Thief in the night

Prologue

The gusts of wind from the gathering November storm batter her body. She can barely stand on the slope of the majestic sea wall that seems to taunt the sea, pounding wildly against the basalt, barely ten meters diagonally below her, to the utmost with its unyieldingness. She pulls her coat tighter, but the cold creeps into her body anyway. She feels the mist of the splashing seawater on her face and she sniffs the scent of salt and seaweed. “Come here, if you dare!” the wild waves seem to roar at her. “Come here! Then we’ll catch you after all!”

She doesn’t let herself be intimidated. Not anymore. Not by the water. Not by her haunting ghost of the past, the two wide-open light blue eyes disappearing into the dark depths. Not by her parents, who left their crushingly heavy mark on her life with the bleak memory of their last-born, too often forgetting that they still had another child. Not by any of her other family members, who would rather pretend she doesn’t exist. She’s old enough to finally not care about anything or anyone. Old enough to finally put everything in its place.

She closes her eyes and hears the wind howling, just like then. She was six years old, and the world was a safe place – until that night, 72 years ago.

Looming danger

1

That Saturday morning, a strong north-westerly wind had already been blowing, but everyone in the small village of 400 souls, just a stone’s throw from the sea, was used to it. The fierce winds, sometimes lasting for weeks, even caused the massive poplar trees along the road to the sea to bend south-eastward. As usual, she had put on her shoes when the clock on the fireplace mantel in their simple, cozy workers’ home struck once. Half past eight, she had just learned at school. Time to go. With the wind at her back, the walk to school had been easy. The school was located in the village centre alongside the church, the cemetery, the grocery store and the café, surrounding the square with its linden trees and its bandstand. The hands of the church clock had both pointed to nine. Quarter to nine, she had known, once again growing frustrated with the slow pace of lessons at school. She had arrived early. Against the usual routine, the school door had already been open. Outside stood Mr Van Belzen, one of the school teachers, who sent everyone entering the schoolyard straight inside.

When the church clock had struck eleven, the headmaster had entered the classroom. “Aôlemaêl gauw naê 'uus!” he said at the front of the class. Go home, everybody, quickly! His mouth, usually adorned with a smile, had been reduced to a thin line. Deep wrinkles marked his forehead, and his bushy gray eyebrows had been drawn downward. And he had spoken in their local dialect, something he had never done at school before. This was serious. “We kriege sturm!” A storm is coming!

Along with some other children, she had lingered in the schoolyard a little longer. A few boys had raced each other, stretching their arms wide and using the flaps of their open coats as sails. Some girls had lingered a while, just as she had. Once home, their mothers would immediately put them to work tidying up the house—after all, the next day would be Sunday. But the school teachers had been relentless. “Naê 'uus! Gauw!” Go home! And fast!

Against the strong wind, it had been quite a struggle to move forward. Twice, she had even sought shelter from the wind behind one of the thick poplars along the road before finally reaching the refuge of their home. With difficulty, she had managed to push the door open just a crack and slipped inside, where Mother had already set the table, and little Jakey had been placed in his highchair at the table.

“D’r komt sturm,” a storm is coming, was all Father had said after stepping inside and pulling the door shut—only for the wind to snatch it from his hands—and slam it closed. Immediately, he had slid the bolt shut. After murmuring The Lord’s Prayer at the table, they had eaten their potato-mash with bacon dices in silence. The howling wind around the house had drowned out the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel. Outside, the storm had ripped several flowerpots off the wall, but no one had made any move to check. With the last dice of bacon on her fork, she had scraped her plate clean, savouring the final bite in her mouth before swallowing it. Even little Jakey had eaten his meal without protest.

The silence in the house had been disrupted by a rattling at the door. Villagers were used to simply walking in, but Father had bolted the door. He had stood up, slid back the bolt, and gripped the door with both hands as he cautiously opened it a little.

"Goeiendag," the voice of Wisse, the blacksmith who lived on the outskirts of the village, had sounded. "Eetze." Good day. Enjoy your meal.

“Kom d’r in,” come on in, Father had replied, pulling the door shut again after Wisse had placed his wooden clogs beside the door and entered on his socks. " ôk goeiendag," a good day to you too, he had greeted Mother before continuing.

"The water is at the dike," he had continued to Father. "Martin de Jonge is on his way with a truck full of sandbags. We have to reinforce the dike." Wisse had spoken more than ten words in a row, and the fear had been visible on Mother’s face. It was serious. The water had reached the dike, and it needed to be reinforced with sandbags.

"Prayers first, then I’ll come along," Father had said. Along with Mother, she had followed his example, folding their hands and, at the end of the prayer, murmuring "Amen." Father had skipped the obligatory reading from the Bible. God had needed help at the dike, and Father had left with Wisse into the storm.

2

Despite the strengthening storm, she and Mother had tidied up the house that afternoon as best as they could. After all, the next day would be Sunday. After having washed the dishes, they had scrubbed the kitchen. Mother had removed the ashes from the stove and tossed them out through the only window sheltered from the storm—though the wind had still taken hold of them. The coal dust had resembled a swarm of flying insects before dissolving into the wind. Together, they had prepared fresh sheets for the bedstead of Father and Mother downstairs and for the beds of her and Jakey in the small room upstairs. They had laid out their Sunday clothes to be ready on time for church. Obviously, they had skipped beating the rugs and washing the windows that day.

