Thief in the night
Prologue
Gusts 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, which pounds wildly against the basalt ten meters below her – relentless, unyielding. She pulls her coat tighter, but the cold seeps in 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 a crushing mark on her life with the bleak memory of their last-born, too often forgetting that they 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, and the world was a safe place – until that night, seventy-two years ago.
Looming danger
1
That Saturday morning, a strong northwesterly 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 southeastward. 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 -all surrounding the square with its linden trees and its bandstand. The church clock hands 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 had 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 other children, she had lingered in the schoolyard a little longer. Some boys had raced each other, stretching their arms wide and using the flaps of their open coats as sails. A few girls had lingered too, just as she had. Once home, their mothers would immediately put them to work tidying up the house—after all, Sunday was coming. 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 reaching the refuge of 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.
“D’r komt sturm,” a storm is coming, was all Father had said after stepping in 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 moved to check. With the last dice of bacon on her fork, she had scraped her plate clean, savouring the final bite before swallowing it. Even little Jakey had eaten without protest.
The silence in the house had been broken by a rattling at the door. Villagers were used to simply walking in, but Father had bolted the door. He had stood, 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 need to reinforce the dike." Wisse had spoken more than ten words in a row, and the fear had been plain on Mother’s face. It was serious.
"Prayers first, then I’ll come along," Father had said. Along with Mother, she had followed his example, folded her hands and, at the end of the prayer, murmured "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 caught 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 so they’d be ready 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 untouched plate had felt strange. Stranger, still, Mother had taken the lead of their prayers. And even stranger, almost scary, 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 duffel 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 duffel 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 had a thousand questions, but she had known that 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 raw 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 Jakey 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 the silent film she had seen in the city last summer, where people had moved unnaturally fast and had said nothing. Mother dressed Jakey in barely a minute, it seemed, without Jakey 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. then she saw the stairwell: two steps above the rising 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 Jakey 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 get Mother and Jakey!"
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 Jakey, 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 Jakey, 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 Jakey 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 Jakey'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 Jakey 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 moonlight filtering through the clouds, she saw Father fold his hands. Mother followed his example, her hands folded around Jakey'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, tugged her beanie tighter, and stared out 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. She understood now – it was all a trial, a tribulation. 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 hardest trials," the teacher had said, "to prove our faith in the Lord." The teacher 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 Jakey in her arms. Jakey's crying had turned into a soft murmur. "Go inside..." she could just make out. "Wan’ go inside Mommy..." She looked to her right, at Father – he looked utterly spent. 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 Jakey. 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 was hoarse and faltering against the howling wind. Then she felt Father's arm around her shoulder. She opened her eyes to slits. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mother pressing Jakey close 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, huddled close to give the biting cold as little chance as possible. But it had become harder and harder to think of another gospel song. "Let's eat something," Mother had finally said. "And drink. The coffee is still warm." She had handed each Father and her a newspaper-wrapped bundle of bread. After her second sandwich, she had rewrapped her parcel and tucked it into her coat pocket. Mother had fed Jakey a sandwich, then had eaten the rest of hers. She had poured coffee in cups and handed them out, but their fingers had been so cold it had barely been possible to hold them. The icy wind had cooled the coffee almost instantaneously, but at least they had had something warm. Mother had sweetened the last bit from the thermos and let Jakey drink. Father had spoken the prayer of thanks, and for a moment their shared "Amen" had seemed to bluff the wind. Even Jakey's shrill little voice had briefly drowned out the storm.
That must have been hours ago.
Jakey now slept in Mother's arms. She, Father and Mother took turns sipping from the second thermos of coffee, now cold. They tried to sing again, but the words would not come. They huddled together as closely as possible, but the cold still took hold of them. She sometimes felt a tremor run through Father's body. Mother, with Jakey pressed close, seemed less affected. But her own hands and feet had gone numb, and she felt the cold slowly creeping up her arms and legs.
"Lâete me ma' prebeere, om burte te slâepe," Father roared over the storm, as Mother began nodding beside her. Let's try to take turns sleeping. Of course Mother needed to rest. Imagine if she let go... Jakey...
"Give Jakey to me, Mother!" Carefully, Father stood up, bent over her and took the sleeping Jakey from her arms. He unzipped his jacket halfway, pressed the little boy to his chest, zipped it up again and carefully sat down. Mother shifted, stuck her feet in the broken roof tiles again and pulled her close. She closed her eyes. With her head against Mother's shoulder, she heard the storm rage… and then the world slowly faded.
