Through the gates they enter an office. Pieter signs the guest book for them both and leaves a donation in a large plastic box, a sign above in Dutch and English, inviting visitors to support the maintenance of this memorial to tragedy, to ensure that future generations will be able to visit and won’t be able to forget.
‘Do you want to take the guided tour?’ Pieter asks.
Clara looks up at him, having not heard a single word. ‘What?’
‘The tour,’ he says again, softly, gently. ‘We can go around on our own, or we can take the guided tour. Another one is beginning in ten minutes. You could ask questions and—’
Clara shakes her head. ‘No, no. I can’t.’
‘It’s okay,’ Pieter says, ‘we don’t have to. We’ll go on our own.’
He offers his hand again and, this time, Clara, transferring her grip on the letters, takes it. As they leave the office, Pieter picks up a guide to the camp, dropping a few extra coins into the plastic box. They walk out into a square, dirt ground, flanked by buildings. Neither moves.
‘There’s a museum and a memorial centre,’ Pieter says, softly.
Clara shakes her head.
‘There’s a preserved section of the old camp.’
Clara nods.
They walk on, Pieter leading the way by a few steps, Clara clinging to him. When they reach the rebuilt barracks, Pieter stops. Clara shuffles up to his side. They stand, pressed together, in silence.
Row upon row of very narrow bunk beds, hard wooden slats covered only with a thin burlap bag stuffed with a few fistfuls of hay, are stacked three rows high.
‘Do you …?’
‘Tell me.’
Their words overlap. Reluctantly, Pieter lets go of Clara’s hand and opens the leaflet he holds. For a few minutes, he reads.
‘Approximately 31,000 people, mostly Jews but also Gypsies, resistance activists and Jehovah’s Witnesses, were imprisoned here between the beginning of 1943 and the autumn of 1944. Most were transported to the death camps but 750 died here – 421 of inflicted natural causes and 329 were shot.’
‘Shot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Otto,’ Clara says. ‘I don’t know how he …’
‘Perhaps we can find out,’ Pieter says. ‘They preserved the place where the prisoners were …’
‘Shot?’
‘Yes, and perhaps they’ll have a memorial there, with names. I imagine that would be usual practice.’
‘Usual?’
‘I only meant, to commemorate the dead,’ Pieter says. ‘I believe it’s the case in all the camps.’
‘Oh,’ Clara says. ‘Then we must go there.’
‘Are you sure?’
Clara gives a half-nod. ‘I have to go to the place where he died.’ She takes a deep breath, then another. ‘I’m guessing he won’t have a grave.’
‘No,’ Pieter admits. ‘They dug mass graves, unmarked, or they cremated the prisoners, so …’
‘So, I’ll have to read the letters where he was killed. Either where he was shot or, if not, here, where he slept.’
Pieter nods. He folds the leaflet then takes Clara’s hand again. Slowly, they step away from the barracks and back out into the dirt square.
‘It’s this way. Beyond the barbed wire, just outside the prison walls.’
It takes them less than five minutes to reach the place of execution. It is marked by a thick, white stone pillar just a few feet taller than Pieter. Engraved into the stone is a long list of names. Clara lets go of Pieter’s hand and traces her finger slowly down the letters, pausing at each one in a minor act of presence, a recognition of their life and death. When she nears the end, Clara crouches down. And then, her finger stops.
‘He’s here,’ she says. ‘Otto Josef Garritt van Dijk. He was shot.’
Pieter doesn’t say anything, but he crouches down beside her, slipping his arm over her shoulders. Clara doesn’t cry or make a sound. She barely breathes.
At last, she stands again. Pieter, his knees cracking in the silence, does the same.
‘I’m not going to read them in any order,’ Clara says, addressing the memorial stone, rather than Pieter. ‘I’m just going to begin with my favourite and then go on from there. I hope you don’t mind. And, don’t worry, I’ll read every single one.’
She waits, as if expecting a response. And then, when none comes, as the wind whistles across the flat fields, Clara unties her bundle of letters. Then she begins.
