A Faraway Island (20 page)

Because Stephie’s sick, Aunt Märta lets her sleep as late
as she likes in the morning. One day Aunt Märta has already left for the village when Stephie gets up. Barefoot, she tiptoes downstairs in her long nightgown.

The morning sun slants in through the window of the front room. Stephie turns on the radio, raising the volume so she can hear it in the kitchen. She slices some bread, and then gets the butter cooler and the milk pitcher from the pantry.

Right in the middle of a piece of music, there is an interruption. First silence, then static, then a solemn voice comes on:

“This is a special broadcast from the Swedish news agency. German troops have invaded Norway and Denmark. Norwegian radio reports that the Germans took control of the Norwegian ports at three in the morning. German battle ships are now in the Oslo fjord….”

Stephie stands still as a statue in the middle of the kitchen floor, pitcher in one hand, butter cooler in the other.

Oslo’s not far away at all. If the Germans have gone to war against Denmark and Norway, Sweden will probably be next.

When Aunt Märta gets back, she finds Stephie sitting on a chair with her feet tucked in under her, still in her nightgown. Her breakfast is on the kitchen table, untouched. The news broadcast has ended but she hasn’t turned the radio off. Ordinarily Aunt Märta would have been annoyed and scolded Stephie for listening to music.

“You’ve heard?” is all she says now.

“Yes.”

“I found out at the post office,” Aunt Märta says. “It’s awful. Just terrible.”

They keep the radio on all day. Stephie stays in the front room, wrapped in a blanket. Every time there is a news broadcast, they hear how more and more towns in Norway have fallen to the Germans.

“Owing to the danger of deep-sea mines, Swedish fishermen are warned against going into the straits of the Skagerrak, and possibly also the Kattegatt,” a crackling voice announces at noon.

The
Diana
is out on a long fishing trip, somewhere in the Skagerrak. Uncle Evert and the others aren’t expected home until the day after tomorrow.

“Uncle Evert …,” says Stephie.

“Don’t worry,” Aunt Märta says brusquely, but Stephie sees that her hands are tense, pale fists.

Just as the reporter is describing the ongoing battle between German and British warships in the North Sea, the telephone rings.

“… severe storm, seas extremely choppy …,” the voice on the radio says.

Stephie and Aunt Märta look at each other. Stephie is sure she and Aunt Märta are having the same thought: What if something has happened to Uncle Evert? Aunt Märta gets up and answers the phone.

“Hello?” She listens for a moment, then passes the receiver to Stephie. “It’s for you.”

Stephie exhales. “Hello?” she repeats into the black receiver.

At first all she can hear is sniffling. Then Nellie’s voice:

“Stephie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m so scared. Do you think they’ll come here?”

“I don’t know. I’m frightened, too.”

“Can I come be with you?”

“Just a minute, let me ask.”

Aunt Märta doesn’t mind if Nellie comes over.

Auntie Alma and the little ones come, too. Auntie Alma seems very upset. She and Aunt Märta speak in hushed tones.

“… 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 Märta 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.

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 Märta 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 Märta 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 Märta. “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 Märta 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 Märta 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 moiré, her mother used to call it. Stephie turns the word “moiré” 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.

Uncle Evert pulls out a wooden reel and lets a long line run from the stern of the dinghy.

“Rest the oars and come hold the line,” he tells her.

Stephie raises the oars over the edge of the boat. Cold water drips on her feet. Carefully she steps over the bench toward the stern. The boat feels tippy. She’s afraid it will capsize.

“Don’t worry,” Uncle Evert says. “This boat doesn’t tip easily. At least not from the movements of somebody as light as you.”

Stephie gets to hold the line, while Uncle Evert rows with powerful strokes.

“Let’s hope the mackerel are biting,” he says. “Tell me if you feel the line pull.”

Stephie thinks the line’s pulling the whole time.

“Now!” she says. “I’ve got a bite.”

Uncle Evert comes over and feels the line, then shakes his head.

“That’s just the weight of the sinker. When the fish nibble it feels different.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll know. Lively, not just a dead weight.”

Stephie examines the palms of her hands. They’re red and tender. She’s almost forgotten the line when, suddenly, there is movement between her fingers.

“Now!” she shouts. “Now they’re biting.”

Uncle Evert rests the oars, comes over to her, and pulls
the line in. A shimmering fish is struggling on one of the hooks.

Although Stephie has watched Aunt Märta clean mackerel many a time since she came to the island, she’s never before realized how beautiful a mackerel is. The smooth skin shimmers in black, gray, and silver. She’s strangely excited, her heart beating fast.

“What a beauty,” Uncle Evert says. “Surely weighs over a pound. You take it off the hook.”

Stephie hesitates. She’s never touched a living fish before.

Then she seizes the mackerel with both hands. It’s not as yucky a feeling as she’d expected. Cold, but not slimy. Uncle Evert helps her remove the hook from its mouth.

Then he takes his knife and slits an incision alongside one of the gills. Stephie looks away.

“This is another thing you need to learn,” he says. “How to gut and clean them.”

“Ugh, no,” says Stephie. “I’ll never do that.”

Uncle Evert smiles to himself. “Never say never, that’s what I say.”

They get three mackerel on the line that evening. Aunt Märta cleans them and fries them for dinner. They do taste quite good, actually.