A Faraway Island (19 page)

“Oh, well,” Vera says. “I’ll be getting married. Maybe to a rich man, one of the summer visitors. I’ll live in the city and have a cook and a housemaid.”

She stands up and looks in the direction of the gate. Now Stephie notices Sylvia and Barbro, standing on the road with their bikes. They’re waiting for somebody. Vera.

“It’s different for you,” Vera tells her. “You’re the grammar school type.”

“Hurry up, Vera,” Sylvia shouts. “We’re leaving!”

“You don’t have a bike, do you?” Vera asks.

“No.”

Stephie would rather the other children think she isn’t allowed to bike than have them find out that she doesn’t know how.

“Too bad,” Vera says. “We could ride home together if you did. Bye.”

She mounts her bike and pedals over to Sylvia and Barbro. Stephie watches them disappear down the road.

Stephie doesn’t mention grammar school to Aunt Märta that day. The next day Miss Bergström brings her the books. The math book is much more difficult than the one they use in class. It has problems with
x
and
y
instead of numbers.

Stephie takes the books home and asks Aunt Märta for paper to cover them with.

“Isn’t it late in the semester to be getting new books?” she asks. “And who gave those to you, anyway?”

“Miss Bergström lent them to me,” Stephie replies. “They’re for the extra tutoring I’ll be taking to prepare for grammar school.”

“Really! It’s no use your thinking about going on,” Aunt Märta snaps. “There’ll be no grammar school for you.”

Stephie just stares at her.

“But I’m going to be a doctor!” she cries. “I have to go to grammar school.”

Aunt Märta barks a short little laugh that sounds more like a cough.

“It’s about time you became more realistic and dropped those fine-lady thoughts of yours,” she says. “Where do you think you are, after all? Do you think we’re made of money? We can’t afford room and board in town for you; surely you understand that. And what good would it do? We don’t even know how long you’re going to be here.”

“But what will I do, then, after the school year’s over?”

“Help me in the house,” Aunt Märta tells her. “And
when autumn comes you can take the home economics course here on the island. Like most of the other girls do.”

“I don’t want to take some old home economics course!” Stephie protests. “I want to stay in school, real school!”

“That’s the last I want to hear about it. You’re too stubborn for your own good. Now you go up to your room and stay there until you’re ready to apologize.”

The following day Stephie takes the math book and
Ensign Stål
back to school without paper covers. She asks to speak with Miss Bergström at recess.

“I’m not allowed to go on to grammar school,” she tells her.

Miss Bergström frowns. “Hadn’t you asked permission before you raised your hand?”

“No.”

“I see,” Miss Bergström says. “Do you know what? I’m going to come and have a word with the Janssons.”

“Oh, thank you,” Stephie gasps. “Miss Bergström?”

“Yes?

“Wait until Friday. Uncle Evert’s coming home then.”

“Will he be easier to persuade?”

Stephie nods. “I think so. And Miss Bergström? Please don’t say anything in class. About me not being allowed to go on.”

Miss Bergström understands. “No, I won’t.”

On the way home Stephie stops in at the post office as usual. There is nothing but a brown envelope with a typed address, to Evert Jansson. Aunt Märta sets it on the side-board for Uncle Evert’s return.

On
Friday there’s fried mackerel for dinner, as usual.

“Stephie’s teacher is coming over this evening,” Aunt Märta says when they are finished eating. “She wants a word with us.”

“What kind of trouble are you in now?” Uncle Evert asks Stephie, but she can hear from his tone that he’s joking.

“None at all,” Stephie replies. She doesn’t want to talk about grammar school when Aunt Märta’s listening.

“We’ll see about that,” Aunt Märta says.

After dinner Stephie is instructed to dust the front room, although she dusted it just a couple of days before. Aunt Märta says things have to be spic and span when Miss Bergström comes.

Uncle Evert comes in while she’s straightening up.

“Uncle Evert,” Stephie begins.

“Yes?”

Just then he catches sight of the brown envelope on the sideboard. He takes out his pocketknife and cuts the seal.

“You know,” Stephie goes on, “Miss Bergström’s coming over because … well, not because of anything I’ve done wrong.”

“Now don’t you worry,” Uncle Evert tells her distractedly, pulling a typed sheet of stationery out of the envelope.

“I’m not worried,” Stephie replies. “But I … I’d really like …”

She stops talking because she can tell Uncle Evert isn’t listening. The more of the letter he reads, the deeper the crease in his forehead becomes.

Stephie lifts a potted plant to dust the windowsill.

“Stephie,” Uncle Evert says, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What’s that?”

“This letter. Remember how I wrote to our member of parliament?”

As if she could have forgotten!

“Well, this is his answer,” Uncle Evert continues.

“What does he say?”

Uncle Evert sighs. “He says there’s nothing he can do for your mother and father.”

The plant slips out of Stephie’s hands, crashing to the floor.

“They can go to the Swedish embassy in Vienna and apply for entry permits, but their chances aren’t good. He writes that he has investigated the matter and as far as he
can determine hardly any adult Jewish refugees are being granted entry to Sweden.”