6
From the depths of her sleep, she felt herself being shaken. "Wake up, girl..." Mother's voice was close, 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 first thing to break through her haze was the salty smell of seawater. Then came the bitter cold, deep in her body, making her teeth chatter and her limbs tremble 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. The biting cold.
She was pressed close to Mother, who held Jakey in her left arm and had wrapped her right arm around her. To her right, Father stood on the roof, waving and shouting. "Here! Here! Right in front!"
In the dark, a small rowing boat slowly appeared. Only now did she notice that the wind had eased, and the water was flowing the other way, from the right to the left -back toward the sea. The men at the oars struggled to keep the boat steady, rowing diagonally against the current from the side, but they were drawing nearer.
A wave of happiness and gratitude rose inside her. She closed her eyes and folded her freezing hands. "Thank you, Lord," she whispered, her voice shivering from the cold deep in her bones. "Thank you, for saving Father and Mother who are so good to me - for saving my dear little brother, and for your grace on me. Thank you, Lord!"
Her prayer seemed to restore control over her body. The shivering eased. The cold, while still bitter, became bearable. Just a little while longer, and they would climb into the boat. Just a little while longer, and they would be safe. Saved, as Jesus once saved his disciples from the storm.
She counted four people in the boat, which had now almost reached the roof. Two men pulled at the oars; another man and a woman sat near the bow. The man held a flashlight scanning the water between the boat and the roof. Then she saw a thick blanket on the woman’s lap – a baby, perhaps.
The boat neared, the men still rowing diagonally against the current. The man with the flashlight stood, a rope in his hand. "Catch it!" he called to Father, throwing the rope toward him. Father missed, but caught it with the heel of his shoe. He bent quickly, grabbed the rope, and hauled it from the water, wrapping it several times around the chimney to his right. One of the men pulled the boat close to the roof, gripping the gutter with both hands – just above the waterline.
"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 Jakey!" Mother crawled to the gutter, carefully sat down down and passed Jakey to her. "Stay with your sister, Jakey! Stay with your sister! You can do that, can't you? Big boy, Jakey! You're a big boy!"
Jakey didn't protest as Mother stood up on the very edge of the roof. With help from the men, she climbed into the boat. Maybe the cold had paralyzed him. Maybe it was fear. Maybe he understood it was his turn next. One of the men would lift him into the boat, where he would be safe with Mother.
A gust of wind suddenly tugged at the boat. The man lost grip of the gutter and the boat drifted. "I've got it!" she heard Father shouting to her right behind her, by the chimney. "I've got the rope! Just row a bit!"
The man between the oars reacted fast, redirecting the boat, knowing that they couldn't drift any further. Father had a firm grip on the rope.
"To Mommy!" Jakey suddenly stood, his full weight on the gutter. " Wan’ go to Mommy!" he screamed, his small voice filled with desperate strength. "Wan’ go to Mommy!"
Then the gutter gave way.
Mother's horrible cry pierced the darkness. Jakey’s arm still clung to the roof. She dropped onto her left side and grabbed his hand. She had it—she had him—but Jakey slipped into the water.
“Hold on!” came Father’s voice, stumbling across the roof.
“Hold on, girl! I’m coming!”
Lying on the edge of the roof, her hand in the freezing cold water, she clung to Jakey’s hand. In front of her she saw the end of the rope disappear into the water. Mother's screams echoed further and further.
"Hold on!" Father 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 icy water drained the last bit of strength from her hand. She didn't want to let go, she mustn’t, but her hand no longer obeyed. Beneath her, in the faint glow of the flashlight from the boat, she saw Jakey’s two wide-open, light blue eyes, just beneath the surface. "Don't let go!" Mother’s scream came once more.
But 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.
Loneliness
7
That afternoon was scorching hot.
August had offered only a few truly warm days, and September didn’t promise much better. The farmers had called on everyone with a sound pair of hands and feet to help bring in the wheat. School had started again, so mothers with school-age children could go into the fields, as could the children from the fifth to the eighth grades. School let out at three o'clock, so the older children could work in the fields for a few more hours and take the places of the women, who went home to prepare dinner.
She walked out of the village in the shimmering heat. The languid late-afternoon air vibrated above the farmlands. In the distance, she saw Mother bent over in the field, where she was using a reaping knife to cut the ears of grain. She had to call out twice before Mother noticed her, straightened up, supporting her back with her hands, and then gestured that she was coming.
As she drew closer, she saw how Mother had aged. She looked thinner, her back slightly hunched.
