‘Britta, calm down. What happened? Is he drunk again?’ Elsy stroked her friend’s back to soothe her as they sat on her bed. Britta nodded. She tried to say something, but it came out as a sob. Elsy pulled her close, still stroking her back.
‘Shhh . . . Soon you’ll be able to move out. Get a job somewhere. Get away from all the misery at home.’
‘I’m never . . . I’m never coming back,’ sobbed Britta, leaning against her friend.
Elsy could feel her blouse getting wet from Britta’s tears, but she didn’t care.
‘Was he mean to your mother again?’
Britta nodded. ‘He slapped her face. I didn’t see any more after that. I took off. Oh, if only I were a boy, I would have punched him until he was black and blue.’
‘It would be such a waste of a pretty face if you were a boy,’ said Elsy, hugging Britta and laughing. She knew her friend well enough to realize that a little flattery could always brighten her mood.
‘Very funny,’ said Britta, her sobs subsiding. ‘But I feel sorry for my little brothers and sister.’
‘There’s not much you can do about that,’ said Elsy, picturing Britta’s three younger siblings. Her throat tightened with anger when she thought of how miserable their father had made things for his family. Tord Johansson was notorious in Fjällbacka as an evil-tempered drunk. Several times a week he would beat his wife Ruth, a frightened creature who would hide the bruises on her face behind a kerchief if she was forced to show herself outside the house after a beating. Sometimes the children, too, suffered the brunt of his anger, but so far the beatings had been reserved for Britta’s two younger brothers. He hadn’t yet raised a hand to Britta and her younger sister.
‘If only he’d just die. Fall in the sea and drown when he’s drunk,’ whispered Britta.
Elsy hugged her closer. ‘Shhh. You shouldn’t say things like that, Britta. With God’s providence, I’m sure it will all work out, one way or other. And without you having to commit a sin by wishing him dead.’
‘God?’ said Britta bitterly. ‘He’s never found His way to our house. And yet my mother still sits at home every Sunday, praying. A lot of good that’s done her! It’s easy for you to talk about God. Your parents are so nice, and you don’t have any brothers or sisters to compete with or take care of.’ Britta couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Elsy let go of her friend. In a friendly but slightly sharp tone she said: ‘Things aren’t always that easy for us, either. Mamma worries so much about my father that she’s getting thinner and thinner by the day. Ever since the Öckerö was torpedoed, she thinks that every trip my father makes in his boat will be his last. Sometimes I find her standing at the window staring out at the sea, as if she’s pleading with it to bring my father back home.’
‘Well, I don’t think that’s the same thing at all,’ said Britta, sniffing pitifully.
‘Of course it’s not the same thing. I just meant . . . oh, never mind.’ Elsy knew it was useless to continue the conversation. She loved her friend for all the good that she knew was inside her, but sometimes Britta could be incredibly self-centred.
They heard someone coming up the stairs, and Britta immediately sat up and began frantically wiping the tears from her face.
‘You’ve got visitors,’ said Hilma. Behind her Frans and Erik appeared on the stairs.
‘Hi!’
Elsy could tell that her mother wasn’t pleased, but she left them alone after saying: ‘Elsy, don’t forget that you need to deliver the laundry that I’ve done for the Östermans. You’ve got ten minutes until you have to go. And remember your father is due home any minute.’
When she had gone, Frans and Erik made themselves comfortable on the floor in Elsy’s room since there was nowhere else to sit.
‘It doesn’t sound like she wants us to come over here,’ said Frans.
‘My mother doesn’t believe people from different social classes should mix,’ said Elsy. ‘The two of you are upper class, though I don’t really know why anyone would think so.’ She gave them a mischievous smile, and Frans stuck out his tongue in reply. Erik was looking at Britta.
‘How’s it going, Britta?’ he said quietly. ‘It looks like you’re feeling bad about something.’
‘None of your business,’ she snapped, holding her head high.
‘Probably just a girl’s problem,’ said Frans with a laugh.
Britta gave him an adoring look and a big smile. But her eyes were still red-rimmed.
‘Why do you always think everything is so funny, Frans?’ asked Elsy, clasping her hands in her lap. ‘Some people have a hard time, you know. Not everybody is like you and Erik. The war has brought hardships to so many families. You ought to think about that once in a while.’
‘How did I get dragged into this?’ asked Erik, offended. ‘We all know that Frans is an ignorant fool, but to accuse me of not being aware that people are suffering . . .’ He gave Elsy an insulted look but then jumped and yelled ‘Ow’ when Frans punched him in the arm.
‘Ignorant fool? I beg to differ. The fools are the ones who talk about “not being aware that people are suffering”. You sound like you’re eighty years old. At least. All those books you read aren’t good for your health. They’re making you weird up here.’ Frans tapped his finger on his temple.
‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to him,’ said Elsy wearily. Sometimes the boys’ constant squabbling got her down. They were so childish.
A sound from downstairs made her face light up. ‘Pappa’s home!’ She smiled happily at her three friends and headed downstairs to see him. But halfway down she stopped, realizing that the cheerful tones that she usually heard when her father came home were missing entirely. Instead their voices rose and fell, sounding upset. As soon as she saw him, she knew that something was terribly wrong. His face was ashen, and he was running one hand over his hair, the way he always did when he was especially worried.
‘Pappa?’ she said hesitantly, feeling her heart pounding. What could have happened? She tried to catch his eye, but she saw that his gaze was fixed on Erik, who had come down behind her. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but then closed it again, unable to utter a word. Finally he managed to say, ‘Erik, I think you should go home. Your mother and father . . . are going to need you.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’ Then Erik clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized that Elsy’s father was about to give him bad news. ‘Axel? Is he . . .?’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but kept swallowing hard as if to make the lump in his throat go away. An image of Axel’s lifeless body raced through his mind. How could he face his mother and father? How could he . . .?
‘He’s not dead,’ said Elof, when he realized what the boy was thinking. ‘He’s not dead,’ he repeated. ‘But the Germans have him.’
Erik’s expression turned to bewilderment. The relief and joy he had felt upon hearing that Axel wasn’t dead were quickly replaced by worry and dismay at the thought of his brother in the hands of the enemy.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you home,’ said Elof. His whole body seemed weighed down by the responsibility of telling Axel’s parents that their son wasn’t coming back this time.