A Faraway Island

“… taken in at some port…”

“… maybe by radio…”

At five in the afternoon the newscaster reports that the Germans have occupied the main post office and the police station in Oslo, and that German aircraft have landed in southern Norway. Aunt Marta turns the radio off.

“I’m going to make some dinner,” she says. “We have to eat, in any case. You’re all welcome to spend the night, if you like.”

They put Auntie Alma and the little ones up in the guest room, and Nellie is supposed to sleep on a mattress on the floor of Stephie’s bedroom. This is the first time in nearly eight months they’ve shared a room.

“Stephie?” Nellie asks when they’ve turned out the lights.

“Mmm?”

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

“I’ve got a cold. You’ll catch it.”

“I don’t care.”

Nellie cuddles up in Stephie’s bed with her. Her feet are icy cold on Stephie’s legs. Stephie puts her arms around her.

“If they come here, what will you and I do?” Nellie asks.

“We’ll move somewhere else,” Stephie replies.

“Where to?”

“To… Portugal.”

“ Portugal,” Nellie says. “It’s hot there, isn’t it? They don’t have snow, do they?”

“Right,” Stephie answers. “Only sandy beaches and palm trees as far as the eye can see.”

“That was what you said it would be like here, too,” Nellie reminds her.

“I remember. I was wrong.”

“Will Mamma and Papa also be able to go to Portugal?”

“I don’t know,” Stephie says. “We’d better go to sleep now.”

Nellie stops talking and turns over. Stephie thinks she’s fallen asleep, but then she hears her sister’s voice again in the darkness.

“Stephie? Just think if the war goes on for so long Mamma and Papa don’t recognize us when it’s over.”

“They’ll recognize us,” says Stephie. “Even if the war goes on for years. I know they will.”

They fall asleep cuddled close together. Like when they were little, in the nursery at home.

thirty-one

Uncle Evert comes home the next evening, earlier than expected. He is pale and exhausted. A fishing vessel from one of the nearby islands was blown up by a mine.

“Six men dead,” Uncle Evert tells them. “It could just as easily have been us. We were only a couple of hundred yards away.”

His hands tremble slightly as he peels his potatoes. Stephie notices and realizes that Uncle Evert is frightened, too.

“Will you be able to go on fishing?” Aunt Marta asks.

Uncle Evert nods. “We can’t stop fishing. We must simply place our destinies in the hands of the Good Lord. And pray for the war to end quickly.”

Stephie tries to say something, but her throat has constricted and she can’t get the words out. She swallows hard.

“Do you have to fish so far out at sea?” she finally manages to ask. “Can’t you stay closer to the coast?”

“We only get the big catches way out. The ocean is full of fish there.”

“And of dangers,” Aunt Marta adds. “Dangers enough without people making it even riskier. That’s a sin.”

Stephie looks at Uncle Evert and notices that his eyes have an expression she’s never seen before. The same expression her mother had when she looked at Stephie’s father after he’d returned from the labor camp. It was when the two of them were sitting talking in the evenings, thinking the children were asleep. Stephie would lie awake, squinting at her parents and straining to hear their whispers, though she never caught more than occasional words.

“When we passed Marstrand we saw warships shooting at each other out by the Pater Noster lighthouse,” Uncle Evert is telling Aunt Marta. “It was a terrible sight, and an awful sound.”

It’s not very far to Marstrand, Stephie knows. The war is close to them now.

Orders are given on the radio for everyone to ready their houses for the blackout. If the Germans attack at night, it is important that they not be able to see, from the air or the sea, where there are people and buildings. Aunt Marta sews blackout curtains out of heavy, dark fabric and hangs them up. At dusk, when they turn on the lights inside, they’re supposed to pull the curtains shut. Fortunately, it’s spring and the evenings are long and light.

At school they are told that all the children living on islands may have to be evacuated to the mainland. Every child is to have a suitcase packed in case the order comes suddenly. Most of the kids seem to find this exciting. Stephie finds it frightening. She doesn’t want to be uprooted again, or to have to make another journey to an unknown place with unfamiliar people.

She packs her suitcase with two sets of clothes, her jewelry, and her photographs. Who knows-if she has to leave she may never come back.

What worries her most is that her parents won’t know where she is. No one is given an address in advance. And what if she and Nellie are separated?

But after a couple of weeks the official plans change; there will be no evacuation. They unpack their suitcases again.

Sugar is rationed now, like coffee has been since Easter. No one can just go to the shop and buy as much as he or she pleases, only as much as the ration coupons allow. Aunt Marta collects their coupons from the post office, and keeps an eagle eye on Stephie so that she doesn’t sweeten her oatmeal too much.

Stephie’s hair is getting longer. It’s down to her shoulders already and she can make two short braids. She figures it will be really long again by the time she gets to America.

The wind off the ocean is getting warmer. Uncle Evert makes the dinghy seaworthy for the summer, and takes Stephie out rowing.

“Sit over here now and I’ll teach you to row,” he tells her. “If you’re going to live in the islands, it’s a skill you’ll need.”

She sits in front of Uncle Evert, who kneels behind her, helping her control the heavy oars.

At first Stephie finds it very difficult, and the oars shift uncontrollably in the oarlocks. After a while she begins to master the strokes, but it takes practice for her to get the strength right so that both oars glide through the water evenly. Time after time she is too strong on the right side, and so the boat circles left.

“Why do I have to row backward?” she asks. “It’s hard not to be able to see where you’re going.”

“Try sitting frontward and see how that goes.”

Stephie turns around on the bench and pulls the oars the other way, from front to back. It’s impossible.

There’s hardly any wind. A gray-blue haze merges the water and the sky at the horizon. The surface of the water is smooth, with barely a ripple. Just a gentle coursing back and forth, reminding Stephie of the shiny satin of Mamma’s finest ball gown. Dove-blue moire, her mother used to call it. Stephie turns the word “moire” over and over in her mouth, finding it as soft and lovely as the fabric itself.

“If I kept rowing west, just kept on and on, would I end up in America?” Stephie asks.

Uncle Evert laughs. “Sure, if you managed to keep on course due west, so you didn’t bump into Denmark or Norway, you’d bypass Scotland and only have the whole Atlantic left to cross. You’d have to stock up on provisions if you were going to try. And hope for calm weather, like today.”

The oars are blistering Stephie’s hands, the soft part between her thumb and her forefinger. But she doesn’t complain.