"Come, let's go," was all she said. They walked back home together in silence along the long road lined with crooked poplars, the quiet occasionally disturbed only by the whistling of some wading birds, or the distant cry of some seagulls, who, high in the sky, were scanning the area for something to eat.
At first, she had thought Mother was simply tired. But then she realized that the silence had another reason. How different it had been just a year ago, when she also walked to the field after school to meet Mother, and they had walked back home. The three of them. With Jakey holding her hand, until he was too tired to walk further, and Mother would lift him up and carry him on her back. Jakey would stay with Aunt Jona, who lived on the edge of the field, while Mother worked, and was always happy to see Mother and her again. On the way back, the three of them would sing songs, sometimes stopping for a moment to watch a group of wading birds, or to pick and eat some wild blackberries, after which Mother would wipe Jakey's purple mouth and hands clean.
But as they walked home now, it was just the two of them. For a moment, she had taken Mother's hand, but a little later, Mother had let go. And so they walked along the road—together but alone—each with her own thoughts. Her own grief.
8
The memories of that night had tormented her without mercy.
Almost immediately, the nightmares had arrived. They had haunted her from the moment she closed her eyes in the darkness until she arose in the early morning, paralyzed by the specters that had grown darker each night. Then came another day of school, where everyday life had resumed piece by piece, only to find herself back home in the stranglehold of bleak gloom. They had repaired and cleaned the house as best they could, but it still bore the water’s scars. The water, which had struck like a thief in the night and torn their little family apart.
Soon, she could no longer suppress the horrors, and the memories returned with all their force. Jakey's little hand slipping free from hers. Her little brother, swallowed by the deep darkness.
"Misje... nooooo...!" Mother's horrific cry had echoed across the water. The men in the boat, who had barely kept Mother from jumping in. Father, who, barely a few moments later, had dropped onto the roof beside her and plunged his arm into the water. Lying on the roof, she had turned to him, her stiff hand still in the icy water, unwilling to withdraw it, as if, against her better judgment, she had still hoped her little brother would grab her hand.
"Where... why..." she had heard Father's hoarse voice rasping as he looked at her. The rest had hung in the air, unsaid—but In a brief, piercing flash, she had seen 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 roof's edge, though the sobbing, with gut-wrenching gasps, hadn't stopped. They had lifted her into the boat, and Father was the last to climb down from the roof. It was one of the few times she'd seen Father put his arm around Mother. Father and Mother, seeking comfort in each other. Comfort in each other, but without her. She no longer felt the bitter cold in her arms and legs. A cold, far worse, had penetrated her deepest core.
The cold of loneliness.
9
The men had rowed diagonally against the current, toward 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, she had sat down next to Mother, whose cries had turned into plaintive sobs. She had taken Mother's hand, but Mother hadn't responded. She sat there, her sobs breaking now and then into long, tearful gasps: "Jakey..."
They had walked to the village from the inner dike, along 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 felt sleepy. "This is my classroom," she had said to Father and Mother, but they hadn't responded. A few women had come in with bowls of soup, but Father and Mother hadn't been hungry.
"Eat it up, it's good for the cold!" the woman had said to her as she handed her a cup of soup. She walked to the back of the classroom, sat down at her own table, and slowly started on her soup.
“Are you okay?” the soup woman had asked her later, stroking her hair. “Don't you want to rest?”
“I'm not tired,” she had replied. “And I have to wait.”
“What are you waiting for, misje?”
“For Jakey. Jakey's gone.”
The woman had sat down on one of the much-too-small chairs next to her and taken her hand in hers. She had large hands. The woman was plump, with round, red cheeks and grayish-blue eyes. For a moment, she was afraid the chair wouldn't hold her weight.
“I think… your little brother is in heaven now,” she had said softly, her voice remarkably light for such a large woman. “Don't you think he's safe, very close to God now?”
"But then shouldn't Father and Mother be very happy?" she said a moment later. "But they're sad. Mother just 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 anyway."
"Would you like some more soup?" the woman had asked. "There's 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. "It's still a bit warm."
Finally, her head grew heavy. The woman had taken her hand and led her to one of the camp beds. After she lay down, the woman covered her with a blanket that stung and smelled musty, but sleep had come quickly. And with sleep, the first nightmare.
Disillusionment
10
The wheat harvest was in. The village had returned to its normal routine early this year—too early. September and October should have been dedicated to 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, hanging over the village like a gray veil—a veil of gloom.
Many men had left the village. To Brabant, where farm laborers were still needed. To Rotterdam, to work in the ports. Some had even left for distant foreign countries.
