A Faraway Island (2 page)

The boat pulls away from the pier and out to the middle of the river. Black smoke rises from the smokestack, dissolving into thin mist.

Nellie stays in her seat, looking as pitiful as a rag doll. Stephie notices that her sister’s coat is buttoned crooked, and that one of her cheeks has a smudge of dirt on it. She rubs at the smudge with her handkerchief.

“Where’s this boat taking us?” Nellie asks.

“We’ll soon see,” Stephie replies.

“To the bathing resort on the coast?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me what it’s like,” Nellie requests.

“There are long, soft, sandy beaches,” Stephie tells her, “and palm trees growing along the boardwalk. People lie on deck chairs under colorful beach umbrellas. The children play in the water and build sand castles. There are ice cream vendors, carrying freezer boxes around their necks.”

Stephie’s never been to the seaside. But Evi, her best friend in Vienna, was at an Italian resort two years ago. After ward, she told Stephie all about the beach and the palm trees, the beach chairs and the ice cream vendors. Stephie and Nellie and their mother and father always spent their summer vacations at a little country hotel on the shores of the Danube River. Or at least they used to, before the Nazis came along.

Stephie senses they’re being stared at. She looks up to find two old men, on the bench opposite the girls, gazing openly and curiously at them.

“Why are they looking at us like that?” Nellie asks anxiously.

“It’s the name tags,” Stephie guesses.

One of the men puts a wad of snuff under his top lip. A drop of brown saliva seeps out of the corner of his mouth. He says something to his friend, chuckling.

“Let’s take them off,” Stephie decides, folding the name tags into her knapsack. “Come on, we’re going outside.”

The girls stand on the deck. They can see where the river joins the ocean. A tugboat is piloting one of the big ships toward the port. The little one seems to be pulling the
big one, like a child eagerly tugging at its mother to show her something. It looks funny. Red brick warehouses line the riverbanks. Huge loading cranes jut into the air, looking like giraffes with long necks.

Nellie fingers her coral necklace. It’s actually her mother’s, bought by Papa long, long ago when the two honey mooned in Italy. Nellie has always loved the irregular slivers of pink coral. Her mother gave it to her just as they were leaving on this journey.

“Tell me more about the resort, Stephie,” she begs. “Will I be able to swim there?”

“You’ll have to learn,” says Stephie. “Every afternoon the people go to their hotel rooms for a rest. After dinner they stroll in the park and listen to the band.”

“Are we going to stay at a hotel?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the people who are taking us in will be hotel owners.”

“Then we’ll get everything, free of charge.”

“Or maybe they have a house at the shore. With a private beach.”

“Will they have children?”

Stephie shrugs. “I hope they have a dog,” she says.

“Will there be a piano?” Nellie asks for the hundredth time.

“Of course there will,” Stephie assures her.

Stephie knows how badly Nellie misses their piano. She had just started lessons when they had to move out of their spacious apartment by the park with the huge Ferris wheel. If it had been up to Mamma, they would have taken the
piano with them, despite the fact that it would nearly have filled up the entire single room they were forced to move into. But Papa refused.

“There’s barely space for four beds as it is,” he said. “Do you think we could sleep on the piano?”

The boat has left the river now and is out on the open sea. They pass rocky cliffs and lots of little islets. It’s windier out here, and dark clouds are gathering at the horizon. Nellie tugs at her sister’s coat sleeve.

“Stephie, will there really be one? Are you sure?”

“What?”

“A piano I can play,” says Nellie. “Will there?”

“Yes, yes,” Stephie promises her. “But do stop nagging!”

Nellie starts humming a children’s song, one of the melodies she knows on the piano. Nellie has their mother’s beautiful voice, while Stephie can hardly carry a tune.

The boat passes a peninsula. The wind hits, and the boat starts to rock. Stephie hangs on to the rail.

“I’m cold,” Nellie says.

“Go on inside, then.”

Nellie hesitates. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Not yet,” says Stephie. The deck has begun to roll under her feet. She’s feeling queasy. The sky is getting darker and thunder roars from afar. Nellie heads for the cabin, then changes her mind and comes back.

“Go on in,” says Stephie. “I won’t be long.”

She clings to the rail, eyes shut tight. The boat rocks from side to side. Stephie cranes over the water and vomits. Her throat is burning and she feels exhausted and dizzy.

“Are you ill, Stephie?” Nellie asks nervously.

“Seasick,” says Stephie. “I suppose I’m seasick.”

She hangs on tightly to the rail, eyes still shut. Her knees are weak under her. Nellie helps her back to the cabin. She lies down on a bench, using her knapsack as a pillow, and rests. The world is spinning….

From the depths of sleep, Stephie feels someone tugging at her sleeve.

“Leave me alone,” she mumbles. “I need to sleep.”

But the tugging persists. She cannot ignore it. Her eyes open.

“Stephie!” Nellie shouts. “We’re there.”

It takes Stephie a moment to remember. Nellie is standing next to her, hopping up and down eagerly. Her cheeks are rosy and the ribbon on one of her braids has come undone.

“Hurry up! We’re there.”

When
Stephie steps out onto the deck, the odor hits her like an invisible wall.

The air reeks of salt and fish and something rotten. Nauseous again, Stephie swallows hard and looks around.

The boat has pulled up alongside a wooden dock lined with white fishing boats that have broad hulls and short masts. The wind rattles their rigging. All kinds of little boats are moored along the jetties. A breakwater of huge boulders shelters this small harbor from the waves.

