by Tina Boscha
As Leen approached the curve, downshifting the engine so it revved high as the truck headed onto the straight part of the road that finally turned onto the far edge of Ternaarderweg, she saw a group of soldiers standing. They leaned on poles, shovels, and guns, talking and kicking at the ground. It never failed to surprise her how normal the men looked, how some of them were dirty, and some clean, and they all were young, and seemed to have little to do – except torment a passing girl.
A soldier opened the gate to let out a truck. He had his back to her, and motioned to the driver to exit. At the gatekeeper’s side sat a barking German shepherd, beautifully striped with deep currents of black and brown, its snout long and full, its ears sharp–tipped triangles. The barks were low and rounded in sound, like the dog was aware of its own voice and wanted to use it to its full potential. When Leen had first seen one, she thought she might like to have a dog like those at the camp. But then she heard them, saw them straining at their collars that ground against their necks. The dogs’ fierceness scared Leen. They seemed beyond control, immune to any welcoming sound she could make, any wiggle of her fingers to come or stop or stay. The soldiers teased the dogs to make them bark and lunge and growl, while always holding on to the leash tightly, leaning back against the power of the animal.
The German truck inched forward, then stopped, waiting for Leen to pass. The soldier at the gate stepped aside, holding the metal gate. A bird swooped down low, passing over the lane, and just as Leen began to steer the truck around the corner, the dog suddenly ran out in front of her, barking.
It was still light out, the sky barely gauzed over by the approaching dusk. The dog came out of the shadows, catching the sun, a golden thing with its teeth snapping as it barked. It raced towards her door. There was no one else in the road, and the bird swooped back into the sky. In a half second she pictured the dog lunging, biting the salt from her hand, its teeth gouging a terrible wound in her palm, and then, without thinking, the paper of the salt packet crackling loudly against the steering wheel as her hand tightened around it, she pushed in the gas. She heard the engine revving in its gear before she registered that she’d floored it. She hit the dog square on, the bark strangling from a clipped bark to a yelp, then to nothing. The truck bumped roughly as if she was driving fast over the clumps in the fields, and Leen braked, hard.
Everything halted. The truck, the air, the sun, the bird, it all stopped. Everything except the bare ticking of the engine and a single thought:
I killed it.
2.
Leen sat, rigid, in the truck. One hand gripped the gearshift, the other still held onto the wheel. Every muscle seized, and she had to fight the urge to shudder and break free from her stillness. But she feared that if she moved at all, something more would happen, and more than anything, she wanted nothing more to occur.
Leen allowed her eyes to glance out the driver side window, wanting to keep every single movement as small as possible. She saw the familiar ditch falling away from the side of the truck, full of soggy earth and weeds. Then it felt like someone turned her ears up, so she didn’t just hear the dead engine’s tocks but also shouts from soldiers. She couldn’t yet place where they came from or who was yelling. Ragged shards of her thoughts came together, telling her she was at the camp. This time, she could not control the shudder. It started at her head and ran down her back and ended at her fingertips. She could not make herself stop from saying out loud, “Oh doeval, doeval, oh doeval,” the worst swear words she could say, since it was calling upon the devil.
The truck’s dented metal frame suddenly felt flimsy, barely separating her from the bodies moving frantically against the late afternoon air. Leen knew she had to see where the shouts were coming from, who was right outside the truck. She started to raise her head, but then a fist struck the hood and Leen jumped and cried out, “Blix!” Her own voice surprised her, and she clamped her mouth shut so hard she bit her tongue. The briny sting and burn filled her mouth and she hit her fists against her thighs and prayed to God that she could figure out what to do next, just please tell her what to do next.
