Tales from the Fountain Pen

by E. Lynn Hooghiemstra

  “She thought you and one of the soldiers were up to something,” he explains, when my mother leaves to call Betty down for tea. Then he stands up and goes to hang his coat and hat on the rack by the front door.

  “Mmm…real tea, it never tasted this good ever before,” I say, after taking my first sip.

  “It does a person good,” my mother says, sitting down with a contented sigh.

  Betty pulls up a chair and quietly sips her tea, no longer quite so irritated. Of course I know that won’t last, but for the moment everything feels close to perfect. Even the many aches in my body seem diminished.

  It feels like a contented family evening and I feel comfortable lifting the pen from the paper for a while. My mother’s safe and her reputation is intact. I finally feel I can release the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders and massage my hand, which nearly cramped up because of the speed with which the pen pushed me across the pages. I too shall enjoy a cup of hot tea.

  Once refreshed and relaxed I put the pen to paper again. Time has passed and it appears to be morning, perhaps mid-morning of what I assume is the next day.

  I find myself moving slowly with stiff muscles from the dining table to my father’s easy chair. All my scrapes have crusted over and last night I noticed a fair number of bruises, but at least nothing’s broken and I know I will heal quickly.

  My mother is just finishing up the breakfast dishes and Betty is at Mr. Dijkstra’s to see if he’ll give her any eggs. It seems unlikely since he only has two chickens left. The other four were taken by the Germans. At least I have some peace and quiet for a little while.

  Unfortunately my peace is very short-lived. I hear the bang of the back door being closed in anger and my sister’s heavy tread as she stomps her feet. Her shrill voice rings through the house.

  “How could he?” she cries. “After all those kisses I gave him he goes and gives my eggs to Janet across the way from him. He doesn’t even like her, he told me so. I’m his favorite, not that woman.”

  How my mother can ignore her screeching I don’t know. If I weren’t stuck in this chair I would probably be in the kitchen taunting Betty. I’m not proud of that thought, but I do know my sister and she’s done so many mean things to me over the years that I can’t help wanting to retaliate from time to time.

  My mother comes into the front room, obviously ignoring Betty, and dries her hands on her apron before sitting down in her chair across from me. She continues to pull out an old sweater and I watch her expertly wind the yarn into a ball. There won’t be enough for a new sweater for any of us, but perhaps a vest.

  “Oh, and you’ll love this bit of news,” Betty says with glee when she comes into the room. “Dijkstra told me that Maggie actually encouraged that German soldier, that she’s been having a secret affair with him.” She crosses her arms and glares at me triumphantly.

  “What?” I exclaim, and quickly glance at my mother to see how she reacts.

  “Betty, go to your room at once!” she says firmly. “I will not have you spouting Mr. Dijkstra’s lies in this house. The man is a nasty human being, but there’s a war on and his eggs have been a godsend, but if he’s spreading vicious lies about your sister then we shall simply do without.” Betty stares open-mouthed at my mother, who so seldom comes to my rescue. “To your room. NOW!” My mother points to the door and Betty, with one final indignant “Huff,” stomps out and up the stairs. I hear her slam her door shut.

  As if nothing has happened my mother smoothly picks up her work and continues unraveling and rolling.

  “You don’t think others will believe Mr. Dijkstra, do you?” I ask, carefully.

  “If they do, they are idiots. Everyone knows Dijkstra’s character and they should also know you are a good girl. Not someone who would go around kissing enemy soldiers,” she pronounces with utter certainty.

  I hope she’s right. Who knows what to believe anymore. I overheard someone just yesterday saying that the soldiers were going back to Germany for a last stand against the Allied Forces, while others know absolutely for sure that the Germans are off to invade England and that we would do well to learn German.

  Right now I just hope nobody else will think that Mr. Dijkstra knows the truth about me. He can’t possibly—that one time in the hallway upstairs was totally private. Unless, of course, Johann bragged about it. But why would he brag to Dijkstra?

