Deep Sea (16 page)

“We’ll have no talk of such things here,” says Aunt Märta. “Particularly not with our girl in the room.”

Our girl, our girl. Speaking of her as if she were a child. Talking over her head.

“Please don’t sell the
Diana
!” Stephie pleads. “Please, please, Uncle Evert. The war’s almost over. It just has to end soon.”

Uncle Evert’s sea blue eyes look at her mournfully.

“We must hope so, dear child,” he says. “We must hope so.”

“This is Judith.”

The voice at the other end of the line sounds distant but excited.

“It’s Judith Liebermann. You haven’t forgotten me?”

“Of course not. But how did you find this phone number?”

“The operator helped me,” says Judith. “You mentioned that your foster parents were named Jansson. Who was that who answered, anyway? She sounded so young.”

“That was my homeroom teacher,” Stephie explains. “She and a friend of hers are our summer tenants this year.”

Stephie is standing in the hall, by the stairs up to the bedrooms. Miss Björk goes out and closes the door to the sitting room so Stephie can talk in private. It’s a hot day. The receiver in her hand grows sticky with sweat.

“How are things? Are you working this summer?” Stephie asks.

The chocolate factory must be even worse than usual in this heat. Stephie tries to imagine Judith, pale and nauseated in the stuffy, sooty, chocolate-scented air.

“I’m on vacation now,” Judith tells her, “this week and next. Yesterday Susie and I took the tram to the end of the line and swam out at Saltholmen. But they charge so much for the bathhouse. And now Susie is being sent to some family in the country for three
weeks. Almost all the Children’s Home girls are away somewhere. There are only four of us left.”

“Why don’t you come here?” Stephie asks. “At least for a couple of days.”

“Do you think that would be all right? With your foster parents, I mean.”

“I’m sure it will. I’ll ask Aunt Märta.”

Stephie promises to call Judith back after she’s talked to Aunt Märta.

She has mixed feelings. Of course it would be nice to have company, now that May’s back at her laundry job and Vera is becoming quieter and more withdrawn as her stomach bulges. Soon she’ll have to wear corsets and special gathered skirts to conceal her bump. And just as May predicted, Vera doesn’t put on her bathing suit anymore.

On the other hand, Stephie needs time on her own, to study. May was very understanding about her school-work, but it would be different with Judith.

And there’s something else bothering her. She’s afraid that Aunt Märta and Judith won’t get along.

Stephie decides she mustn’t worry. She remembers having the same thoughts the first time May was coming to the island. But May and Aunt Märta got along just fine, in spite of their very different opinions. It might be the same with Judith.

“What kind of a girl is she?” Aunt Märta asks.

“She’s from Vienna,” Stephie tells her. “We were in the same class there.”

“Why is she at the Children’s Home? Wasn’t there a family to take her in?”

“She lived with a family in the country to begin with. Then she moved into town for a job. At the chocolate factory.”

That’s not really the full story of Judith’s time in Sweden. But if Aunt Märta knew how many times Judith had to change foster families, she would think there was something wrong with her.

“All right,” says Aunt Märta. “For a couple of days, then. Monday to Wednesday? Will that suit?”

A
unt Märta spoke to the pastor about taking up a collection for Stephie and Nellie’s parents. He wasn’t prepared to say yes or no on his own, but he promised to invite the girls along to a meeting of the church elders to present the idea.

Nellie refuses to go.

“No,” she says, pinching her lips together. “Stephie can do it.”

Aunt Märta and Auntie Alma try to persuade her. Stephie knows what they’re thinking. A cute eleven-year-old with long braids, who sings like an angel in the church children’s choir to boot, would give a more sympathetic impression than a skinny sixteen-year-old who almost got herself thrown out of the congregation for her “sinful way of life” in town.

But Nellie stubbornly refuses. No attempts to convince her, no threats or bribes, make her change her mind. Stephie is furious with her, but still, she admires her for the strength of her convictions.

“No. No. No.”

In the end, Stephie and Aunt Märta go to the meeting by themselves.

It’s held in the very same room where Stephie once had to defend herself for having gone to the movies. The same people are there, too. Five men, one woman. And the pastor with his big hands.

At least this time, Stephie is invited to sit down. The pastor asks her to explain why she has come.

“My parents are in a camp,” Stephie begins. “Theresienstadt, near Prague. They had to leave behind everything we owned in Vienna. They need food and warm clothing. I think my papa’s managing all right, but Mamma’s quite sickly. She had pneumonia back in Vienna and nearly died. If this is a cold winter, I’m afraid she’ll get sick again.”

Her voice falters. She isn’t used to talking about her parents in front of strangers.

“Stephie and I send food boxes,” Aunt Märta adds. “We send what we can afford, and stretch our ration cards as far as they will go. But if we had a couple of hundred crowns extra for clothes and shoes, that would be very helpful.”