It had gotten dark early that day in their little house with its small windows. "Let’s turn on the lamp," Mother had said, just after the clock on the mantelpiece had chimed four times. She had thrown some extra coal onto the fire in the stove, yet they had still felt the cold draft from the gusts of wind seeping through the window cracks. "Better put on your thick pullover," Mother had said, while doing the same for Jakey.

As always, Mother had made sure that there was bread on the table precisely at six o’clock that evening. The three of them had eaten their sandwiches. The light from the petroleum lamp above the table had cast eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling. Father’s empty chair and his untouched plate had felt strange. Strange, too, was the fact that Mother had taken the lead of their prayers. And even stranger, almost scary, that she had deviated from the standard Lord’s Prayer. "Lord, protect us from the storm. Please let Father return home safely," she had added to the prayer before concluding with "Amen."

During dinner, Mother had repeatedly glanced at the window. She had followed Mother’s gaze a few times, only to see nothing but pitch-black darkness. It had seemed as if even Jakey had sensed the gravity of the situation. Without protest, he had eaten his sandwich with head cheese.

“Werme klêêre klaer legge!” Lay out warm clothes!" was the first thing Father had said when he arrived home in the pitch-black night, just after the clock had struck eight. "And we’re sleeping upstairs tonight!"

She had helped Mother bring the bedding from the bedstead to the upstairs room. Father had dragged the mattresses up the stairs. In the small attic room, they had pushed her bed and Jakey’s aside and set up a makeshift bed for Father and Mother. Then, she had helped Mother lay out their winter coats, hand-knitted sweaters, work trousers, belts, and each person’s only pair of shoes.

"Clogs will be useless!" Father had said when Mother had carried their wooden clogs upstairs. Then, obviously exhausted from hours of hauling sandbags, he had fallen asleep like a rock. Mother had beckoned her to come back downstairs. With a finger on her lips, she had signalled to stay quiet, so they wouldn’t wake Father and Jakey. Mother had stoked the stove and had set a pot of water to boil. "Let’s prepare enough bread," she had whispered. "You never know."

Then, Mother had taken the bread knife, had cut two whole loaves into slices, and she had helped spread butter on the slices—until they ran out—and then used lard. They had topped them with cheese and pork meat jelly. Mother had wrapped the sandwiches in pieces of newspaper in stacks of four and packed them into the weekend bag.

When the water boiled, Mother had brewed coffee, poured it into their two thermos flasks, added a few scoops of sugar, and had sealed the flasks. "Grab a few cups from the cupboard," she had asked, after which she had packed the thermos flasks and cups into the weekend bag.

Upstairs, Mother had placed the bag on the small table in the corner. "Go to sleep now," she had whispered. "Keep your clothes on."

She had a thousand questions, but she had known that sometimes it was better to stay silent and listen to Mother. She had still heard the howling storm making the wooden beams of the roof creak. Despite the threatening pounding on the roof tiles, she must have quickly fallen asleep.

Thief in the night

 3

"Wakker worre! Opstaê! 't Waêter komt!" She heard Mother scream, felt herself being shaken roughly, but she did not want to leave her warm, peaceful dreamland. But Mother kept shaking and screaming. "Wake up! Get up! The water is coming!"

She opened her eyes and the eerie reality of the night slowly dawned on her. In the ghostly light of the kerosene lamp, she saw the fear of terror in Mother's wide-open eyes. She had never seen Mother like this before. She wanted to cry out of sheer fear, just as Japie had started screaming, but she did not get the chance. "Get dressed, quickly! Your sweater, your coat, your shoes! And put on your beanie!"

Everything happened at lightning speed, like in the film she had seen in the city last summer, a film in which everyone had moved awkwardly quickly and no one had talked. Mother dressed Japie in barely a minute, it seemed, without Japie protesting once, and then hastily pulled on her own thick overcoat. Father, already dressed in his leather jacket, had pushed the table against the wall under the roof window, climbed onto a chair and then onto the table and now, standing on top of the table, was pulling open the window. For a moment she thought it wasn't real, that she was in the middle of a monstrous dream. But then she saw the stairwell, with only two steps above the black water. A gust of wind tore the attic window out of Father's hand and smashed it on the roof, blew out the kerosene lamp and filled the attic room with an icy cold. "A chair!" shouted Father above the howling wind. He took the chair from Mother, placed it on the table and hoisted himself through the window frame, his figure ghostly lit by the full moon that had appeared briefly and then disappeared behind the clouds, leaving her with Mother and Japie in the pitch dark. "Climb up!" Mother commanded. She hesitated, she didn't dare, but Mother's voice brooked no contradiction. She climbed onto the chair, the table, then onto the second chair and felt Father pulling her out by her arms. She kept her eyes tightly shut, felt the icy wind sucking down over the roof, as if it wanted to pull her straight into the water. "Sit there! To the right!" Father shouted above the howling storm. "I've kicked a row of roof tiles to pieces. Put your feet against them. But be careful! Don't fall through!" The moon broke through the clouds again. In the faint glow she saw the fast-flowing black water, from left to right, just under the edge of the roof. She clung to Father with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut. "Try to cooperate a little, girl..." she heard his voice close to her left ear as he lifted her halfway up, so that her shoes could grip the half-broken roof tiles. Step by step she slid to the right, her hands clinging to the sleeves of Father's jacket, until he slowly lowered her. "Hang on girl... I'll help Mother and Japie out!"

