Some kids are sitting on the stone wall that encloses the shopkeeper’s yard. Sylvia and Barbro are in the middle, each with a summer guest next to her. One is so blond his short hair looks almost white. The other is darker, and freckle-faced.
Vera’s there, too. She’s sitting at a distance from the others, braiding a chain of dandelions.
Stephie parks the bike and ties Putte to a hook in the wall. Sylvia and Barbro are whispering and giggling with the boys. She can feel their gazes burning on her back as she opens the shop door and goes inside.
When she is paying for the cookies, she hears barking.
“Is your dog making that racket?” the shopkeeper asks grumpily.
“He’s not mine, but I walk him.”
“Well, you’d better quiet him down.”
Stephie puts the package of cookies in her pocket and goes out onto the steps.
Sylvia, Barbro, and the two boys are standing in a ring around Putte, just far enough away that he doesn’t have a chance of reaching them no matter how hard he strains at the leash. Vera’s still sitting on the stone wall.
Stephie approaches them. Now she sees that one of the boys, the blond one, is holding something. It’s a sugar cube dangling from a piece of string. He’s holding it over Putte’s snout, teasing him. Every time Putte gets close enough to bite at the cube, the boy snatches it back. Putte yelps unhappily.
“Leave Putte alone!” Stephie tells them.
“Putte,” says the boy with the sugar. “Is this mutt named Putte?”
“Putte,” repeats Barbro, snorting.
“He’s no mutt,” Stephie says. “He’s pedigreed.”
“Ah,” says the boy. “A pure canine.”
Stephie steps forward to unhook Putte’s leash from the hook, but the boy blocks her way. Putte barks and strains at the leash.
“Shush up,” Sylvia says, striking Putte hard across the muzzle. Putte whines.
“Don’t you dare touch him!” Stephie cries.
“My, my,” the other boy, who has been silent until then, says. “She’s got some temper.”
“Just like the doggie,” says the blond one. “Maybe she’s pedigreed, too. What do you think?”
Sylvia and Barbro giggle.
“Racially pure,” says the freckle-face. “A first-class specimen.”
Stephie just wants to get away, but not without Putte.
“Move over,” she says to the boy who’s blocking her way.
He doesn’t move a muscle.
“Did you hear that?” he asked. “Did you hear her tell me to move over? Do we think someone like her can come and tell us Swedes where we can stand?”
“She’s the one who should move,” says Sylvia, looking at Stephie. “You don’t belong here.”
“We know why you’re here,” the freckle-faced boy says. “You people get out of Germany with your money and your jewelry and think you can just buy up our country, like you were trying to do in Germany. But you’ll never get away with it. The Germans will be here, too, before you know it, and they’ll deal with people like you-you filthy Jew-kid.”
For an instant Stephie feels as if she’s been turned to stone. Then she flies at the boy, aiming her fist right at his grinning mouth, among all those freckles. She hammers at his chest and kicks at his shins.
The boy is so taken aback, he can’t even defend himself. He hadn’t expected a girl who would fight. Then he grabs Stephie’s wrists and pushes her off him.
“You get away from me,” he says, his voice resounding with hate. “Just stay away from me, you make me sick.”
A drop of blood is seeping from a crack in his bottom lip.
Putte growls, ears pulled back.
The boy drops Stephie’s wrists and shoves her away so hard she tumbles into the gravel. As he pushes her, he takes a step backward. Putte snaps at the boy’s trouser leg with his sharp teeth, tearing a big hole in the fabric.
“Ow,” the boys shouts. “The mutt bit me!”
He aims a kick at Putte, who howls as the boy’s foot strikes him in the ribs.
Stephie throws herself toward Putte. She can’t reach the hook on the wall, so she unhooks the leash from his collar.
“Run, Putte!” she shouts. “Run!”
Putte rushes off, a brown-and-white flash along the ground. Stephie gets to her feet and runs after him.
When she comes to the road she stops and turns around. They aren’t following her.
“Putte!” she shouts. “Putte, come!”
She can’t see him anywhere. Did he run toward home? Or did he just scurry away from his torturers, with no regard for direction?
She sees two little boys playing with a crate on wheels at the edge of the road.
“Have you seen a dog?” she asks them. “Brown and white? Running without a leash?”
“Yup,” says one of the little boys. “He went that way,” pointing down toward the harbor.
“No,” says the other, pointing to the right, toward Britta’s. “He went that way.”
Stephie wishes she had the bike; then she might catch up with him. But she doesn’t dare go back to the shop to get it.
She runs down to the harbor area. No sign of Putte. She asks the old men sitting on the benches in the sun. None of them has seen a dog off its leash. She turns around and runs back to the intersection where the little boys are playing, then up toward Britta’s.
Britta is on her knees in the vegetable patch, weeding.
“Hi,” Stephie pants. “Have you seen a dog run by? About ten minutes ago?”
“I just came out,” Britta tells her. “What dog?”
Stephie doesn’t take the time to answer.
At the end of Britta’s road there’s a yellow frame house. The lady hanging her washing on the line thinks maybe she did glimpse a dog a few minutes earlier.
“I do think something ran past,” she says. “Is it your dog?”
“Yes,” Stephie says, so as not to have to go into a long explanation.
“You can cut through our yard,” the lady tells her.
Stephie does so, crossing a meadow and jumping a ditch. She takes a wrong step and one of her sandals comes up soaked in wet mud.
“Putte!” she shouts. “Putte!”
She searches for hours, but he’s nowhere to be found. Once she thinks she hears him barking behind some juniper bushes, but when she’s forced her way through the brambles, he isn’t there.
In the end she gives up and collapses onto a rock. She’s exhausted from all the running. Her bare legs are covered with scratches.
What is she to do? Putte’s lost and it’s her fault. Not to mention that she’s been in a fight, with a summer guest, of all people, and split his lip. And Putte ruined the guest’s trousers, trying to defend her.
Putte’s a city dog, not accustomed to fending for himself in the countryside. Maybe he’s stuck between rocks, or has broken a leg. It may be ages before someone finds him. He may starve to death. Or be caught by a fox. He may already be dead.
Aunt Märta will be beside herself. She’ll make Stephie apologize to all of them-the doctor’s wife, Karin, the freckle-faced boy. And Jesus.
No, she’ll never apologize to that boy. Not after what he said. She hadn’t done anything bad to him. But if she tells them what happened, no one will believe her. It will be four against one, and she knows that both Sylvia and Barbro tell lies.
Anyway, she doesn’t want to tell them what the boy said. She doesn’t want to tell anyone. She’s ashamed. Although nothing that happened was her fault, she’s ashamed just the same.
She can’t go home.
It’s hot enough to spend the night outside. But she’ll have to get some food. If she waits until evening, she can sneak into the root cellar at home unseen.
And she still has that package of cookies in her pocket. She can get through the day on cookies. They’re all broken and crumbly now. She must have fallen on them when the boy pushed her to the ground. She opens the package and takes out a cookie. She’ll save the rest until she’s famished.