Sometimes, village life briefly revived 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 of their children's or their siblings' successes in the distant land. Often, the letters were read aloud in the village grocery store, and without exception, the pastor would reflect on their overseas villagers in his Sunday sermon. These were the few highlights in the village, where the gloom over the failed potato harvest alternated with fear for the coming autumn and winter. Just six months ago, the sea had bared its teeth.
There had been calls for dike reinforcement. After the queen herself had visited the endless, dreary mud pools, dignitaries in The Hague had promised that the dikes would be strengthened, the teacher had told them at school. But yes, that would take time. “Ten years. Twenty, maybe,” Father had said mockingly—almost shouting, as he did more and more lately. And who knows, maybe even longer. But a disaster like last February only happened once every few hundred years, the gentlemen of The Hague had added soothingly. They knew better in the polders, but what could they do?
Father was often away from home for weeks. 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’d return. And then, as if out of nowhere, he was home. At first, he had brought a lot of money with him, but that seemed to be getting less and less. And his breath was often strange 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 talked about America, where many Dutch people lived—including some from Zeeland. They spoke their own language, grew their own food, and even had their own church. And there was plenty of work. And our missy could attend a Dutch school, learn to speak good Dutch, and, who knows, maybe even English. When she was old enough, she could marry a hard-working farmer or, who knows, a rich American.
Mother had started crying. She didn't want to. They couldn't leave Jakey, could they? Jakey, who was never found, but for whom a memorial now stood in the cemetery. For Jakey 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 harbor. He would be home for Christmas.
11
From her seat in the pew—Mother to her left, Father beside her in the aisle—she watched the church slowly fill. Usually, there were still a few empty seats in the back, but today the church would be packed, just like last year. No one missed Christmas.
***
A few days before Christmas, Father had returned home late in the afternoon. He had brought a heavy suitcase, full of food she had never seen or tasted, and warm clothes for the winter. And a bag of garlands and ornaments 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 opened it, she had clapped her hand over her mouth and looked alternately at Father and the wallet. Then she had burst into tears and thrown her arms around Father's neck. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Mother like that.
"Hush, Mientje, hush..." 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 half-darkness. After an hour, he returned with a Christmas tree. Meanwhile, Mother had made a stew with stewing pears and a tender piece of meat from Father's suitcase. After they had feasted, Father had nailed two planks into a cross at the base of the tree and set it on a small box in the corner. The three of them had hung the ornaments and garlands 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 had reached into his suitcase again and had handed Mother a package. 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 hot chocolate and coffee were finished, they had sung. Glory to God. Angels we have heard on high. O come, all ye faithful. During Silent Night, Mother had tears in her eyes. Father had taken her hand. "No, it's okay," she had said after the hymn. "Today is a celebration."
***
She tucked herself a little deeper into her coat and pulled her hands back into her sleeves. Mother had wrapped a bedspread around both their knees to keep the cold from creeping 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, the one she sat next to at the desk and with whom she often traded sandwiches during the 10:30 break. A sandwich with head meat for one with cheese. Or for candy, but Mother wasn't allowed to know that. Veerle, who was often bullied because she wore glasses, yet was the best student in the class. Better than she was, but she didn’t mind. Veerle would probably work in an office later. Or perhaps in a hospital as a doctor. She wanted that too. She really 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 across from her, but he couldn't sit still. When he turned around, he greeted her loudly and got a slap on the ear from his father.
Further down 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'd just let it be. Aunt Jona had surely had a husband someday. She had to, otherwise Liesbeth would never have been born, right? Aunt Jona was a strong woman. Her husband had certainly passed away, and yet she was almost always cheerful. It was strange that no one ever sat next to her and Liesbeth in church.
The pastor welcomed everyone and opened the service. The church fell silent. 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 speech 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 pastor began his Christmas sermon. This would be long, she knew, but the pastor was a good storyteller. And afterward, 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 proper Christmas meal, she had heard Mother tell Aunt Jona.
The pastor told 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 sent His Son into the world 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. Destroyed houses. Failed potato harvests. Twelve lives had been taken by the water. Five were never found again. But God had been merciful. He had spared the inner dike at the edge of the village, just 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 return to its former self. The memory of that terrible night would, by God's grace, fade.
