Fish eyes, Stephie thinks with a little shiver.

… quite strict, she writes. She doesn’t speak German. Neither does Auntie Alma. I’m not sure Nellie and I will have anyone but each other to talk to.

Something wet strikes the paper, dissolving the last word into a puddle.

Mamma! she writes. Oh, Mamma, please come and get us. This place is nothing but sea and stones. I can’t live here. If you don’t come and get me, I think I’m going to die.

Stephie pushes the letter aside. Her throat aches with held-back tears. She runs into the little room and is about to throw herself onto the bed when she remembers that she mustn’t wrinkle the bedspread. Instead she sinks to the floor, resting her head against the edge of the bed.

When she finally stops sobbing, Stephie feels emptied out, as if she had nothing inside but a gaping hole. She goes out to the little washstand on the landing and rinses her face with cold water.

Her letter is still on the windowsill. Stephie picks it up and reads through it. … come and get us. What was she thinking? Mamma and Papa don’t have entry visas for Sweden. They couldn’t come if they wanted to.

She can’t send a letter like that home. Mamma would be distraught. She might even regret having allowed them to leave. Papa would be disappointed in Stephie, his “big girl.”

With great determination Stephie crumples the letter into a hard ball. She looks for a wastepaper basket, but doesn’t find one anywhere. By the window in her room is a little vent with a pull-string attached. She tugs the string, opens the vent, and stuffs her ball of paper in. Then she sits down at the writing table with a fresh piece of paper in front of her, and starts a new letter.

Dearest Mamma and Papa!