When Father crawled back to the opening, leaving her alone on the roof, her tears finally came, but she didn't have much time to cry. Father came back with Japie, who had now started screaming desperately, but his screams were lost in the howling wind. "Go and sit with your sister!" Even Father's voice was almost swallowed up by the tumult of the storm. She threw her left arm around Japie, when Father had lowered him, desperately trying to calm him down. His screams turned into a plaintive wail with long gasps. "Don't want into the water!" he kept repeating between his gasps. "Don't want to get wet! Don't want into the water!"

She pressed Japie a little tighter against her. To their left she saw the silhouette of Father in the dark, who took the bag, then helped Mother onto the roof, supported her on the half-broken roof tiles and helped her to sit down to Japie's left. Finally, Father balanced in front of them and lowered himself onto the roof to her right, the duffel bag tucked under his left arm. To her left, Mother took Japie on her lap and slid close to her.

When the howling of the storm subsided for a moment, she finally dared to open her mouth again, wedged between Father and Mother.

"Father?"

"What's up, my girl?"

"How... how long... how long do we have to stay here?"

"Dâ weet hin maens, misje... dâ weet alleêne Ônze Lieven'eer," he replied after a few seconds of silence, as he laid his rough fist on her right hand. "We kunne mâe beter bidde, dienk j'ôk nie, Moeder?"

Despite the horrific circumstances, Father's honesty gave her a sense of calm. Here, in the hellish storm, in the horror of the freezing night on the roof, surrounded by the monster of the dangerously flowing black mass of water, Father had shown his human side. Never before had she felt so close to Father.

"No-one will know, my girl..." he had said. "Only Our Lord knows. We'd better pray, don't you think, Mother?"

In the faint light of the moon between the clouds she saw Father fold his hands. Mother followed his example, her hands folded around Japie's little fists. She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

"God, our Lord," Father began, his voice strong in the sound of the storm. "In the strength of the storm we seek your protection..."

4

"Watch over us and our loved ones.

Give us courage in the darkness, strength in our uncertainty, and peace in our fear.

Bring us safely through this night and let us welcome the new day in your grace.

Amen."

She opened her eyes, pulled her beanie tighter over her head, and stared ahead at the darkening stream, dimly lit by the pale moonlight through a thin spot in the dark cloud mass. Father's prayer had calmed her. It was all a trial, a tribulation, she understood now. Only yesterday, the teacher had told a story at school about trials. About Joseph, who had been sold as a slave but had become a great man in Egypt. About the people of Moses, who had wandered in the desert for 40 years. About Daniel, who had been thrown into the lions' den but had come out unharmed. "Sometimes we must endure the greatest trials," the teacher had said, "to prove our faith in the Lord." She had told the story just in time. The Lord had taken care of this, of course. One last warning from Him, just before the water came, just as He had given a last warning while Noah was building his ark. God was merciful, and she would not disappoint Him. She looked to her left, at Mother, who was cradling Japie in her arms. Japie's crying had turned into a soft murmur. "Go inside..." she could sometimes just hear. "Wan’ go inside Mommy..." She looked to her right at Father, who looked so tired. For hours he had helped carry sandbags in the storm and the cold. And he had hardly slept. How exhausted must he be?

The teacher had said that people had to be strong in times of need. Tonight, here on the roof in the cold storm, she would be strong. For Father, Mother and Japie. She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and began to sing. " There floats through the heavens a name full of grace," she began, her voice hoarse and faltering in the howling wind. Then she felt Father's arm around her shoulder. She opened her eyes to slits. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Mother pressing Japie against her with her left arm and putting her right arm around her waist. Softly, hesitantly at first, Father and Mother began to sing, until the three of them were singing the chorus at the top of their lungs, above the roar of the storm.

"That joins earth and heaven in one sweet embrace,

Know ye, know ye, whose Name that is?
That Name is my Savior’s, my hope and my bliss.”

5

They had sung hymn after hymn, sitting closely together, to give the biting cold as little chance as possible, but it had become increasingly difficult to think of another gospel song. "Let's eat something," Mother had finally said. "And drink. The coffee is still warm." Mother had handed each Father and her a newspaper wrapped with bread. After her second sandwich, she had wrapped her package again and put it in her coat pocket. Mother had managed to feed Japie a sandwich, after which she had eaten the rest of the package herself. When Mother had poured cups of coffee and handed them to Father and to her, she had barely been able to hold the cup with her cold fingers. The icy wind had cooled the coffee almost intantaneously, but at least they had had something warm. Mother had mixed extra sugar into the last bit of coffee in the thermos and let Japie drink it. Father had spoken the prayer of thanks, and for a moment it seemed as if their joint "Amen" had bluffed the wind. Even Japie's shrill little voice had drowned out the storm for a moment.

It must have been hours ago. Japie had fallen asleep in Mother's arms. With Father and Mother, she took turns sipping from the second thermos of coffee that had now become cold. They tried to sing a song again, but the words would not come. They had huddled together as closely as possible, but the cold still seemed to get a hold of them. Sometimes she felt a shiver running through Father's body. Mother, with Japie pressed close to her, seemed to be less bothered by it. She herself felt how her hands and feet had already grown cold and how the cold was now slowly creeping into her arms and legs.

"Lâete me ma' prebeere, om burte te slâepe," Father roared above the storm, as Mother began to nod beside her. Let's try to take turns sleeping. Of course, Mother had to rest. Imagine if she let go of her arms... Japie... "Give Japie to me, Mother!" Carefully, Father stood up, bent over her and took the sleeping Japie from Mother. He unzipped his jacket halfway, pressed Japie to his chest, zipped his jacket up again and carefully sat down. Mother shifted a little, stuck her feet in the broken roof tiles again and pressed her against her. She closed her eyes. With her head against Mother's shoulder, she heard the storm raging for a moment. Then the world slowly faded away.

