Young Ilsa
I had a cup of coffee with Ms. Nobel today. She told me how much I reminded her of her younger sister, and then told me this story.
I moved here from Sweden when I was but a few years old, but my little sister, Ilsa Lin Nobel was born in this country. And I, a foreigner, took to America like berries to cream but Ilsa was different. She didn't get out much, hardly spoke any English at all. She was a lovable but sickly girl. Such a sweet, curious, girl though. Our parents didn't like her going out much so she'd sneak out at night. She'd come back telling stories about a big dog she played with, she called it Natthund, or maybe you've heard the folktales of the Night Hound. That would be the one. When she did go out in the day she spun around in circles and threw herself on the ground. I remember my mother running out to see what was wrong, but Ilsa just laughed and said she was dancing the Clergyman's Weave and offered to teach my mother. I yelled at her to teach me but my mother ssshhed me and pushed me inside, saying my sister's head wasn't right and the devil must have been in it. Ahh...poor girl. She painted and drew, too. I wonder what she might have accomplished if she had lived longer. But one hot summer night she climbed outside her window and I saw her waving her arms and turning circles in the moonlight and quietly ran out to join her but by the time I got there she was on the ground, dead, and her skin was freezing to touch while I was sweating with terror and heat. The poor child. The town boycotted her funeral, called her Young Ilsa, the devil-girl. She was in all the papers. I hope it don't disturb you none to say you remind me of her, with your big, beautiful blue eyes and your pale brown hair. It's a compliment, really, she was a lovely girl.
-Transcribed by Lillian Bones, May 3rd 1917