“Remind me,” the woman says. “Your parents aren’t Christian, are they?”

“No,” says Stephie. “They’re Jewish.”

“Would it be possible for them to be baptized at the camp?”

Stephie can’t believe her ears. Here she is talking about cold winters, hunger, and illness, and the lady suggests that her parents change their religion!

“If they were Christian,” the woman goes on, “I’m sure it would be easier for us to help them. We have an Israel mission that could take on their case.”

“And another thing,” one of the men says. “Aren’t there thousands of prisoners in those camps? And aren’t there camps all over Europe? With different kinds of prisoners in them, besides the Jews. Prisoners of conscience. Christians, even. And there are civilians, too, suffering because of the war. We can’t help everyone.”

“That’s true” says the pastor. “We can’t help everyone.”

“No,” says the woman. “And there are suffering people closer to home as well.”

Their voices echo in a vacuum around Stephie. Unreal, alien. She feels as if she is about to burst into tears. Her throat thickens. But she’s not going to let them see her cry.

“But we can still help a few,” Aunt Märta says. “We can help this child’s parents. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Let us think about it,” says the pastor. “We’ll consider the matter and seek counsel. We can discuss it again in a week or two. All right?”

No!
Stephie wants to shout.
That’s not all right at
all!
But she knows that if she tries to say a single word, she’ll cry.

The weekend before Judith is due to visit, British planes bomb Hamburg, one of the largest cities in Germany. The radio newscasters call the bombing a firestorm over Hamburg, and report thousands of people dead.

Stephie has celebrated the Allied victories in the war all spring and summer, but this bombing brings her no joy.
Is it really necessary to kill thousands of civilians to bring this war to an end?

“Yes, it is,” Judith tells her. “The British know what they’re doing. And the Germans bombed English cities early in the war, didn’t they? Not to mention that the German people voted for Hitler and started this war.”

“Not all the German people,” says Stephie.

“Are you feeling sorry for them? After all the harm they’ve done to you and your family?”

They’re making their way across the island. Stephie has just picked up Judith in the harbor and has her little suitcase hanging over the handlebars of her bike as she leads it. Judith is walking on the other side of the bicycle. She’s just as pale as ever, but her freckles stand out more against her skin than they did last spring.

“Have you heard from your parents again, since you had that letter returned?”

“Yes,” says Stephie. “One card from Papa. But it was quite a while ago now.”

“Do you write to them?”

Stephie nods. “Every week. Just like I always have since we got here.”

“And no more of your letters have been returned?”

“No.”

“Good,” says Judith. “As long as they’re still at Theresienstadt, there is nothing to worry about. Are we almost there?”

“Not quite. Would you like me to ride you on the back of the bike?”

Judith gives Stephie’s red bicycle a suspicious look.

“Can you?”

“Sure,” Stephie replies.

“No, I’d rather walk,” says Judith. “Whose bike is that, anyway?”

“Mine.”

“Yours? Your own?”

“It was my thirteenth birthday present from Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert.”

Judith looks thoughtful.

“They must be very special people,” she says, “to give their foster child such a nice present.”

“Yes,” Stephie agrees, “they are very special people.”

She’d like to add,
They’ve given me other things that are more important than this bike
. But she doesn’t want to sound high-flown.

Judith introduces herself politely to Aunt Märta and shakes her hand. But she has a suspicious look in her eye. Judith doesn’t trust Swedish people. Perhaps she doesn’t trust anyone.

And Aunt Märta inspects Judith, too, giving her long frizzy hair and her freckles a skeptical look.

“So I understand you’re a factory worker, Judith,” she says.

“At a chocolate factory,” says Judith. “Kanold’s, in Gårda.”

Dinner is already on the table, in two serving dishes with upside-down plates on top of them to keep the food warm. Stephie peeks under one of the plates and sees, to her relief, that it’s boiled cod. She forgot to tell Aunt Märta that Judith won’t eat pork, because it’s against her religion. She’ll tell her later, when Judith isn’t listening, so Aunt Märta doesn’t serve pork and beans or blood pudding tomorrow.

But when they are at the table and have uncovered the serving dishes, Aunt Märta walks over to the stove and picks up a skillet.

“Wait!” Stephie cries.

“What for?” Aunt Märta is holding the skillet over the bowl, about to pour the contents over the cod. Contents that smell unmistakably of bacon.

Boiled cod is everyday fare on the island. When Aunt
Märta wants to make it a little festive, she crumbles some bacon to put over the top, along with the fat.

“Judith doesn’t eat pork.” Stephie blushes.

She’s embarrassed in both directions. For not having told Aunt Märta in advance, and because Judith will realize that Stephie has been eating pork for four years without objecting.

“That’s all right,” says Judith. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Jansson, I’ll just serve myself before you pour the sauce over the fish.”

She glances at Stephie, who looks away.

“Help yourself,” says Aunt Märta, passing the dish of cod to Judith.