River in the Sea

by Tina Boscha

  “The Allieds are close,” Leen said. Her face burned. When Mr. Deinum said those words this morning, his fist gathered the tablecloth into a mass of wrinkles. “When they come, Pater can return.”

  “Mm,” Mem hummed. Leen wanted to shake Mem, shake her all the way awake, tell her that her dream was just that, a dream. They had all dreamed of the things they wanted, asleep or awake. That any creak in the stairs had her hoping it was Pater.

  “Where is Tine?”

  Mem didn’t answer her. She cast her eyes upwards and closed them. She reminded Leen of Minne when she blew smoke from her bottom lip.

  “I need to find Tine,” Leen said. Mem turned on her back and flung her arm over her head like she was posing for an artist’s portrait.

  “I’ll be down soon,” Mem said. By the soft way her words drifted out of her mouth, Leen knew her mother was lying.

  Then Mem said, surprising Leen, “So now you are a woman.”

  Leen put the water on. She would have a cup of black tea before she returned to the Deinum’s. She’d let the tea steep so long it turned bitter.

  The front door opened. Tine came into the kitchen and when she saw Leen, she jumped. “Goodness, Leen, I didn’t expect you,” she said, her hand over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

  Leen turned around. Tine saw the stain and let out a little gasp. “That needs to sit in some cold water, right away, before it sets. Here, take it off,” she said.

  “But,” Leen said. Both of them instinctively kept their voices low, and their conversation had the muffled quality of being underwater.

  “Blood is hard to get out,” Tine said impatiently.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Leen said. “It’s the first one.” She expected Tine to be annoyed, but instead she looked at her with sympathetic affection. Like Mrs. Deinum, she rummaged in a narrow drawer, but instead of an old rag, she pulled out two small cloths and a narrow belt. Leen recognized the off–white cloths as the same ones Mem spread on the grass in the summer to bleach in the sun, connecting them to a few faint tea–colored stains on some of Mem and Tine’s skirts and underbroek.

  “You wear the belt underneath your underbroek, and tie these on each end. It soaks up the blood. You have to change the cloths regularly.”

  Leen was surprised by Tine’s frankness. Then Tine said, as if she was reading Leen’s mind, “Now you can have a baby. When you bleed, it means you’re not pregnant. After you’re married.”

  Leen looked down at the stiff cotton in her hands. She fingered the belt. It seemed counterintuitive that the releasing of blood from her body signaled she could keep life inside it.

  “Mem never told me.” They both looked at the ceiling, their eyes following an imaginary line that led to Mem’s delirious sleeping body.

  The kettle’s whistle blew. She put the belt and cotton down on the table to pour water into two mugs. “Where’s Renske?” Leen asked, eager to change the subject.

  “The Boonstra’s,” Tine said. Suddenly she sat down, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. She put her head in her hands. “I took Renske across the street. I was just there, checking on her. She doesn’t want to come home, says it’s too boring and quiet here.” She looked at her lap. “And you know what? I didn’t want to come home either. But I thought I should, in case she needs me.” Very quietly, swallowing in an attempt to hold it back, Tine began to cry. “Mem never got up today,” she said in a watery whisper.

  Watching her sister’s fear unfold was like watching a tight fist open to reveal a pink, vulnerable palm, a fist unused to the clench. Tine tucked her chin to her chest and put a raw hand over her eyes and even though she tried to sob quietly, her effort to keep her crash from clattering all around them failed. Leen knew how Tine felt, that total sensation of being drained.

  “She said she went upstairs to nap.”

  “You know she doesn’t sleep at night,” Tine said, not looking up.

  Leen sat next to Tine. She did her best to comfort her, putting both arms around her and shhing into her hair. She worried she wasn’t doing this right. Tine was soft, always had been, but she was tender in the way that meant she cried if she was uncomfortable or even embarrassed; she hated to see anyone trip or stumble over their feet. She blushed when others blushed, she cried if others did. But her tenderness was never for herself – she blinked back fear and held it within, not out of stoicism but feeling she shouldn’t draw attention to herself. Leen was not like this, who only wished for someone to come to her, offering comfort. Leen wondered if Tine ever went to the outhouse and hit the rough wooden boards as Leen had done a few times, glad for the wincing pain of a fresh splinter.

