The Lily Pond (17 page)

a couple of weeks, we expect to leave
, her father had written. The letter was dated November 28, 1940. It’s mid-December now, but there has been no new letter. Stephie understands that her parents must be very busy, but couldn’t they at least write and tell her when they’re leaving and to what address she should write?

Soon the semester will end and Stephie will be going out to the island. She’s worried that an important letter from Mamma and Papa will gather dust on the Söderbergs’ hall table while she is gone. The doctor, his wife, and Sven are going to spend Christmas with relatives in the province of Värmland, and then they’re going to Stockholm. They won’t be home again until after New Year’s Day.

Elna is going to celebrate Christmas with her family,
who lives quite a ways outside Göteborg. She’ll be back in the apartment between Christmas and New Year’s, but Stephie isn’t at all sure that Elna would go to the trouble of visiting the post office to forward a letter to her.

With every passing day she feels more concerned. Have they left? Perhaps they had to go in such a rush they didn’t have time to write before departing. Where could they be now? In geography class she studies the map of Europe in her atlas, tracing the possible routes from Vienna to the Atlantic Ocean with her finger. Via northern Italy to Marseille and from there by boat? Or a northerly way, through Switzerland and France, arriving at the Atlantic coast in Bordeaux? No, Papa wrote that they would be traveling from Spain to Cuba. What Spanish port would that be? Bilbao?

Stephie sets her mind on a route through Italy and the South of France, over the Pyrenees to Bilbao. After that, she finds the map of the world and traces a line straight across, like a bridge over the blue sea, from northern Spain to the chain of islands near the line that separates North America from South America. She’s not sure which island is Cuba, so she has to turn to a more detailed map, and she is pleased to see how narrow the body of water between Cuba and the American mainland is. Once they get to Cuba, they’ll be nearly there.

“Stephanie?”

Stephie looks up to find the sharp end of the pointer bobbing about a foot in front of her nose. Mr. Lundkvist, their only male teacher, has the unpleasant habit of sticking
the pointer in the face of a student from whom he expects an answer. If the answer comes quickly, the pointer disappears, but if you’re slow, he moves the pointer closer and closer, until it almost touches the tip of your nose.

Stephie didn’t even hear the question.

“Well?”

The pointer comes a few inches closer.

“The rivers of Russia,” May whispers, so softly only Stephie can hear, and almost without opening her mouth.

“The Volga, the Dnieper, the Desna, the Don …”

She’s memorized them. Mr. Lundkvist withdraws the pointer, using it instead to show the courses of the rivers on the big map he has pulled down over the blackboard.

“The Ob and Yenisey.”

“Thank you,” says Mr. Lundkvist. “However, if my eyesight serves, a few minutes ago Stephanie was on an entirely different continent. I would be grateful, Miss Steiner, if you would be so kind as to pay attention in class. If you did so, the young woman in the desk next to you would not have to violate the rules of the school by whispering, would she?”

“No,” Stephie says softly.

“Pardon me, Stephanie? I didn’t catch that.”

“No,” Stephie says in a louder voice. “I won’t do it again.”

But Mr. Lundkvist still isn’t satisfied.

“Stephanie, since you appear to take such an interest in the islands of the Caribbean, would you please tell me and the class a little about that area?”

Stephie hesitates. Whatever she does now, it will be wrong. She may as well tell the truth.

“I was just trying to figure out what route my parents will be taking to America.”

Mr. Lundkvist smiles dubiously. The pointer lands on her shoulder.

“I see,” he says. “So your parents are going to America, Stephanie? And what will they be doing there, if I may ask?”

She has a feeling the question is not as innocent as it sounds; he’s got her trapped.

“They have to leave,” she tells him. “They can’t stay in Vienna.”

“And why not?”

Mr. Lundkvist’s voice still sounds soft and almost kindly. But the look in his gray eyes is icy cold.

“They are Jews,” Stephie says.

Mr. Lundkvist nods. “Quite right,” he says. “A people without a country. An alien element in Europe. The Germans have understood.”

The classroom is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. There’s not so much as a foot scraping the floor or a pencil scratching on paper. The pointer feels so heavy against her shoulder that Stephie is afraid her chair is going to tip.

“Excuse me, sir,” May interrupts, her voice loud and clear. “But you have no right to speak like that, Mr. Lundkvist.”

“I see,” Mr. Lundkvist repeats. “May, would you please explain in detail exactly what you are alleging that I have done wrong?”

“You have no right, sir, to speak ill of Stephanie’s parents. It is not their fault they have to flee their country. The Germans are the ones who are forcing them to leave, and it’s wrong of you to defend them, sir.”

“Are you quite finished now, May?” Mr. Lundkvist’s voice is harsh. “In that case you may now go out into the hall. And count on it, May, there will be consequences of your behavior.”

