A Faraway Island Read online

  To Sara and Rebecka

  The train slows to a halt. A voice over a loudspeaker shouts in an unknown language.

  Stephie presses her nose to the window. Through the steam from the locomotive, she sees a sign and, farther down, a brick building with a glass roof.

  “Are we there, Stephie?” Nellie asks anxiously. “Is this where we get off?”

  “I’m not sure,” Stephie answers, “but I think so.”

  She stands up on the seat to reach the luggage rack, lifting Nellie’s suitcase down first, then her own. Their school knapsacks are on the floor at their feet. They must be sure not to leave anything on the train. This is all they were allowed to bring with them, and it is very little indeed.

  A lady in a summer suit and hat appears in the doorway of their compartment. She addresses them in German.

  “Hurry, hurry,” she says. “This is Göteborg. Our destination.”

  The lady moves along to the next compartment without waiting for an answer.

  Stephie pulls on her own knapsack, then helps her sister. “Take your suitcase!” she says.

  “It’s so heavy,” Nellie complains, lifting it anyway. Hand in hand, they walk out into the train corridor. There are already a number of children gathered, all eager to disembark.

  Soon the station platform is crowded with children and luggage. Behind them, the train pulls away, thudding and squealing. Some of the smaller children are crying. One little boy is calling for his mamma.

  “Your mamma’s not here,” Stephie tells him. “She can’t come to you. But you’ll be getting a new mother here, one who’s just as nice.”

  “Mamma, mamma,” the little boy wails. The lady in the summer suit lifts him up and carries him.

  “Come along,” she says to the other children. “Follow me.”

  They walk behind her in a line like ducklings and enter the station, the building with the high, arched glass roof. A man with a big camera moves toward them. The sudden flash is blinding. One of the smaller children screams.

  “Stop it, mister,” the lady escorting them says curtly. “You’re frightening the young ones.”

  The man goes on taking pictures anyway.

  “This is my job, lady,” he says. “Yours is to look after the poor little refugee children. Mine is to take the heartbreaking pictures so you’ll get more money to do your work.”

  He takes a few more shots.

  Stephie turns her face away. She doesn’t want to be a refugee child in a heartbreaking picture in some magazine. She doesn’t want to be someone people have to give money for.

  The lady leads them to the far end of a large waiting area, part of which has been cordoned off and is full of grown-ups. An older woman with glasses moves toward them.

  “Welcome to Sweden,” she says. “We are so glad you got here safely. We represent the local relief committee. You’ll be safe here until you can be reunited with your parents.”

  This lady speaks German, too, but with a funny accent.

  A younger woman takes out a list and begins calling names: “Ruth Baumann … Stephan Fischer … Eva Goldberg …”

  Every time she calls a name, a child raises his or her hand, then walks over to the lady with the list. The lady double-checks the name against the brown name tags that the child, like all the other children, has hanging from his or her neck. One of the adults who’ve been waiting steps forward, takes the child, and departs. The children who are too small to respond to the roll call are pointed out and collected from their bench.

  The list is in alphabetical order, so Stephie realizes she and Nellie will have a long wait. Her stomach is aching with hunger, and her whole body longs for a bed to stretch out on. The crowded railway compartment has been their home since early yesterday morning. The miles and miles of track have carried them all the way from Vienna, Austria, far from Mamma and Papa. The rails were a link between them. Now the girls have been cut off. They’re all alone.

  Slowly the groups of children and adults begin to dwindle. Nellie cuddles up to Stephie.

  “When will it be our turn, Stephie? Isn’t there anybody here for us?”

  “They haven’t come to S yet,” Stephie explains. “We have to wait.”

  “I’m so hungry,” Nellie whines. “And so tired. And so very hungry.”

  “There’s nothing left to eat,” Stephie informs her. “We finished our sandwiches ages ago. You’ll have to be patient until we get to where we’re going. Sit down on your suitcase if you’re too tired to stand.”

  Nellie sits down on her little case, chin in hands. Her long black braids reach nearly to the floor.

  “Nellie, I’ll bet we’re going to be living in a real palace,” Stephie says, trying to comfort her sister. “With zillions of rooms. And a view of the sea.”

  “Will I have my own bedroom?” Nellie asks.

  “Sure,” Stephie promises.

  “Oh, no,” Nellie moans. “I’d rather share with you.”

  “Eleonore Steiner,” Stephie hears the lady call out.

  “That’s you! Say ‘Here,’” Stephie whispers.

  “Eleonore Steiner,” the lady with the list repeats. “Come forward!”

  Stephie pulls Nellie along, zigzagging between pieces of luggage. “We’re here,” she says.

  The lady looks back down at her list. “Stephanie Steiner?” she asks.

  Stephie nods.

  “Steiner,” the lady repeats loudly. “Eleonore and Stephanie Steiner!”

  No grown-up comes forward.

  “Stephie,” asks Nellie, her voice trembling, “doesn’t anybody want us?”

  Stephie doesn’t answer, just clutches Nellie’s hand tightly. The lady with the list turns to her.

  “You’ll have to wait a bit longer,” she says, moving the two sisters to the side. “If you’ll just stand here, I’ll be back shortly.”

  The older woman takes over the roll call. After a while, all the other children are gone. Stephie and Nellie are alone with their suitcases.

  “Can we go home now?” asks Nellie. “Back to Mamma and Papa?”

  Stephie shakes her head. Nellie begins to cry.

  “Shhh,” Stephie hisses. “Don’t start blubbering, now. You’re not a crybaby, are you?”

  Heels clatter against the marble floor. Footsteps approach. The younger woman quickly explains something to the older one. She takes a pen out of her bag and writes on Stephie and Nellie’s name tags: These children do not speak Swedish.

  “Come along,” she says to Stephie. “I’m going to take you to the boat.”

  Stephie takes her suitcase in one hand and Nellie by the other. Silently, they follow the lady out of the station.

  The sun is bright, the August heat oppressive, as Stephie, Nellie, and the lady from the relief committee clamber into a taxicab outside the train station. Stephie is all itchy inside her heavy new coat. Before they left for Sweden, their mother had a winter coat made for each of them by Fräulein Gerlach, the seamstress. Mamma asked Fräulein Gerlach for especially thick linings; she knew Sweden was a cold country.

  The coats are light blue with dark blue velvet collars. Their matching hats are blue velvet, too. Stephie would have loved the coat if it hadn’t been made because they were leaving.

  After a long ride the taxi stops at the harbor and they get out. Ships as large as buildings are docked along the pier. A little white steamer out at the far end resembles a toy boat as it bobs in the waves.

  The lady pays the taxi driver and walks ahead of Stephie, holding Nellie by one hand and Nellie’s suitcase in the other. Stephie drags her own heavy suitcase behind.

  When they get to the gangway, the woman buys tickets from one of the crew members. She speaks to him in Swedish, pointing to th
e girls. At first the man shakes his head, but the woman continues talking until, finally, he nods.

  “Come on,” he says to the girls, showing them to two seats in the covered section of the boat. Nellie looks disappointed.

  “I want to stand out there,” Nellie says to Stephie, pointing to the deck. “Ask him if it’s all right.”

  “You ask!” says Stephie.

  Nellie shrugs and sits down. When the engines begin to throb, Stephie realizes they never said goodbye to the lady from the relief committee, and she hurries to the aft deck. The lady is gone.

  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?”