Annika Thor - A Faraway Island

“What would you do your math homework in, then?” Stephie asks.

“Math’s so boring,” Nellie answers, making a face.

On Saturday Uncle Evert comes home. He’s obviously been told that Stephie’s going to start school, because he has brought her a present wrapped in paper from a shop in Göteborg.

The parcel contains a wooden pencil case. The sliding top fits perfectly in its grooves. Along one side of the top are measurement markings. If you slide the top all the way off, you can use it as a ruler. The box has two long, narrow compartments for pens, and a special little space for an eraser.

“Oh, thank you!” Stephie exclaims. “Thank you so much, Uncle Evert.”

“You’re spoiling the girl,” mutters Aunt Märta.

Uncle Evert ignores the comment. “I think you’re going to do well in school,” he tells Stephie. “You’re so alert and interested.”

On Sunday evening Stephie packs her things for school, putting all her pencils and her fountain pen into the pencil box, along with her new eraser. The knapsack is heavy.

“It really is a shame you can’t ride a bicycle,” Aunt Märta says. “I’d let you use mine and you could do the shopping on your way home. It would save me a trip to the village, since you’ll be there anyway.”

Everyone on the island rides a bike, or at least all the adults and all the children Stephie’s age do. The little ones ride on the carrier or sit on the handlebars. The big kids ride in crowds, jabbering as loudly as the flocks of seagulls that come in from the ocean to gobble morsels on land.

Stephie is the only one who can’t ride a bike. And she’s positive she’ll never learn.

On her first school day, Stephie heads off early. It’s a cold morning, so she buttons her blue coat all the way up.

Nellie’s waiting for her by the gate at Auntie Alma’s. Her hair is in braids, with big pink ribbons tied at the ends. Auntie Alma comes out and stands on the steps to wave them off.

The elementary school classrooms are in a white building opposite the big schoolhouse. Nellie’s teacher comes out to greet her. She’s young and pretty, with blond braids fastened around her head.

Stephie heads across the street and stands outside the fence of the other schoolyard. She watches as lots of children run around, shouting and laughing. The clock over the door is at ten minutes to eight. Ten minutes to go. As she walks through the gate, she scours the yard for Vera, then for Britta from Sunday school, but there’s no one she knows.

The time passes slowly. Stephie wishes she could make herself invisible. Although no one seems to notice her, she feels as if everyone is staring. She shouldn’t have worn her coat and hat. The other girls just have sweaters over their dresses and are bareheaded, even though it’s October. The boys are in shorts and knee socks, which slip down when they run and climb.

The school bell rings. At last, Britta comes running with a jump rope in her hands.

“Come on,” she says to Stephie. “You’re in my class.”

The sixth-grade room is upstairs. The children form two lines, girls to the left of the door, boys to the right.

Vera smiles at Stephie, the special kind of smile you smile at someone with whom you share a secret. Stephie tries to stand next to her in line, but the blond girl shoves her roughly.

“That’s my place,” she says.

Stephie goes to the back to the line. Britta is right in front of her.

“Pay no attention to Sylvia,” Britta whispers, turning around. “She thinks she’s in charge.”

The bell rings a second time and the classroom door opens. The teacher stands in the doorway, greeting each pupil as they go in, first the girls, and then the boys. Each child remains standing behind his or her desk, except for Stephie, who waits by the door.

The teacher is tall and thin and wears her hair in a bun just like Aunt Märta’s.

“Good morning, children,” she says to the class.

“Good morning, Miss Bergström,” thirty high and low voices reply.

“You may take your seats.”

There is slamming and banging as the children settle in.

“We have a new pupil in our class today,” Miss Bergström says. “Come to the front, Stephanie.”

Stephie walks toward the teacher’s desk.

“Stephanie has been on a long journey to get here,” Miss Bergström tells the class. “All the way from Vienna. What country is Vienna in? Sylvia?”

“ Austria,” Sylvia answers.

Miss Bergström pulls on a string and down comes a map in front of the blackboard. A map of Europe.

“Stephanie, would you show us the country you come from?”

Stephie walks over to the map. But she cannot find the familiar outline of Austria. Instead, she just sees Germany, round as a balloon.

“It ought to be here,” she says in bewilderment, pointing to the lower part of the balloon.

Miss Bergström studies the map a moment. “ Austria has become part of the German Reich,” she says with composure. She points. “This is Vienna, the musical capital of the world. And here is the highest mountain chain in Europe. What is it called? Vera?”

“The Himalayas,” Vera replies.

The whole class laughs.

Miss Bergström sighs, then asks Britta if she knows the right answer.

“The Alps.”

“Stephanie, have you been to the Alps?”

Stephie shakes her head.

“The Alpine landscape,” Miss Bergström tells them, “is very fertile and-”

There is a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Miss Bergström says in an annoyed tone.

An awkward figure enters the room. It’s the boy from down at the dock, the one who offered Stephie and Nellie a ride in his boat.

He has to be at least fourteen. What’s he doing here, in the sixth grade?

“Excuse me for being late,” the boy mumbles.

Miss Bergström sighs. “Just sit down, Svante.”

Svante walks sluggishly, taking a seat at the back of the room. He’s so big he just barely fits behind the desk.

Miss Bergström brings the geography lesson to an end.

“Stephanie is a foreigner among us,” she says. “Because of this terrible war she has had to leave her home and family.”

Stephie gazes out over the fair-haired boys and girls. She meets their gazes, some curious, others sympathetic. Thirty pairs of blue, gray, or green eyes meet her brown ones.

“I hope you will be very kind to Stephanie,” Miss Bergström continues. “And that you can overlook the fact that she doesn’t talk the way you do. That is because she isn’t Swedish, wasn’t born here like all of you.”

Not-like-you-not-like-you echoes in Stephanie’s head. It reminds her of the chug-chugging of the train on the tracks. She feels weak-kneed and dizzy.

“May I sit down now?” she asks.

Miss Bergström nods.

Britta raises her hand. “Could she sit next to me? I know her.”

“So do I,” says Svante.

Sylvia laughs, whispering something to the heavyset girl at the desk next to hers.

They have math for the first hour. The problems are easy, simple division Stephie learned in fifth grade. She waves her hand eagerly and finally gets a chance to solve one problem at the blackboard.

“Quite right,” Miss Bergström tells Stephie when she is done. “Very good.”

“Verrrrry good,” Sylvia imitates in a whisper. Miss Bergström pretends she hasn’t heard.

When recess comes, Stephie hopes Vera will find her, but she doesn’t. Vera spends recess in a corner of the schoolyard, among a crowd of girls that includes Sylvia. Sometimes Stephie senses them looking at her. She wonders what they’re saying.

Britta, though, seeks her out and asks if she wants to jump rope. Stephie does just fine until she notices Svante staring. Then she gets nervous and misses a step. So she has to turn the rope.