There was no direct answer, no voice in her head delivering directions, except for a strange sensation telling her to do everything slowly. She focused on the door handle, the bottom edge of the truck, the small strip of earth before the wet ditch where she could find her footing. She pulled the handle but didn’t get out. She had to look up. The truck that had been waiting to pull out was now stopped halfway out of the camp’s gates, and the driver and the gatekeeper were now in front of her, crouching, nearly indistinguishable in their flat gray uniforms. One of them had his hand on the top of the hood to keep his balance, and Leen knew that was the hand that had pounded the hood of Pater’s truck, and that it was the hand of the dead dog’s owner. She blinked, and one of the soldiers was gone.
The truck’s door shrieked open and Leen flinched backwards as the driver reached in. His hand was red and weathered, like an old man’s, but strong like the young man he was, no more than 20, and before she could grab hold of anything, he yanked her out by the arm, shouting, “Komm raus! Komm raus!”
Leen half–slid, half–tumbled out of the truck, her feet catching on the edge of the ditch. The driver let her go and her klompen slid down the steep bank of mud. She grabbed the truck door, but the driver pinched her elbow, digging his fingers into her nerves, filling her arm with fire. She let go of the door and the driver gave her another jerk and she tripped, hands slapping against the mud, feet slipping to the bottom of the ditch.
“Steh auf!” The air was dark under the driver’s shadow, and Leen stood slowly. It felt like everything inside her had cooled, all but the very top of her head, which felt heavy and hot.
It had been no more than two minutes since she had put her foot on the gas.
The driver walked past her and slammed his fist against the driver door, shutting it with another shriek of its rusty metal hinges. He started screaming at her, repeating, “Steh auf! Sie idiot, steh auf jetzt!” He was shouting in German and although she did not understand it besides the numbers she had tried so hard not to learn, Leen knew he was shouting to her that she was stupid, she should’ve braked, why did she do that, what was she thinking? She didn’t know, she wanted to plead. She’d never done anything like this.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see it,” she tried to whisper, and that was when she realized the pain in her chest was her heart pounding so hard it felt like a mallet beating against her ribs.
The driver continued to shout, his mottled face hard and distorted. There were no good choices; whatever she did could be interpreted as too bold or too cowardly – she was never somewhere in the middle – and so she tried to stay still. The driver, jaws clenched, looked to the front of the truck. Now there would be a dent in the front as well as the side. It occurred to Leen in a swell of nausea that the truck had killed two living, breathing beings, Wopke and now this dog. The gatekeeper was still bent over, holding his cap in his hands, his back rounded as he angled himself over the hoend.
Slowly he stood up. He began walking ahead, away from the truck, waving one hand in front. Then he stopped, put his hand to his face, and circled around. Blood covered his fingertips. He was pale, grayer than his country’s warplanes, and his hat was filthy. Leen watched his grief wash over his face.
“Minsha, Minsha,” he said, his hands fluttering back and forth above the dog. It struck Leen that he resembled Issac, the faintest signs of sun around his eyes, the rest of his skin smooth. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. Suddenly Leen remembered what Pater had said to Issac once, forgetting that she was nearby: “Acht, those soldiers are boys, just like you.” He said that the soldiers stationed at the camp were more or less mascots, men whose job was to watch and wait, as fearful of the SS as the Friesian civilians were. Leen knew that some of the young men from Wierum had even become friends with a few of the soldiers who came to town, usually to the café, although now the soldi
ers rarely visited. They were hungry for food, not beer, and some Wierumers pitied the weary and drawn faces in the camp. Some even left plates of cold fried potatoes on the outlying road. In the mornings the plates were left in the same spots, licked clean.
Yet she knew of other things that German soldiers did. They hurt, they killed, they stole. But the young men at this camp, it seemed what they did the most was get girls sent away, bellies swelling and heads bare.
Leen felt a hand on her shoulder and saw the red, freckled fingers spread over her arm, the lightest of threats. She froze as the driver smiled at her, his teeth and lips spreading into something more menacing than his shouts. He took a step closer, standing inches away, and half–grunted, half–laughed. An acrid, vinegar taste rose in her mouth and the gatekeeper let out a sob, and Leen heard him cry Minsha’s name again. The driver took his hand away and said something to her and Leen understood it to mean, Don’t move. He walked to the gatekeeper, and bending over him, began to speak very rapidly.
