by Tina Boscha
Tine sat up. She hadn’t spoken yet. “Give it to me.” She took the kerchief and closed her eyes and rubbed it on her temples.
“There’s one on your cheek,” Leen whispered. “The right one.”
Tine kept her eyes closed, her mouth clamped tight. She moved the kerchief to her cheek. Tears collected along her eyes’ bottom rim, but Leen knew it was from the stench, not last night’s sadness.
“Your turn,” Mem said to Leen. As soon as Leen brought the wet fabric to her face she too felt her eyes well. The smell was a potent mix of sour ammonia and the dank outhouse.
“Wipe your eyes,” Mem said. “You’ll cry it all off. Soon the smell will fade.”
Leen gave the kerchief back to Mem, holding it by a dry edge. “Have you slept yet?” she asked. It occurred to her that Mem might be making this up, or that it had come to her in another deceiving dream.
“I need to get this on your lyts suster,” Mem said, leaving the room.
Downstairs, Renske cowered underneath the kitchen table, her hands covering her face, trying to hide the fresh new sore she had opened. But when she bent over, Leen could see the smears of blood on her fingers.
“Renske, you’ll only make it worse. Let Mem put the special medicine on you,” Tine said.
“Tine and I already did it,” Leen said.
Renske looked at her knowingly. “You’re lying,” she said. “You’re just saying that to trick me.”
“It smells awful in here,” Issac said, coming in through the barn. His hair was mussed. The short, wiry strands formed two distinct clumps at the back of his head. Leen stood up. She glanced at Mem, then Tine. Neither of them spoke, nominating Leen in charge. “It’s Mem’s special medicine,” Leen said. “It’s supposed to make the sores go away.”
“It smells like piss,” Issac said incredulously. “That’s pisje, isn’t it?”
“We just need a little fruit,” Tine whispered. Surprised, Leen looked at her, then at Issac. But he did not pick up on Tine’s meaning. Mem reached towards his chin with the kerchief but he put his hand up. “I’ll use my own,” he said. All of them turned to look at Renske. She was still under the table but had taken her hands away from her face. A small dime–sized bubble of blood had formed where she had picked.
“Oh, Renske,” Leen said. “You need to come out from there.” Renske shook her head. Leen felt that familiar desperation, a driving need to get the cloth on Renske’s skin. It was the same kind of desperation that drove her fingers to close too deeply around Mem’s elbow. “I’ll come get you if I have to,” Leen added. She dropped down to her knees and started to crawl in.
“Wait,” Issac commanded. “This really works?” he said to Mem. “Pisje?”
Mem nodded.
Issac held his hand to Mem, grimacing. “I’ll do it. Give it to me. Move, Leen.” He took the kerchief and dropped to his knees and awkwardly climbed under the table, grunting as he knocked his head. “Skiet,” he said. Renske giggled.
“Issac,” Tine said, “please don’t be mean to her.”
He ignored her. “I’ll let you put this on my face if you let me put it on yours,” he said to Renske. His voice was soft and he sat next to her, side by side, his head bent forward to avoid hitting it again.
“You first,” Renske whispered.
“If you shake my hand, that means you can’t back out. You understand that, right? Because then I’ll have to chase you.”
“It’s not so bad, Renske, really,” Leen offered, trying to smooth down the rough edge of her anger. “The smell goes away.” She was only partially lying.
Issac spoke only to Renske. “Okay?” He held out his hand. She tentatively reached out, then shook it, amused at his formality. He gave her the kerchief. “All over where you see the sores.” Renske tried to wipe his face carefully, but her young hands were clumsy. Issac said nothing when she swiped the kerchief over his lips, using his shirtsleeve to quickly blot the moisture away. Then Renske handed the kerchief to him, and he swiped it over her cheeks, trying to be gentle in his own clumsy way, his fingers unaccustomed to movements such as these. He flipped the kerchief to find a dry edge to wipe away the blood first and something about this got to Leen.
“Ouch,” Renske whispered.
“Sorry, sorry, just a little bit more,” Issac said.
“Your hair looks like you have horns,” Renske said, pointing.
