After the ceremony they return to their classrooms, and their teachers pass out the grades. “Final Grades,” it says at the top of the card. Her name, the date, and the grades are written in blue ink.

Mathematics and geometry: passed with great distinction. She has top marks in art as well. All her grades are good except for Swedish, where she gets only a “pass.” But in the margin Miss Bergström has written: Stephanie’s native tongue is not Swedish. In consideration of that fact, she has made excellent progress during the school year.

Biking home, Stephie smells lilacs as she passes the yards. The apple trees have almost finished blooming. White blossoms now cover the ground around the trunks like huge snowflakes.

“Take off your best dress” is the first thing Aunt Märta says when Stephie comes through the door. “We’ve got to get things ready for the summer guests today.”

“Here are my grades,” Stephie tells her.

Aunt Märta glances at the report card. “Well done,” she says, handing it back.

“I got a book, too. An achievement award.”

“You don’t say,” Aunt Märta answers. Her voice sounds a bit wobbly.

Stephie goes up to her room and changes to an everyday dress. They clean the entire house, every nook and cranny, just as thoroughly as at Christmastime. Tomorrow the summer guests arrive.

Stephie, Aunt Märta, and Uncle Evert will be moving down into the basement, which has one room and a simple kitchen. Stephie is going to sleep on a trundle bed in the kitchen.

Almost everybody on the island rents out to summer guests. Some people just rent out a room, but most turn their entire house over to the summer tenants and live in their basement. Sylvia’s family has a second house that stands empty all winter and is rented out just for the summer. So they go on living above the shop, as usual.

Stephie empties her dresser drawers and carries all her things down to the basement. There’s a chest of drawers for her in the boiler room, since there’s no space in the little kitchen.

She puts her photographs, jewelry box, and diary into an empty shoebox and stores it under the trundle bed. She leaves the painting of Jesus on the wall for the summer guests.

thirty-five

Their summer guests come in a taxi from the harbor the next day. The trunk of the taxi is loaded down with suitcases and boxes.

There are six people in all: an older couple, their two adult children, the daughter’s fiancé, and their housekeeper. Stephie hears Aunt Märta call the man “Doctor.” Like Stephie’s father. He has gray hair and glasses, and looks tired.

His wife is tall and graceful. She was clearly a beautiful young woman once. The daughter is nice-looking, with curly blond hair. She and her fiancé are always holding hands. The son is tall, with contemplative gray eyes and brown hair that hangs down over his forehead.

The best thing is that they have a dog, a brown-and-white fox terrier that jumps right up on Stephie and licks her hand.

“Putte likes you,” the doctor’s daughter says.

“I hope you aren’t afraid of dogs?” the doctor’s wife asks.

“Oh, no,” says Stephie, patting Putte on the head. “I love dogs.”

“You may walk him,” the doctor’s wife tells her, “whenever you like.”

Stephie helps the summer guests carry in their belongings. The son will have her bedroom. She hears his mother call him, and learns that his name is Sven. She wonders how old he is. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.

When everything is in order, the doctor’s wife gives Stephie a coin.

“Thank you for helping,” she says.

Stephie blushes. “You don’t need to pay me.”

“Oh, please don’t be offended,” says the doctor’s wife. “Buy yourself some sweets. Incidentally, where do you come from?”

“From Vienna,” Stephie tells her, putting the coin in her dress pocket. “Thank you very much.”

That afternoon Stephie goes to Auntie Alma’s. Their summer guests won’t be arriving until the next day. Auntie Alma, Nellie, Elsa, and John are just moving the last of their things down to the basement.

“I heard you got a book as an award at school,” Auntie Alma says.

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, I want you to know how proud Nellie was of her big sister when she came home and told us. You’re certainly a clever girl, I must say.”

“Not that it will matter,” Stephie answers.

“What do you mean?”

“Being clever at school. Since I’m not to be allowed to continue anyway.”

“To grammar school?”

Stephie nods.

“Well, you have to understand Märta and Evert’s situation,” Auntie Alma tells her. “It’s very expensive to have a child who boards in Göteborg. Not to mention the books and all the other costs.”

“I think Uncle Evert would let me go. Aunt Märta’s the one who’s against it.”

Auntie Alma sits quietly for a few minutes.

“Has it ever occurred to you that Märta might not want to see you go off to Göteborg?” she asks. “That she would miss you?”

It’s so ridiculous Stephie has to laugh. Aunt Märta, miss her!

“She doesn’t even like me,” she answers. “I can’t imagine why she took me in.”

“Has Märta ever told you about Anna-Lisa?” Auntie Alma asks. “Or has Evert, for that matter?”

“No. Who’s Anna-Lisa?”

“Anna-Lisa was Märta and Evert’s daughter,” Auntie Alma tells her. “Their only child.”

“I didn’t know they had children.”

“It’s fourteen years now since she passed away,” says Auntie Alma. “She was twelve when she died.”

“What did she die of?”

“Anna-Lisa was never a healthy child. Even as a baby she was often ill. Märta took wonderful care of her and was always very protective. But when Anna-Lisa was eleven she was diagnosed with tuberculosis. She lived her last six months at a sanatorium on the mainland, far away. The doctors said the dry inland country air would do her good. But it didn’t help.”

“The knitted cap,” Stephie says. “And the sled.”

“What about them?” asks Auntie Alma.

“Presents I’ve been given. They must have been hers. Anna-Lisa’s.”

It’s strange to think that the cap and mittens she wore all winter once belonged to another girl, a girl who died before she herself was born. Did Anna-Lisa ever wear them? Or did she die before Aunt Märta finished knitting them?

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Stephie asks. “Why don’t they have any photographs of her at home?”

“It was terribly painful for Märta,” Auntie Alma tells her. “She couldn’t even bear to see a picture of her after-ward. For over a year, Märta walked around more dead than alive herself. If she hadn’t had her faith in God, who knows where it would have ended. You should have seen her before, when Anna-Lisa was alive. So different from the way she is now. Full of life and afraid of nothing. She had an answer to every question and never hesitated to speak her mind. Though there was never a harsh word to Anna-Lisa, I’m sure. Märta was as careful of her as if she had been made of china.”

“But why did she take me in?”

“I don’t know. I’ve wondered myself. Perhaps out of the desire to save a child, because she wasn’t able to save Anna-Lisa.”

“Why couldn’t I live with you?” The words slip out of Stephie’s mouth before she can stop them. “We were supposed to stay with the same family. They promised.”

“I know,” said Auntie Alma. “I would have been happy to take you both, but Sigurd was against it. He felt one was enough. So the relief committee asked if I could find another family on the island, so you’d at least be close to each other. Märta never hesitated. But she didn’t want a little child, and so it was you.”