  “She told me that a messenger came to her, in a dream. She said someone was coming here. She thinks it’s Pater,” Leen whispered. “She didn’t really make sense.”

  Tine pulled back to look at Leen. “Well,” she said, pausing. She took Leen’s hands. “Do you think that’s what the messenger means, that when the war is over Pater can come home? It’s soon, isn’t it? You say that all the time.”

  “I know.” Hearing the hope in Tine’s voice made her cringe. “I just don’t know if I believe it anymore. If it was true, wouldn’t it be over by now?”

  Tine nodded. She exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as the air exited her chest.

  “I need to get back to work,” Leen said, edging off her chair.

  “I know.” Tine closed her eyes, breathed in, and sighed deeply. She sat up straight. “I should bring her something to eat. First, your skirt.”

  Leen obeyed, handing it to Tine. She wondered what Renske was doing at the Boonstra’s. Sitting on her lap, maybe. Listening to a story. “What did you tell Mrs. Boonstra?” she asked. “About Mem?”

  “Nothing,” Tine said quickly, reaching for the scrub brush in a bucket stowed next the counter. “That’s all anyone needs to know. I’ll get you another skirt.”

  Leen wouldn’t dream of telling anyone, either. No need to advertise a trouble. It was the Frisian way. Besides, one bad day was one bad day. Who knows what Mem would be like at dinner? No one could dispute she needed to sleep. Perhaps today was all she’d need to get it out of her system.

  Her legs were cold and her back hurt. It felt like two hands were inside her, grabbing hold and wringing her organs, and she wasn’t menstruating, but bleeding from internal wounds.

  The knocking at the front door was soft, an apology in advance for interrupting them during dinner time, when everyone was at the table, eating a meager supper of a thin beef stew, just meat and potatoes and water, no carrots.

  “Who would come at this hour?” Mem asked. When Leen came home once more that day, she found Mem at the sink, peeling potatoes, in the same clothes she’d had on in bed. But she was standing, Leen told herself. Now, hearing the knock, Mem looked up, her expression confused. Then her face brightened and the way her hands moved around the table and chair as she stood up reminded Leen of a fluttering, nervous songbird.

  She looked at Leen as if to say, See? What did I tell you?

  But why would Pater knock? Issac bolted from the table, saying, “Doeval, nee, nee,” under his breath. Leen followed Mem, hurrying to catch up. “Wait,” she cried, knowing before the door opened it would not be good. It would not be her father.

  The doorknob still clutched in her hand, Mem gasped. Standing a meter away from the door were two soldiers. Their grey uniforms were soiled and their faces were hollow. Leen turned back and barely caught the back of Issac slipping away, his empty klompen under the table. She gestured to Tine, who grabbed one in each hand and slipped into another room to stow them away.

  Mem took a step backwards.

  “Nee, please,” one soldier said, shaking his head. “No trouble.” Leen immediately recognized him. He was the one who she didn’t know how else to label now except as the kind one. With the shaded eyes, the one who had learned some Frysk, the one who had stared at Minne. She could tell by how his eyes darted awa
y from her face that he recognized her too. He held up an empty tin can with a spout and said, “Bitte. We have no more.”

  “What do they want?” Tine whispered, behind them now.

  “Oil,” Leen said. “They are asking for cooking oil.”

  The soldiers stood a respectful distance away. They seemed embarrassed, like young boys calling on her and Tine and ashamed at their refusal.

  “Oil?” Mem looked stricken. She stared with her mouth open.

  “Moeder, go sit down. Okay? Sit down. It’s okay,” Leen said. She was lying. She didn’t know if it was safe. Maybe in a moment they would be inside, shouting and pointing guns. Maybe they were just acting. She saw the same thoughts mirrored on Tine’s face.

  Mem walked backwards, no delicacy in her movements. She stumbled into her chair and when Renske asked, “What do they–” Mem put a hand over her mouth. “Shut up,” she said.

