been running for your life.”
Stephie gets her book from her desk and is about to leave.
“Since you’re here,” Hedvig Björk says then, “would you mind doing me a favor, Stephanie?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Take this book to Miss Hamberg. I think you’ll find her in the staff room, but if she isn’t there, you can just put it on her desk, the one over in the far corner, next to mine. You do know where the staff room is, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for helping me.”
The school building is quiet and empty. Stephie’s footsteps echo in the hallways.
She knocks on the door to the staff room, but no one comes to open it. She pushes at the door and finds that it’s unlocked.
She doesn’t feel completely comfortable walking in when no one is there, but she opens the door.
The light coming through the window hits her eyes, but Stephie discerns a figure inside. It’s not a teacher.
It’s Alice.
She’s standing at Hedvig Björk’s desk, bent forward as if she has been rummaging through the piles of paper on it. She straightens up and sees Stephie. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to leave this book for Miss Hamberg.”
“Miss Björk asked me to get something for her,” Alice says, “but I can’t find it. You can put the book over there, on Miss Hamberg’s desk.”
There’s something fishy going on. If Hedvig Björk asked Alice to go and get her something, she could also have sent the book for Miss Hamberg with her. But if she didn’t send Alice, what is Alice doing in the staff room? What has she been looking for on Miss Björk’s desk?
“Don’t worry,” Stephie says. “I won’t tell.”
Alice avoids her gaze. “What do you mean? Tell what? You’re always imagining things. You’ve been spying on me since the very first day of school. Sitting by the pond inthe afternoons—staring at me when I pass. I’ve told you to leave me alone. Don’t you get it?”
Stephie hears her own voice, clear but distant, as if it belongs to someone else: “Why do you hate me?”
“Because you make me so ashamed.”
“Me? Why?”
“My family has lived here for four generations,” says Alice. “We’ve never had to be embarrassed about being Jewish. My parents and even my grandparents speak perfect Swedish. My father’s a prominent businessman. We socialize with everyone worth knowing in this city. But now you refugees are turning up. People who have nothing, and who can’t even speak Swedish. That makes it different for us, too. People might think we’re like you.”
Stephie’s dumbstruck. It takes her most of a minute to figure out what she should say: “What if Sweden had been occupied, too? Like Denmark and Norway? What if the Germans had come here and taken your papa’s business away from him, taken your beautiful house and all your money? What if everyone worth knowing in this city no longer wanted to have anything to do with you? Would you have escaped then if you could have? Gone to any country that was willing to have you? Tried to learn the language as best you could? And if they wouldn’t let the grown-ups in, don’t you think your parents would have sent you and your sisters and brothers away?”
But by that time, Alice has swept past her through the door and vanished down the long corridor.
Stephie stops in her tracks. Without having to turn around, she knows who’s calling her name. She’d know his voice anywhere.
“Hang on,” she says to May. “It’s Sven.”
May knows, of course, that Sven is the son of the family with whom Stephie boards. She knows that they’re friends, and that Stephie often borrows books from Sven and sometimes lends them to May. But she has no idea about Stephie’s feelings for Sven. Now and then Stephie thinks she’d like to talk to May about it, but somehow all the lies she has told Harriet and Lilian get in the way when she wants to talk about what things are really like.
Sven catches up with them.
Stephie gets her book from her desk and is about to leave.
“Since you’re here,” Hedvig Björk says then, “would you mind doing me a favor, Stephanie?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Take this book to Miss Hamberg. I think you’ll find her in the staff room, but if she isn’t there, you can just put it on her desk, the one over in the far corner, next to mine. You do know where the staff room is, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for helping me.”
The school building is quiet and empty. Stephie’s footsteps echo in the hallways.
She knocks on the door to the staff room, but no one comes to open it. She pushes at the door and finds that it’s unlocked.
She doesn’t feel completely comfortable walking in when no one is there, but she opens the door.
The light coming through the window hits her eyes, but Stephie discerns a figure inside. It’s not a teacher.
It’s Alice.
She’s standing at Hedvig Björk’s desk, bent forward as if she has been rummaging through the piles of paper on it. She straightens up and sees Stephie. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to leave this book for Miss Hamberg.”
“Miss Björk asked me to get something for her,” Alice says, “but I can’t find it. You can put the book over there, on Miss Hamberg’s desk.”
There’s something fishy going on. If Hedvig Björk asked Alice to go and get her something, she could also have sent the book for Miss Hamberg with her. But if she didn’t send Alice, what is Alice doing in the staff room? What has she been looking for on Miss Björk’s desk?
“Don’t worry,” Stephie says. “I won’t tell.”
Alice avoids her gaze. “What do you mean? Tell what? You’re always imagining things. You’ve been spying on me since the very first day of school. Sitting by the pond inthe afternoons—staring at me when I pass. I’ve told you to leave me alone. Don’t you get it?”
Stephie hears her own voice, clear but distant, as if it belongs to someone else: “Why do you hate me?”
“Because you make me so ashamed.”
“Me? Why?”
“My family has lived here for four generations,” says Alice. “We’ve never had to be embarrassed about being Jewish. My parents and even my grandparents speak perfect Swedish. My father’s a prominent businessman. We socialize with everyone worth knowing in this city. But now you refugees are turning up. People who have nothing, and who can’t even speak Swedish. That makes it different for us, too. People might think we’re like you.”
Stephie’s dumbstruck. It takes her most of a minute to figure out what she should say: “What if Sweden had been occupied, too? Like Denmark and Norway? What if the Germans had come here and taken your papa’s business away from him, taken your beautiful house and all your money? What if everyone worth knowing in this city no longer wanted to have anything to do with you? Would you have escaped then if you could have? Gone to any country that was willing to have you? Tried to learn the language as best you could? And if they wouldn’t let the grown-ups in, don’t you think your parents would have sent you and your sisters and brothers away?”
But by that time, Alice has swept past her through the door and vanished down the long corridor.
Stephie stops in her tracks. Without having to turn around, she knows who’s calling her name. She’d know his voice anywhere.
“Hang on,” she says to May. “It’s Sven.”
May knows, of course, that Sven is the son of the family with whom Stephie boards. She knows that they’re friends, and that Stephie often borrows books from Sven and sometimes lends them to May. But she has no idea about Stephie’s feelings for Sven. Now and then Stephie thinks she’d like to talk to May about it, but somehow all the lies she has told Harriet and Lilian get in the way when she wants to talk about what things are really like.
Sven catches up with them.
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