said Pauline.
But the real reason they had brought her to the hut was to tell her that whatever happened to her in her new life they would never forsake her.
‘I really hate aristocrats, as you know,’ said Pauline, ‘always grinding the faces of the poor.’
‘My mother wouldn’t grind the faces of the poor,’ said Annika.
All the same, she knew how Pauline felt. Last spring they had acted the story of Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine. Annika had been the doomed queen and she’d been shocked at the glee with which Pauline and Stefan had jeered at her as she bared her throat for the knife.
‘On the other hand it isn’t your fault that you’ve turned out to be a von Tannenberg,’ Pauline went on. ‘So if you need us, just say the word.’
‘Yes,’ said Stefan, nodding his blond head. ‘Just say the word.’
After that the hours rushed by and suddenly her suitcase was packed and it was time for the last goodbyes.
She had said goodbye to Josef in the cafe, and his mother, to Father Anselm in the church, to the lady in the paper shop . . .
Now she went upstairs to say goodbye to the professors, who weren’t professors any more but uncles, and to Aunt Gertrude, who suddenly bent down to kiss her, bumping her nose.
Then came Sigrid and Ellie . . .
They had prayed and they had practised. Now they stood dry-eyed and side by side to give Annika a cheerful send-off.
But as Annika put her arms round Ellie something horrible happened to her. It was as if she was being disembowelled – as though her insides really were being pulled apart.
‘I’m coming back ,’ she cried. ‘I’m coming back often and often. My mother says I can.’
Why did no one listen ; why did no one understand that she was coming back?
‘Yes, dear; of course you’re coming back,’ said Ellie quietly.
Then the carriage was at the door. Though Annika had already taken leave of everyone, they had all gathered in the square to wave. The same people as had been there just a few days ago, when she and Stefan had come back from the Prater. The Bodeks with the baby, Pauline and her grandfather, Josef from the cafe . . .
Annika climbed into the carriage, where her mother sat waiting. As it clattered away across the cobbles, the Bodek baby in his pram began to scream. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed long after the carriage had turned into the Keller Strasse and was out of sight.
Nobody hushed him. Instead, as he became more and more purple with sorrow and rage, they nodded their heads.
‘Exactly so,’ they said to each other. ‘Yes, yes, exactly so.’
C HAPTER E LEVEN
J OURNEY TO N ORRLAND
T hey had travelled all morning and for the best part of the afternoon. The train was stuffy, but when her mother opened a window the wind that blew in seemed to be full of knives.
Annika had looked out eagerly as they had crossed the Moravian hills, stopped at pretty towns with onion-domed churches and trundled over gorges cut by rushing rivers. Now, after several hours, she was getting sleepy and the landscape had changed. As they went north, and still further north, there was just a wide plain with patches of trees and pools of water circled by dark birds. Snow still lay in the hollows and the gnarled trees were bent by the wind. This was Norrland and the site of her new home.
Frau Edeltraut had said little on the journey; just smiled at Annika from time to time and reached out to pat her hand – and Annika was free to imagine what she would find . . . the farm, the dogs and horses . . . and Hermann . . . A brother: she had not dared to imagine a brother in her dreams.
They did not go to the dining car; just bought some rolls from a woman with a basket at one of the stations, and Annika remembered hearing that aristocrats did not get hungry like other people, nor did they mind being uncomfortable. The seats of the railway carriage were surprisingly hard.
The light had begun to fade by the time the train stopped at
But the real reason they had brought her to the hut was to tell her that whatever happened to her in her new life they would never forsake her.
‘I really hate aristocrats, as you know,’ said Pauline, ‘always grinding the faces of the poor.’
‘My mother wouldn’t grind the faces of the poor,’ said Annika.
All the same, she knew how Pauline felt. Last spring they had acted the story of Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine. Annika had been the doomed queen and she’d been shocked at the glee with which Pauline and Stefan had jeered at her as she bared her throat for the knife.
‘On the other hand it isn’t your fault that you’ve turned out to be a von Tannenberg,’ Pauline went on. ‘So if you need us, just say the word.’
‘Yes,’ said Stefan, nodding his blond head. ‘Just say the word.’
After that the hours rushed by and suddenly her suitcase was packed and it was time for the last goodbyes.
She had said goodbye to Josef in the cafe, and his mother, to Father Anselm in the church, to the lady in the paper shop . . .
Now she went upstairs to say goodbye to the professors, who weren’t professors any more but uncles, and to Aunt Gertrude, who suddenly bent down to kiss her, bumping her nose.
Then came Sigrid and Ellie . . .
They had prayed and they had practised. Now they stood dry-eyed and side by side to give Annika a cheerful send-off.
But as Annika put her arms round Ellie something horrible happened to her. It was as if she was being disembowelled – as though her insides really were being pulled apart.
‘I’m coming back ,’ she cried. ‘I’m coming back often and often. My mother says I can.’
Why did no one listen ; why did no one understand that she was coming back?
‘Yes, dear; of course you’re coming back,’ said Ellie quietly.
Then the carriage was at the door. Though Annika had already taken leave of everyone, they had all gathered in the square to wave. The same people as had been there just a few days ago, when she and Stefan had come back from the Prater. The Bodeks with the baby, Pauline and her grandfather, Josef from the cafe . . .
Annika climbed into the carriage, where her mother sat waiting. As it clattered away across the cobbles, the Bodek baby in his pram began to scream. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed long after the carriage had turned into the Keller Strasse and was out of sight.
Nobody hushed him. Instead, as he became more and more purple with sorrow and rage, they nodded their heads.
‘Exactly so,’ they said to each other. ‘Yes, yes, exactly so.’
C HAPTER E LEVEN
J OURNEY TO N ORRLAND
T hey had travelled all morning and for the best part of the afternoon. The train was stuffy, but when her mother opened a window the wind that blew in seemed to be full of knives.
Annika had looked out eagerly as they had crossed the Moravian hills, stopped at pretty towns with onion-domed churches and trundled over gorges cut by rushing rivers. Now, after several hours, she was getting sleepy and the landscape had changed. As they went north, and still further north, there was just a wide plain with patches of trees and pools of water circled by dark birds. Snow still lay in the hollows and the gnarled trees were bent by the wind. This was Norrland and the site of her new home.
Frau Edeltraut had said little on the journey; just smiled at Annika from time to time and reached out to pat her hand – and Annika was free to imagine what she would find . . . the farm, the dogs and horses . . . and Hermann . . . A brother: she had not dared to imagine a brother in her dreams.
They did not go to the dining car; just bought some rolls from a woman with a basket at one of the stations, and Annika remembered hearing that aristocrats did not get hungry like other people, nor did they mind being uncomfortable. The seats of the railway carriage were surprisingly hard.
The light had begun to fade by the time the train stopped at