‘NO! NO!’ gasping for air I kept running until I tripped and fell.
‘Mother,’ I whispered. ‘Mother, where are you now?’ I shivered and made myself as small as I could, while I waited for him to catch up. I couldn’t escape from him. I never could. The opening lines would soon come, I could dream the words by now.
‘Maria, you’ve been disobedient. As your father I will have to discipline you.’
‘Don’t do it,’ I said with difficulty.
‘Don’t do what?’
‘Touch me like… that.’
‘Why not? Are you enjoying it?’ he asked sternly.
‘No, no. Not at all. I don’t want this. Don’t. Stop it!’
‘Maria, are you all right? Maria?’ The voice sounded concerned, a pair of rough hands calmly smoothed the hair out of my face. Then I was lifted up. I wanted to fight, but I knew I couldn’t win so I kept myself as small as possible, my muscles tense but defenseless.
‘What’s wrong, Maria, did you hurt yourself?’
Finally the words got through to me. This was no sermon on obedience! This was not the Reverend! I opened up my eyes and saw that I was being carried by a different preacher. No, I had to get away from here. I had to get away.
He didn’t look at me. His eyes were focused on the farm he approached slowly but surely. I tried to break free by flinging my arms and legs about. He tripped but recovered his balance and calmly kept going, holding me firmly. I didn’t resist any longer. He was boss. He always was.
Finally he put me down on the bench beneath the roof’s overhang at the farmhouse.
He said nothing, but stroked my hair briefly and went inside. Shaking uncontrollably I sat on the bench in the shelter of the farmhouse and looked back at my past with eyes that saw nothing but the Reverend and ears that could hear nothing but the words from his mouth.
‘You’ve been disobedient, Maria. You know I have to punish you.’
‘Mother, do you have a moment?’ It annoyed me how my voice quivered unsteadily and I knew Mother heard it too as she looked at me in surprise. Yet she didn’t seem concerned. Her hands never stopped their work, her fingers deftly pulled the needle through, and stitch after stitch the button was sewn back on. Fasten off, cut the thread and pick up another button. Nobody could sew as fast as Mother.
The things she used to sew had always been beautiful too, but nowadays she only sewed what was functional, a skirt, a blouse, a coat. She always sewed for those less fortunate in our church, always in black, without any variety.
‘I need to tell you something. Can I talk to you?’ I had rehearsed my words beforehand, but now they sounded stiff and insincere.
Mother said nothing and remained where she was, keeping her hands busy with needle and thread. I went to her and took her hand. I gently took her needlework from her hands and sat down close beside her. Mother kept her eyes on her needlework, but I held on to her hands and squeezed them softly. She looked at me again and I searched her eyes for something familiar from days gone by, the love, the light, and her warm understanding.
It could have been my imagination, but I thought I saw her eyes relax and look at me lovingly. This was enough to give me hope and I took a deep breath as I was finally going to tell her the truth. For four long years I had said nothing, but now that I had missed my first monthly period, and after that a second, I had tried daily to build up the courage to tell her. Although there was nothing visible yet, I knew it would not be long before everything would be out in the open. My hands began to shake while I took a deep breath to speak. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth.
Before I could even utter a word the door was thrown open with a bang and the Reverend came in. With his arrival, both my hope and the little bit of courage I had scraped together, disappeared into nothing.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ He stopped beside my chair and gave me a menacing glare.
‘You’re coming with me, right now.’ He grabbed my hand and crushed it painfully hard. With a jerk he pulled me along. At the door he briefly let go and sneered at Mother that she had to stay put, but I noticed that she hadn’t even made an effort to move.
Then he was behind me again and he pushed me up the stairs. A confusion of thoughts raced through my head. I didn’t have the slightest idea what could have roused his anger.
He reached ahead of me and roughly threw open my bedroom door. With a bang the door slammed back and almost hit me in the face. I just managed to catch it with my hand. He didn’t seem to notice, but impatiently pushed me into the room, onto the bed.
‘What were you doing there, with your mother?’
I looked at him in silence, what should I say?
