mamma’s letter in her hand. There is something peculiar about this letter, something ominous between the lines.
Although the words in the letter are loving and reassuring, Stephie is worried.
Her mother’s handwriting has changed, too. It sprawls, as if her hand is no longer able to move the pen along the paper as gently and elegantly as it used to.
When Mamma and Papa told the girls they were sending them to Sweden, it upset Stephie, but she never doubted that it was the best thing to do. Back then they all believed that they would have to be apart for only a short time, that in a few months the whole family would have entry visas to the United States. “Six months at the very most,” she remembers her father saying in a reassuring tone when she asked him how long it was going to be.
Now that Stephie knows they will probably not see eachother again until the war is over, she sometimes wonders if it might not have been better for her and Nellie to stay in Vienna. She knows that her parents are now living in a crowded dwelling, and that there is not enough to eat. She knows that Papa is hardly paid anything for the work he does at the Jewish hospital, and that Mamma is away from home from early morning until late in the evenings. She knows that they, like all the other Jews in Vienna, are living in constant fear of what the Germans will do next.
And yet she sometimes wishes she were there. She misses the scent of her mother and her soft cheeks, her father’s warm hands and kind voice.
Even worse than missing them is feeling guilty. What right does she have to be sitting here well fed and content in a large brightly lit room on one of the finest streets in Göteborg when not only Mamma and Papa, but also Evi and other friends of hers, are freezing and starving? She ought to be in Vienna with them. She would be able to help Mamma clean houses. She would be able to make the long walk to the other side of the city to shop for food instead of Mamma, and to light the fire so it was warm when her parents came home in the evenings.
She would also, she knows, be another mouth to feed, and her parents would be sick with worry about her and Nellie if they were there. It’s better for all of them that the girls are in Sweden, where the only signs of the war are that more and more products are being rationed and that cars run onsmelly wood gas instead of gasoline. She knows this is true, yet it still seems unfair that she is here and they are there.
There’s a knock on the door, to the rhythm of one of Sven’s swing melodies.
“Come in.”
Sven stands in the doorway, looking at her. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No.”
He looks down at the letter in her hand. “From your parents?”
“Mamma.”
“Any news?”
Stephie shakes her head. She can’t explain the sense of dread that has come over her, not even to Sven.
“I really hope the Americans join the war,” says Sven. “Then the Germans won’t have a chance.”
“Please, could you talk about something else?” Stephie asks hotly. “I’m tired of talking about the war.”
Sven looks at her thoughtfully. Then he glances at his watch.
“Come on,” he says. “You need cheering up.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
As they put their coats on in the hall, Putte comes running, barking eagerly.
“Sorry, Putte pal,” says Sven. “You’ve had your walk. This time you have to stay inside.”
Stephie and Sven head toward Götaplatsen. Sven stops outside the concert hall.
“Here we are,” he tells Stephie. “There’s a concert starting in ten minutes.”
Stephie feels pleasure warm her. It’s been years since she listened to live music. Once the Nazis took over in Austria, Jews were prohibited from going to the cinema, the theater, and concerts. And on the island she isn’t allowed even to listen to music on the radio. According to Aunt Märta’s rules, and those of the Pentecostal church, music is sinful.
She feels a prick of
Although the words in the letter are loving and reassuring, Stephie is worried.
Her mother’s handwriting has changed, too. It sprawls, as if her hand is no longer able to move the pen along the paper as gently and elegantly as it used to.
When Mamma and Papa told the girls they were sending them to Sweden, it upset Stephie, but she never doubted that it was the best thing to do. Back then they all believed that they would have to be apart for only a short time, that in a few months the whole family would have entry visas to the United States. “Six months at the very most,” she remembers her father saying in a reassuring tone when she asked him how long it was going to be.
Now that Stephie knows they will probably not see eachother again until the war is over, she sometimes wonders if it might not have been better for her and Nellie to stay in Vienna. She knows that her parents are now living in a crowded dwelling, and that there is not enough to eat. She knows that Papa is hardly paid anything for the work he does at the Jewish hospital, and that Mamma is away from home from early morning until late in the evenings. She knows that they, like all the other Jews in Vienna, are living in constant fear of what the Germans will do next.
And yet she sometimes wishes she were there. She misses the scent of her mother and her soft cheeks, her father’s warm hands and kind voice.
Even worse than missing them is feeling guilty. What right does she have to be sitting here well fed and content in a large brightly lit room on one of the finest streets in Göteborg when not only Mamma and Papa, but also Evi and other friends of hers, are freezing and starving? She ought to be in Vienna with them. She would be able to help Mamma clean houses. She would be able to make the long walk to the other side of the city to shop for food instead of Mamma, and to light the fire so it was warm when her parents came home in the evenings.
She would also, she knows, be another mouth to feed, and her parents would be sick with worry about her and Nellie if they were there. It’s better for all of them that the girls are in Sweden, where the only signs of the war are that more and more products are being rationed and that cars run onsmelly wood gas instead of gasoline. She knows this is true, yet it still seems unfair that she is here and they are there.
There’s a knock on the door, to the rhythm of one of Sven’s swing melodies.
“Come in.”
Sven stands in the doorway, looking at her. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No.”
He looks down at the letter in her hand. “From your parents?”
“Mamma.”
“Any news?”
Stephie shakes her head. She can’t explain the sense of dread that has come over her, not even to Sven.
“I really hope the Americans join the war,” says Sven. “Then the Germans won’t have a chance.”
“Please, could you talk about something else?” Stephie asks hotly. “I’m tired of talking about the war.”
Sven looks at her thoughtfully. Then he glances at his watch.
“Come on,” he says. “You need cheering up.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
As they put their coats on in the hall, Putte comes running, barking eagerly.
“Sorry, Putte pal,” says Sven. “You’ve had your walk. This time you have to stay inside.”
Stephie and Sven head toward Götaplatsen. Sven stops outside the concert hall.
“Here we are,” he tells Stephie. “There’s a concert starting in ten minutes.”
Stephie feels pleasure warm her. It’s been years since she listened to live music. Once the Nazis took over in Austria, Jews were prohibited from going to the cinema, the theater, and concerts. And on the island she isn’t allowed even to listen to music on the radio. According to Aunt Märta’s rules, and those of the Pentecostal church, music is sinful.
She feels a prick of
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