  “No trouble,” the soldier repeated.

  “Wait here, please, I will get it,” Leen said, holding her hand out as if she was telling a dog to stay. She ran to the kitchen and retrieved their own small drum of oil and the shaded–eyed soldier stepped forward, one foot over their threshold. A chunk of drying mud fell off his boot. Here it is, Leen thought, now they will come in. But the soldier held out his can and nothing more. Leen grabbed it, avoiding his eyes so they didn’t have to recognize each other again. She started to pour the oil, missing the mouth at first and splashing drops down the can’s side and onto the floor. As soon as she smelled it she wondered in a panic: how much to give them? All they had? Halfway? She tried to keep her hands steady, still afraid that at any moment soldiers would come out of hiding, materializing from dark silent places, several pairs of boots muddying their floor and piercing the air with shouts.

  “That’s goet,” the soldier said. He used Frysk. That was probably why he’d been sent. He took the can away, careful to avoid touching Leen’s fingers.

  “Dunke,” the other said. They touched their hats and slowly walked away.

  Before Leen could see where they went, Tine slammed the door shut and locked it. The sound echoed throughout the house and the walls cracked, as if it too had been holding its breath. Leen set the drum on the floor between her feet. Oil had spilled on her hands and she couldn’t stop rubbing her palms, one hand sliding over the other, again and again.

  “How much is left?” Tine asked.

  Leen shook her head. She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

  “We have butter,” Tine said. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Leen picked up the drum, considerably lighter now, her hands slick, and walked back to the table. Mem was still at the table, sitting with Renske, both children in their posture. Mem’s face was white.

  “It’s alright now, they just wanted some oil,” Tine said. She put her arms around Mem. It looked like she had done this before, like she knew just what Mem needed. “We should finish eating. Issac will be back soon.”

  “I thought it would be Oenze,” Mem said, her lip trembling. She pulled Tine closer to her and leaned into her chest. Leen felt the drum slipping out of her hands. She tightened her grip only to feel the metal slide away again. Mem shut her eyes and cried in a manner unfamiliar and painful to watch, taking whining, shallow breaths and emitting terrible halting sighs. “I thought it would be your heit. He would be silly like that, play a joke, make us come to the door and find him there.” Mem’s body shook. Whatever had been inside her, holding her up, snapped. It was almost visible to Leen, like Mem’s spine was a column of bricks without mortar. “Come home, please, Oenze, I can’t do this…”

  Leen put the drum down. She turned away. She could not watch. She could not offer comfort, she could not cry herself. She saw the clump of mud on the floor and she bent over, using the edge of her skirt to wipe it up, only to create a larger circle of greasy dirt that grew bigger with each pass. “Ver domme. Dammit. God damn it.”

  “Shh,” Tine soothed, talking to Mem, ignoring Leen’s blasphemy. “Komme, let’s finish eating. Let’s finish the rest of our dinner.”

  Mem nodded. She looked deflated. She released Tine. “Yes,” she said, breathing in and out so deeply her stomach quivered. “Yes, we should eat.”

  The whole time Renske had been silent, eyes wide, afraid of the soldiers and her mother’s weeping. She tugged on Mem’s sleeve, her eyes shining with young tears, and Leen knew what she was about to say. If there had been one more second she would have reached across the table and slapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Memmy, now when will Pater be home? You said that Pater–”

  Issac’s voice startled them, coming from the doorway where he stood in his stocking feet, his face as blank and stony as Mem’s. He spoke right over Tine, whose mouth was just beginning to sound the s, maybe to say soon, maybe to say shhh. “Little sister, I don’t know. No one knows. We don’t know when Pater will be home. Now please stop asking.”

  They ate in a terrible silence after that. Everyone cleared their plate and Tine put the lid back on the pot of stew and put it in the cellar so that they could eat the rest the next day. Leen’s hands and dirt–stained fingertips felt soft from the oil, and she felt guilty for it, that and the fact that she was glad for Issac’s answer.

  Because Renske never asked again.

