there.
Stephie takes a couple of cautious steps down into the crevice. The air is cool and damp. Under her feet there’s soft, sandy soil.
She continues farther in and hears the murmur of running water. There’s a little rivulet springing up out of the stone, running down the side of the rock. Stephie cups her hands, holding them under the trickle. Then she takes a little sip. The water smells of earth and iron, but it doesn’t taste bad.
Just before the other end of the crevice, she discovers a little cave. Inside, the sandy soil is covered with thin green grass. A cool, shady spot.
Stephie lies down. The grass tickles her bare arms and legs. It’s very quiet. She can’t even hear the ocean in here. The only sound is the persistent chirruping of a grasshopper.
She stays in the cave for a long time. Sleeps for a while, lies awake thinking. Nibbles on cookies, one at a time.
In the end she gets cold. Stiffly, she rises and walks back through the crevice. She splashes her face with water and has another drink. Strangely, she no longer feels hungry, just weak and dizzy.
The sun has begun to sink in the west, down toward the surface of the water. Then it sets so fast, Stephie thinks she can almost see it slip into the water. The sky is cloudless, the pastel colors shifting rapidly from pink to purple to pale blue to green. Just before the sun disappears it is shrouded in a grayish pink haze.
The warmth in the air vanishes in a hurry. Stephie shivers. She’s got to get something warm. Perhaps there’s an old blanket or sweater in the boathouse.
It’s getting dark. The sky is deep blue, except in the west, where there is still a band of light. Aunt Marta must be asleep by now. She goes to bed at ten every night, summer and winter. The summer guests might still be up, but she’ll have to take that risk. She’s too cold and hungry to wait any longer.
Stephie walks along the beach, approaching the house from below. The white paint looks almost iridescent in the twilight. The windows are all dark except the one in her room upstairs. Sven must be up; he’s probably reading in bed. He’ll surely never lend her any more books.
The door of the root cellar creaks when she opens it. Quickly she gathers some tins, a jar of jam, and a couple of carrots, putting everything in a paper bag.
Now I’m a real thief, she thinks.
She needs a bottle to fill with water from the pump.
They keep empty bottles and jars on the top shelf. Stephie has to stand on a step stool, and even there she has to stand on tiptoe to reach. Just as she’s extending her arm to take a bottle, she loses her balance and grabs the edge of the shelf. It totters and, for a moment, Stephie is sure all the bottles and jars are going to crash to the floor.
But she’s lucky. The shelf holds. She takes a bottle and gets down off the stool. Setting the paper bag of provisions outside the root cellar door, she heads for the pump.
As she turns the corner of the yard, Stephie sees to her horror that there’s a light on in the basement.
She’ll have to pass by the lighted window to reach the pump, and she decides that the best thing to do is to sidle along the wall of the house and crawl under the window, which is only about a yard above the ground.
One step at a time, Stephie creeps to the window and crouches down. But her curiosity gets the better of her and she raises her head just high enough to peek in over the sill.
The light comes from the basement bedroom. Aunt Marta’s sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, a long braid hanging down her back. Stephie’s never seen her hair in anything but a bun before.
Aunt Marta’s head is bowed. It can’t be true, but she actually appears to be crying.
Stephie cranes her neck to see better. At that very moment Aunt Marta raises her eyes, and looks right through the window. Stephie ducks as fast as she can, but it’s too late.
“Hello?” Aunt Marta cries. “Is anybody there?”
It would still be possible for Stephie to run, grab the bag of provisions, and be out of sight before Aunt Marta got outside.
“It’s me,” says Stephie, standing up.
Aunt Marta isn’t angry. She takes Stephie by the hand, leads her into the basement kitchen, and makes her some sandwiches and cocoa.
“Eat now,” she says. “You must be starving.”
“I took some food from the root cellar,” Stephie whispers. “It’s in a bag outside.”
“Were you going to run away?” Aunt Marta asks.
Stephie doesn’t know how to answer. So much has happened, and she’s very tired.
“There were these boys,” she begins. “Outside the shop.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Aunt Marta interrupts. “I know all about it.”
A bite of bread catches in Stephie’s throat. Somebody’s already told Aunt Marta what she did. Was it the shopkeeper? Or the parents of the boys? Of course the doctor’s wife must have come down to find out where Putte was. As soon as she has eaten her sandwiches, Aunt Marta will scold her, and tomorrow she’ll have to make her apologies.
“Vera returned the bicycle,” Aunt Marta 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 Marta 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 Marta tells her. “Crying because the dog’s not dead?”
Stephie hears Aunt Marta’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 Marta 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 Marta. 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 Marta 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
“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 Marta 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.
