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Part III

[Translated from German]

May 12th, 1968

Stockholm

Dear Melia,

It’s been over five years since you’ve heard from me, and you may think I’m dead. I miss you every day. I want nothing more than to return, but I can’t. I have much to atone for, and it is too dangerous for me to come, to drag you into my shameful mistakes.

However, this is my feeble and cowardly plea. Should you find yourself in America, please don’t stop looking for me. I plan to make a fresh, new life for myself in Minnesota. I’m leaving on May 30 th, and I don’t know yet where I will be living. There is a town called Mora. Perhaps there.

I hope our hearts find their way back to one another.

Your loving niece,

Ronja

Chapter Twelve

Minneapolis, Minnesota

February 1976

Ulla

Ulla picked up the Dala horse from the nightstand and whispered to it, “Will I see Mamma today?” The horse’s name was Beskyddaren. Protector. She glanced from the horse to her dim surroundings. This wasn’t her nightstand. Nor her bedroom. She was brought here last night. The Social Service lady had said she was taking Ulla to “a place for mommies and children that need a bed to sleep in.” This bedroom was opposite of the fancy one she’d known for the first seven years of her life.

The beds here were arranged a few feet apart, but she was given the corner one, lodged and crouching underneath the sole window, as if hiding. The sheets were slippery and released a gross odor that Ulla knew did not belong to her. She tucked the scratchy blanket around her chin. Nothing like the plush, ivory spread she’d known from better days.

She set Beskyddaren on the nightstand next to her doll, Baby. A dumb name. But like Beskyddaren, Baby had kept watch over Ulla and her mother this past awful week, when her mother told her to stay in the car and, “keep your head down!” Baby had blue glass eyes perpetually alert for danger and framed with spidery black eyelashes. Ulla hated when strangers commented, “She looks just like you!” I’m not a doll.

Ulla shifted her eyes from Beskyddaren and Baby onto the nightstand scarred with what appeared to be claw and cup marks and a carving of the initials KS. To lull herself to sleep last night, Ulla imagined names: Karen Sandberg, Karly Strand, Kimmie Svensson . . . The nightstand’s sticky drawers held a change of too-small clothing the Social Service lady had given her in a paper bag: a purple sweatshirt, a Bugs Bunny t-shirt, faded black leggings, and some dumb Strawberry Shortcake underwear.

Ulla took Baby into her arms. Sometimes she heard men call her mother Baby at the parties thrown in her home. Who would call a grown woman Baby? Ulla didn’t remember naming the porcelain doll, for she would’ve chosen Ebba, or Harriet. She didn’t remember how Baby—or Beskyddaren—came into her life. They were both just there. Always. Like her mother.

And Peter.

Ulla slammed her hands over her ears to quiet her mother’s sudden scream inside her head. Spring, Ulla! Skynda! Du måste skaffa hjälp!

The men who attacked her mother yesterday didn’t know she was demanding, Ulla! Run, get help! Only she and her mother—and Peter—spoke Swedish. Ulla had wanted to run to find Peter. Peter could save her mother. Except she hadn’t seen Peter since she and Mamma fled in the middle of the night. On Ulla’s birthday. And her mother refused to talk about him. If something happens to me, you can’t go to Peter. I’m sorry, min lilla älskling. Go to the police.

Ulla snatched Baby and spoke low, “It’s okay, Baby. Everything will be okay.” Then she whispered the German prayer she said every night with her mother, even though she didn’t know what it meant.

Her stomach gurgled with hunger pangs. It was not morning yet. No trace of light from the window, and the rest of her roommates were still fast asleep.

Ulla sat up and hugged her knees. She reached for the Coca-Cola she was saving on the nightstand and took a sip, then unpeeled the wrapping on the half-sucked cherry Dum-Dum from the Social Service lady last night.

Ulla had chomped down more packaged candy yesterday in one sitting than she could remember. Except for when Peter would give her candy: Pixy Stix, Necco Wafers, Now and Laters, and Wax Lips that she and Peter would shove sneakily into their mouths before kissing her mother. Peter knew Ulla’s favorite was Hershey’s chocolate bars. Like velvet on her tongue. If it were any other time except Lördagsgodis—Saturday Candy—her mother would scowl and slap away Peter’s handfuls as if she were angry. But Ulla knew her mother was never angry. Not when she’d kiss Peter with soft eyes and call him sweetheart in Swedish.

Last night, Ulla sat on the squeaky chairs in the police station. The Social Service lady waved the Dum Dum sucker in front of Ulla like a fairy wand and offered the Coca-Cola like a magic scepter. The silver and gold bracelets on the lady’s wrist tinkled. In Swedish, Ulla asked the Social Service lady where her mother was.

The lady crinkled her brown eyes in confusion. The policeman brushed her shoulder. “The little pixie doll doesn’t speak a lick of English. We have no idea what her name is.”

“What do you think she speaks?” The Social Service lady tossed her head of chocolate curls at the police officer, sending a whiff of Aquanet hairspray into the air. It was the same kind her mother used before a big party.

“Look at her,” said the policeman. “I’m guessing Polish. They picked her up somewhere in Nordeast. Smashed their window with a rock and made them chase her!” He tossed back a cup of Styrofoam coffee. The police officers had been jolly, giving Ulla candy in red wrappers that made her tongue burn with delight, while the gold candies melted like butter. He also gave Ulla what she thought to be a runny milkshake. She spat it out, and he laughed. “No coffee for you, eh?”