I peer carefully around the door and see the farmer’s wife carrying a pail with steaming fresh milk into the kitchen. Breakfast must be soon, so I follow her.
“Good morning.” She greets me warmly. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” I lie, but the look on her face tells me she knows better.
“Sit down, child. Have some milk.” She ladles some out into a cup and hands it to me.
It’s just like I remember farm fresh milk to be. Warm and rich with fat.
“The man will be in from milking soon.” She means her husband.
I sit quietly nursing my cup of milk and watch her efficiently prepare breakfast for many.
A pot of oatmeal bubbles on the back of the coal stove and on the front she fries eggs and toasts slices of bread.
As soon as she has everything on the table, several young men, including my brother, appear and sit down. We wait for the farmer, who will say grace before we begin eating.
My father used to say grace, but no more. He told me he cannot reconcile himself to a God who would allow this war to go on. Who would allow the rounding up of Jews, to be sent who-knows-where? My father has turned his back on the church and the rituals of faith.
After our meal I am urged to quickly say goodbye to my brother and I leave with the farmer on his cartful of milk cans.
We slowly clang along the road behind a team of draft horses and I think again about the cost of this war. Clearly this farmer is one of the better-off ones, but I know the Germans won’t pay the top price for his milk. He probably loses money every time he brings his goods to market. And he is in danger because he has several young men in hiding at his farm.
“My brother will be safe, right?” I ask.
“God willing,” the farmer says, and leaves it at that.
We ride on, along the roads that seemed so ominous last night and are now bathed in early morning light. A slight mist rises from the fields and the ditches bordering them. It obscures the lower legs of the cattle. Another time I would have found this amusing.
“Here’s where you get off, young lady.” The farmer pulls up the horses at the crossroads where he will turn left toward the cheese factory and I will turn right to go home.
Only two fields over and I will be at the outskirts of our village. A good forty-five-minute walk.
“Here, take this,” the farmer says, and hands me a basket filled with eggs, a bit of cheese and a small sack of flour. True riches for my family at this time.
“Thank you very much,” I say.
The farmer nods and makes a clicking sound while gently slapping the reins to get his team moving on their journey. I turn to continue mine.
The basket feels heavy. My legs feel heavy, as does my heart. I miss Theo and I want to get home again, quickly.
I see shapes coming toward me in the growing fog. I so hope they are not a patrol. It’s still early in the morning and I don’t know if I am allowed to be out by the new curfew rules. What would they do to me if they found me? Am I allowed to have this basket of food or would they take it from me? If it’s the same patrol Theo and I met last night, they’ll wonder where he is. That could get me into a lot of trouble.
I quickly climb into the ditch beside the road and hope the water level isn’t too high. There are a lot of reeds in it, so maybe they won’t be able to see me. Unless they’re looking very closely.
With any luck they did not see me coming down the road; the fog might have obscured me. Their footsteps sound muffled from in the ditch, which is deeper than I expected.
Crouched down and holding reeds closely around me, I wait. I keep my head down and hope that my sleep-tangled hair resembles the blond-brown reeds enough to fool the soldiers.
Despite the fog their voices carry as they talk loudly and coarsely in their language. I can pick up bits and pieces of their speech and it makes my stomach lurch.
One of the soldiers is bragging about having captured a suspected member of the resistance. He calls him “the butcher’s boy” and tells how he was ordered to destroy the butcher shop.
Surely they can’t be talking about Hendrik and his family? The butcher shop was fine when I left last night. Hendrik was still making deliveries on his bicycle yesterday afternoon. He waved and winked at me, nearly crashing into the mayor’s wife. I see him so clearly in my mind’s eye.
I want to climb out of the ditch and yell at those soldiers to stop talking, to let Hendrik go, but I know that would be very foolish. Instead I try not to listen to them talking about what will happen to Hendrik and his father. I try to keep from throwing up while they’re still too close and might hear me.
I wait until I can’t hear them at all anymore. Only then do I climb, shaking, out of the ditch. My shoes are soaked through and the lower part of my legs muddy and cold.
In the growing light I see the soldiers far off in the distance, at least two fields away. It should make me feel safe, but it doesn’t.
I hurry home on numb feet, barely able to feel the weight of the basket. I stumble in through the back door, into the empty kitchen.
After I put the basket on the counter by the sink, I collapse onto the step stool and cry.
“Maggie?” My father comes in. “My dear girl, are you all right? Did you get hurt? Is Theo safe?”
I first shake my head, then nod while I struggle to regain my voice. The tears just won’t stop.
“Theo’s safe,” I manage to say between sobs. “I’m not hurt…had to hide in a ditch to avoid a patrol.”
“You brave girl,” my father says and envelops me in his strong arms.
“Have you heard?” My sister bursts into the kitchen. “Oh, I suppose you have. Surely it’s not that bad. They’ll keep Hendrik locked up for a while and the girls will just have to do without his constant flirting. Serves him right.” And Betty casually walks out of the kitchen again.
“What was that all about?” my father asks.
