Tales from the Fountain Pen

by E. Lynn Hooghiemstra

  Elderflower tea will make a nice treat, which I hope we won’t have to share with our houseguests.

  As I set four cups on the tea tray I hear the heavy tread of the soldiers’ boots on the stairs, followed by their door closing. Finally, they’ve gone up to bed and hopefully we won’t see them again tonight. Maybe I can even slip next door to talk to Siepie.

  I wish we could listen to the wireless and find out what Mr. Churchill has to say. Maybe the Americans will be able to stop the Germans from invading England. Somebody must tell them about the invasion so they can be prepared. But who?

  “Maggie!”

  “Sorry, Mother,” I say when I notice I’ve spilt hot water all over the tray. At least none of the tea spilt, it’s steeping nicely in the pot.

  I dry off the mess I’ve made and carry the tray into the dining room where we all crowd around the table and the one small oil lamp.

  “Maybe this paper will warm things up a bit,” my father says, as he does every night, and crumples up strips of his evening paper before sticking them into the small coal stove. The fire in it burns so low it barely gives off any heat. “There’s nothing but bad news in it anyway,” he adds.

  I pick up my knitting and knit a few rows on a pair of socks while I wait for the tea to steep.

  Maybe I can bring some yarn to Siepi or pretend that we want to swap colors? Never mind that the only colors we can get these days are grey or army green. I do have a little blue yarn left over from Irma’s scarf. It was left over from a sweater I made a year or so before the war started. Maybe I could give that to Siepie and see if she has some red; I’d love to have a red stripe in these socks I’m making.

  My mother pours the tea: a pale green, steaming tea. I eagerly wrap my cold hands around the cup and bring it to my lips. It’s just right and I can feel that first sip warming me up. It tastes like a long-ago, sweet summer.

  We quietly sip our tea in the mostly dark room. There is nothing to say and I think we all feel we need to watch what we say, with the soldiers in the room right above the dining room. Soon Betty and I will climb up, past that room, to the cold little attic room for the night. Maybe mother will let us take up two hot water bottles—it certainly feels cold enough tonight for at least one.

  “May I go next door for a few minutes?” I ask once I’ve finished my tea.

  “No,” my mother says resolutely.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s late and I don’t want you out there with soldiers patrolling the streets. It’s dangerous enough with those two in this house with my daughters. We don’t need to go inviting more trouble.” I’m surprised she didn’t add one of her favorite expressions: “We don’t need to tie the cat to the bacon.”

  My father puts his hand over mine and says softly, “You can tell her tomorrow.”

  “Tell her what?” my mother asks.

  “Whatever it is that young girls tell each other,” he answers, almost defiantly.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” My mother acts as if she was never young like me, and Betty.

  “Off to bed,” my mother orders as she takes the tea tray back to the kitchen.

  I lift the pen off the paper only to refill it. Nothing can make me stop the flow of this story. I have to know what happens next.

  I wake up early to a very cold morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were already some early frost on the grass.

  I quickly get dressed and pull the now cold hot water bottle out from under the covers. It certainly made a difference last night, and I didn’t have to feel Betty’s cold feet against mine. She does it deliberately, I am sure.

  Downstairs I find breakfast is some mushy grains and a cup of elderflower tea. At least the tea will have a pleasant flavor.

  Betty groans when she sees what we’re having.

  “Don’t we have any eggs at all?” she whines.

  “No, but I expect Mr. Dijkstra will have some for us today. We can each have a fried egg for supper,” Mother explains.

  “I suppose it will have to do,” Betty sighs, and stirs her gruel. Watching her struggle through each bite almost makes my spoonfuls bearable.

  I remember it is Saturday and I do not have to go to school. Maybe Siepie and I can go into the village and stand in line at the bakery for Mother. At least on the way there we can talk, even if we can’t while we wait in line to see if there’s any bread today.

  I rush through my chores and bundle up before going next door.

  As I wait for Siepie to answer the door the soldiers come out of our house. The one I know is called Johann comes cheerfully up to me, his smile wide and his bright blue eyes sparkling with some inner joy, no doubt because he will get a decent breakfast.

  “Fräulein, good morning,” he says, obviously proud of himself for speaking some Dutch. I just nod in response.

  “You go visit friend? Maybe we walk later, together?”

  If he weren’t a German soldier I would happily go out walking with him, but this is just too much. How dare he even ask!

  “Nein!” I say harshly in his language, which only seems to amuse him and encourage him.

  “Perhaps tomorrow you will?” He tries again. I shake my head and turn my back to him. Just then Siepie opens the door and asks if anything is wrong.

  “No, I just thought you might like to walk to the bakery with me to see if they have any bread today.”

  “I can bring you bread,” I hear Johann say behind me. I turn eagerly but quickly catch myself when I see his uniform with those dreadful insignia. I haven’t tasted real bread in weeks, but I don’t want his.

  “No thank you!” I say firmly.

  Johann shrugs and stuffs his hands into his pockets before turning to join his comrade already in the road, headed toward their camp.

  When I turn back to Siepie, I find her deep in thought as she pulls on her coat, scarf and boots.