6

From the depths of her sleep, she felt herself being shaken. "Wake up, girl..." Mother's voice must have been close to her, but she was still floating in her no-man's land. "Wake up... there's a boat coming!" More shaking. "We're being saved!"

The next thing that penetrated her consciousness was the salty smell of the seawater. Then she felt the bitter cold now deeply entrenched in her, making her teeth chatter together and her hands and feet shiver uncontrollably. She slowly opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to realize where she was. Outside on the roof. The storm. The dark water in the night. The biting cold.

She was sitting close to Mother, who was clutching Japie in her left arm and had her right arm around her. To her right, Father was standing upright on the roof, waving his arms and shouting loudly. "Here! Here! Right in front!"

In the dark, right in front of her, she now saw a rowing boat slowly approaching. Only now did she notice that the wind was not blowing nearly as hard. The water was now flowing into the other direction, from right to left, towards the sea. The men at the oars were clearly struggling to keep the boat in the right direction, rowing diagonally against the current from the side, but they were coming closer.

A wave of happiness and gratitude washed over her. She closed her eyes and folded her cold hands. "Thank you, Lord," she mumbled, her voice shivering uncontrollably from the icy cold that had crept deep into her body. "Thank you, for saving my Father and Mother who are so good to me, for saving my dear little brother, and for your grace for myself. Thank you, Lord!"

It was as if she regained control over her body through her prayer. The shivering subsided, the cold became more bearable. Just a little while longer, and they would climb into the boat. Just a little while longer, and they would be saved from the storm. Saved, as Jesus had saved his disciples from the storm.

She counted four people in the boat, which had now almost reached the roof. Two men were pulling at the oars. There were another man and a woman in the boat. The man had a flashlight in his hand and was pointing the light at the water between the boat and the roof. Then she saw that the woman had a thickly wrapped blanket on her lap. A small child, perhaps still a baby, she thought. The boat came closer and closer, the men still rowing diagonally against the current. The man with the flashlight stood up, a rope in his hand. "Catch it!" he shouted to Father, as he threw the rope in their direction. Father missed, but just in time he was able to prevent the rope from slipping into the water with the heel of his shoe. He quickly bent down, grabbed the end of the rope and pulled with all his force, pulling the rope as far out of the water as he could and then wrapping it a few turns around the chimney to his right. One of the men pulled the front of the boat against the roof, holding the gutter with both hands, which was just sticking out above the water.

"Mother, you first!" she heard Father call to her right, as he held the rope around the chimney in check. "Take the bag! And then take Japie!" Mother crawled with Japie to the gutter, helped her to sit down and handed Japie over to her. "Stay with your sister, Japie! Stay with your sister! Can you do that? You can, can't you? Big boy, Japie! You're a big boy!"

Japie didn't protest as Mother stood up on the very edge of the roof and, helped by two of the men, climbed into the boat. Perhaps the cold had paralyzed him. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps he understood that it would be his turn now. One of the men would lift him into the boat, where he would be safe with Mother.

A sudden gust of wind tugged at the boat. The man had to let go of the gutter and the boat drifted off the roof. "I've got it!" she heard Father shouting to her right behind her, by the chimney. "I've still got the rope! Just row a bit!" One of the men in the boat was already between the oars, ready to get the boat back to the gutter, knowing that they couldn't drift any further. Father had a firm grip on the rope.

"To Mommy!" Suddenly Japie stood up, his full weight on the gutter. " Wan’ go to Mommy!" he screamed, with all the strength she had in his little voice. "Wan’ go to Mommy!"

Then the gutter broke off.

From the boat, Mother's horrible cry sounded through the darkness over the dark water. Japie's right arm still rested on the edge of the roof. She quickly dropped onto her left side and grabbed her little brother's hand. She got it, but Japie slid into the water.

"Hold on!" she heard Father's scooter diagonally behind her. "Hold on, girl! I'm coming!"

Lying on the edge of the roof, her hand in the freezing cold water, she held Japie's hand firmly. Diagonally in front of her she saw the end of the rope disappear into the water. Mother's terrifying screams were already sounding further away. "Hold on!" it sounded again, together with the stumbling over the broken roof tiles. "Hold on, my girl" Mother's shrill cry sounded desperately from the boat, which had audibly drifted further away. "Don't let go!" The biting, paralyzing cold water drained the last bit of strength from her hand. She didn't want to let go, she must not, but her hand no longer obeyed. Diagonally below her, in the faint glow of the flashlight from the boat, she saw her brother's two wide-open, light blue eyes, just below the surface of the water. "Don't let go!" Mother's desperate cry sounded one more time over the water. Then the very last bit of feeling left her hand and she saw her little brother, his eyes still wide open, disappear into the dark depths.

Loneliness

7

That afternoon it was scorching hot. August had had few really warm days, and September didn’t look any better. The farmers had recruited everyone with a healthy pair of hands and feet to bring in the wheat harvest. School had started again, so the mothers could go out into the fields with their children. So could the children from grades five through eight. School ended at three o’clock, so the older children could work in the fields for a few hours, taking the places of the women who were going home to prepare the food.