‘Tell me!’
‘I… we… I wanted to tell her…’
‘What? What is of such importance that you need to tell your mother?’
I closed my eyes so tight that in the darkness little shapes started to dance before my eyes. If I had had the courage, I would have covered my ears with my hands to shut the sound of him out. But I didn’t dare to and I thought about a possible answer. What could I tell him, the truth? No, that was impossible.
But he beat me to it. He no longer waited for my answer and started to speak about the fifth commandment and about his rights and duties as a father. All the usual words and I almost managed to let them slide off my back, until he caught my attention with a long silence. The words that followed shocked me all the more.
‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
I gasped for air and could feel the blood drain from my body. A roaring sound that seemed to start from somewhere behind me entered my ears and filled my head. There was nothing else but this roaring sound.
Then suddenly a harsh slap hit my cheek and cut through the roaring in my head. I opened my eyes and looked at the Reverend.
‘Your silence speaks volumes. Whore. Did you really think you could keep this secret from me? Did you really think I haven’t noticed how you pick at your food at breakfast? Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the changes in your body?
His hand slipped down from my shoulder for a moment, and I shuddered as he touched my breast. His hand lingered for just a quick second, yet too long, always too long.
I pulled back and saw his face twist in anger.
‘You filthy whore.’ He screamed the words in my face and spittle flew about. Disgusted to be sullied yet again by his body, I wiped it away with my sleeve. He had just turned around and didn’t notice. I heard him thunder down the stairs. Then I heard shouting, shocked wails, and my mother’s crying.
These sounds only slowly penetrated through the fog in my head. They floated up the stairs in slow motion and lingered at my door. But in the end they reached me. I stared up at the bare ceiling of my room, looking at nothing. Up there was nothing for me. No loving God. Not even a God to curse. What good had God brought me so far? Nothing but misery.
I heard footsteps on the staircase. It was the Reverend, followed by my mother.
With quivering finger he pointed at me and exclaimed loudly: ‘Your daughter,’ he spit at me again, ‘Your daughter is a filthy whore.’
His dramatic act made the desired impact, for my mother’s eyes opened wide in shock, her hand flew to her mouth and a shriek passed her lips.
I watched in silence while the Reverend screamed, beside himself, ‘She’s pregnant! No doubt she doesn’t’ even know who the father is.’ He glared at me ominously and I said nothing. What could I say? It was obvious that I was the guilty one here. Me. Me. Me. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. These were his favorite opening words for a sermon. Or final words. Or both if he really got into it.
I averted my eyes from him and tried to find my mother’s eyes while she stood unsteady and touched the wall for support.
When the Reverend finally fell silent, Mother asked with a soft voice: ‘Is it true?’
These words hit home with deathly precision on what hope I still had and they destroyed everything. When
I nodded I saw how my mother’s head sagged down to her chest and her shoulders fell. She turned around and staggered out of the room. I heard her stifled weeping and wanted to stand up, shout that it wasn’t true, that it wasn’t my fault.
‘Whore,’ he hissed at me before I could get up. ‘You don’t say a word. Not to anyone.’
His eyes gleamed menacingly in his face. I shuddered. Not the words he spoke, but the way he said them terrified me. I nodded and knew I wouldn’t say a word, to no one, ever.
‘Maria!’ My Auntie’s soft arms joined her exclamation and took hold of me with a warmth that chased away the cold.
‘Maria, child. What happened, dear?’
All of a sudden my eyes came back to life and I could see the present. I could see her sweet face, her round blushing cheeks, her gray hair and sparkling eyes. She meant so well, but I had never yet told her everything, and I wouldn’t do so now.
‘I’m not sure what happened, Auntie,’ I lied. ‘Something startled me and…’
This was too complicated to explain in a few sentences. Besides, there was nothing on this earth that could possibly make me tell her and explain it all.
‘I’m much better now,’ I said and straightened up. ‘I don’t know what came over me, but I’m better now.’
Auntie looked at me with concern, but said nothing.
