When they’re finished, Aunt Märta unties her apron, turns on the radio in the front room, and settles into the rocking chair. Stephie finds herself standing in the kitchen. If there had been music on the radio she would have gone in and listened. But it’s just the voice of a man speaking words she cannot understand. Aunt Märta doesn’t seem bothered about her right now, so Stephie decides to go up to her room.
five
Stephie tiptoes quietly up the stairs and into the little room under the eaves. She opens the bottom dresser drawer and removes her stationery and her fountain pen. The pen is new, a gift from her father on her last evening at home.
“So that you can write us beautiful letters,” he said as he lifted it out of the little box lined in dark blue velvet.
Stephie takes a sheet of writing paper, along with the pen, and settles herself in at the bay window. She unscrews the cap on the pen and looks out at the landscape.
Rain clatters against the windowpane. The wind is gusty, but she can see the stony slope that leads down to the water. Patches of grass sprout up here and there, as do a few gnarled juniper bushes. The water’s edge is marked by a rocky shore, stones and pebbles as far as the eye can see. Waves are crashing against the shore so loudly that Stephie can hear them through the closed window. Everything in sight is gray-gray stones, a gray ocean, a gray sky.
Dearest Mamma and Papa, she writes. I miss you so. We have now arrived at the place where we will be staying. It’s a faraway island. We came out by boat, but I don’t know how long the ride took as I was seasick and then I fell asleep.
Nellie and I weren’t put in the same family. I don’t know why. Nellie’s living with Auntie Alma. She’s nice and has two little children of her own. I’m at Aunt Märta’s house. She’s…
Stephie stops, her pen resting on the paper. How to describe Aunt Märta? She imagines the woman’s stern face, her tightly pulled-back knot of hair, the sharp lines around her mouth, and eyes so pale gray they appear almost colorless.