He made a face at her and rubbed his hair so that all of it stood up. Renske laughed. “Time to eat,” he said. He held out the kerchief and Leen took it, no longer concerned about touching the wet parts, so he could crawl out.
When Leen turned, Mem was gone, but Tine was there. “Thank you Issac,” she said.
“Ja, thank you,” Leen said. She wished she had been under the table so she could have seen what his face was like when he was gentle, tender. She almost wanted to cry. He didn’t answer them as he left the room, sneezing once, then muttering “ver skrikelik,” under his breath.
“Maybe we should talk to him,” Leen whispered. He knew men in the Resistance, one in particular.
“Leentje, please, I don’t want to press it, I can’t bear him so angry at me,” Tine said, closing her eyes. She seemed as tired as if the day was already gone. “You promised you would take care of it.”
Leen nodded. “Okay,” she said. She tried to resurrect her metallic resolve. Holding the damp kerchief in her hand, she didn’t feel the same way. She felt soft, defeated after what she had to rub on her skin that morning. “I will,” she said, fingering her temple. It still itched. “I’ll take care of it.”
She looked at the orange kerchief. It was strange that Mem chose it instead of an old rag, although the orange hid the color of the urine well. What was Queen Wilhelmina eating? Surely the Queen had fruit, even in Amsterdam, where they were arranging to airlift food. Still, Leen was sure the Queen didn’t have to resort to this. She put the kerchief in an empty kettle. She lit the stove to boil water, and once it was hot, she poured the scalding water onto it. But it only made the smell explode, like a sudden whiff of smelling salts.
Leen coughed, turning away. At least her sores were not on her cheeks, where her tears ran despite Mem’s admonishment.
13.
“Don’t you wish you could keep it?” Minne asked. The two of them stood outside the De Jong home where Minne worked. Minne held her cigarette with one hand, the other on her cheek, staring at Leen’s hands cupping the bag of zout she’d stolen earlier that day, looking over her shoulder just once before she took three handfuls.
Leen was convinced that Minne would know what to do. She was older, and she knew things, things she didn’t say. She had to know the clandestine ways everyone got by, ways Mem and Pater knew about and used but had shielded her from.
Leen shook her head. “Nee,” she said. She wanted to be rid of it as quickly as possible. She still had the small pakje of salt too, the one Mrs. Deinum had given her just after she had first stolen cups of it. She’d kept it all this time, balled up in old woolen hose in the back of a drawer. She would keep it there, too, until Pater came home. Then she would give it to him herself, an offering and a welcome–home gift all at once.
The salt moved between her fingers, shifting like sand. In its place she wanted food. Bags of potatoes, stacks of meat, any kind, just something they could fry and eat with butter and milk and piles of sliced apple and pear – no, not slices, an entire apple next to each plate, dusted on the side of a skirt or a pants leg and eaten in large bites with no conversation, just the sounds of puncturing teeth and the suction–release of sweet flesh from core.
“I need to trade this. You can help me, right?” Leen asked.
“I can get you tobacco,” Minne offered. “I can always get tobacco.”
“That won’t do me any good. I still have to trade again.” Leen closed the small cloth bag and thrust it deep into her pocket. She didn’t like how Minne looked at it, with more hunger than seriousness. “I need to take ca
re of this quickly, today.”
Minne barely held on to her smile. She stood in her favorite stance, one hip jutting out, her other leg extended, resting on her heel, the toe of her boot pointing up.
“Why tobacco?” Leen asked. A tiny bit of anger flipped and melded into a sharp point, an arrowhead of emotion pointing at Minne. She sucked to the end of her cigarette. The smoke in her throat burned hot and bitter.
“Everyone wants tobacco,” Minne said. Leen started to roll her eyes, and Minne cut her off. “Well, maybe not everyone. I have a contact but I can’t tell you who. He can get in trouble. I don’t even know where he gets it.” Minne’s body seemed to shore up. Standing on both feet, she didn’t seem so languid anymore. She stubbed her cigarette out with her foot. After that day passing the camp, Leen hadn’t seen her wearing klompen. She often wore ladies’ shoes with slim curved heels, and only occasionally did she wear boots with laces, the only other shoes Leen had.