‘I have to finish hanging up the laundry.’ I got up awkwardly and walked back across the grass to the washing line and the laundry basket. My hands were shaking and I tripped twice before I reached the basket, but I had to do something. It seemed best to me to simply go on with my chore. I took extra care that no one was sneaking up on me, and often looked over my shoulder. I saw that Reverend Bosch was now sitting on the bench beside Auntie, and they were calmly talking together. It looked like he wasn’t going to head my way anymore. Slowly the tension in my body disappeared and I stopped shaking. When I checked over my shoulder again I noticed that Reverend Bosch had stood up and was saying goodbye to Auntie. When he noticed that I was looking his way, he waved his hand at me in parting, but he didn’t come. I couldn’t blame him, I had offended him several times now after all, but I still felt an odd pain inside me when he simply left.
Stubbornly, I turned my attention back to the laundry.
All was well.
11
Pregnancy is usually not a topic of conversation. Swollen bellies are kept hidden away with wide flowing dresses, and sore backs are only stretched in relief when no one is around to see it. The idea that something is growing inside me is becoming more real by the day, especially now that I’ve felt the life stir. I had become so used to hate it, that moving creature inside me that is the offspring of adultery and fornication, of weakness and hatred. But a new feeling has awoken and is slowly pushing out the hatred. Is it love? Can this love exist or will it be blown away by the very first gust of wind that will come? Will it be taken away by a fresh spring breeze, or blown away by a strong fall storm?
Auntie however talks about the pregnancy as if she has no concept of shame about these kinds of matters. Maybe it’s the farmers stock in her, or maybe it’s because it’s just us two women in this house. Maybe it’s in her character or maybe it’s simply because of the whole awkwardness of the situation.
I have fended her off, excluded her, hurt her. But how long will she be patient? When I see how she cares for the animals, I think her patience is unending and she has actually proven that already. She has been so very patient with me. Yet, I am not able to count on her love. I must not forget that there was, after all, once a time when I was a child who knew her father and mother’s love and who trusted in a loving God. But in the name of that same God, all the love I knew was taken from me.
And Auntie worships that same God.
I noticed that increasingly often my hands would linger on the swelling of my stomach. Every day there was some moment where I was newly struck by the sensation of life moving deep within me. Was it a hand, a foot, or a knee?
Auntie kept a close eye on me and smiled with a nod when she caught me mesmerizing. When that happened I would quickly return to the present and make my hands continue their task.
My hands had changed in the last while. The soft, preacher’s daughter’s hands had turned into the rough hands of a farmer’s daughter. The cuts I had suffered at the beginning had all healed and were replaced by tough calluses, my nails were cut short, and the palms of my hands were rougher than they used to be. It made me proud, they resembled Auntie’s hands more and more. They were hands that could love and care. Would my hands be able to do that?
It was solely for Auntie’s sake, because of her constant care and patient love that I had spent the last hour struggling to come up with words to put on the sheet of writing paper in front of me. Words that would explain nothing and at the same time say everything. I would add my sheet to Auntie’s letter. Right from the start she had insisted I would write to them. She never checked my letters, so she wasn’t aware that all I did was fill a sheet with lines, circles and scribbles, knowing full well that no one was ever going to notice. But now something had changed and I no longer wanted to deceive her.
The last thirty minutes I had been thinking of how to start the letter. Father and Mother was no good, since he wasn’t my father and never would be. Dear Sir, Mother also didn’t work, because I couldn’t call him ‘dear’. Dear Mother was a wish I didn’t dare write down, so in the end I decided to write no salutation at all. I wasted three sheets of Auntie’s expensive stationary before coming to this decision.
In the end I managed to come up with three full sentences that seemed sincere to me, but that didn’t reveal anything about my true thoughts and feelings. I didn’t dare to commit to paper my wish that Mother would reply and would tell me how she was. I knew very well that this wish wouldn’t come true.
Auntie had also finished her letter. She stood up from her seat and opened the door to the barn.
‘I want to show you something, come along.’
