On the dock is a big, awkward-looking boy in clothes that are too small for him. Stephie recognizes him. He spends almost every afternoon down at the harbor, helping clean the nets and bail out the dinghies. When the steam-boat from town comes in, he brings deliveries ashore for the shopkeeper.
“Want a boat ride?” he asks them. “I’ve got a boat, too, you know.”
He looks at Stephie expectantly. His mouth gapes, his face is pimply.
“No,” Stephie says, pulling Nellie along. She picks up speed to pass him by.
“Are you sad, Stephie?” Nellie asks her. “Because the sailors wouldn’t take us?”
Stephie doesn’t answer.
“I’m not upset,” Nellie tells her. “I’d rather go home.”
“We’re not ever going to be able to go home,” Stephie sputters. “Don’t you see?”
“You’re mean to me,” Nellie cries. “I’m going to tell Mamma how mean you’re being.”
She starts to run up the street. Stephie runs after her, grabbing her by one braid.
“Ow,” Nellie whines, aiming a kick at Stephie’s leg.
Stephie holds on to Nellie tightly, looking her straight in the eye.
“You’re not going to write a single word about this to Mamma, do you hear? Especially not about wanting to go home. You mustn’t write anything that will make her unhappy. Understand?”
Nellie stares angrily down at her feet and nods.
“Promise?”
Nellie nods again. Stephie lets her go, and Nellie takes a few steps back to get beyond her sister’s reach.
“But I’m going to tell Auntie Alma,” she shouts over her shoulder as she turns and runs down the street.
eleven
We don’t really know what this will mean for us yet, her father wrote. It may be more difficult to get out of the country, or just the opposite: perhaps America and other nations that are not involved in the war will now be more willing to take in refugees. Time will tell.
During her rambles around the island, Stephie spends a lot of time thinking about all the things her father’s letter didn’t say. Will Papa have to join the army? Or be sent back to the labor camp? Will passenger boats be crossing the Atlantic during the war? Might the war spread all the way to Sweden?
One day Stephie invents a new game.
“Now we’re in Vienna,” she tells Nellie.
Nellie looks around, bewildered. “We are?”
“Don’t you see?” Stephie insists. “We’re walking down Karntnerstrasse; we’re on the wide sidewalk there. The street is lined with fancy shops on both sides.” She points to the bedrock rising on either side of the path.
“The shop windows are bright,” she continues, “and full of beautiful things. Clothes, shoes, fur coats, perfume. Do you see?”
Nellie nods eagerly.
“Close your eyes,” Stephie tells her. “Listen carefully. Can you hear the clattering of the tramway, and the passing cars?”
She shuts her own eyes, too, listening. When you aren’t looking you can easily imagine that the breaking waves sound like traffic noises.
“Here comes a tram,” Nellie shouts. “And another.”
“Right,” Stephie agrees. “Now we’re passing the opera house. Remember when we got to go see
“I’d rather go to the park,” Nellie interrupts her. “To the playground. It’s a lot more fun there.”
“But we’re going in the other direction today,” Stephie insists. “Tomorrow you get to decide. Come on, let’s cut across Heldenplatz.”
“Where are we headed?” Nellie asks.
“To the Freyung to see what’s for sale at the market.”
“That’s a long way,” Nellie protests. “I want to go home now.”
“No, it’s not so far. Close your eyes and hold my hand. We’ll be there soon.”
Stephie shuts her eyes again, almost feeling as if she really were on the narrow streets of the old town. She has to think about every step so as not to stumble on the rough path. Pretending the bumps are cobblestones rather than rocks and roots, she goes on.
The sound of footsteps disturbs their fantasy game. Stephie’s eyes snap open.
On the path in front of them is the girl with the red hair. She smiles and tosses her hair; it blows in the wind.
“Hello!” she says. “My name’s Vera. What are yours?”
“Stephie.”
Nellie stands silently, eyes lowered. Stephie gives her a nudge.
“Nellie,” she says softly, not looking at Vera.
“Come on,” says Vera, motioning for them to follow her. They scale a low stone wall and cross a slope with dry grass and heather before arriving at a crevice in the bedrock. There’s a tangle of thorny bushes there. Big, black berries shine out among the leaves. Vera picks a few and extends them in the palm of her hand. Stephie hesitates. Is this a nasty joke? Will the berries be bitter, so they’ll have to spit them out? Will Vera laugh at them?
“Stephie, are they poison?” Nellie whispers from behind her.
Stephie takes a berry and puts it in her mouth. It’s sweet and tasty. She takes another.
“So they’re not poison?” Nellie asks, reaching out. Vera gives her a few berries. Nellie puts them all in her mouth at once. “Yum,” she declares. There’s deep purple juice on her lips.
“Blackberries,” Vera explains. “Haven’t you ever tasted them before? Black berries, not black bears!”
She begins imitating a bear: crawling on all fours and growling loudly. When Vera rears up on her back legs, Nellie is doubled over with laughter. But suddenly Nellie becomes serious.
“Stephie, are there any bears here? For real?”
“No,” Stephie reassures her. “Bears live in big forests. There are hardly even any trees on this island.”
Nellie peeks suspiciously into the deep crevice in the bedrock. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Stephie replies. “I promise.”
But as her eyes follow Nellie’s into the rock crevice, she, too, begins to wonder what other wild, dangerous animals could be hiding in there.
They all pick berries, eating them right off the bushes, and soon their fingers are all purple. Vera laughs and prattles. Stephie answers, using the few words of Swedish she knows.
Stephie’s skirt gets caught on a thorny branch. She tries to disentangle it, but the thorns grip like claws and refuse to let go. Stephie pulls harder. The cloth rips with a loud sound.
She stares down at her skirt; a gaping hole stares back. Next to it is a berry stain from her hands. What will Aunt Marta say?
Vera looks frightened. Only Nellie continues picking and eating the berries as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Have to go home,” Stephie tells Vera.
Vera nods understandingly. “Fix it,” she says, making sewing motions.
The three girls walk part of the way together. Then Vera turns off, up a path so narrow it’s almost invisible. With a wave and a smile she’s gone.
Stephie decides to go straight home. If she’s lucky Aunt Marta will be out, and even if she’s at home, Stephie