  “I’m going to the bakery with Maggie,” she calls to her mother. “I won’t be long.”

  “Be back before noon,” I hear her mother calling back to her, followed by coughing.

  “Is she sick again?” I ask as Siepie pulls the door closed.

  “It’s nothing, just a touch of croup from the cold, maybe she caught it from my brother,” she says.

  “Maybe we can find some wood along the way that you can burn in your stove to make it a little warmer in your house.”

  “They’ll just take it away if they catch us. Besides, we’re managing fine with blankets and hot water bottles,” my friend says and gives my arm a quick squeeze.

  We walk in silence until we reach the end of our street, then I stop her for a moment and tell her in a hushed voice what I’ve learned from Johann.

  “If you know anyone in the resistance, you must let them know so they can warn England. Somebody has to send a message to Mr. Churchill,” I plead.

  Siepie nods slowly. “I suppose someone should. If only I knew someone.”

  I am briefly taken aback, but then I realize she has to be very careful; nobody can know that she’s part of the resistance.

  She links her arm with mine and we slowly continue our walk.

  “You know,” she says after a while. “That soldier who spoke to you outside your house seems to really like you. That could be useful.”

  An uncomfortable feeling starts to grow in the pit of my stomach as I fear what she’ll say next.

  “Maybe you should go for a walk with him,” she says, calmly. “Maybe let him talk.”

  “Siepie!” I cry. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Maggie, listen, there’s a war on. People are dying and we, I mean the resistance, needs information on the enemy’s movements and plans.” She pauses.

  “But, Siepie, do you know what you are asking? I don’t want to be branded a collaborator. Those are horrible people.”

  Siepie raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond to my last comment. “I understand. It was just a thought. Forget I said anything.” She sounds so calm
but I can tell she really wants me to do this.

  She turns away from me and continues walking.

  “Siepie, wait.” I rush to catch up with her.

  She gives me a sidelong look, but says nothing. Instead she pulls her scarf closer around her neck. A cold wind is blowing.

  “Siepie.” I try again. “Why?”

  “That should be obvious, Maggie. Besides, you like that boy.”

  “What?” I exclaim.

  “Maggie, face it, you love the attention and flirt with every boy you meet.”

  “Not true…not every boy,” I say sheepishly. “Besides, Johann is the enemy. I don’t flirt with him.” Deep down, though, I know she’s mostly right.

  “Whatever story you want to tell yourself,” she says sharply. My friend, my best friend, is suddenly judging me. She has never done this before.

  Just as we’re about to join the line outside the bakery I tap her on the shoulder.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, feeling almost sick, probably more because of Siepie’s disappointment in me than anything else.

  “Good,” she says. “Don’t look so glum. I’m not asking you to let him kiss you or anything like that. Just be nice and see what kind of information he will give you.”

  I nod, still not entirely sure about this plan. We join the queue and chat about the cold, how there’s frost in the air already. But I can’t keep my mind on the silly chatter, I keep thinking about what Siepie has asked me to do.

  How can I do what she asks and avoid being seen as a collaborator and a traitor? Everyone knows me in this village. If I go out for a walk with a German soldier I doubt very much it will stay a secret.

  “Sorry, no more bread today,” Jacob, the baker’s apprentice, announces. I’m sure they probably didn’t have any to begin with, but I say nothing.

  “It was worth a try,” Siepie says, and sets off down the road toward home again.

  “Wait, what’s your hurry?” I say.

  “It’s cold and I want to get home. Plenty of chores left to do and I don’t have time to play.”

  “Of course,” I say, and rush along with her, wishing I had brought my mittens.

  We walk in silence for a while, then I remember something.

  “Siepie, do you have any scraps of red wool left?”

  “I might, do you have any colors to trade?”

  “I have some blue,” I say, and suddenly I feel like we’re speaking in some sort of secret code.

  “Blue is good, but I was hoping for some green,” Siepie says very seriously. “Bright green.”

  “How about I bring over the blue and take the red, but I’ll look for green?”

  “Good, that way you have a reason to come and see me.”

  “And report,” I say softly.

  “And report,” she repeats, adding: “Be very careful and don’t go too far. I doubt it will be worth it.”

  I nod.

  We say goodbye and agree I’ll come over later with my blue wool.

  Inside it’s only slightly warmer than outside, but at least there’s no wind.

  “Fräulien Maggie!” I hear the cheerful voice of Johann coming from the top of the stairs. “You have come back. I have bread for you,” he says, descending the stairs two steps at a time.

  I want to say something unkind and cutting, but I remember I promised Siepie I would be nice, to get information.

  “Oh, how kind of you,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “It was nothing, we have extra. Here.” He holds out a beautiful golden brown loaf. The almost intoxicating scent makes me forget for a moment who he is and a big smile spreads across my face. But then I catch myself again; I’m only playing a part here.

  “Danke,” I say, knowing a word or two in his language will please him enormously.

  “Ah!” he says, and starts rattling off in rapid German. I catch some of it but shake my head and shrug my shoulders as I take the bread into the kitchen.

  Much as I want to cut a slice I find I cannot, as if somehow the bread is poison. And that after I longed for it so much.

