Unless, of course, you count the framed picture on the wall above the chest of drawers. It’s of a man with long hair and a beard, wearing a pink robe that touches the ground. He’s holding out his arms in a gesture of benediction. Behind him, wide rays of light extend from an invisible source.

That’s Jesus, Stephie thinks. Why would Aunt Märta put a picture of Jesus in my room? Doesn’t she know I’m Jewish?

Aunt Märta sets Stephie’s suitcase on the table and opens it. Obediently, Stephie begins to unpack. Aunt Märta shows her a curtained-off area on the landing where she’s supposed to hang her dresses. Behind a second curtain is a little table with a washbasin and a towel.

Stephie puts her stockings and underwear in the top dresser drawer, her sweaters and blouses in the next. In the bottom one she puts her books, her diary, her stationery and pens, and her jewelry box. She lays her scruffy teddy bear on the bed. Although it’s been years since she cuddled her bear at night, she couldn’t leave him behind.

She places her photos on the dresser. Separate portraits of her parents, and a picture of the whole family together on an outing to the Wienerwald park. Her papa is sitting on a log; Stephie is on the ground, leaning against his legs; Nellie is playing horsey, straddling the log; Mamma is standing behind Papa, her hands on his shoulders. She’s leaning forward a little, as if she’s about to whisper something in his ear.

The picture is two years old. In those days, the Steiners were still an ordinary family, taking the streetcar, going to movies and concerts, enjoying vacations. But less than a year after the picture was taken, the Nazis invaded Austria, annexing the country to Germany. Things the Steiner family had always taken for granted were suddenly prohibited. Forbidden to all people like them, to Jews.