escape.
Aunt Märta’s eyes are drawn like magnets to Stephie’s torn, stained skirt.
“I’m sorry,” Stephie stammers.
“Go straight to your room,” Aunt Märta instructs her. “Take off that dress and have a wash. You will stay in your room for the rest of the day.”
Stephie does as she’s told. As usual, she folds her dress over the back of the chair and goes out to the washstand. She doesn’t dare to put a clean one on afterward, simply pulls on her nightgown over her undergarments, although it’s still broad daylight.
Aunt Märta comes into the room, gathers up the dress, and goes out again without a word. The door bangs shut behind her.
Stephie opens her bottom dresser drawer. Removing the china dog from its handkerchief, she stands it next to her photographs. Then she takes out her jewelry box and opens the lid. Soft music plays and a ballerina begins to turn on her pointed leg. The jewelry box was a present from her mother on Stephie’s tenth birthday. When the music stops, she shuts the lid and opens it again. The ballerina turns and dances once more.
“Mamma,” she whispers to the picture. “Mamma, I want to come home.”
She hears noise from the kitchen. After a while the smell of food wafts up, but Aunt Märta doesn’t call her. Then there’s more noise, followed by silence.
Stephie hasn’t eaten anything but blackberries since breakfast. Even fish would taste good right now.
Not until several hours later does Aunt Märta bring her up a glass of milk and some bread and butter. She puts the plate down by the window. As she is leaving, she turns around.
“Vera Hedberg. What kind of company is that to keep?” Aunt Märta says. “Sloppy and trashy, just like her mother.”
She closes the door behind her so fast Stephie doesn’t have time to ask what she means. What’s wrong with Vera and her mother?
When Stephie sits down by the window to eat, she notices Aunt Märta’s bicycle leaning up against the woodshed. The chain has come off.
On a Sunday evening toward the end of September, Aunt Märta tells Stephie to put her coat on. They’re going to a “revival meeting,” she explains. Stephie doesn’t have the slightest idea what that means, but she pulls on her coat obediently and goes along. They walk into the village and toward the rectangular wooden house called the Pentecostal Church.
A big crowd is gathered outside. Some people have started to go in, others stand chatting in groups. Auntie Alma is there, too, with Nellie and the little ones.
“What kind of place is this?” Nellie asks Stephie in a whisper.
“I’m not sure,” Stephie whispers back. “Some kind of church, though.”
Inside, there is one big room with rows of woodenbenches. In some ways it resembles the churches in Vienna. But in Vienna churches are old stone buildings with stained glass windows, icons, and the scent of hundreds of lit candles. Stephie’s been in churches like that with Evi and her mother.
Here, there is nothing but a great big, bare room with a raised lectern, like in a classroom. No candles cast their flickering light over mysterious aisles and stone columns. No images of saints gaze solemnly down. There’s only the glare from the electric light fixture on the ceiling. The wooden floor smells newly scrubbed.
The benches are filling up. Stephie sits between Aunt Märta and Nellie. Auntie Alma has John on her lap on the other side of Nellie, and then comes Elsa.
When everyone is seated, the revival meeting begins.
A tall, thin man stands at the lectern speaking in a monotonous voice. He holds his big hands in front of him, gesturing emphatically to stress his point. Stephie doesn’t understand everything he’s saying, but it’s about God and Jesus and sinners who ought to repent.
“Come home to Jesus,” the man says. “He will embrace you, whoever you may be.”
Sometimes he uses expressions that make Stephie sit up with a jolt. He speaks of “flaming arrows aimed at
Aunt Märta’s eyes are drawn like magnets to Stephie’s torn, stained skirt.
“I’m sorry,” Stephie stammers.
“Go straight to your room,” Aunt Märta instructs her. “Take off that dress and have a wash. You will stay in your room for the rest of the day.”
Stephie does as she’s told. As usual, she folds her dress over the back of the chair and goes out to the washstand. She doesn’t dare to put a clean one on afterward, simply pulls on her nightgown over her undergarments, although it’s still broad daylight.
Aunt Märta comes into the room, gathers up the dress, and goes out again without a word. The door bangs shut behind her.
Stephie opens her bottom dresser drawer. Removing the china dog from its handkerchief, she stands it next to her photographs. Then she takes out her jewelry box and opens the lid. Soft music plays and a ballerina begins to turn on her pointed leg. The jewelry box was a present from her mother on Stephie’s tenth birthday. When the music stops, she shuts the lid and opens it again. The ballerina turns and dances once more.
“Mamma,” she whispers to the picture. “Mamma, I want to come home.”
She hears noise from the kitchen. After a while the smell of food wafts up, but Aunt Märta doesn’t call her. Then there’s more noise, followed by silence.
Stephie hasn’t eaten anything but blackberries since breakfast. Even fish would taste good right now.
Not until several hours later does Aunt Märta bring her up a glass of milk and some bread and butter. She puts the plate down by the window. As she is leaving, she turns around.
“Vera Hedberg. What kind of company is that to keep?” Aunt Märta says. “Sloppy and trashy, just like her mother.”
She closes the door behind her so fast Stephie doesn’t have time to ask what she means. What’s wrong with Vera and her mother?
When Stephie sits down by the window to eat, she notices Aunt Märta’s bicycle leaning up against the woodshed. The chain has come off.
On a Sunday evening toward the end of September, Aunt Märta tells Stephie to put her coat on. They’re going to a “revival meeting,” she explains. Stephie doesn’t have the slightest idea what that means, but she pulls on her coat obediently and goes along. They walk into the village and toward the rectangular wooden house called the Pentecostal Church.
A big crowd is gathered outside. Some people have started to go in, others stand chatting in groups. Auntie Alma is there, too, with Nellie and the little ones.
“What kind of place is this?” Nellie asks Stephie in a whisper.
“I’m not sure,” Stephie whispers back. “Some kind of church, though.”
Inside, there is one big room with rows of woodenbenches. In some ways it resembles the churches in Vienna. But in Vienna churches are old stone buildings with stained glass windows, icons, and the scent of hundreds of lit candles. Stephie’s been in churches like that with Evi and her mother.
Here, there is nothing but a great big, bare room with a raised lectern, like in a classroom. No candles cast their flickering light over mysterious aisles and stone columns. No images of saints gaze solemnly down. There’s only the glare from the electric light fixture on the ceiling. The wooden floor smells newly scrubbed.
The benches are filling up. Stephie sits between Aunt Märta and Nellie. Auntie Alma has John on her lap on the other side of Nellie, and then comes Elsa.
When everyone is seated, the revival meeting begins.
A tall, thin man stands at the lectern speaking in a monotonous voice. He holds his big hands in front of him, gesturing emphatically to stress his point. Stephie doesn’t understand everything he’s saying, but it’s about God and Jesus and sinners who ought to repent.
“Come home to Jesus,” the man says. “He will embrace you, whoever you may be.”
Sometimes he uses expressions that make Stephie sit up with a jolt. He speaks of “flaming arrows aimed at
Similar Books