  12.

  Within five minutes of Leen’s arrival at the bakery, Mrs. Deinum hurried her to a stack of ironing. But Leen did not find the usual pile of shirts and table linens. Instead there was a stack of unevenly hemmed orange squares. “What are these?” Leen asked, holding one up before she dampened each with tepid water.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Mrs. Deinum was agitated; her hands fluttered, her steps a jerky waltz. Tiny drops of sweat gathered on her upper lip. “The Queen is home!”

  “Home?” Leen rubbed the rough cotton between her fingers. It was probably the last bolt of some off fabric a merchant hadn’t been able to sell, and no one would want to waste their few ration coupons for this, but the merchant had held onto it only for the color. Leen took the iron Mrs. Deinum had heated on the stove and pressed down, enjoying the sizzle the metal made as it flattened the wrinkled squares and the orange zigzags of thread holding the hem in place.

  “Wilhelmina is on Dutch soil!” Mrs. Deinum said, almost singing her words, vibrato on the last syllable. “There will be a celebration later today, in the main square, and everyone is to wear oranje.” She took one of the squares Leen had just pressed and folded it into a crisp triangle, wincing at the heat on her fingertips. She tied it around her neck. She smiled broadly. “Does it look mooi?”

  Leen nodded. The orange was bright. “She is home?” she said, not understanding the significance. She was in a fog. What day was it? The first Saturday in March, nearly six months to the day from that day in October, and it was warm for this time of year.

  Mrs. Deinum nearly shouted at her. Her smile was so big it became a grimace. “The Queen is in the Nederlands! She finally left England! We may still have Germans in our streets, but if the Queen can walk on her homeland, then it can’t be long. Oh Leentje,” Mrs. Deinum said, grabbing Leen’s face with both hands, “it can’t be long! Soon I will see my boy! Here.” She took a few of the kerchiefs, still unironed, and put them in Leen’s hands. “Take them home when you are finished. There will be a celebration in Wierum too, I am sure. If not, you come out to Dokkum! Wear them, give them to your family. This is something you must celebrate.”

  Leen stared at the orange fabric in her hands. “This is amazing,” she said, the words finally sinking in. Surely Wilhelmina’s homecoming was a good sign, just as Mrs. Deinum said. But she couldn’t help thinking that the Queen was not going to sit at a plain table with a stack of cigarettes, rolled by expert fingers, smoked by a man with skin that folded like an accordion at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

  Still, Leen rushed through the ironing, not because she wanted to hurry home, but because that was what was expected in light of
the news. You didn’t hear that the Queen was out of exile and take the time to form a perfect crease.

  “You’re home early, again,” Tine said, frowning. “And why are you wearing a kerchief?”

  “Wilhelmina is back. She is home, on Dutch soil.”

  Tine had always loved the Queen, and because she was embarrassed of the depth of her adoration, Leen used to tease her for it. When they were little girls, Tine would pour over the picture books and cutouts of the Queen dressed in her finery, sighing over her crown and her gowns while Leen made pig snorts and pointed out all the ways she thought Wilhelmina was ugly, just to see if she could make Tine cry. Today Leen did nothing of the kind, but Tine’s eyes misted anyway. “That is good news, very good news,” Tine said.

  “There is going to be a parade,” Leen said, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. She remembered Mrs. Deinum’s sweaty lip, her manic hands. “I rode past the church and already people are gathering.” Some had already knotted orange kerchiefs at their necks while others had pinned silk carnations to their collars, the white flowers held over from years ago when the public wore them on Prince Bernard’s birthday, the unofficial leader of both the Dutch and Frisian Resistances and now leader of the Dutch army.

  Leen handed Tine a kerchief, still warm underneath the center fold, and Tine immediately tied it under her collar. Leen had two left in her hands. “I’ll get Mem,” she offered. Leen almost never was the one to rouse Mem; it was understood that this was Tine’s job. She was gentler, softer; she could be more patient with Mem than Leen, who quickly grew intolerant of Mem’s labored, deliberate movements, her damp forehead and underarms darkening the corners of her dress.