A soft sob broke the silence in the church. Diagonally to her left, in front of her, she saw Aunt Truida, the baker's wife, with her handkerchief over her eyes, her shoulders shaking gently. Her son Rinus, a brave soldier, had been home that night. With two friends, he had gone out in a rowboat. They had managed to rescue two families from the roofs of their houses. And a few more dike workers, who had climbed onto the refuge hill in the polder. Early in the morning, still pitch dark, he had gone out one last time. Alone. His friends had been exhausted. No one had ever seen him again. The ebbing tide must have swept him away, out into the wide sea, Mother had later heard from Machielse, the milkman.
Next to her, she saw that Mother had also grabbed her handkerchief. She sobbed softly, silently. Father sat in 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 pastor. And perhaps even angry at God. She understood Father perfectly. How many times in the past year had she felt that anger herself? Anger because her little brother had been swept away by the icy water, while their rescue was so close. Anger because He hadn't been willing to give her a few moments of extra strength. Anger that had often given way to guilt, only to return all the more forcefully.
And now, as the pastor struggled to be heard above the rising sobs and murmurs, her anger surged more fiercely than ever. She glanced to her left one last 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 be silent.
Then she stood up.
12
Dejected, they sat around the table. Mother to her left, then Father, next to her Aunt Jona, and finally, to her right, Liesbeth. Mother had lit the lamp, but its glow couldn’t chase away the gloom in the house. In silence, they ate the beef stew Mother had prepared, which should have been a true Christmas meal, but no one seemed particularly hungry.
***
"It's not fair!" she had screamed after standing up in church. "It's mean! It's so terribly mean!" The minister had stopped his sermon and looked straight at her. She had seen the first flash in his eyes—clear as day. That flash had said it all: “Shut up and sit down, you brat,” before his face finally settled into a pitying expression. She had heard the echo of her own voice resonate through the church and slowly fade away. Then it had become deathly silent. From all sides, she had seen pairs of eyes staring at her in the deathly stillness. Most were reproving. Some blank. A few, quietly compassionate. Then she burst into tears.
“Naê 'uus!” Father had hissed to the right, standing up. We’re going home! She had followed Mother down the aisle, towards the back exit. “Aren’t you ashamed?” Father had snapped at her, giving her a sharp 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 pastor continue, but she couldn’t hear his words.
In silence, they had walked the village road to their house against the biting wind. When, after ten minutes, she still couldn’t hold back her tears, Aunt Jona had walked beside her and put her arm around her. “Let that girl go!” Mother had barked at her. "Wat zâ d’n dominie wê nie dienke?" The words had hit like a hammer. What must the pastor be thinking? Young as she was, she had learned what truly mattered—in the land ruled by the sea, and by narrow minds.
But Aunt Jona hadn't let go.
***
When it was clear that no one was truly hungry anymore, Mother silently cleared the plates, assisted by Aunt Jona. After they were both back at the table, Father began the prayer of thanksgiving, his voice flat. Then he placed 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 beginning to read: "Leaders who perform their duties well deserve double honor, especially those who take on preaching and teaching."
“Pursue justice, love, gentleness,” Aunt Jona added in a soft voice. “Same chapter,” she added, when Father and Mother gave her a withering look. “1 Timothy.”
“Een schande voe’t êale durp! That’s what she is!” Father cut the discussion short, slamming the Bible shut. Father’s message was clear. She was a disgrace to the whole village, and he avoided engaging in the clash of arms with Bible verses as weapons. He had once accused Mother’s sister of being a wuuf van d’n duvel, 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. That was all there was to it. The silence and the gray weather sucked 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'd better come stay with me for a while," Aunt Jona finally broke the icy silence. "It's closer to school in the winter, too," she continued. "And then Lies has some company."
Father sat staring out the window, his jaws set. Mother looked at her, but quickly looked 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, it was closer to school during the winter. And she got along well with Liesbeth.
"I'll pack her bag," Mother replied after a long, awkward silence, as she got up and climbed the stairs. She heard Mother pacing back and forth on the wooden floor above, and occasionally the creaking of a cupboard door and the sliding of a drawer.
"You better get going," Mother said softly to Aunt Jona, as she descended the last few steps and placed the packed duffel bag on the floor. "Then you'll be home before it gets dark." All three put on their shawls and coats. She bent down to pick up her bag, but Aunt Jona beat her to it and gave her a wink.
"Zâ-je ’n fatsoenlijk misje weze en ‘elpe mie ’t opruume?" Of course, Mother, being a decent girl and helping tidy up was the least that was expected of her. Mother gave her an awkward hug. Father stayed rooted in his chair by the window, his jaw still clenched, his gaze fixed on the gray sky. Aunt Jona opened the door, and they walked out into the gathering dusk.