In the sweltering heat she walked out of the village, the languid air of late afternoon quivering over the fields. In the distance she saw Mother bent over in the field, threshing the ears of corn with a threshing knife. She had to call out twice before Mother noticed her, stood up straight, supporting her back with her hands, and then gestured that she was coming. Mother had grown older, she thought to herself as she came closer. She had lost weight and her back seemed to have become a little crooked. “Come on, let’s go,” was all Mother said. The two of them walked silently along the long road with the crooked poplars back home, the silence now and then only disturbed by the whistling of some meadow birds, or the distant screeching of some seagulls that, high in the sky, were scanning the area for something to eat. Mother is tired, she had thought, the first few times she had picked Mother up from the field. But then she had realized that the silence had a different reason. How different it had been, just a year ago, when she had also walked to the field after school in the afternoon, to meet Mother, and they had also walked back home. The three of them. With Japie by her hand, until he was too tired to walk any further, Mother picked him up and carried him on her back. Japie, who, when Mother worked in the fields, had stayed with Aunt Jona for as long as possible, who lived at the edge of the field, and had always been happy to see Mother and her again. On the way back, the three of them had sung songs, sometimes stopped for a moment at a group of meadow birds, or picked and ate some wild blackberries, after which Mother had wiped Japie's purple mouth and hands.

But when they walked home now, they walked together. She had taken Mother's hand for a moment, but Mother had let go of her hand again a moment later. And so, they walked along the road, together alone, both with their own thoughts and their own sorrow.

8

The memories of that tragic night had tormented her mercilessly. Almost immediately the nightmares had come, which had plagued her from the moment she closed her eyes in the dark at night, until she got up in the early morning, paralyzed by the specters that seemed to get worse and worse, for another day at school, where everyday life had gradually resumed its course, only to come home in the stranglehold of the gloomy gloom. Their house, which they had repaired and cleaned as best they could, but which still clearly bore the traces of the water. The water, which had struck like a thief in the night and had torn their little family to pieces.

Soon she had no longer been able to suppress the horrors and the memories had returned with all their intensity. Japie's little hand that came loose from hers. Her little brother, who dissolved into the deep darkness. "Little girl... nooooo...!" Mother's horrible cry had echoed across the water. The men in the boat, who had only just stopped Mother from jumping into the water. Father, who, barely a few seconds later, had dropped onto the roof next to her and stuck his arm in the water. Lying on the roof, she had turned to him, her stiffened hand still in the icy water, as if she had not dared to pull her arm back, perhaps because, against her better judgment, she had still hoped that her little brother would grab her hand.

"Where... why...," she had heard Father's hoarse voice as he had looked at her. He had not pronounced his question any further, but she had read, in a brief but crystal-clear flash, the question in his eyes. Why did you let go?

The men in the boat had calmed Mother down enough to row back to the edge of the roof, although the sobbing, with screams that went through her marrow, had not stopped. They had lifted her into the boat and Father had been the last to climb down from the roof. It had been one of the few times she had seen Father put his arm around Mother. Father and Mother, seeking comfort in each other. Comfort in each other, but without her. She had no longer felt the bitter cold in her arms and legs. A cold, many times worse, had penetrated her deepest inside. The cold of loneliness.

9

The men had rowed the boat diagonally against the current towards the village. "The inner dike held," one of the men had said. The rowing had been hard. When Father and the other man had taken over the rowing from the other two men, she had sat down next to Mother, whose crying had now turned into a plaintive sob. She had taken Mother's hand, but Mother had not responded. She had just sat there, her sobs sometimes turning into a long, tearful cry: "Japie..."

They had arrived at the village on foot from the inner dike, together with about ten others who had also been rescued by boats. The school had been open. In her own classroom, the desks and chairs had been pushed aside. Camp beds had been ready, but no one had been sleeping anymore. "This is my classroom," she had said to Father and Mother, but they had not responded. A few women had come in with bowls of soup, but Father and Mother had not been hungry. "Eat it, it's good against the cold!" the woman had said to her as she had handed her a cup of soup. She had walked to the back of the classroom, sat down at her own table and slowly started on her soup.

“Are you okay?” the woman with the soup had asked her later, while she had stroked her hair. “Don’t you want to rest?”

‘“I’m not tired,” she had answered. “And I have to wait.”

“What are you waiting for, my girl?”

“For Japie. Japie is gone.”

The woman had sat down on one of the much too small chairs next to her and had taken her hand in hers. She had big hands. The woman was fat, with round, red cheeks and gray-blue eyes. For a moment she was afraid that the chair wouldn’t hold her weight.

“I think… that your little brother is in heaven now,” she had said softly, her voice remarkably light for such a big woman. “Don’t you think yourself that he is safe now, very close to God?”

“But then Father and Mother should be very happy?” she had answered a moment later. “But they are sad. Mother keeps crying. And Father coughs all the time. And then he wipes his eyes with his handkerchief. He doesn’t want to cry, but I can see it.”

“Do you want some more soup?” the woman had asked. “There’s still some left.” She hadn’t waited for her answer, had gotten up and returned a moment later with a cup of soup. “Eat it quickly,” she had said softly. “He’s still a bit warm.”

Eventually her head had become heavy. The woman had taken her by the hand, to one of the camp beds. After she had lain down, the woman had covered her with a blanket that stung and smelled musty, but sleep had come quickly. And with sleep, the first nightmare.

Disillusion

10

The wheat harvest was in. The village had returned to normality early this year. Too early. September and October should have been marked by the potato harvest, but the potato fields outside the village had been on the wrong side of the inner dike. The salty seawater had struck mercilessly and the land might well be unusable for years. It was the wrong kind of silence, which hung over the village like a grey veil. A veil of gloom.