Aunt Märta hurries into the room. “What broke?” she wants to know.

She sees the pot, and the soil and pieces of plant on the floor.

“Good grief, you are the clumsiest thing! My best geranium! And now, of all times.”

“Let the girl be,” Uncle Evert scolds. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”

He passes the letter to Aunt Märta. She reads it, then says in a gentler voice, “Would you please get the broom and clean up before Miss Bergström arrives?”

Stephie does as she’s told. When she’s finished she asks Uncle Evert if she may read the letter herself. She takes it up to her room and tries to decipher the difficult Swedish:
“… a certain amount of restriction regarding the issuing of visas …”

She hears the front door open downstairs.

“Good to see you, Miss Bergström,” Aunt Märta says. “Do come in.”

“Thank you,” Miss Bergström replies. “Is Stephanie at home?”

“Yes, but—”

“I just want to say hello to her, too,” Miss Bergström adds.

“Stephie!” Aunt Märta calls up the stairs.

Stephie sets the letter aside and goes down.

“Good evening, Stephanie,” Miss Bergström greets her.

She sounds so formal. Miss Bergström is the only person on the island who calls her Stephanie.

“Good evening, Miss Bergström.”

“How fortunate you are to live here,” Miss Bergström begins. “You even have a room of your own.”

“Yes, it’s upstairs.”

“Good heavens,” Miss Bergström goes on. “I’m sure I haven’t been in this house for fifteen years. Not since Anna-Lisa—”

“Please come in,” Aunt Märta interrupts. “Come in and sit down.”

She shows Miss Bergström into the front room, where she’s set the table with coffee cups, a creamer, and a sugar bowl. It’s the best china, with gold edging and a flower pattern, not their everyday tableware. On a tall cake plate, there’s a sponge cake waiting to be served.

“Stephie, would you bring in the coffee, please?” Aunt Märta says while Miss Bergström is shaking Uncle Evert’s hand.

Stephie pours the hot coffee from the stove into the china pot Aunt Märta has taken out. Carefully she carries it in and sets it on the table. It’s heavy. Aunt Märta pours.

“Why don’t you take a piece of cake up to your room?” she says to Stephie.

So she’s not to be allowed to hear the discussion! Stephie looks at Miss Bergström, who just sits silently, stirring her coffee.

Stephie cuts a piece of cake and carries it out on a saucer.

“Please shut the door behind you.”

Stephie stands out in the hall for a while, listening to the mumble of voices through the closed door, unable to make out the words. Just as well to go upstairs, then.

She sits on her bed, eating her cake nervously. She gets crumbs on her bed, but doesn’t care.

Half an hour later she hears the front room door open.

“But Miss Bergström, you know I’d be very happy to walk you home,” she hears Uncle Evert say.

“There’s no need at all,” Miss Bergström replies. “Do promise me you’ll consider the matter.”

“We’ll think it over,” Aunt Märta answers.

“Thank you for the coffee and the delicious cake,” Miss Bergström concludes.

“It was nothing. Thank you for coming.”

They’re out in the hall now.

“Good night, Stephanie,” calls Miss Bergström up the stairs.

“Good night.”

“See you on Monday.”

The front door opens and closes. Miss Bergström’s visit is over.

“Things
don’t always work out as we hope,” Uncle Evert tells Stephie. “We have to take life as it comes and make the best of it.”

Stephie draws her fingernail across the oilcloth on the table, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say. They’ve made up their minds. She’s not going to grammar school come fall.

“Don’t sit there moping,” says Aunt Märta. “You’ve nothing to be dissatisfied about. We care for you as if you were our own. You should be grateful.”

“I am,” says Stephie, her voice breaking.

“Chin up, now,” Uncle Evert says. “Everything will be all right, you’ll see. If you end up staying here for a long time, we will make sure you learn a useful trade in the end.”

“May I please be excused?”

Aunt Märta nods. “All right.”

“Thank you for a nice dinner.”

Stephie puts on her coat and walks down to the beach.

The spring sun has melted the ice during the last few days, and the snow is melting, too, dripping from the boat-house roof. A black-backed gull is crying overhead. “Caw, caw, caw!” He sounds as if he’s laughing at her.

She sits down on the upturned dinghy, gazing out across the water. There are still a few sheets of ice in the inlet. The water glistens, clear blue. Far away, on the other side of the ocean, is America. Will she ever get there?

For the second time, Stephie carries the books back to Miss Bergström, who accepts only the math book.

“Please keep this one, anyway,” she says, passing
Ensign Stål
back to Stephie once again. “You can read it and return it to me when you’re done.”

Stephie reads a few of the verses in the book, about a long-ago war. It’s not the kind of poetry she likes.

Every day after school when Stephie sees Sylvia, Ingrid, and the three boys who are staying on for extra tutoring, her heart aches. If she had been one of them, wild horses wouldn’t have been able to keep her away from school. As things are, she feels some satisfaction when a spring cold forces her to stay home for a few days.