He was not a friend. He was not a mascot.
It was then that the real fear began, the simultaneous heat and cold of it, the absolute rush of thought and adrenaline that flowed from the recognition that what was happening was true and severe and horrific. What would they do to her? Leen began to shake. She tried to stop it by clenching her hands into fists but she could not stop and she heard a crackle and realized she was still holding the packet of salt. Should she give it to them? Her head felt light and hot and it began to fill with the words I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m brave, I’m ready, I’m brave, I must try to be brave. She could run. Less than 100 meters away were several potato heaps. Naïvely, she thought about taking a chance, hoping they could not see which one she crawled into. The soldiers had no idea that the heaps of potatoes dotting the fields in late summer and fall were nothing more than tents held up by wire and wood, hollowed out and filled with food and blankets, easy hiding spots for men and boys when the razzia signal came: they are coming, hide yourself. She thought, I must try to be brave. All the boys have to be brave.
“Are you gek, famke?” the driver asked, still smiling, using Frisian words for “crazy” and “girl.”
The driver moved closer and wiped his face with a soiled handkerchief. He looked at Leen, narrowing his eyes at her. She felt her pulse in her fingertips. Instinctively, she pulled back her shoulders and took two steps back, but her foot slipped again and she lost her footing altogether and she fell, hitting the ground with a thud. Her hands released and the packet of salt fell away as she slid down, her skirt sliding up higher on her waist, and the backs of her calves became slick with the cold mud. The driver stared at her bare legs, then an instant later he shouted and pointed, and Leen looked.
The dog’s hind legs were straight and stacked, one on top of the other, looking relaxed and peaceful, as if the dog was merely taking a nap, catching the last bit of the golden light before dusk. But its side and neck were reddened and bloody, glinting weakly in the light. The dog’s snout was flattened and the tip of its tongue poked out of its mouth, almost puppy–like. Leen looked away, not knowing where to look next. She glanced at the sky. It was just beginning to darken along the edges, blurring the outline of the dike.
The driver said something to the gatekeeper, his voice now low and calm but firm, exhorting him to do something. The gatekeeper didn’t respond. The driver shook his head and turned and shouted towards the camp. She knew a line of soldiers stood all along the fence, watching.
Another soldier came running up, carrying a shovel. The driver took it and nodded to him.
Leen clutched her hands back together again, and as the driver came towards her he deliberately stepped on the folded paper, grinding the salt into the mud. He motioned towards the front of the truck, where the gatekeeper still knelt over the dog Minsha. The soldier who had retrieved the shovel stood a few feet away from Leen and stared at her.
She felt the shaking mostly in her legs, behind the kneecaps, the muscles in her thighs spasming as she stood back up.
The driver gave her a push and Leen jerked forward. Every part of her body quivered. She tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but she couldn’t remember how it started, and then she thought about Psalm 23, but the only line that came to her was, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,” the line she’d always thought described Friesland.
The driver nudged the gatekeeper, still bent over Minsha, and spoke to him again quickly under his breath, pointing to the soldier who held the shovel. He was blond, like most of the other soldiers, but his hair looked lighter than theirs since it was not slicked down with brilliantine and instead curled over his ears. His eyes were dark, maybe brown, and all around them the skin was dark, not with fatigue or wear, but naturally colored that way, like they had been smudged with the clay soil. It made his eyes seem almost warm. There were others in Wierum with that sallow coloring; several of them were from the islands a few kilometers off the coast, Texel and Ameland and others.
The gatekeeper finally stood up. He took the driver’s handkerchief and wiped his face. Then the driver took the shovel from the light–haired soldier, and the gatekeeper said something in an exasperated tone, as if he was giving in to something. His movements unexpectedly direct and sudden, the gatekeeper grabbed the shovel, and walked over to Leen. He pressed the shovel into her chest, sending another cold wave of fright into her throat. The light–haired soldier started to say something, his voice expressing protest, but the driver said something sharp and cut him off.
