by Irma Joubert
She clung to Jakób’s hand. Then she looked at her father.
His blue eyes looked back at her. She waited.
“Jakób and I had a long conversation today,” he said calmly. “I would have preferred a different partner for you, someone . . . of your own faith . . .” He thought for a moment. “But it didn’t work out that way. I understand how you feel. I believe you’ve had enough time to reflect during the past months.”
He looked at his wife, took her hand. “Grietjie,” he said, “I want you to be happy, truly happy.”
She nodded. She couldn’t speak.
Her father turned to Jakób. “My wish for Grietjie is to know the happiness her mother and I have been blessed with,” he said.
Jakób nodded. “I pray that we will have it too,” he said seriously.
Her father looked at her. “Grietjie?”
“Jakób makes me happy, Daddy. He always has. And . . . you’re right, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect during the past year. I’m certain that I want to be with him, always.”
Her father got up and offered Jakób his hand across the table.
Jakób got up and shook his hand.
“Look after my little lamb,” her father said hoarsely.
“I will, Bernard,” said Jakób. “I’ll guard her with my life.”
Her father was still looking at Jakób. He hadn’t let go of his hand. “And from now on,” he said, “you’re part of this family. We’re leaving the past behind us.”
“Thank you, Bernard,” said Jakób. “It would be an honor for me to be part of your family.”
Her father turned to her with a slight smile.
“Daddy?” she said. Her voice was small.
He held out his arms and she went to him. He held her close. He didn’t speak. After a while he reached out with one arm and her mother joined the small, strong circle.
She turned her head and looked at Jakób across the table. His black eyes held her gaze. He was waiting for her. She smiled broadly. He opened his arms wide.
Gently she extricated herself from her father’s embrace and stepped into Jakób’s arms.
That year they celebrated Christmas at the farm as usual, except that she was sitting next to Jakób now instead of her father.
Late Christmas Eve she and Jakób stepped out on the veranda. “Let’s walk to the stream,” she said.
He laced his fingers through hers as they walked along the sandy path. Her hand lay securely in his. Around them the veld was asleep. “When I was a child, I always thought this must be what the open fields of Bethlehem had looked like when the shepherds heard the angels sing and the Drei Heilige Könige saw the star,” she said.
The moon was full, bathing the path and the grass and the yellow blossoms of the thorn trees in its soft light. “The moon has come a long way since earlier this evening,” said Jakób.
“In Poland the fields are covered with snow now. The moon over there is silver, not gold,” she said.
“And the people are on their way to midnight mass,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “the cathedral will be full of candles, the organ will be playing beautiful music.” She stopped and turned to him. “We can go to midnight mass at Christmas sometimes, if you want to, Jakób.”
He smiled at her. “A white Christmas belongs to Poland, Grietjie,” he said. “I think we’ll always come to the farm—that’s how one should celebrate Christmas in this southern land.”
Under the big bushy willow they paused. The moon shone up at them from the water.
“I’m so glad you’re here with me, Jakób,” she said. “I’ve missed you for so long.”
“Grietjie.” He put his arms around her, pressed her head to his chest, stroked her hair. “I love you.”
When they came back later, Grandpa John was sitting on the veranda of the old homestead.
“I’ve always gone to Grandpa John on Christmas Eve,” she told Jakób, “ever since my first Christmas here.”
“Then you should go to him now,” said Jakób.
“Come with me,” she said.
They walked along the concrete path and up the steps. Jakób sat down on the top step and leaned his back against a pillar while she knelt beside her grandpa.
Grandpa John put his arm around her shoulders.
“Are you very sad tonight?” she asked, stroking his gray hair.
“Not really, Grietjie, not really,” the old man said slowly. “All my memories are happy ones tonight. I had a love of my own.”
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
The bubbles clung to the glass for as long as they could. Then they let go, rose to the surface, and burst. The soft candlelight flickered on the crystal glasses and the snow-white linen. If she turned her hand slightly, the candlelight struck brilliant sparks from the big diamond on her finger.
She looked up. Outside a full moon was shining over the bare veld. The plains of the Free State were bathed in gold. The wheels went clickety-clack on the tracks.
The train gave a long whistle. She turned her head and looked into his dark eyes.
“I can’t believe we’re honeymooning on a train!”
“Not just any old train, I’ll have you know, Mrs. Kowalski,” Jakób said reprovingly, his black eyes twinkling. “The world-renowned Blue Train!”
Grietjie threw back her head and laughed. “It sounds marvellous—Mrs. Grietjie Kowalski. I’ve had a number of names: Gretl Schmidt, Gretz Kowalski, Grietjie Neethling. But this is the best one by far—Grietjie Kowalski. Let’s have another glass of champagne, Jakób.”
“Oh no,” he said, drawing her to him. “The champagne is on ice. It can wait until later. Much later.”
As they stood looking through the train window at the Du Toits Kloof Mountains the next morning, Grietjie asked, “When will we get there?”
“We’ll be in Cape Town just after twelve,” Jakób replied. He cradled her face in his hands, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “But you and me, Gretchen, we reached our destination yesterday.”
She looked up into his dark eyes. “Yes, Jakób Kowalski, we did. And it has made our journey worthwhile.” She took a deep breath and said, “Our long, long journey.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If I have talent, it’s by God’s grace—my thanks go to my Heavenly Father.
Thank you to the following people: my cousin Jackie Grobler and my son Jan-Jan for managing to find unobtainable books; my brother Johan Moerdyk for his knowledge of the armament and battle strategies of World War II; Jan-Jan for touring through Eastern Europe and braving Auschwitz with me; my friend Werner Schellack (Van der Merwe) for his wonderful book on the German orphans; Elize, Helene, Madeleine, and Jan-Jan for polishing my manuscript.
A special thanks to my family and my Meintjes friends, who put up with my writing, even during our vacation, and to my mother, Alida Moerdyk, who, ever since my childhood, has made me believe that I can write. And a big thank-you to my husband, Jan, who supports and encourages me. And loves me.
SOURCES
Bethell, Nicholas. Gomulka, His Poland and His Communism. Longmans, 1969.
Bór-Komorowski, General. The Secret Army. (This book was apparently published in 1945 and is out of print. The writer used photocopies of the relevant parts sent to her from Poland. Attempts to trace the publisher and date of publication have been unsuccessful. The material provides inside information about the Polish resistance movement.)
Dziewanowski, D. K. Poland in the Twentieth Century. Columbia University Press, 1977.
; Karski, Jan. Story of a Secret State. Simon Publications, 2001.
Mikolajczyk, Stanislaw. The Rape of Poland: Pattern of Soviet Aggression. Whittlesey House, McGraw-Hill Book Company. (The page showing the publication date had been removed.)
Syrop, Konrad. Spring in October: The Story of the Polish Revolution, 1956. Frederick A. Praeger Publishers, New York, 1957.
Van der Merwe, Werner. Vir ’n “Blanke Volk”: Die verhaal van die Duitse weeskinders van 1948. Perskor, 1988.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
International bestselling author Irma Joubert lives and works in South Africa and writes in her native Afrikaans. A teacher for thirty-five years, Irma began to write after her retirement. She is the author of eight novels and is a regular fixture on bestseller lists in both South Africa and The Netherlands. Irma and her husband Jan have been married for forty-five years, and they have three sons and a daughter, two daughters-in-law, a son-in-law, and three grandchildren. The Girl from the Train is her first novel to be translated into English.