“I suppose when I make my trade I probably shouldn’t tell you my source either,” Leen said, a little worried about her brusqueness. Maybe Minne was testing her, probing her resolve, determining her trustworthiness.
Minne’s face relaxed, but she still stood rigid as wood. “That’s smart. You don’t want to put anyone in danger.”
“Just tobacco?”
Minne nodded apologetically. The fact that Minne could not help her suddenly seemed obvious. The talk, the bluster. Everything was an act. Now what? Minne was her only solution. But she couldn’t just let it go. There was the obvious outcome. Hunger matched by disgrace. She saw it clearly, every Wierumer’s face casting the chin downward, narrowing eyes, pressing lips together into something between a frown and a grin, something that said nothing in words but was a clear mixture of pity and reproach. There goes Leen De Graaf. It’s a shame, such a shame. Killed that dog – God knows we didn’t like them around but then again, it sent her father into hiding. Must be hard on her mother. You know he was gone so long they ran out of food?
“Do you have your lipstick with you?” Leen asked.
“Always,” Minne said, producing it from her pocket.
Leen unwound the lipstick. It was half gone, the point rounded and blunt. “Will you put it on me?”
“Why?” Minne asked. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to wear it,” Leen lied.
Minne studied her for a moment, her expression mildly suspicious. “Come here, where the light is better. Hold still.” Her hands fumbled when she took the lipstick back from Leen, but then her hands steadied as she applied the deep red cream to Leen’s mouth, her mouth echoing the movement of her hand.
“How is it?” Leen asked, pressing her lips together. They felt waxy.
Minne handed her a handkerchief. “Blot,” she commanded, “just a little.”
Leen obeyed. She handed the handkerchief back, folded over the new outline of her lips.
Minne smiled. “I think it looks nice. Makes your eyes stand out. Very blue.” She eyed Leen’s hair. She reached up to her temple and removed a pin. She started to reach towards the left side of Leen’s face, where a scab had formed. Leen quickly turned her head. “This side is better,” Leen said. Minne didn’t question her. She twisted strands away from Leen’s forehead and pinned them back. “Nice,” she declared.
“Thank you,” Leen whispered. She meant it, even thought she felt like she was a child in costume.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Minne asked.
“What?” She pressed a finger to her lip, then pulled it back, like she’d touched something hot. How did Minne know? “Nee, that’s okay. I have to go.” Leen mounted her bike. It was then she realized Minne had never once asked what she was trading for. She hadn’t wanted to tell her, there was too much shame in it. But Minne didn’t press. Maybe she knew more than she let on.
She pushed off. Behind her Minne said, “Good luck.”
Before, she had deliberated on just how to conduct every movement, on just what she would say. She’d sat in place, frozen, her anxiety leading to more anxiety. Today, she could not afford to wait. This time, she would not sit at a table and fidget. This time, she would find someone and she would offer what she had.
He was at the café with a boy named Alfred, big and so blond his eyelashes were nearly white. Both stared at her. She fought the urge to mash her lips together, to hide them. Jakob took pains to look straight at her. She could see that it was a conscious decision by the way his eyes focused directly at her, how his face was wooden, although not unfriendly. Pink began to color his cheeks. She hadn’t said anything and there was Jakob Hoffman blushing before her.
The familiar smoke spun in eddies around her, each a tributary to the pool of smoke above her head. The light was soft, and there were not many inside, and the few voices mingled with the movement of glasses in a tinkling symphony. None of this scene calmed her, but watching Jakob and understanding what it was she was doing to him made something reset inside her. She shifted herself to lean on one foot, resting off–center, standing like Minne.
“Can I speak to you? Alone, outside maybe?” She didn’t know how she knew to say it like that, with the emphasis on alone, with the pause. Jakob’s face burned scarlet, and she felt the edges of her jaw line tingle, but she willed herself not to blush. As long as she kept her chin down he wouldn’t see the sores.