Our Otto,
Today, October 24th 1944, we had our very first real sign of hope. The first one I allowed myself, anyway. Although I keep it alight in me, although I’ve never let it go out, hope is, nowadays, a tiny light trapped under a large rock. When I first came here it was big and bright and shone in the centre of my chest. That was when I believed I’d see you again tomorrow or, only a few months after we parted. It’s been nearly two years. If it wasn’t for little Otto, I might have lost hope altogether. But I can’t, I have to hope that, one day, I’ll be able to bring him to you and we’ll be a real family at last, just as we might have been before.
And today, just today, that rock lifted and that hope glimmered free, lighting the whole of our tiny, dark cellar. Today Mr X came to tell me that there was a German surrender at Aachen. Perhaps the war might be over in only a month. Though Mr X doesn’t think so. He believes that the Nazis will fight on to kill us all and they will not stop until they are stamped out with great force. But, this is the problem with hope, once it is let out of its box, or from under its rock, it can be hard to hide again, to push away and pretend it doesn’t sneak out to illuminate this little hole.
And so, today, just today, I’m letting myself hope that this war shall be over soon, that the killing will cease, that we will be free and together again before the new year. I hope, I hope, I hope …
Ever Yours,
Marthe
Clara doesn’t rush on to the next letter, nor does she look to Pieter who stands quietly behind her. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the thick stone memorial.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she asks, softly. ‘She loved you very, very much.’
The air is still now, the wind having settled, and the sky feels heavier, denser and darker, as if a rainstorm is gathering above them.
‘Would you like another?’ Clara asks.
She reads the next letter carefully, slowly, enunciating each word, as if her listener is an old man who struggles to hear. She reads the next in the same way, pausing again at the end to converse a little with the memorial, to comment on what she’s just read. Then she turns to the next.
And when, at last, Clara’s fingertips are white with cold and the last of the light is slipping behind the horizon, she finishes the final letter, Clara stops then steps up to the memorial and places her bare hands flat on the stone.
‘Thank you for listening, to Marthe and me,’ she whispers. ‘And I hope that brings you some peace, to know how very much you were loved.’
All of a sudden a loud crack sounds through the air, like a gunshot. Clara and Pieter both start and she turns to him. And then, the air shifts again, fizzy and cracking, as if an electric storm had just lit up the sky. They look at each other, Clara shocked into silence.
Pieter gives her a startled, astonished smile.
‘I think he’s thanking you, for reading to him.’
Clara nods, her fingertips tingling, still unable to speak.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ava sits at her desk. Students come and go, asking her questions, handing in old books and requesting new ones. Ava nods and responds. She provides them with accurate information and useful literature. But, all the while, she’s contained within a smog of sorrow, mourning the loss of her friend, though he isn’t even dead yet.
It’ll be soon, Ava is quite sure of this. Although why she didn’t see it until yesterday, she isn’t at all sure. Perhaps her mind blocked it out so that she’d be able to make a friend, so she’d be abl
e to enjoy being free and easy with another human being, for once, for the first time in a very long time.
With the exception of those few hours with Finn, the only friend she’d ever been completely herself with was her sister. This wasn’t because Ava hadn’t seen Helen’s death, she had and she’d blurted it out one afternoon while they were playing in the garden. It was leukaemia, it would strike when she was twelve years old and it’d devour her quickly.
Ava was terrified that Helen would tell their parents, and that she would spend the rest of her years consumed by fear and sorrow. But she didn’t. Helen told Ava that she was glad to know, and she’d have as much fun as possible with all the years of her life she had left: six.
Ava was the lucky partner in most of these activities. They climbed trees, searched for shrews and voles in the undergrowth, went on long bike rides through the meadows … They rarely bothered to do their homework but instead had a million imaginary adventures together, staying up late most nights, reading novels with torches under their bed sheets and eating midnight cake. Helen appreciated every lovely little moment of life, so that everyone loved to be around her and even adults commented that she was a particularly joyful child. Helen never complained that she didn’t have enough, that she was bored, that she didn’t want to eat dinner. Instead she threw herself into life with unreserved passion and brought joy to everyone she met, Ava most of all.