“Hendrik. She thinks I’m upset about Hendrik and his father being taken by the Germans. Dad…I heard the soldiers in the patrol brag about it. They enjoyed beating Hendrik!” I say and begin to sob again. “I felt so mad, so helpless and…so scared.”
“Animals,” my father says with all the impotent rage he feels.
We sit together in the kitchen for some time, not speaking, instead feeling the safety of the silence.
Once again I understand how dangerous it is to be a part of the resistance. I understand my father’s fears, but I want do something, something to reclaim my life, my home. Many thoughts swirl but the pen is running out of ink, the writing becomes faint, and I feel myself coming back to my own room, far removed from the sunny, but sad kitchen of my mother’s youth.
I find I must have switched on the lamp on my desk, but I have no recollection of doing so. The light now hurts my eyes as I read over what the pen has allowed me to write.
I wonder if she ever saw Hendrik again, or if he survived being in captivity. How deeply did she care for him? Did she carry a torch for him throughout her life? She must have. When I asked her once if she ever truly loved someone, she got a faraway look in her eyes and said, “I’m sure I must have, once upon a time.”
A gloomy day draws me to my desk where I have ignored the old fountain pen for too long. Today, I feel ready to once again learn about my mother. To learn of the events that shaped her.
With a familiar tug I slip into the past that flows from the pen in little rivulets of dark blue ink. Vignettes of intense experiences and emotions threaten to drown me every time I take one of these journeys.
I find myself standing in the open doorway to her house. It is spring and I marvel at the beautiful tulips blooming despite the war, as if I somehow expect nature to be subdued while we are occupied by the Germans. The sun is out too, and it almost feels warm enough to be out in shirtsleeves.
Before I get a chance to step out I spy a column of German soldiers coming up the street. They stop at a house across the street and three
doors from us, and I see the soldiers are each carrying a bag. That can only mean one thing: they’ll be billeted at homes around the village. Right now they live in tents, as there are no barracks nearby. Siepie told me Germany is bringing in more and more soldiers for the planned invasion of England. Why can’t they just all go home instead?
But I don’t stand there dwelling on it. I have an idea and rush back inside where my sister is lazing around nursing an infected thumb.
“Betty, quick,” I say, and pull another chair up to her. “Put your legs on this chair and moan.”
“What?” she protests.
“Just do it, or do you want soldiers living in our house?”
“Oh!” She quickly complies and I throw a blanket over her, just as the front doorbell rings.
I open the door pressing a handkerchief to my mouth and nose.
“Ja?” I say, and cough dramatically.
The sergeant only speaks German and I pretend I do not understand him, though I have had four years of German in school.
As he gesticulates and holds up first two fingers then three to indicate how many soldiers might fit in our home, I keep shaking my head and saying: “Quarantine, we are under quarantine.”
I point through the window at my sister in the living room giving the performance of a lifetime on those two chairs, holding up her bandaged thumb and moaning and writhing under the blanket. She’s even managed to work up a sheen of perspiration on her face and her cheeks are red; she must have pinched them they’re so fiery.
The sergeant insists in his most polite German that he must billet two of his men in our home. And I again insist firmly that we are under quarantine and I again cough loudly into my handkerchief; making it sound as phlegmy as I can.
I mumble something about typhoid fever or tuberculosis and the man takes a step backwards. Then he tips his hat and quickly moves along to the next house.
With a sigh of relief I close the door and lean against it. A grin spreads over my face as I realize I’ve just pulled the wool over the enemy’s eyes. Of course it is only a reprieve, they’ll most likely darken our door again in a month’s time.
Hopefully I’ll be home on that day too. If my father is home we will be sunk, he is so scared of these people that he will let them in. Then I will have to share a bed with Betty again and give up Theo’s room to the soldiers. At least we would not have to feed them, though they steal enough from us with this strict rationing. I can’t remember when we last had enough food for dinner.
I leave the dark hallway and settle on the sofa in the sun. My sister slowly pushes off the blanket and looks at me, then asks: “Did you get rid of them? It was me that scared them off, right? Oh won’t father be proud of me.” On and on she goes, not realizing that she only played a part and that father, in fact, will be furious that we stood up to the Germans like that.
“Sure, Betty, sure,” I say to placate her.
I have homework to do, and more knitting too. Summer might be on the way, but building up a stash of socks for winter takes time, especially if I have to carefully measure out the amount of wool I have with all this rationing and inflation.
Mrs. Jansen in my textiles and crafts class wants to see my lace edgings improve as well, and I so hate knitting lace with these thin steel needles. They prick my fingers.
Her motto is that “just because there’s a war on we should not let our standards slip.” We are ladies after all, and some day when the war is over we will all be seeking employment as teachers or getting ourselves married to nice young men who appreciate beautiful lace edgings and well-made socks.
And to think, I could have gone to the University of Amsterdam to study mathematics if this war hadn’t happened…and if my mother would have let me.
“Maggie?” my sister asks, “are you still brooding over Hendrik? He’s probably in some prison in Germany. He shouldn’t have joined the resistance. It won’t do any good anyway.”
She prattles on, but I have learned to ignore her. It’s not easy though when she says such stupid things.
