Annika Thor - A Faraway Island

“Nothing.” Stephie does her very best.

“What do you think?” Sylvia asks Barbro. “Does that sound like Swedish to you?”

“Nope,” says Barbro.

“You’ll have to be punished,” Sylvia tells her, gathering up a wad of snow. Stephie backs away, but Barbro’s already behind her. Sylvia pushes the snow right into Stephie’s face, as if she were washing it.

“Look!” She grins. “What a crybaby!”

Stephie starts wiping the snow from her face. While her hands are over her eyes Barbro drops a handful of snow between her coat collar and her neck. Sylvia is gathering more snow to wash Stephie’s face again.

The girls are both bigger and stronger than Stephie. There’s no use trying to run away.

At that very moment a snowball comes flying through the air and hits Sylvia smack in the middle of her forehead. Sylvia totters and steps back. Barbro lets go of Stephie from behind, turning around to see who threw it.

Svante is on the road, making another snowball.

“Two against one, that’s cowardly!” he shouts.

Sylvia shakes the snow off her coat.

“Oh, well, we were done anyway,” she says to Barbro. “Let’s go.”

Stephie brushes snow off her hair and coat. She pokes little bits out from under her collar, and wipes her face with her handkerchief. She turns to Svante.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“So you’re not mad at me anymore, then?” he asks.

“No,” Stephie assures him. “I’m not angry.”

She can’t help giggling. Svante to the rescue!

“Thank you again,” she says. “I’d better be getting home.”

The next day there is no mail for her, nor the day after, either. On the third day the woman behind the counter at the post office is waving an envelope when she sees Stephie come in through the door.

“Your letter’s arrived!” she shouts proudly, as if it were all thanks to her.

Letter in hand, Stephie dashes home and runs up the steps to her room. She tears the envelope open. As usual, there are two letters inside.

My dearest Stephie, her mother writes. I’ve finally received the photographs sent by Mrs. Lindberg. You both look so healthy and fit, and what a cute foster sister and brother Nellie has! Mrs. Lindberg looks like a kind woman, too. I’m so sorry there’s no picture of your foster mother. I’d really like to know what she looks like.

I see you’ve cut your hair. It makes you look older, unless something else is different, too. I begin to see what you’ll look like when you’re grown up.

“I see you’ve cut your hair.” As if it didn’t matter at all. As if Mamma hardly cared.

Ever since the last letter from her mother, Stephie’s been worried about the pictures, afraid her mother would be angry with her for cutting her hair. Now it almost feels worse that Mamma isn’t angry at all. Has she stopped caring about Stephie altogether?

“Stephie,” Aunt Märta calls from the kitchen, “come help with the ironing!”

Aunt Märta has spread a blanket over the kitchen table, and an old, threadbare sheet on top of it. One of Stephie’s jobs is to see to it that there’s always a hot iron ready. When the one Aunt Märta is using gets cold, Stephie is supposed to hand her a hot one from the stove top and put the cold one back on the wood-burning stove to heat up. She’s also supposed to dampen the laundry by shaking a bottle of water with a sprinkle top, and help fold the ironed clothes.

It takes them all the way to dinner to get through the pile of wrinkly shirts, blouses, dresses, and aprons. Stephie doesn’t have a chance to read Papa’s letter until after the meal.

Stephie, my big girl! Our hopes of making our way to America are dwindling. I know we are asking a great deal of you, and that you are still a child, but I would be very grateful if you could try to help your mother and me.

Papa is asking her for help! Almost as if she were an adult. Stephie reads on eagerly.

Perhaps Sweden, which is not involved in the war, would take us in. Please ask your foster parents to help you contact the authorities. Tell them that we are being persecuted here, and that we need to get out. For the moment the Germans are not stopping us from leaving, as long as there is a country that will take us in. Do your best, my dear one, and write and tell us how it is going.

She will show them she can do it. The relief committee will surely arrange for Mamma and Papa to come. She’ll talk to Auntie Alma after school and ask her to phone immediately.

The next day she goes right to Auntie Alma’s after school. She pretends she’s come to play with Nellie, but it turns out Nellie is leaving.

“I’m on the way to Sonja’s,” Nellie says. “We’re going to build a snowman in her yard.”

“Oh, well,” Auntie Alma says. “You come in anyway, Stephie. I’m sure you’re ready for a snack, now that you’ve come all this way.”

She puts milk and sweet rolls on the table.

“We don’t see much of you nowadays,” she says. “But I suppose you’re very busy with school and your friends.”

Stephie waits until Nellie has left before she speaks up. Taking a sip of milk, she gathers her courage.

“Auntie Alma,” she beings hesitantly, “my father’s asked me to try to arrange for him and my mother to get permission to come here. Things are very difficult for them at home now.”

Auntie Alma looks distressed. “Oh dear,” she says. “I would help you if I could. But politics… I can’t get involved. Sigurd wouldn’t like it.”

“Politics?” Stephie doesn’t see what Auntie Alma means.

“Well, what do we really know about what’s going on down there? After all, they wouldn’t put innocent people in prison, would they?”

Stephie stares at Auntie Alma’s round face and her hair, curling at the temples. She has always thought Auntie Alma seemed kind, but at this very moment she’s afraid the kindness is a kind of barrier, one that Stephie can’t penetrate.

“Thank you for the snack,” she says. “I have to go now.”

Uncle Evert is out on a long fishing trip and isn’t expected back for another week. Aunt Märta is her only alternative.

“I heard from my father,” Stephie begins.

Aunt Märta nods without looking up from her darning. “Ah.”

“They haven’t been granted entry visas to America. Papa doesn’t think they will be, either.”

“Our destinies are in the hands of the Lord,” Aunt Märta replies.

Stephie feels like grabbing her and shaking her up.

“They can’t stay in Austria,” she says. “They just can’t! Don’t you see, Aunt Märta?”

“Don’t you use that tone of voice with me, young lady,” Aunt Märta retorts.

How could she ever have imagined Aunt Märta would help her? No one can. She’ll never see her mother and father again.

Her tears overwhelm her so fast she can’t get out of the room first. Stephie is sobbing, loud and hard.

“I want to go home!” she wails. “I want to go home!”

“Settle down now,” Aunt Märta says. “I’ll phone the relief committee tomorrow. Not that I think it will do any good. But it’s the duty of a good Christian to help those in need.”

Stephie stares at Aunt Märta through her tears. Aunt Märta’s face is solemn and determined. She looks like someone who has made up her mind.

“Go wash your face,” she tells Stephie. “And I want no more tantrums, do you hear?”

While Stephie rinses her burning-hot cheeks with cold water, she thinks that maybe there is a glimmer of hope. If anyone can make people do what she wants, it’s Aunt Märta.

“What did they say?”

Stephie’s in the kitchen doorway, out of breath and red-faced. She’s run the whole way home from school.