Alfred looked at Jakob, then at Leen. He smirked and leaned back in his chair to give just enough room for Jakob to step awkwardly over his legs, raising his knee at the last second so that Jakob’s foot caught, forcing him to hop. “Careful there,” Alfred said.
“Shut up, lummel,” Jakob said. He looked at Leen with an embarrassed grin. He touched her arm to indicate where he was going, and this was where she finally flushed, underneath her shirt where his finger had imprinted her skin. “Here,” he said, and pointed to the back door, the one where she’d seen him escape to when the soldiers had visited the café, only to take Jan Fokke with them.
No lamp hid the alcove, so the light was murky, coming from the corner of the café’s windows. At her feet moss filled the corners and traveled up the bricks, sending up an earthy smell. Leen took out the bag of salt from her pocket and untwisted the top, holding it close to her waist, forcing him to lean close, and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled at his proximity.
“It’s salt, all of it. I want to trade it, for food. You know my father is not back, yet, and we are, we are running out.” She shut her eyes. The color filled her face, this time out of shame. “We have run out. I need to trade it,” she said, knowing she was repeating herself. She was losing the small bit of confidence she’d had inside, whatever it was that had made Jakob blush. “Will you help me?”
Jakob didn’t respond. She could see the fuzzy outlines of where he shaved, the hair heaviest near his ears. “Is it really salt? All of it? You didn’t mix it with anything else?”
“No!” Leen licked her index finger and touched it to the salt. “Here,” she said. She took his hand and wiped the salt on his palm. His sweat drew the salt away from her skin. He tasted it. “Ja,” he said, exhaling. “Salt it is.” He looked at her directly again, but there was a change in him too. It wasn’t so difficult for him to meet her eyes now. She made herself stare right back.
“Is this enough to get food? We need fruit, we need meat, potatoes, everything.”
“It’s enough,” he said. “Yes, I think so.” She waited for him to say something more. Her body could not hold it back anymore and her nervousness mushroomed; she felt like she ought to know some kind of code, the right words, the economic phrases that worked a deal in thirty seconds. Jakob must be waiting for it. Instead all she had was the rush of blood to her cheeks, hands, the pit of her stomach. The skin above her breasts itched.
She took a breath. “Can you help me, then? You’re in the L.O., you must know how. I’m afraid I’m a little lost.” Jakob was still watching her, his face no longer pink. He looked tall. He looked lik
e he had grown.
“Where did you get it?”
“The Deinum bakkerij, I work there,” she whispered. Dammit, she hadn’t meant to cry. It was all there in her throat: we have no food. It was as if she hadn’t, until now, fully comprehended what this meant. She wanted to grab Jakob’s collar with both hands and shriek, How can it be that we have no more food? That we have two days’ more of meals that my 18–year–old sister planned? My father is still gone and we don’t have a farm, we don’t have our own food to grow and harvest? No animals to raise and butcher? We have no more food, Jakob, we have no more food!
She watched his face change. She had been staring at him and she had been thinking all of it and the words might as well have been scrawled across her cheeks.
“Just tell me if you can help or not, please,” she said. “And no matter what, please don’t tell Issac. He doesn’t know.”
Jakob paused. “Issac doesn’t know? How can he not know?”
Leen held up her hands. “No, please, it’s just better if Issac doesn’t know. Please.”
He sighed. He looked displeased. “Well, I need the salt, then.”
The white cloth bag looked grayish–purple in the dim light as she handed it to Jakob. “Should I meet you somewhere? What should I do?”
“I’ll do the rest.”
“Okay,” Leen said. “Wait. That’s it? I need to know, I have to know when.” Her hands felt alarmingly empty. It was literally out of her hands now.
“By tomorrow. You can make it until then?” He sounded so sure. He sounded as if there was nothing at all to worry about, as if this would be as easy as walking into a winkel and selecting items off the shelves.
She nodded. She reminded herself to breathe again, to take in air, in and out. She almost wanted to laugh and wipe off the lipstick, take out the pin, take off her costume, now that he would help. “Thank you Jakob, truly, thank you.”
“Tutsje,” he said.