  Unless…Mr. Dijkstra is a collaborator and that’s why he was allowed to keep his two chickens when some of our neighbors had all their chickens taken.

  Could that be it?

  I resolve to ask Siepie when I see her next, because if Dijkstra is in league with the enemy, then she might know about it.

  I almost ask my mother if she thinks Dijkstra is a collaborator, but I don’t. I know how much she hates collaborators and I don’t feel like listening to one of her longwinded speeches about it.

  The front doorbell rings. It startles me and I almost jump up when the sharp pain in my ankle reminds me not to.

  “I’ll get it,” my mother says. “It’s probably Siepie come to see how you are doing.”

  She’s right. I can hear Siepie’s voice in the hallway. She comes in without my mother and pulls up a chair close to me.

  “Your mother’s very nice today,” she says, with some surprise. “She’s making us some tea.”

  I nod. “Real tea at that,” I say. “She’s happy that I’m not a collaborator. She thought there was something going on between Johann and me,” I explain quickly.

  “Oh.” Siepie’s eyes widen. “Most everyone in the village believes you are innocent after that incident yesterday, but there are some who think you encouraged that soldier.”

  “Mr. Dijkstra!” I say, and ball my hands into fists.

  “What?” Siepie asks.

  “Dijkstra, dirty Dijkstra,” I say, and quickly explain what Betty told me.

  “He gave eggs to Betty? I’d be more worried about her being branded a traitor than you.”

  “Why?” I sit up and lean close. We speak in hurried and hushed tones.

  “Some of us know for a fact that he works with the Gestapo and was responsible for the disappearance of the Marx family. They refused to wear the yellow Star of David and did everything they could to stay out of the Germans sight. We…I mean, I heard, the Resistance were going to get them to England and then on to America where the Marxes have family.”

  “What happened?” I ask. I recalled the Marx family. They were nice people, with two little kids. The father was a very good carpenter and made furniture for several shops. Theo was going to begin an apprenticeship with him.

  “The Gestapo got to them first. Nobody knows where they are now. Hendrik saw them being removed from their house in the middle of the night and told me he heard Dijkstra jeering at the poor family.” Siepie’s eyes briefly well up, but she blinks away her tears and sets her face with a look of determination. “The little kids were so scared as they clung to their parents.”

  “That’s horrible,” I say. And I feel bad that this is the first I’ve heard of it, since it obviously happened months ago.

  “Yes, it is.” Siepie stares straight ahead, her jaw clenched.

  “Are all the soldiers gone?” I ask. “And what about the Gestapo agents?”

  “What?” Siepie shakes herself and refocuses on me. “Oh, I think they’re all gone, but they’ve left Meiers in charge. That sadistic ultra-nationalist collaborator.”

  I shudder. Meiers used to be a German teacher in the village and he was quite cruel even then. I can only imagine what he’s like now that he has some power. Everyone knew of his National Socialist Bund membership. NSBers were the first to join the Germans after they bombed Rotterdam into submission.

  “Have some tea, girls.” My mother comes in with the tea tray and sets it down on the little table by the window. “Wish I had some cookies to offer you, but I don’t.”

  Siepie smiles and looks at me again. If my mother stays in the r
oom we will have to talk of other things, but what? There are so many things I want to say, about Dijkstra, and Johann and even my sister, but we can’t.

  “Siepie, how are the doctor’s twins?” my mother asks as she pours the tea.

  “Oh, you know, a handful and a half,” Siepie says, and gratefully accepts a steaming cup.

  “Yes, Mrs. de Jong told me they were up a tree the other day, trying to make their escape from you.” She chuckles.

  I look at my friend, who nods her head.

  “They climbed out of the attic window, onto the roof and from there into the oak tree,” Siepie explains. “It’s not the first time that’s happened.”

  “Why do they do it?” I ask. “You can’t be that strict a governess. Are you?”

  Siepie grins. “No, I’m not, but these boys want to join the British fliers. They want to fly de Havilland aeroplanes.”