Many men had left the village. To Brabant, where farm labourers were still needed. To Rotterdam, to work in the harbours. There were even some who had left for far-off foreign countries.

Sometimes village life would flourish for a moment, when a letter arrived, from America, Canada or Australia, which would then be known throughout the village a few hours later. A letter was a rarity and the proud recipients were only too happy to tell about the successes of their children or their brothers and sisters in the faraway country. Often the letters were even read out in the village grocery store and without exception the vicar would dwell on their overseas fellow villagers in his Sunday sermon. These were the rare highlights in the village, where the gloom about the failed harvest alternated with the fear of the coming autumn and winter. Only six months ago the sea had shown its teeth. The dikes were to be reinforced. After the queen herself had visited the endless gloomy mud pools, the high-ranking gentlemen in The Hague had promised that the dikes would be reinforced, the teacher had told her at school. But yes, that would take time. Ten years. Twenty, perhaps, Father had said mockingly, almost shouting, as he had been doing more and more often lately. And who knows, maybe even longer. But such a disaster as last February only happened once every few hundred years, the gentlemen from The Hague had added soothingly. In the polders they knew better, but what could they do?

Father was often away from home for weeks. Then he had work in Brabant, in textiles. Occasionally closer to home, in construction. And sometimes even Mother didn't know, just as she often didn't know, when he would come home again. And then suddenly he was there again. In the beginning he had brought a lot of money with him, but that seemed to be getting less and less. And he often had strange breath when he came home. When she lay alone in the attic room at night, she often heard loud voices. Sometimes she heard Mother sobbing. And sometimes Father was suddenly gone again.

One evening she had overheard their conversation from the attic. Father had talked about emigrating. Emigrating. Moving to another country, she had learned at school. America, Canada, Australia. Or South Africa. Father had talked about America, where a large group of Dutch people lived, including people from Zeeland. They simply spoke their own language, grew their own food, even had their own church. And there was plenty of work. And our little one could simply go to a Dutch school, learn to speak high-Dutch and, who knows, maybe even English. When she would be old enough, she could marry a hard-working farmer or, who knows, maybe a rich American.

Mother had started to cry. She didn't want to. They couldn't leave our Japie, could they? Japie, who had never been found, but for whom a memorial had been built at the cemetery. For Japie and for four others who had never been found.

When she got up the next morning, Father had already left. To Rotterdam, Mother had said. To work in the harbours. He would be home again for Christmas.

11

From her seat in the pew, with Mother to her left and Father next to Mother near the aisle, she watched the church slowly fill up. Usually there were still a few empty seats at the back, but today the church would be packed, just like last year. No one would be absent for Christmas.

***

A few days before Christmas, Father had come home late in the afternoon. He had brought a heavy suitcase with him, full of food she had never seen or tasted before, and warm clothes for the winter. And a bag of garlands and balls to hang on a Christmas tree. He had placed a heavy leather wallet on the table and urged Mother to pick it up. After Mother had opened it, she had put her hand over her mouth and looked alternately at Father and the wallet. Then she had burst into tears and had thrown her arms around Father's neck. She had not remembered ever seeing this. "Easy, Mientje, take it easy, dear." Never before had she heard him call Mother by her name. Mother had lit the lamp and it seemed as if the light filled the room with a wave of warm happiness, which they had been missing for so long. Despite Mother's protests, Father had gone out that same afternoon in the twillight. After an hour he had returned with a Christmas tree. In the meantime, Mother had made a stew of stewed pears and a tender piece of meat from Father's suitcase. After they had feasted on the feast, Father had nailed two planks crosswise to the bottom of the Christmas tree and placed it on a little wooden box in the corner of the room. The three of them had hung the garlands and the balls on the tree. Mother had stoked up the stove a bit, melted a few candles on tea saucers and lit them on the table. Then she had broken off a piece of Father's chocolate and made her a cup of hot chocolate. Father reached into his suitcase again and handed a packet to Mother. A moment later the aroma of freshly brewed coffee had filled the room. The three of them had sat at the table. She had enjoyed a piece of Father's chocolate, which Mother had broken off for her. When the chocolate milk and coffee were finished, they had sung. Glory to God. In the middle of the winter night. Come together. During 'Silent Night', Mother had tears in her eyes. Father had taken her hand. "It's okay," she had said after the song. "Today we celebrate."

***

She dug a little deeper into her coat and pulled her hands back into her sleeves. Mother had wrapped a bedspread around both their knees to prevent the cold from getting into their legs. The Christmas service would easily last an hour and a half. She looked around, saw some of her classmates sitting here and there, with their families. Rosalie, who she sat next to at school and with whom she often swapped a sandwich during the break at half past ten. A sandwich with head meat for one with cheese. Or for candy, but Mother was not allowed to know that. Veerle, who was often bullied because she wore glasses, but who was the best student in the class. Better than her, but she wasn't jealous. Veerle would later work in an office. Or maybe in a hospital as a doctor. That’s what she wished, too. She actually wanted to be friends with her, but Veerle always had to go straight home after school and never wanted anyone to go with her. Machiel sat diagonally in front of her, but he couldn't sit still. When he turned around, he greeted her loudly and got a box on the ears from his father. Further away, on the other side of the aisle, Aunt Jona sat with Liesbeth. She had once asked Mother why Aunt Jona didn't have a husband. Mother hadn't wanted to talk about her sister any more. She had just left it at that. Aunt Jona had definitely had a husband in the past. She had to, otherwise Liesbeth would never have been born, right? Aunt Jona was a wonderful woman. Her husband had definitely died, and yet she was almost always cheerful. It was strange, though, that no one ever sat next to her and Liesbeth in church.

