“Vera returned the bicycle,” Aunt Märta says. “Vera Hedberg. She thought you might have run home. She told me the whole story.”

“But Putte,” Stephie says. “I had to let him go. I think… I think he must be dead.”

“Dead?” Aunt Märta exclaims. “He’s no more dead than I am. He came hobbling home quite early, around ten o’clock. Apparently he injured a paw, but the doctor’s wife says he’ll be fine.”

Stephie can no longer hold back her tears. She rests her head on her arms along the tabletop and sobs.

“I just don’t understand you, my girl,” Aunt Märta tells her. “Crying because the dog’s not dead?”

Stephie hears Aunt Märta’s words, but she also hears a different voice. Softer than usual.

“Mimi’s dead,” Stephie manages to say between gulps.

“Now you blow your nose. Aunt Märta passes her a handkerchief. “And tell me what you’re talking about.”

So Stephie tells her all about the night when the men with the guns came. The night they took Papa away.

“They banged on the door, and then knocked it down before anyone could open it. There were lots of them, maybe ten. They all had guns, but none of them wore a uniform. A few came into our room. They told us to get up and go out into the hallway. Mamma wanted to give Nellie and me our slippers, but they wouldn’t let her.

“We had to line up in the hall,” Stephie continues. “Everyone who lived in the apartment: Mamma, Papa, Nellie and me, the Goldbergs and their baby, old Mrs. Silberstein and her blind son, the Reichs and their three children. The floor was freezing cold. One of the men, the one giving the orders, kept marching back and forth in front of us. Every so often he would point his gun at someone.”

“I’ve never heard the like,” says Aunt Märta. It sounds as if she is talking to herself, not to Stephie.

“Mimi began to whine,” Stephie goes on. “Why couldn’t she have kept quiet? I guess their dogs, two huge German shepherds, scared her. ‘Oh, so you’ve got a dog,’ one of the men said. ‘Don’t you know Jew-vermin aren’t allowed to have pets?’ ‘The dog belongs to the children,’ Papa said. That was when the man shot her. Mimi fell on her back, legs thrashing. Then she was still. There was blood on the floor. I got some on my foot.”

“Dearest child,” Aunt Märta says. “My dear little child.” She puts a hand atop Stephie’s head, stroking her hair. “You go to bed now,” she tells her. “Try to get some sleep. We won’t let anybody harm you here.”

thirty-nine

The smell of coffee tingles in Stephie’s nose. She opens her eyes. Aunt Märta is standing by the stove pouring coffee into a blue-flowered cup.

“Oh, awake at last,” she says. The voice is her usual abrasive one.

It must all have been a dream. It can’t be possible that Aunt Märta spoke gently and kindly to her yesterday. Stroked her hair. Stephie must have been dreaming.

“I’m getting up right now,” Stephie assures her, sitting up in the trundle bed.

“Do that,” Aunt Märta says. “And put on a nice dress. We’re going to pay a visit to the shopkeeper’s summer guests.”

That can only mean one thing: Stephie is going to have to apologize to that freckle-faced boy.

“Do I have to?”

But Aunt Märta’s already gone into the other room to make her bed.

Stephie gets dressed and has some bread and butter. She has no appetite, but she forces herself to finish, eating as slowly as she can. Then she combs her hair, as slowly as she can, in front of the mirror.

Aunt Märta’s getting impatient. “Won’t you be ready soon?”

“Yes,” says Stephie. “But I can’t find my barrette.”

She knows very well where it is: in the pocket of the dress she had on yesterday. Aunt Märta gives her a different one.

“Let’s go,” she says.

Outside, they find Sven crouching down, scratching Putte’s belly. Putte’s on his back, kicking his legs. One of his paws is bandaged.

“How is he?” Stephie asks.

“He’s all right,” Sven tells her. “Nothing’s broken, just some swelling. He’s going to be fine.”

“Come along,” Aunt Märta says brusquely. “You can talk about it later.”

Stephie sits behind her on the carrier, just like the day she arrived. When they get to the last curve before the shop, Vera appears, jumping off a rock where she’s clearly been waiting for them.

Aunt Märta walks the bike the rest of the way.

“Now, Vera,” she says. “Have you considered what I said to you?”

Vera nods.

Instead of going into the shop, Aunt Märta opens the gate to the yard. The shopkeeper comes out onto the steps.

“Good morning,” he says. “Can I help you?”

“Good morning,” Aunt Märta replies. “There’s something we need to speak with your summer guests about.”

“I see,” says the shopkeeper. “Well, I believe they’re up.”

“I should hope so,” Aunt Märta scoffs. “It’s not exactly the crack of dawn.”

She marches into the yard with Stephie and Vera on her heels. The shopkeeper follows close behind.

The summer guests are sitting outside having their morning meal. Both boys are there, as well as a younger girl, just as freckly as her brother. The man of the family is tall and heavyset, and almost bald. His wife looks much younger, with neatly permed fair hair. There’s a young girl in a white apron serving them at the table.

“Excuse me,” says the shopkeeper. “There’s someone to see you.”

“Märta Jansson,” Aunt Märta introduces herself. “This is my foster daughter, Stephanie.”

“Aha,” the bald man says. “And what can we do for you?”

“Can this not wait?” his wife asks, annoyed. “We’re at breakfast.”

The freckle-faced boy avoids looking at Stephie. He keeps his eyes lowered and seems completely preoccupied with his bowl of oatmeal.

“You finish eating,” says Aunt Märta. “We can wait.”

Sylvia appears, coming through the back door of the shop. She stops a short distance from the table in the yard, pretending she’s weeding a flower bed.

“Go right ahead,” says the man. “Speak your piece.”

“It concerns one of your sons,” says Aunt Märta.

“I see,” the man says. “Ragnar, was this the girl?”

“Yes,” the boy mumbles, without looking up. His spoon clatters against the bowl.

“We’re prepared to let the matter go,” says Ragnar’s father. “His trousers are ruined, but we’re not going to demand compensation. An apology will suffice.”

“Perfectly new trousers,” the woman adds angrily. “And bloodstains on his shirt. There must be something wrong with that girl!”

“If anyone should apologize,” says Aunt Märta very slowly and clearly, “it is certainly not Stephanie.”

“I see,” the man repeats. “Who do you think ought to, then?”

“Perhaps your son didn’t explain why Stephanie hit him?”

“No,” his father replies, waving his hand as if Aunt Märta were a bothersome fly he was trying to get rid of.

“Well, let me tell you, then,” Aunt Märta goes on. “She hit him because he called her a ‘filthy Jew-kid’ and said the Germans would soon be here to get her.”

The bald man goes bright red. His palm slaps the table-top so hard the coffee cups rattle and the cutlery clatters.

“Is that true?” he asks his son.

“No,” the boy says. “She’s lying. Isn’t she, Gunnar?”

His brother shrugs. “I didn’t hear,” he replies.

“Is that so?” Aunt Märta asks. “Aren’t fine folks like you brought up to tell the truth?”

“Well, it’s her word against theirs,” the man says. “It may be an excuse your foster daughter invented after the fact.”

“Vera,” Aunt Märta says, “who’s telling the truth? Stephie or that young man?”

Vera almost whispers her answer. “He called her… that name. And he kicked Putte.”

“Vera came to my house yesterday morning,” Aunt Märta tells everyone. “At the time, neither she nor I had yet spoken with Stephie, who was so frightened she was hiding. Vera told me the whole story, and a few other things I didn’t know as well. But that,” she says, looking meaningfully at Sylvia and the shopkeeper, “will have to be a later matter.”