I followed Auntie obediently up the stairs, not knowing what she was up to. To my surprise she opened the third door, the one leading to the hayloft, a place where I hardly ever came. Her hand held an oil lantern and she quickly lit it. The little flame lit up the dark room with whimsical shadows and Auntie’s long shadow followed her as she walked to one side of the hayloft. I stayed as close to her as I could and tried not to touch anything. Everything was dusty and I knew there would be big spiders here. Probably mice too, and who knows what else.
‘Ah, that’s where it’ll be.’ Auntie moved a few steps to the left and gave me the lantern. ‘Would you hold the light for me, please?’
I stooped over and the light fell over a large sheet that covered some lumpy objects. With one jerk Auntie removed the sheet and I sneezed because of the sudden dust cloud that reached my nose. I sneezed again and only then did I see what Auntie had uncovered.
‘A cradle,’ I whispered in surprise.
I came closer and put my fingers on the beautifully entwined wicker.
‘I didn’t know you had one.’
‘This was your own cradle once.’
‘Oh.’
‘Your father was simply overjoyed with your mother’s pregnancy. He worked on this cradle for weeks without Anna knowing about it. It was such a surprise for her.’
I felt a lump in my throat. My father. He had made this for me and together with my mother he had placed me in it. My father. Even if I closed my eyes, I couldn’t remember him, only his curly hair and the warmth of his voice. But were these really memories or wishful thinking?
‘Come, let’s bring it down.’
Auntie gave a tug and with a creaking sound the cradle slid across the floor.
‘I’ll help you.’
When we were in the kitchen I could have a good look at the cradle. Father had twined the dark and light wicker alternately and it had created a beautiful pattern.
‘We’ll have to give it a good scrub,�
�� said Auntie, ‘and we’ll make a new little canopy and some new bedding.’
I looked again and I saw her beaming.
‘That’s why I wanted you to see it. Tomorrow, at the market, I’m going to buy fabric for it, what do you think?’
‘But there is still bedding in it.’
‘It’s old and discolored. Or do you like it?’
No, it wasn’t beautiful at all, but that was no reason for Auntie to go and spend money for the sake of me and my…
My thoughts halted before I dared to think the word. But then I allowed the thought. Child. My child.
A cradle for my child.
‘I have some money left from the journey,’ I suddenly remembered.
It looked like Auntie first meant to protest, but then she nodded. ‘That’s good. You can give it to me, and I’ll find something nice.
She took two mugs and poured us our some coffee. Then she took her loaf tin and walked to the table.
‘Come, sit down for a bite.’
We sat down beside each other, so we could both look at the cradle.
‘What color would you like?’
‘I haven’t thought about it. What color would go with a baby?’
‘Any color is good, as long as it isn’t black.’
I nodded. ‘As long as it isn’t black.’
I went to bed and fell asleep with one hand on my stomach as it changed shape with the child’s movements inside. I could almost imagine that the child was calling to me and wanted to know me.
I had picked flowers for Mother, pretty yellow and red ones. I held the little bunch tightly in my hands. The stems were already starting to wilt, so I had to walk home quickly and cheer Mother up with these flowers. I would find a pretty vase and place the flowers on the kitchen table. It would be a nice surprise. Mother loved flowers. Mother loved me, and I loved Mother. The sun was shining and the birds sang their songs and I started to whistle along. I couldn’t whistle all that well yet, but I practiced a lot and was getting better and better at it.
Father had been able to whistle really well and he had shown me how to do it. Father himself had learned from Grandpa, who could whistle with his fingers as well, really hard. Sometimes I tried to do that, but then you heard nothing, and all I ended up with was wet fingers. But now I could sing along with the birds. I looked up at the blue sky and felt just as cheerful as the birds I could hear. I saw a butterfly and chased it, into the sky. It was a tiny black speck against the blue sky, and I followed it, higher and higher, closer and closer to the sun. I could feel the sun’s warmth on my face and I basked in the glow of it with my eyes closed. The sunlight shone just as brightly behind my closed eyelids. Even though my eyes were closed it wasn’t really dark at all. It was a cheerful darkness. Yes, that’s what it was, a cheerful darkness.
Mara Page 8