there moping,” says Aunt Märta. “You’ve nothing to be dissatisfied about. We care for you as if you were our own. You should be grateful.”

“I am,” says Stephie, her voice breaking.

“Chin up, now,” Uncle Evert says. “Everything will be all right, you’ll see. If you end up staying here for a long time, we will make sure you learn a useful trade in the end.”

“May I please be excused?”

Aunt Märta nods. “All right.”

“Thank you for a nice dinner.”

Stephie puts on her coat and walks down to the beach.

The spring sun has melted the ice during the last few days, and the snow is melting, too, dripping from the boat-house roof. A black-backed gull is crying overhead. “Caw, caw, caw!” He sounds as if he’s laughing at her.

She sits down on the upturned dinghy, gazing out across the water. There are still a few sheets of ice in the inlet. The water glistens, clear blue. Far away, on the other side of the ocean, is America. Will she ever get there?

For the second time, Stephie carries the books back to Miss Bergström, who accepts only the math book.

“Please keep this one, anyway,” she says, passing Ensign Stål back to Stephie once again. “You can read it and return it to me when you’re done.”

Stephie reads a few of the verses in the book, about a long-ago war. It’s not the kind of poetry she likes.

Every day after school when Stephie sees Sylvia, Ingrid, and the three boys who are staying on for extra tutoring, her heart aches. If she had been one of them, wild horses wouldn’t have been able to keep her away from school. As things are, she feels some satisfaction when a spring cold forces her to stay home for a few days.

Because Stephie’s sick, Aunt Märta lets her sleep as late as she likes in the morning. One day Aunt Märta has already left for the village when Stephie gets up. Barefoot, she tiptoes downstairs in her long nightgown.

The morning sun slants in through the window of the front room. Stephie turns on the radio, raising the volume so she can hear it in the kitchen. She slices some bread, and then gets the butter cooler and the milk pitcher from the pantry.

Right in the middle of a piece of music, there is an interruption. First silence, then static, then a solemn voice comes on:

“This is a special broadcast from the Swedish news agency. German troops have invaded Norway and Denmark. Norwegian radio reports that the Germans took control of the Norwegian ports at three in the morning. German battle ships are now in the Oslo fjord…”

Stephie stands still as a statue in the middle of the kitchen floor, pitcher in one hand, butter cooler in the other.

Oslo ’s not far away at all. If the Germans have gone to war against Denmark and Norway, Sweden will probably be next.

When Aunt Märta gets back, she finds Stephie sitting on a chair with her feet tucked in under her, still in her nightgown. Her breakfast is on the kitchen table, untouched. The news broadcast has ended but she hasn’t turned the radio off. Ordinarily Aunt Märta would have been annoyed and scolded Stephie for listening to music.

“You’ve heard?” is all she says now.

“Yes.”

“I found out at the post office,” Aunt Märta says. “It’s awful. Just terrible.”