When the cancer finally came, Helen assured Ava that she was okay, that she was glad to have known, to have sucked all the juice out of life before the sweet fruit was snatched away. She was glad it was over quickly too, all the pain of diagnosis and treatments, all the time in hospital. Helen held Ava’s hand at the end and smiled up at her through both their tears. Ava clutched her sister’s fingers until they went cold.
At first, Ava thought that, given her sister’s experience of life and death, perhaps other people might want to know in advance the dates of their own demise. However, following several incidents at school – involving both students and teachers – that culminated in Ava’s expulsion at the age of ten and a half, she finally accepted that this wasn’t the case.
Ava suspects that Ross might be just like Helen, that he will embrace the knowing and suck all the last juices out of life before he goes. But, since that is the way Ross lives his life anyway – as if every day might be his last day in the chocolate shop – that’d only leave Ava with the miserable duty of darkening the horizon. Which, unfortunately, is something she just can’t bear to do.
‘Your cooking is definitely improving,’ Greer says. ‘Judging by the smell of that chicken, anyway.’
Tilly bites into her sandwich and chews. She nods. ‘Yeah, Dad, this is actually edible. Well done.’
Edward smiles. ‘Gosh, thanks Till, for that highest of accolades, and for showing me the entire contents of your mouth.’
Tilly giggles.
‘It doesn’t sound like I should trade in being an architect for a career in the catering industry just yet, though.’
Tilly frowns. She shifts on the black-and-white blanket laid across the grass, reaching for her plastic cup of orange juice. ‘But you’re not an architect any more, Dad, so what difference does it make?’
‘Till—’ Greer reprimands her.
But Edward smiles. ‘Well, actually, the purpose of this little picnic is actually to celebrate the fact that, from next Monday, I will be an architect once more.’
‘Really?’ Greer says. ‘Oh, Ed, that’s wonderful, congratulations!’
‘No shit, Dad? That’s great.’
‘Tilly!’ Edward and Greer both exclaim in unison.
‘Jeez, can the parental unit chill for a sec?’ Tilly holds up her hands in defence. The sandwich filling falling out as she does so, slices of chicken and tomato tumbling into her lap. ‘Oh, shit,’ she says again, picking them up out of her skirt.
Edward opens his mouth to admonish her, then instead starts to laugh. Catching his eye, Greer starts to giggle too, which only lifts Edward’s spirits and makes him laugh harder.
Tilly looks from one parent to the other. ‘What’s going on with you two?’
Edward shakes his head. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I … I’m just happy, that’s all.’
Tilly narrows her eyes at him. ‘Have you got a new girlfriend?’
‘What?’ Edward frowns. ‘What on earth makes you say that?’
Tilly shrugs. ‘It’d be a good reason, that’s all.’
‘But, but what makes you think …?’ Edward trails off. ‘I mean …’
Tilly rolls her eyes. ‘You guys think I’m so stupid. I know Mum’s got a boyfriend, so, I just thought it made sense.’
Edward looks at Greer. ‘I thought we weren’t going to tell her, until we’d got it all a bit more figured out.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ Greer says. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘She didn’t have to, Dad, I’m not a silly kid. I knew something was going on since we saw Mum in the garden with the next-door neighbour.’
‘Till,’ Greer exclaims, ‘you make it sound so sordid! We weren’t even touching.’
Tilly nods, knowingly. ‘Yeah, well, you didn’t have to be. It was obvious. Trust me, I know about these things.’
‘You know about these things?’ Edward repeats, horrified. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Tilly just shrugs.
‘Well, I very much hope you don’t mean by personal experience because, however wise you are, you’re still only thirteen years old, young lady,’ Edward says. ‘We don’t want to be having the talk with you just yet. I hadn’t planned on having to tell you about all that till your sixteenth birthday, at least.’
