Stephanie Steiner from Vienna?”
13
T he memory flashes through Stephie’s mind like a bolt of lightning. Of course she knows the girl! They were in the same class at the Jewish school in Vienna for several months. The crowded classroom with far too many pupils. The hunger. The fear.
“Yes, indeed,” Stephie says. “I’m Stephie Steiner. And you’re Judith Liebermann.”
Judith nods. “I didn’t know you were in Göteborg, too,” she says. “How long have you been in Sweden?”
“Since August 1939. What about you?” Stephie asks.
“April.”
Right. Stephie remembers Judith leaving the class sometime that spring. Nobody paid much attention. Children came and went at the Jewish school. Peoplesuddenly got emigration permits. But Judith’s family was one of the ones with the least chance of getting out to the West. Polish Jews, lots of children, no money.
“Where are you living?” asks Judith.
Stephie tells her. “And you?”
“I’m at the Jewish Children’s Home,” Judith says. “This is Susie. She lives there, too.”
Stephie didn’t even know there
was
a Jewish Children’s Home in Göteborg. Judith tells her about it. It is girls only, mostly teenagers, a few younger.
“I started out with a Jewish family,” says Judith. “Since my parents are orthodox, Papa absolutely insisted I live with other Jews. It hardly mattered, though, as the family wasn’t at all religious. They never went to synagogue. They found me difficult, and after six months, they didn’t want me anymore. I was sent to a farm in Dalsland, where they made me eat pork and tend to the pigs in the barn. In the end, I cried day and night, so they didn’t want me, either. Then I was with a Swedish family in Borås, where I was more or less their housemaid. Still, they were the best family because they let me be. But last fall, they moved to Stockholm, and I ended up at the Children’s Home.”
“What a lot of bad luck you’ve had,” Stephie says sympathetically.
“Oh, I don’t know about that! Susie here was at fivedifferent places before she ended up at the Children’s Home last winter,” Judith tells her.
Stephie looks at Susie, a girl with a sturdy build, frowning face, and sad eyes.
“This is our stop,” says Judith. She gets up and touches Stephie’s arm. “Come with us for a while. Unless you’re in a hurry?”
Stephie thinks for a second. It will soon be dinnertime at May’s, but she’s still full from Miss Björk’s English sandwiches. Besides, with ten people at the Karlssons’ table, one more body or less doesn’t really make any difference.
“No,” she says. “I’m not in a hurry.”
They get off the tram.
“Are they stingy?” Susie asks. “The family you live with.”
“What do you mean?”
Susie points to Stephie’s feet. “You’ve got your boots on still, and it’s May.”
Though she doesn’t want to explain what happened to her shoes, Stephie doesn’t want Susie and Judith to get the wrong idea about Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert.
“My spring shoes are at the shoemaker’s, being resoled,” she fibs.
They walk up a little hill with ornamented wooden houses on both sides of the street. One of them is the Children’s Home.
Judith shows her around the home and introducesher to the girls who are there. Several of them are from Vienna, and Stephie recognizes a few. One girl even arrived in Göteborg on the same train as Stephie and Nellie.
“I had no idea there were so many of us,” she says to Judith.
“I think there are about five hundred,” Judith tells her, “all over Sweden.”
“Five hundred!”
Judith looks at her coolly. “That’s not so many,” she says. “Just remember how many got left behind! And Sweden’s happy to receive Finnish children as refugees. Tens of thousands of them. They’re blond and blue-eyed and fit right in with the Swedes.”
“You’re blond and blue-eyed yourself,” Stephie reminds her.
“Yes, but I’m Jewish. You
13
T he memory flashes through Stephie’s mind like a bolt of lightning. Of course she knows the girl! They were in the same class at the Jewish school in Vienna for several months. The crowded classroom with far too many pupils. The hunger. The fear.
“Yes, indeed,” Stephie says. “I’m Stephie Steiner. And you’re Judith Liebermann.”
Judith nods. “I didn’t know you were in Göteborg, too,” she says. “How long have you been in Sweden?”
“Since August 1939. What about you?” Stephie asks.
“April.”
Right. Stephie remembers Judith leaving the class sometime that spring. Nobody paid much attention. Children came and went at the Jewish school. Peoplesuddenly got emigration permits. But Judith’s family was one of the ones with the least chance of getting out to the West. Polish Jews, lots of children, no money.
“Where are you living?” asks Judith.
Stephie tells her. “And you?”
“I’m at the Jewish Children’s Home,” Judith says. “This is Susie. She lives there, too.”
Stephie didn’t even know there
was
a Jewish Children’s Home in Göteborg. Judith tells her about it. It is girls only, mostly teenagers, a few younger.
“I started out with a Jewish family,” says Judith. “Since my parents are orthodox, Papa absolutely insisted I live with other Jews. It hardly mattered, though, as the family wasn’t at all religious. They never went to synagogue. They found me difficult, and after six months, they didn’t want me anymore. I was sent to a farm in Dalsland, where they made me eat pork and tend to the pigs in the barn. In the end, I cried day and night, so they didn’t want me, either. Then I was with a Swedish family in Borås, where I was more or less their housemaid. Still, they were the best family because they let me be. But last fall, they moved to Stockholm, and I ended up at the Children’s Home.”
“What a lot of bad luck you’ve had,” Stephie says sympathetically.
“Oh, I don’t know about that! Susie here was at fivedifferent places before she ended up at the Children’s Home last winter,” Judith tells her.
Stephie looks at Susie, a girl with a sturdy build, frowning face, and sad eyes.
“This is our stop,” says Judith. She gets up and touches Stephie’s arm. “Come with us for a while. Unless you’re in a hurry?”
Stephie thinks for a second. It will soon be dinnertime at May’s, but she’s still full from Miss Björk’s English sandwiches. Besides, with ten people at the Karlssons’ table, one more body or less doesn’t really make any difference.
“No,” she says. “I’m not in a hurry.”
They get off the tram.
“Are they stingy?” Susie asks. “The family you live with.”
“What do you mean?”
Susie points to Stephie’s feet. “You’ve got your boots on still, and it’s May.”
Though she doesn’t want to explain what happened to her shoes, Stephie doesn’t want Susie and Judith to get the wrong idea about Aunt Märta and Uncle Evert.
“My spring shoes are at the shoemaker’s, being resoled,” she fibs.
They walk up a little hill with ornamented wooden houses on both sides of the street. One of them is the Children’s Home.
Judith shows her around the home and introducesher to the girls who are there. Several of them are from Vienna, and Stephie recognizes a few. One girl even arrived in Göteborg on the same train as Stephie and Nellie.
“I had no idea there were so many of us,” she says to Judith.
“I think there are about five hundred,” Judith tells her, “all over Sweden.”
“Five hundred!”
Judith looks at her coolly. “That’s not so many,” she says. “Just remember how many got left behind! And Sweden’s happy to receive Finnish children as refugees. Tens of thousands of them. They’re blond and blue-eyed and fit right in with the Swedes.”
“You’re blond and blue-eyed yourself,” Stephie reminds her.
“Yes, but I’m Jewish. You
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