The vicar welcomed everyone and opened the service. It became dead quiet in the church. After the prayer, he read the Gospel of Luke. She didn't understand some of the words, but the previous week the teacher had told the Christmas story at school. They had even rehearsed a play and recited it for the fathers and mothers. She had played Mary. Machiel had been Joseph, but he had lost his lines. Fortunately, the teacher had helped him a little. Mother and Aunt Jona had come to watch. The next day, Father had come home.

After the Gospel, the vicar began his Christmas sermon. This would take quite a long time, she knew, but the vicar could tell wonderful stories. And then they would sing together. After the prayer, they would go home for lunch. Aunt Jona and Liesbeth would also come along. Father had brought enough for a real Christmas meal, she had heard Mother say to Aunt Jona.

The vicar told the story of Joseph and Mary's struggle to find a safe place to spend the night. After being sent from pillar to post, they had finally found shelter in a stable, among the cattle. That night, Jesus had been born there. Hadn't that night been the sign for all people? God had let His Son be born in all simplicity and poverty, to redeem people from their sins and their pain. To give them hope in dark times. The dark times that the village had also known, this year. The sea had struck mercilessly. The damage had been great. Destroyed houses. Failed potato harvests. The water had taken twelve lives. Five had never been found again. But God had been merciful. He had spared the inner dike on the edge of the village, as He had spared all the others in the village. Most of the unemployed men had found other work. Far away, often, but still well paid. One day life in the village would be as it had been before. The memory of that terrible night would, by God's grace, fade away.

A soft sob broke the silence in the church. Diagonally to the left in front of her she saw Aunt Truida, the baker's wife, with her handkerchief over her eyes, her shoulders shaking softly. Her son Rinus, a tough soldier, had been home that night. He had gone out with two friends in a rowing boat. They had been able to save two families from the roof of their houses, and a few dike workers, who had climbed onto the refuge hill in the polder. At the beginning of the morning, it was still pitch dark, he had sailed out one more time. All by himself. His friends had been exhausted. No one had ever seen him again. The ebbing tide must have pulled him out into the wide sea, Mother had heard later from the milkman.

Next to her she saw that Mother had also grabbed her handkerchief. She sobbed softly, without making a sound. Father sat near the aisle, his jaw clenched, his calloused hands clenched into fists, as he always did when he was angry. Father was angry. Angry at the vicar. And maybe even angry at God. She understood Father very well. How many times had she felt anger herself in the past year? Anger that her little brother had been swept away by the icy water, when their rescue was so close. Anger that He had not wanted to give her a few moments of extra strength. Anger that had often given way to guilt, only to come back all the harder. Anger that, at this moment, as the vicar struggled to stay above the increasing sobs and the increasing murmur, was rising more fiercely than ever before.

She looked to her left one more time, at Mother, whose tears were now streaming down her cheeks, and at Father, who was hiding his grief behind his anger. This had to stop. The pastor had to stop. Then she stood up.

12

They sat around the table, defeated. Mother to her left, then Father, next to her Aunt Jona, and finally, to her right, Liesbeth. Mother had lit the lamp, but the light could not dispel the gloomy darkness in the house. In silence they ate the beef stew prepared by Mother, which should have been a real Christmas meal, but no one seemed to have much of an appetite.

***

“It’s not fair!” she had screamed after she had stood up in church. “It’s mean! It’s so terribly mean!” The vicar had stopped his sermon and looked straight at her. She had seen that first flash in his eyes very well. “Shut up and sit down, you rotten child!” that flash had said, before he had finally managed to get his face into a pitying fold. She had heard the echo of her own voice resounding through the church and slowly dying away. Then it had become deathly quiet. From all sides she had seen pairs of eyes staring at her in the deathly silence. Most of them had been punitive. Some had been insipid. A few had been compassionate. Then she had burst into tears.

“We’re going home!” Father had hissed to the right, as he stood up. After Mother, she had walked down the aisle, towards the back exit. “Aren’t you ashamed?” Father had hissed at her, giving her a good slap on the ears that echoed in the silence of the church. The three of them had walked to the exit, followed by Aunt Jona and Liesbeth. When they were outside, she heard the vicar had proceeded, but she had not been able to hear his words.

In silence, against the bitter wind, they had walked the road from the village to their house. When after ten minutes she still hadn’t been able to hold back her tears, Aunt Jona had walked up beside her and put her arm around her. “Let go!” Mother had barked at her. “What on earth the vicar must be thinking?” The words had hit her like a hammer blow. Young as she was, she had learned a wise lesson about what really mattered in the narrow-mindedness of the land where the sea ruled. But Aunt Jona had not let go.

***

When it was clear that no one was really hungry anymore, Mother cleared the plates in silence, helped by Aunt Jona. After they were both back at the table, Father began the prayer of thanksgiving uninspired. Then he put the Bible on the table and opened the brass clasp. After browsing for a while, he apparently found what he was looking for. “Never forget this!” he commanded her, emphasizing each word with his crooked index finger, before he began to read: “Leaders who do their job well deserve double honour, especially those who take on preaching and teaching.”

“Follow righteousness, love, gentleness,” Aunt Jonah added in a soft voice. “Same chapter,” she added, when Father and Mother looked at her with a withering look. “1 Timothy.”