  “Specifically those?” I ask.

  “Yes. Some relative of theirs in England told them all about the aircraft company he works for and how de Havilland make the best aircraft in the world. Now every time a plane flies over they want to see it. And they want to go to England and fly…and win the war.” She sighs wistfully, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe she would like to as well.

  “Those silly boys,” my mother says. “They’re only five years old, what are they thinking?”

  I don’t say anything, but I suspect a lot of us are thinking the same thing as those two little boys: we want to help out and bring this war to an end.

  “Is your little brother feeling any better?” my mother asks Siepie.

  “A little,” she says.

  “I hope we have a mild winter,” I say. Conversation is stilted.

  “That would be nice,” Siepie agrees.

  We sit in silence, enjoying our tea, each lost in her own thoughts, until Betty comes in.

  “You’re having tea and you didn’t tell me?” Her indignation is palpable and I must admit I feel a little sorry for her.

  “There’s a cup for you here. Let me pour you some.” My mother sounds almost apologetic.

  Betty mumbles something unintelligible and takes the cup. She seems subdued and I wonder if perhaps she realizes what she accused me of and what that would mean to all of us.

  “I had best be going again,” Siepie says, and puts her cup on the tray.

  “Will you come again today?” I ask, hoping she will.

  “I’ll try.” She smiles and nods. “But it might be late, I have some errands to run for my mother.”

  This seems as good a time as any for me to take a break. I notice the pen is almost empty anyway—the ink is flowing slowly and is getting fainter on the paper. I cannot imagine my mother is in much danger at the moment so I shall pick up the thread again later, when Siepie visits her in the evening.

  My shoulders feel stiff from sitting in the same position too long and I imagine I feel pain in my knees and ankle, as if I too have fallen, but I shake off the thought. Surely the pen can’t also make me feel my mother’s physical pain? Can it?

  I dismiss the notion and go to my kitchen to prepare some food and coffee, but a feeling of dread dogs me, like a dark fog rising up behind me. I find myself rushing and I spill hot coffee when I pour it. After I clean it up, I rush back to my desk with the coffee and a small sandwich.

  With shaking hands I pick up the pen and refill it. I’m having trouble working the bladder and soon my fingers are stained with ink.

  This is absurd. Why should I feel this much trepidation? What could be coming that the anticipation fills me with such dread?

  I hold my breath as I let the nib touch the paper, but I quickly let it out when the cold of the room in my mother’s house hits me.

  The coal stove just has a weak flame in it, and even with the door open very little heat spreads from it.

  I’m hungry but I see we’ve just finished our sparse evening meal and my father’s not home. Why not?

  “Can we have some tea?” my sister asks, huddled close to the stove with an extra cardigan pulled tightly around her.

  “No, we should save it. We’ve already had some today,” my mother says tentatively.

  “Couldn’t we use the leaves from this morning again?” I ask. “The tea will be weaker, but it would still be better than nothing.” I know my mother hasn’t cleaned the teapot yet, so the leaves should still be in it. She nods slowly at my suggestion.

  “Very well, it will keep us a little warmer while we wait for your father.” As she gets up to go to the kitchen I hear her talking softly to herself. She’s worried about my father.

  Curfew isn’t for another half hour, so he could still make it home in time. But why is he so late?

  Siepie should come over for a visit soon too. Perhaps she’ll know if anything unusual has happened. I’ve not been outside all day because of my ankle, but I intend to tomorrow.

  I watch the clock and will time to move faster, to a time when I might hear my father’s footsteps on the walk, but it doesn’t work. If anything the minutes seem to drag by slower.

  There are no sounds outside, it’s almost eerily quiet.

  “Here we are,” my mother says, with a forced cheerfulness when she comes in with the tea tray. “We’ll just let it steep longer than normal.”

  “Where’s Papa?” my sister asks. She too is getting worried.

  I can’t tell if I’m shivering from cold or fear.