Tall wooden racks line the harbor. Some of them are empty; some have fishnets hanging to dry. One is covered with triangular shapes that look like white bats, their wings spread wide.

The dock itself is dotted with red-and-gray boathouses,
opening toward the water. Behind them are low houses, painted in pastel shades. They look as if they’re springing right up out of the rocks.

Before anyone can disembark, lots of crates and sacks have to be unloaded. A boy with a rubber-wheeled barrow rolls them out onto the dock. A sack breaks, and some potatoes go tumbling into the water. Nellie laughs, but is soon silenced when she sees how a big red-faced man scolds the boy.

At last it’s their turn. Stephie holds Nellie tightly by the hand as they walk down the gangway.

A woman is waiting for them on the dock. She’s wearing a knitted cardigan over her flowered dress, and she has a polka-dotted scarf tied around her head. A few strands of fair hair have escaped at her temples. As soon as she sees the girls, her face lights up.

“Eleonore … Stephanie,” she says, pronouncing their names very strangely. She bends down, embracing Nellie and kissing her on the cheek.

“How do you do?” Stephie says, extending a hand. “My name is Stephie.”

The woman takes Stephie’s hand, saying a few words in the unfamiliar language.

“What did she say?” Nellie asks.

“I don’t really know,” says Stephie. “It must have been Swedish.”

“Doesn’t she speak German?” Nellie wonders. “Can’t she understand us?” Her voice trembles.

Stephie shakes her head. “We’re going to have to learn Swedish.”

“Stephie?” The woman asks. “Ah, Stephanie—Stephie?”

“Ja,”
says Stephie. “Stephanie—Stephie.” She points to her little sister. “Eleonore—Nellie.”

The woman smiles, nodding. “Alma,” she says. “Alma Lindberg. Auntie Alma. Come along!”

Alma has a bicycle propped up against one of the boat-houses. She ties Nellie’s suitcase to the carrier and, taking Nellie by the hand, walks her bicycle along the narrow road between the houses. Stephie follows, carrying her suitcase.

The houses are very close together. They seem to creep along the ground, clinging to the slope for dear life. Each one has its own little yard with low bushes and gnarled fruit trees. The houses by the harbor are all small and low, but as the three proceed along the road, the houses become larger.

Auntie Alma walks fast, with long, determined strides. Nellie practically has to run to keep up. Stephie finds herself lagging farther and farther behind. Her throat is dry; she has a terrible, sour taste in her mouth. Although she’s already thousands of miles from home, she now has the impression that every step she takes is moving her far from the buildings, streets, and people she knows.

Stephie’s suitcase feels as heavy as lead. She sets it on the ground and drags it behind her for a while, then tries shoving it in front of her, kicking it along with one foot.

The sound of the suitcase on the gravel makes Auntie Alma turn around. She stops, piles Stephie’s case onto her bicycle seat, and shows Stephie how to walk alongside holding one hand on it to keep it steady. It’s not easy, but much better than having to carry it.

“Stephie,” Nellie whines, “where are the sandy beaches? Where’s the bandstand?”

Stephie ignores her sister’s questions.

“What if there’s no hotel? And no palm trees, and no dog, and no piano?” Nellie goes on, her voice tense and anxious.

“Shush now,” Stephie hisses impatiently. “We’re not there yet.”

At that very moment they stop outside a yellow wooden house with a glass-enclosed veranda. The flower beds on either side of the doorway are full of bright flowers, red, yellow, and blue. Two blond-headed children rush out the door and into Auntie Alma’s arms.

“They have children!” says Nellie, her voice happy. “And they’re younger than me!”

Stephie and Nellie leave their coats and suitcases in the vestibule and go into the kitchen. At the table sits a woman with a thin, stern-looking face. Her salt-and-pepper hair is twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her pale eyes inspect Stephie and Nellie from head to toe.

“What scrawny little things,” the woman says to Auntie Alma. “Pitifully thin. Let us hope we can make something of them.”

“Aunt Märta,” Auntie Alma says, gesturing toward the older woman. Stephie shakes her hand and curtseys. Aunt Märta’s hand is cold and rough.

Auntie Alma places a big platter of sticky buns on the kitchen table. She pours four glasses of black currant juice, as well as coffee for herself and Aunt Märta.

“Bulle,”
Auntie Alma says in Swedish, indicating the buns, once all four of them are seated around the table. She goes on to tell Stephie and Nellie the words for glass, table, stool, and cup in this new language.

Stephie and Nellie try to imitate the strange words. Some are similar to the German words for the same objects, others very different.

“Stol, Stuhl.”
Stephie says the Swedish word first, then the German one. Auntie Alma imitates her, trying to get the German word right.
“Schtol,”
it comes out. Auntie Alma laughs at herself.

“Schtol, schtol,”
her children parrot with pleasure. Then they point to themselves, shouting: “Elsa!” “John!” “Elsa!” “John!”

By the time Aunt Märta gets up from the table, Nellie and Stephie know ten words of Swedish. When Aunt Märta comes back into the kitchen, she is carrying Stephie’s coat. She extends it to her.

“Stephie?” Nellie asks anxiously. “What’s happening? What does she mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Stephie answers. Slowly she puts on her coat and buttons it all the way up. Auntie Alma and the children walk her and Aunt Märta to the door.

“Are you leaving me here, Stephie?” Nellie whispers. “Why can’t you stay?”

Aunt Märta walks out the door. Stephie picks up her knapsack and puts it on again.

“Don’t leave me!” Nellie pleads. “I don’t want to stay here without you!”