My thoughts do turn to Hendrik from time to time. I miss seeing him about the village making deliveries for his father. I miss the way he would wink and smile at me.
After I finish my homework I go out to bring the washing in off the line. The sun is still out but it is getting closer to dusk now. I work slowly to enjoy the last bit of sunshine—it might well rain again tomorrow.
I slowly fold each item before placing it in the basket, and I put the clothespins in the bag on the line.
“Hey, Maggie,” I hear a loud whisper from the other side of the fence. “Maggie, psst.”
I go to the back gate and find Siepie standing there holding a small child by the hand. A little girl with dark curls and dimples in her cheeks. She can’t be more than four or five years old.
“Siepie?” I ask, wondering what she’s up to now. I’m still a little leery after the fountain-pen-message smuggling incident.
“Open the gate, hurry,” she says, looking behind her. I comply and let her and the child in.
“What’s this all about?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and try to look stern, but I have a hard time of it; the little girl is so cute and Siepie is still my best friend, no matter what.
“Shh, keep your voice down,” Siepie says, and places a finger against her lips, which the little girl copies with a very serious look on her little face. “I can’t be sure we weren’t followed.”
I raise an eyebrow. Why would anyone want to follow her and that adorable child? Surely they would think they were sisters or cousins out for a walk.
Siepie pulls out a yellow Star of David from her pocket and holds it over the girl’s coat. Only then do I notice the stitches that once held the star in place, in compliance with the rules of the occupiers of our country.
A child! Must they label and threaten even an innocent child?
I nod at Siepie. “What can I do?” I ask, for I feel sure she wants me to do something. Something I won’t like.
“I need you to shelter Irma for me.” Before I can even protest and say how scared it will make my father, she places her hand over my mouth and continues. “Her mother is on her way to England, we think her father might have been captured, but we don’t know for sure. Her uncle was killed. We hope to send Irma to England on the next crossing—her mother is working with the Dutch resistance there. You know, Her Majesty, Wilhelmina’s group.” I nod and take her hand away from my mouth.
“How long?”
“A few days. Just keep her out of sight. No playing outside, at all!” Siepie says sternly.
I wonder what my father will say, but I can’t say no. Siepie had to be very desperate to bring this child to our house, especially after I got so mad at her over the fountain pen.
“I’ll keep her safe, but don’t leave her here too long,” I say. “My father might get attached to her.” I smile but inside I feel sadness; the sadness my father will show in his eyes when I tell him the little girl’s story.
Siepie says goodbye to Irma and hands me a small overnight case. She tells Irma to be a good girl and that they’ll have her back with her mother very soon.
“Come along, Irma,” I say and take her hand. “Would you like some warm milk?” I offer when I feel how cold her hand is. When did she last eat, I wonder? I notice she’s very thin when I help her out of her coat.
I sit her down at the small table next to the stove in the kitchen and pull out a pan and some milk. We have extra because my uncle Adema will often bring us a bottle or two on his way to market. He could get in trouble for that but he seems to enjoy putting one over on the enemy.
“Toast, too?” I ask, and see the eager look in her eyes as she nods her head, her curls bobbing along in harmony.
As I slice the bread Betty comes in and stares at the child.
“Who is that?” she asks. “And why are you giving some of our meager rations to her?”
“Betty, sometimes I’m
ashamed to be your sister,” I snap. Then I tell her Irma’s story, hoping it will soften her.
“I see,” she says, still with a sharp edge to her voice.
All this time the little girl has kept quiet.
“I’m waiting here for my mommie,” she says in a soft, high-pitched voice. I can see Betty start to melt a little, but rather than admit it, she turns and quickly leaves the kitchen.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” I place a cup of warm milk and a plate with buttered toast before her and am rewarded with a big smile.
I watch the child enjoy the food and milk and I again wonder when she last ate. What will I tell my father tonight when he comes home from work? First I have turned away German soldiers from being billeted here, and now I have taken in a little Jewish girl. A refugee, so very far away from her mother.
I shall just have to tell him the truth. Surprisingly, I am not nearly as worried about what my mother will think or say. She’s not quite as cold as Betty, but certainly as pragmatic and perhaps even selfish. She’s used to my bringing home strays and I am used to her telling me she expects them gone in a day or two.
The pen lifts from the paper, it is nearly empty so I obligingly refill it from the jar of ink, eager to find out the end of this story.
When the nib touches the paper again I find time has passed. It is now dark at my mother’s house, the blackout curtains are drawn and we are all sitting around the dining table. A small oil lamp on the sideboard is lit and another one in the center of the table. We sit in a tense silence.
I look at the little girl and marvel at her courage. Here she is in yet another home with strangers who are having to share their rations with her and provide her with shelter. She seems so calm.
I look at my father and see his jaw is clenched. His eyes glisten with the tears he is holding back.
My mother glares at me. I can feel it even though I am avoiding her.
I wish Theo were home, he would take my side and help me to convince our parents. Well, my father does not need much convincing. My mother does, but he so rarely stands up to her. I don’t need to look at Betty’s face to know she has a smug look all over it. She is so very good at the “I told you so” look.
Tales from the Fountain Pen Page 3