  “I see you later?” Johann sticks his head around the door, indicating he’s about to leave for more training at the camp.

  I nod and continue to stare at the beautiful loaf of bread. How will I explain this to my father? I didn’t even ask for the bread, not really. Now I suppose Johann will bring bread all the time. What will the neighbors think if they see us accepting gifts of food from the enemy?

  “What’s wrong with you?” Betty comes in from the garden. Before taking off her coat she pulls a bowl down from the shelf over the stove and places four eggs into it.

  “Good hunting for you, I see,” I say.

  “I had to really plead with Mr. Dijkstra. I even gave him a little kiss…on the cheek.” She looks at me from under her lashes to catch my reaction. “He said I was his favorite neighbor and if I come over early every morning he’ll give me eggs every day. Isn’t that wonderful?” she cries triumphantly.

  “That’s probably not all he’ll give you,” I say snidely. Mr. Dijkstra has a reputation for liking young women, and of inappropriate behavior toward them.

  Maybe that’s why my mother sent Betty, she is older after all and should be able to take care of herself, though I doubt she’s ever been properly kissed by a boy.

  “Where did you get that?” Betty’s eyes widen when she sees the bread on the counter. “What did you have to do to get that?” Her voice is thick with unspoken accusations.

  “Nothing,” I say, feeling guilty despite myself. “Not even a kiss. One of our lodgers decided to share the riches of their table with us.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and glare at my sister in defiance.

  For a moment our eyes are locked in a standoff, but before she can jump to conclusions and start an argument I turn and leave the kitchen, knowing full well that will infuriate her.

  I find my father at the dining table reading the paper. At least, pretending to read the paper. His jaw is clenched in frustration and he drums his fingers impatiently on the table. I assume my mother is out shopping since her grocery basket was not in the kitchen. She goes every day in the hope of finding something other than half-empty shelves at the shops.

  Reluctantly I sit down across from my father. I’m sure he must have heard my conversation with Johann and probably also the one with Betty.

  “Papa?”

  He waits a long time before lifting his eyes off the page and when he does I see sadness and worry.

  “It’s just a loaf of bread, Papa.” I try to keep the note of pleading out of my voice, but I can’t. “I didn’t ask for him to bring it. Honestly, I didn’t.” I hate sounding like a little kid.

  “Maggie,” he sighs. “You don’t understand the ways of the world. Today he gives you bread, and maybe tomorrow he gives you bread, but the day after that he’ll expect something in return.”

  “I have nothing to give,” I say naively.

  “Oh, if only that were true.” He reaches for my hand and holds it tightly. “If only that were true.”

  “Anything good in the newspaper?” I say, trying to change the subject.

  “Maggie, you must understand how serious this is, and you must be very careful not to offer that soldier any encouragement. None at all. You must promise me, you understand that?”

  “I do, Papa. I understand.” This is going to be more difficult than I had imagined. How am I going to get information out of Johann if I can’t give him a little encouragement? I know how little some boys need to tell a girl everything, but will Johann be that easy?

  Betty comes into the room and takes in the scene.

  “How come you don’t tell me those things? Don’t you care about me?” Her shrill voice accuses my father. “I am the eldest daughter and I am in just as much danger as she is.” She points her finger at me as if there is any doubt who she’s talking about.

  “Betty, I was going to talk to you too. Of course I was.” My father tries to soo
the her, but I suspect she’ll have none of it. She’ll wallow in her righteous indignation for hours. “Betty, I only talked to Maggie first because she came into the room first.” My father looks at me for help, but I can think of none to give.

  “You’re sure that’s the only reason?” Betty is not convinced.

  “Yes, it is the only reason. I promise.”

  “Very well,” she says, and sits down by the window with a haughty dignity and picks up her knitting.

  I can almost hear my father’s thoughts; he’s worried about me and afraid I’ll do something stupid or impulsive. I wish I could reassure him, but I know whatever I say now will only make him worry more. He knows me too well. Just like Theo does.

  What would Theo have done if he knew Johann had given me a loaf of bread? I’d like to think he might have told Johann to take it back, and he might even have given him a black eye for his impertinence toward his sister. But of course I know he couldn’t do that, not now; he would get arrested and locked up for the rest of the war. He’d disappear just like Hendrik. And not for the first time I wonder what might have happened to Hendrik.

  To distract myself from these thoughts I rummage through my knitting basket for that bit of blue wool I promised Siepie. Holding it in my hand reminds me of little Irma, and thoughts of her safety crowd out all others. Did she make it to England? Is she with her mother now?

  “Here,” my mother says, coming into the room and startling me. “If you want to make yourself useful you can unravel this jumper.” And she drops an old green jumper in my lap. I recognize it as one my grandmother made for me almost five years ago, before I filled out. It has a few small moth holes, but should yield enough yarn for mittens and socks. I might even be able to trade some of it with Siepie.

  “The bakery had bread?” I hear my mother’s surprised voice from the kitchen.

  I look at my father and he says what I don’t want to hear: “Better tell her the truth. She’ll find out anyway. You know she will.”

  With a sigh I set my basket down and shuffle into the kitchen to explain.