The gatekeeper pointed to Leen and said, “You.” The driver poked her hard in the shoulder and then hopped over the ditch to a spot just outside the barbed wire fence surrounding the perimeter of the camp. He dug the toe of his boot into the soil, dragging his foot, drawing a shape. He pointed to the dog, then at her.
Leen walked with jerky steps to the spot he had drawn. The outline of a large rectangle was faintly visible in the soil. In places the clay looked like it had been wiped flat, the sheen of the mud reflecting flatly in the waning light. In other spots, the thick soles of the driver’s boots made a deep impression. All she could think was, doeval, doeval.
“What…” Leen started to say, but couldn’t finish. She knew clearly that she had been ordered to dig a grave. What was going in that grave, the dog or her? But she knew. She’d be shot and buried there, with the dog. Suddenly she remembered what Pater had told her years ago, his eyes somehow both mischievous and serious, a cigarette pointing at her from his yellowed fingers: “First you are God’s child. Then you are Frysk. Finally, perhaps you are Dutch. But never, no matter what happens, are you German.” To all Friesians, little else mattered besides their own land and their own ancient tongue, both existing for centuries before the Netherlands enveloped them into one nation. The Dutch were their countrymen, and they paid the same currency and at times shared the Dutch language, but now Leen was digging Frisian dirt to bury herself and a German dog.
All along the curves of her body felt cold, all the usual places that felt warm: underneath her arms, under the small, bare curve of her new breasts; behind her knees; the creases where her thighs and crotch met. It felt like the air was snaking through her clothes and finding where she could least control her shaking, coming through the wrists of her coat, down the neck of her shirt, and suddenly all she could think about was that if she could just get home, she would beg for a bath, one that she could have herself, no one else dirtying the clean water. She longed for the warmth of the water, to be inside her house on Ternaarderweg, alone in the room where she could cry and scrub herself, ridding herself of the terror, comforted by the voices of her family floating in from the other rooms.
The driver looked at her strangely. He said something in a low voice, although in his German tongue the undertones of severity were there, the guttural throat sounds invading even the soothing words, almost like Frysk.
Leen began to dig. The soil was soft and crum
bled into heavy clumps. Each stab at the earth felt awkward and silly, like a bad dancer trying to move too fast. She tried to work a rhythm, but her heart was beating too hard, and she purposefully grunted with each dig at the soil so she could get the shovel as deep into the mud as possible. Her face was wet and everything inside her shook and she wanted to show the soldiers that she was not a weak girl, but could dig a grave as deep and as wide as they wanted it. She would prove something about herself, in this final act, even if these soldiers were not the ones she wished to witness it.
But with each dig Leen’s muscles gave out. The air seemed to darken with each shovelful of wet earth. The sun was sinking quickly. It was quiet except for the wind and the punch of the shovel slicing into the ground. When it lifted out of the soil, there was a resistant sucking sound, as if the mud fought the separation.
Leen kept digging.
Another line from the 23rd Psalm appeared in her head: Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. But she did not feel God’s presence at her side, not like the stories she heard from the pulpit sometimes, about people who looked out and calmly saw an angel steadying a boat buffeted by the rough waves of the North Sea. But there was also a monument on the top of the dike, right near the church, paying tribute to fallen sailors, every year a new line engraved, documenting the names of those the angel passed over. Leen repeated the lines in her head anyway, holding little faith, but trying to, in the words she mouthed with quivering lips as the tears and sweat mixed and dripped off her face.
The gatekeeper and the driver stared at her, each face unsmiling and losing shape in the looming dark except for their eyes that seemed to create their own light as they watched her dig the grave.
Her shoulders ached. She shortened her strokes so that she worked faster, and a small dark pile of earth, its outline the only thing visible in the near–gone light, grew slowly to her right.