Aunt Märta pedals slowly up a long hill and stops at the crest. In front of them is the endless, leaden-gray ocean. The dark clouds form a ceiling over the water. Gray-brown cliffs and rocks extend along the edge of the ocean. The waves break on the cliffs, tossing showers of white spray. In the distance, just barely visible, there’s the brown silhouette of a sail against the backdrop of sea and sky. After that there’s nothing but the horizon, a thin ribbon of light at the far edge.
The end of the world, Stephie thinks. This must be the end of the world.
The road winds down to an isolated house, pressed up close to a stony cliff, as if seeking protection from the wind. There’s a red boathouse, too, down at the water’s edge. A boat is bobbing in the water, by a dock.
Thunder rumbles softly in the distance. A blinding streak of lightning illuminates the dark sky. Aunt Märta points down at the house and says something. Although Stephie doesn’t understand the words, she realizes that this is where she is going to be living. Way out at the end of the world.
four
The first drops of rain strike Stephie’s forehead as the bicycle rolls down the hill toward the house. The road ends at a gate. From the top of the hill the house looked tiny. Now Stephie sees that it’s two stories high, built upon a tall stone foundation. Steps leading up to the front door are flanked by windows that appear to be staring at Stephie. The house looks stern, with straight lines, flat surfaces, and no frills.
Aunt Märta props her bicycle against the house and walks up the steps, ahead of Stephie.
Back in Vienna, when Stephie opened the door to their apartment, she would catch whiffs of Papa’s cigars and Mamma’s perfume. After they moved and had only the single room, plus a kitchen they shared with three other families, there were always the smells of boiled cabbage and baby diapers. Every home has its own special odor. Auntie Alma’s house smelled of fresh bread. Here, Stephie’s nose takes in the sting of cleaning fluid.
Aunt Märta shows her around the house. In the kitchen everything is neat and tidy. There is an old wood-burning stove with a hood, as well as a modern electric range. The front room has rough wooden furniture. One corner is occupied by a big rocking chair. On top of a table covered with a thick, embroidered tablecloth is an enormous book. Presumably a Bible. There are blue-striped cotton curtains on the windows.
At the top of the stairs is a bay window under the gable, and a little niche with a bench. This is a spot Stephie instantly likes: light but still cozy, a place to sit and read, or just look out the window. Through an open door she glimpses a room with two beds.
Aunt Märta leads Stephie into a little room under the eaves, with a sloping ceiling. The drab, brown-patterned wallpaper makes the room feel even smaller than it is. At the far end is a tiny square window, barely large enough to let in any light. Under it are a table and a plain rib-backed wooden chair. Along the longer wall stands a bed with a crocheted spread, and on the other side of the door is a brown dresser with three drawers. That’s all. No decorations or bric-a-brac, no books, no art.
Unless, of course, you count the framed picture on the wall above the chest of drawers. It’s of a man with long hair and a beard, wearing a pink robe that touches the ground. He’s holding out his arms in a gesture of benediction. Behind him, wide rays of light extend from an invisible source.
That’s Jesus, Stephie thinks. Why would Aunt Märta put a picture of Jesus in my room? Doesn’t she know I’m Jewish?
Aunt Märta sets Stephie’s suitcase on the table and opens it. Obediently, Stephie begins to unpack. Aunt Märta shows her a curtained-off area on the landing where she’s supposed to hang her dresses. Behind a second curtain is a little table with a washbasin and a towel.
Stephie puts her stockings and underwear in the top dresser drawer, her sweaters and blouses in the next. In the bottom one she puts her books, her diary, her stationery and pens, and her jewelry box. She lays her scruffy teddy bear on the bed. Although it’s been years since she cuddled her bear at night, she couldn’t leave him behind.
She places her photos on the dresser. Separate portraits of her parents, and a picture of the whole family together on an outing to the Wienerwald park. Her papa is sitting on a log; Stephie is on the ground, leaning against his legs; Nellie is playing horsey, straddling the log; Mamma is standing behind Papa, her hands on his shoulders. She’s leaning forward a little, as if she’s about to whisper something in his ear.
The picture is two years old. In those days, the Steiners were still an ordinary family, taking the streetcar, going to movies and concerts, enjoying vacations. But less than a year after the picture was taken, the Nazis invaded Austria, annexing the country to Germany. Things the Steiner family had always taken for granted were suddenly prohibited. Forbidden to all people like them, to Jews.
Stephie sinks down onto the bed. Her head is pounding from exhaustion. She longs to sleep, and finds herself unable to get up off the bed until Aunt Märta returns to open each of the dresser drawers and scrutinize the contents. Aunt Märta takes out one or two garments and refolds them even more neatly.
When Stephie stands up, Aunt Märta smoothes out the bedspread, removing every wrinkle and crease. She signals to Stephie to follow her and goes back downstairs. Stephie walks slowly behind her, feeling as if she is entering unknown territory.
The table in the kitchen is set for two. Aunt Märta puts out their dinner: a steaming bowl of boiled potatoes and a serving platter with two fried fish on it. Whole fish, with the heads still on.
When they are seated, Aunt Märta clasps her hands and says a few soft words. After placing one of the fish on Stephie’s plate, she passes her the potatoes.
Stephie stares at the fish, and it stares right back at her with its dead, white eye. Aunt Märta cuts the head off hers and uses her knife to remove the skin. Stephie watches and imitates. The fish head is parted from the body with a horrid crack.
Aunt Märta pours two glasses of milk and hands Stephie a bowl of red preserves. Back home, they had jam with their pancakes, and sometimes raspberry jam in their tea. Papa always said his mother, who was born in Russia, drank her tea with a spoonful of jam in it. But jam with fish? Stephie takes a spoonful and puts it on her plate. To her relief, she sees Aunt Märta do so as well.
She pokes at the fish with her fork, then puts a tiny bite in her mouth and takes a deep drink of milk, swallowing as fast as she can. The milk masks the fishy taste.
If only she didn’t have that sickening fish head on her plate! She tries not to look at it. But pretending it isn’t there only earns her a mouthful of bones in her next bite. The bones stick in her throat.
She’s nearly emptied her glass. Does she dare ask for more milk? And what should she say?
She drinks up the last drop and points to the pitcher.
“Bitte,” she says. The German word for “please.”
Aunt Märta nods and pours her another glass. Stephie chews and swallows, chews and swallows. She hides as much of the fish as she can under the pile of skin and bones on her plate. Once again her milk glass is empty. She can’t possibly ask for even more, and can just barely get the last bite of fish to go down.
Aunt Märta’s finished eating. She gets up from the table, takes a pot of hot water from the stove, and pours it into the sink. Then she points to the plates and to the sink filled with water.
In the days when they lived in their own large apartment, Stephie’s family had a cook, a housemaid, and a cleaning lady who came once a week. After they moved, Mamma did all the housework herself. Papa thought Stephie and Nellie should help with simpler tasks like the dishes and dusting. But Mamma refused.