“Een schande voe’t êale durp! Dat is-se!” Father closed the discussion briefly. Father’s language was clear. She was a disgrace to the whole village and he avoided entering into the clash of arms with Bible texts as weapons. He had once thrown in Mother’s face that her sister was a woman of the devil. It had been the only time she had ever seen Mother angry with Father.

A disgrace to the whole village. With that, all was said. The heavy-weighted silence and the dark weather seemed to suck all the life out of the room. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece seemed to accentuate the gloom even further. Every now and then a gust of wind howled around the house, as if even the wind wanted to keep the memory of that night, almost a year ago, alive.

“She better come with me for a while,” Aunt Jona finally broke the icy silence. “In the winter, it’s also closer to school,” she continued. “And Lies will have some company too.”

Father sat staring out the window, his jaws set tightly. Mother looked at her, but quickly turned her gaze away when she looked back. Maybe she didn’t think it was such a bad idea after all. Aunt Jona had just offered to take her in for a while. And yes, in the winter it was also closer to school. And she got along well with Liesbeth.

“I’ll pack her bag,” Mother answered after a long, painful silence, as she got up and climbed the stairs. She heard Mother pacing back and forth on the wooden floor above, and a few times the creaking of a cupboard door and the sliding of a drawer.

“You better go,” Mother said softly to Aunt Jona, as she walked down the last few steps of the stairs and put the packed bag on the floor. “Then you’ll be home before dark.” All three of them put on their winter scarfs and coats. She bent down to pick up her bag, but Aunt Jona was ahead of her and gave her a wink.

“Will you be a decent girl and help Aunt Jona tidy up?” Of course, Mother, being a decent girl and helping with the tidying up was the least that was expected of her. Mother gave her an awkward hug. Father remained sitting stubbornly in his chair by the window, his jaws still tightly set, his gaze looking outside, at the gray sky. Aunt Jona opened the door and they walked outside, into the rising dusk.

Warmth

13

“Come on in, then I’ll light the stove.” Aunt Jona opened the door and turned on the light. After the disaster, everyone in the village had had electric light again for a long time. Liesbeth grabbed the coal scuttle and helped Aunt Jona fill the stove. In the kitchen, Aunt soaked a piece of newspaper in kerosene, stuffed it in the stove, lit a match and closed the stove door. “Ten minutes, then it’ll be nice and warm. Just take off your coat. Would you like a bowl of soup?” The stove began to radiate a comfortable warmth. It wouldn’t take ten minutes. And a bowl of soup would go down well. At home, a few hours ago, she had reluctantly eaten something, but now hunger struck. The three of them heated up the soup and set the table. Aunt cut a few thick slices off a piece of dark brown bread and placed a porcelain bowl of lard on the table, together with a plate of slices of smoked meat.

When the three of them were sitting at the table, she folded her hands and closed her eyes, but neither Aunt nor Liesbeth seemed to make any move to pray. “You may pray for yourself,” she heard Aunt say. “We’ll just wait a minute.” Of course. She had once heard Father mutter that that woman of the devil knew neither God nor commandments and was raising her daughter for the gallows and the wheel. But that was of no importance now. This afternoon Father and Mother had dropped her like a stone in the middle of the church. She had felt the reproach again, but now more strongly than ever before. Japie had been lying in the water and she had let him go. “Little girl... nooooo...!” Mother’s horrible cry had sounded over the water. "Where... why...," Father's voice had sounded, as she had read the question in his eyes. Why did you let go?

A tear rolled from her left eye into her soup. "It’s OK, little girl," Aunt whispered softly, as she dabbed her cheek with her handkerchief and took her hand. "Quiet, love... You can stay here, as long as you want." Aunt was a good woman. She looked up at Liesbeth, who smiled encouragingly at her. She had always wanted an older sister, but a sweet niece might be even nicer. She wiped the last tear from her cheek and enjoyed her soup and her bread with smoked meat.

After eating and clearing the table, Liesbeth unfolded a cardboard plate and put it on the table. Game of the Goose, she knew. She had never played it, but it wasn't difficult. “Why is there a sticker over number 58?” she asked Liesbeth, after the three of them had played a few games, but Aunt answered. “We always hope that death doesn’t exist in our house,” Aunt explained. “But we can always start over. Would you like hot chocolate with a speculaas biscuit?”

She enjoyed her chocolate milk and her speculaas biscuit. The stove and the lamp spread a comforting warmth that she thought she had felt briefly a few days ago, the evening after Father had come home. But the warmth had been fragile, an illusion that had shattered today, in the middle of church. Tonight’s warmth was different. It was real. Aunt had turned on the radio. A woman was singing a song with words she didn’t understand. The cat was sleeping in the old armchair by the window. The flames in the stove seemed to be playing a game with each other. Her cheeks had started to glow and her eyelids were starting to get heavy.

***

She lay deep under the covers in the big bed in the attic room. Liesbeth had put an arm around her. Through the stairwell she felt the last bit of warmth from the stove creeping up. She closed her eyes and wondered whether she should thank God for the safe place she now had with Aunt and Liesbeth. So much was going around in her head. The anger about her missing little brother, which just wouldn't diminish. The vicar, who had preached so strangely today. Father and Mother, who had let her down so hard. A moment later she folded her hands and asked God to be good to Aunt Jona and Liesbeth, just as they had been so good to her. After she had mumbled 'Amen', she slowly slipped away.

The plot has been changed into a short novel. You may expect additional chapters on a weekly basis.