‘Oh, Dad, grow up,’ Tilly says. ‘We learnt about all that in sex-ed class, like a year ago.’
‘What?’ Edward’s eyes widen. ‘They’re teaching sex to teenagers? That’s outrageous!’
‘I’m sure they’re not teaching them how to have sex,’ Greer says, ‘just how to be safe, when the time comes.’
Tilly nods.
‘They shouldn’t need to be safe, they shouldn’t be doing anything to be safe from in the first place,’ Edward exclaims. ‘I’m calling the headmaster, first thing in the morning.’
‘Oh, please, Dad.’ Tilly sighs. ‘Just cos you live like a monk, doesn’t mean the rest of the world should too.’
‘I’m not talking about the rest of the world,’ Edward snaps, ‘I don’t care what they do. I’m just talking about you. And, anyway, I do not live like a monk.’
Tilly meets this protest with another roll of her eyes. Edward looks to Greer for support, but she can only give a little shrug of apologetic agreement with her daughter’s statement.
‘Huh, well, what do you two know, anyway?’ Edward huffs. Then he frowns at Tilly. ‘But you don’t mind? I mean, that me and your mother aren’t … That we’re not together in the traditional sense?’
Tilly laughs. ‘Oh, Dad, we’re hardly a traditional family, now, are we? Anyway …’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t really care, as long as you’re both happy. It was pretty awful living with you before, Dad, you were so freaking miserable all the time. Then Mum came back and you were happy but then she wasn’t so much. But now, whatever, whatever, you’re both happy. So I don’t really care what you’re doing, as long as you stay like this.’
Edward and Greer exchange a look.
‘Yeah, so, most of my friends, their parents are either divorced or married but constantly sniping at each other,’ Tilly says, chewing her sandwich once more. ‘But, now, you guys are like best friends. So, the way I see it, I’m pretty lucky.’
Edward sighs. ‘How old are you? You sound wiser than anyone I know. Especially me.’
‘And me,’ Greer says.
Tilly just shrugs and smiles.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Our Otto,
He is walking – he’d be running if I allowed it, but of course we have to mind the noise, always the noise – doing
laps around our little cellar. Sometimes he falls, though he never cries out, silent as ever. I confess, I am worried that he’s still so quiet, that he still says no words. But I console myself with the thought that, as soon as we are free again, he’ll be able to run down the streets, laughing and shouting like any other little boy. Of course, it’ll probably take time for him to get used to such a different way of life, to know that it’s safe to be bold and loud, to reach out and touch the edges of life, instead of curling and trying to remain unseen. But I hear that children are resilient creatures – so Mrs X tells me – and it won’t be for long that he will be scared and shy, once we are free again.
But are we so resilient? Will we bounce back so easily? I cannot imagine it. These four walls have been my home now for so long, and I have been scared for every minute of every day, so that my skin sweats with fear and my breath smells of it. Will we ever be the same again? When we finally see each other, will a great deal have changed? Of course. And, perhaps, we will also need some time until we fit together as we did before. But we will. I don’t think it will take so long and, if it does, it’s of no matter. I was so impatient when I first came. I couldn’t bear the thought of just a few days apart from you but, slowly, patience was forced upon me. And now, like fear, it is a part of me. So I can wait now, for any amount of time, for as long as it takes to fit together with you again.
Ever Yours,
Marthe
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It can’t be. It simply can’t be.
Clara stares at the dates in her diary, flicking the pages back and forth. She’s fifteen days late. How can that be? How can she not have noticed? And they’ve been so safe, so careful, Pieter not wanting to take any risks. Admittedly, the night outside the Herzogenbusch camp, when they’d torn at each other’s clothes in the car, in the dark of the parking lot, under the barely visible stars, the electricity of Otto’s response still firing through their veins, they hadn’t used any protection. But that had only been four days ago. It was far too early and her period had been due two weeks before. So the mathematics didn’t add up. And yet, there is no denying that she is late.
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 20