May stands up, putting her atlas away.

Suddenly Stephie is no longer frightened. She feels happy, and proud that May is her friend.

“If May is leaving the classroom, so am I,” she says, standing up.

“Sit down, Stephanie!” Mr. Lundkvist roars.

But Stephanie does not obey. She and May walk to the door together. She can feel that the class is on her side. The other girls give her encouraging looks, and most of them nod as she passes.

Alice, however, doesn’t look up. She’s staring down at the top of her desk, pale and scared.

“Stephanie, this is going to be worst for you,” Mr. Lundkvist says behind her.

Stephie pulls the door closed behind them. The hall is empty and silent.

“I apologize,” Stephie says to May. “I’m so sorry I treated you badly that day in my room. I didn’t think you could understand.”

“It’s all right,” May says. “I wish you could be with your
parents again.” She gives Stephie’s hand a squeeze. “Did you see the look on his face? He thinks he can intimidate us into obedience with that pointer of his and his nasty attitude.”

“What do you think will happen now?”

“I suppose we’ll get a detention,” says May. “But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Stephie answers, “it sure was.”

department store windows are beautiful at Christmastime, full of Santas and decorated trees, garlands and bright glass ornaments. It’s a pleasure just to window-shop, but with a ten-kronor Christmas bill in her pocket for presents, it’s even more delightful. Stephie buys the stationery for Nellie, the thermos for Uncle Evert, and a piece of velvet to line Aunt Märta’s eyeglass case with. For Vera she finds a green silk headband that will look really nice in her red hair. Finally she buys May a book. But she hasn’t yet found a Christmas present for Sven. The right one—the one that will make him understand that she knows exactly what he’s been wanting. Soon the shops will close and it will be too late. Tomorrow is the last day of school, and when that’s over, she’ll be taking the boat out to the island. In her
pocket she still has two kronor, a fifty-öre coin, and two twenty-five-öre coins. It has to be enough for a present for Sven and a Christmas bouquet for Mrs. Söderberg.

The shop assistants are already beginning to let out the last customers before locking the doors. It’s really almost too late.

Suddenly Stephie sees it, in a shop window she didn’t notice before. It’s on a bed of blue satin, and it’s all of one piece, made of some ivory-looking material, with a sharp point and a patterned carved handle. A letter opener Sven can use to separate the pages of new books.

The perfect present for him!

She tries the door, but it’s already locked. In the dim light inside, she sees someone walking around. She knocks, at first gently, then harder.

The face of an elderly gray-haired man appears at the glass of the door. He shakes his head, his mouth forming words Stephie can’t hear. But she knows what he’s saying: “We’re closed.”

“Oh, please,” she cries, not knowing whether he can hear her. “Please let me in.”

The man sighs and turns the key in the lock. He opens the door a crack, peering out.

“We’re closed, young lady.”

“I just wanted … Couldn’t I please …” The words stick in Stephie’s throat. “Please, the letter opener. The one in the window.”

“You want to buy that opener?” the man asks with such
a heavy accent it sounds like he’s saying, “You want a boy ze obener?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

“Well, come in.”

The narrow shop is chockablock with merchandise. Stephie can’t see much in the dusky light, except for the gleam from brass objects and highly polished wood. The air is heavy with a sweet smell.

The man opens the grille that separates the shop window from the inside of the store, and puts in a hand.

“This one?”

He sets the opener on the counter in front of her. She touches the sharp edge carefully, then lets her finger follow the intricate carved pattern on the handle.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“It’s real ivory,” the man tells her. “The price is three kronor.”

“Three kronor?”

She would never have dreamed it was so expensive. Her fingers clutch the coins in her pocket. If only she had seen it before she bought all the other presents, she could have been more economical with some of them.

“Don’t you have any money?”

“Yes, but not enough.”

As he’s about to replace the opener on the blue satin, she says, “I have two seventy-five. Could you sell it to me for two seventy-five?”

“Aren’t you the nervy one?” the man asks. “You come
after closing time and then try to bargain me down.” He doesn’t look angry, though, and seems to be teasing. “Who’s the opener for?”

“Sven,” she says.

“And who’s Sven? Your brother?”

“No, my … friend. He needs it to separate the pages of his books.”

The man nods thoughtfully.

“He needs it, you say? Well, I guess he’d better have it, then. We’ll say two seventy-five.”

He wraps the opener for her in holiday wrapping covered with brown paper and a red ribbon. While Stephie is putting her coins on the counter, the man asks her, “Where are you from?”

“Vienna.”

“I’m from Vilnius,” the man tells her, “Lithuania. God bless you.”

The twenty-five öre she has left is just enough for a little basket of red Christmas tulips for Mrs. Söderberg.