  The clock chimes eight: curfew! My mother, my sister and I look at one another, but say nothing. Both my mother and Betty look pale, their eyes large and fear-filled in the light of the single oil lamp.

  Then we hear running outside, more than one pair of feet by the sound of it, followed by taunting.

  “Yeah, you’d better run, old man!” a voice calls out. I recognize it as Peter’s voice. We were at school together but I thought he’d gone to Leeuwarden to an apprenticeship somewhere. Why is he chasing my father? “You wouldn’t want to be picked up for breaking curfew. You wouldn’t like what we do to curfew breakers!” His jeering goes on.

  “Peter’s joined with Mr. Meier?” I ask, horrified.

  “Peter Visser?” my mother asks, and looks at Betty as if she should have the answer.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Didn’t you know Peter in school?” my mother asks.

  “Well, yes, but not very well,” she says defensively.

  She’s spared further questioning by the sound of my father’s key in the lock, followed quickly by his slamming the door on any further comments Peter might want to make.

  We listen in silence as the footsteps outside recede. Only when we can’t hear them anymore does my father appear in the doorway to the dining room.

  His face is flushed and glistening with perspiration, his breathing still rapid from running, and I notice some dried blood by his nose.

  “Papa!” I cry, jumping up and going to him, despite my sore ankle. I fling my arms around him and feel his arms around me almost crushing my ribs. My mother stays at the table. I cannot understand why she’s not embracing him too.

  Finally, my father lets me go and goes over to my mother. He kneels beside her chair and removes his hat.

  “Things are getting worse in our village,” he says softly, and takes my mother’s hand. “There was a surprise inspection and Meiers’s men, boys really, got rough with some of the workers. It’s like they were settling old scores.”

  “You got hurt?” my mother asks, and gently places her other hand on the side of his face.

  “I couldn’t let them beat up young Frankie. They were savage in the way they were hurting him.” A shiver runs through my father.

  Frankie is the village simpleton. It’s not his fault, that’s the way he was born, but he has a gentle way about him. Hendrik used to look out for him. Theo did too. Especially when Peter and Jan would pester and bully Frankie. Now who’s left to protect him?

  “Won’t you get into trouble?” my mother says, straig
htening up and removing her hand from his face. It’s not that she doesn’t love him, she’s just scared.

  “Perhaps, but they would have killed him right then and there if I hadn’t stopped them,” my father explains. “Even Meiers was disgusted.”

  I resolve to visit Frankie and his parents the next day to see if they are all right. My father was right to stand up to those bullies, even if it means we might be watched more closely. At least if they’re watching us they won’t be beating Frankie up.

  My mother nods once, and a look of deep sadness spreads across her face.

  “Did you happen to see Siepie?” I ask, remembering that she’d said she would stop by.

  My father looks at me for a moment then sighs before telling me how he saw her being picked up for questioning.

  “She was out late, it was very close to curfew when she was riding her bicycle home. I saw her going as fast as she could, almost as if she were being chased. And then Meiers pulled her over. It was close to their headquarters across from the train station.”

  “Did she come out again?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie,” my father says. “I did not stay to wait for her, I rushed home as fast as I could.” He lowers his eyes.

  Before I can think of anything to say or ask, my mother orders Betty and me up to bed.

  We silently comply, there seems little else to do. Our weak tea’s been drunk, my father’s safely home, for the moment, and God only knows what Siepie must be enduring tonight. I know I will lie awake worrying about my friend, but at least I’ll be warmer in my bed than in the dining room.

  I force the pen up off the page. A deep chill has settled in my body and the room. It’s dark outside as I sit hunched over my desk. I see the occasional car lights casting big shadows on my wall as they drive by. I should get up and draw the curtains, but I find it hard to move. Much as I want to step away from the story and find warmth and comfort in my modern life, so far removed from my mother’s wartime story, I find I cannot.

  These people have become as real to me as my own friends and neighbors. How would my neighbors behave in a similar situation, I wonder? How would I? It’s a test I hope I never have to face.