Tales from the Fountain Pen (7 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Papa?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betty comes into the room and takes in the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I see.” My mother looks at me in that stern way she has, making me feel small and wrong. “And what did you promise him in return?”

She taps her foot impatiently when I don’t answer fast enough.

“Nothing!” I say a little too loudly, which only makes me seem more guilty in her eyes. “Nothing, I swear.”

“We don’t swear in this house. And you had better be telling me the truth, young lady. The consequences of lying will be harsh and I won’t tolerate a collaborator in this house.”

I leave the kitchen feeling a total rat. I shouldn’t have accepted the bread and I should have told Siepie a firm “No.” How I wish this stupid, horrible war were over. When will the Allies come to liberate us?

With a heavy heart I pick up the old sweater and start taking it apart, trying hard not to waste anything and avoiding Betty’s smug look.

Father has finished his newspaper and slowly tears the pages into wide strips, then crumples them into tight wads so we can burn them later this evening and have more moments of heat without using up our small supply of coal.

Maybe I should share some of that bread with Siepie? I’m sure she and her family would love some. But then, would they reject it because of where it came from? I would feel awful if Siepie’s mother got mad at me too and refused the bread. Besides, would my mother even let me? She might not want the neighbors to know we have bread given to us by a German soldier.

The pen lifts from the paper. It’s nearly empty and I find I too need a moment to replenish my energy. In my own kitchen I pull out a loaf of fresh bread to make a sandwich, but find myself pausing. A memory comes flooding back of the pleasure my mother used to take in going to a bakery and purchasing a loaf, fresh from the ovens, cooling on the slatted wooden shelves behind the counter. It was always the same kind of bread too: a light whole wheat. She’d ask the shop girl to slice it in the machine before bagging it while she would count out exact change for the bread. Then she’d take it home and take the small end piece, spread it with butter and slowly, quietly eat it, savoring every bite. Then with a contented sigh as if she’d just consumed the most precious of delicacies, she would continue with her day.

My sandwich now doesn’t seem quite so ordinary, and I take my time in preparing it. I eat it slowly and try to savor every bite as I’d seen my mother do. For a moment I imagine she’s there with me in the kitchen. I imagine I can even catch a faint hint of her favorite perfume, Chanel No.5.

It takes me quite some time to return to the fountain pen on my desk and the remaining blank pages, but finally curiosity compels me.

It is late, well after curfew, and I am in Siepie’s home. The front room is cold, colder than ours, and lit only by a small oil lamp set on a table between two easy chairs. Siepie’s mother sits in one of them with a blanket pulled up to her chest, squinting at her knitting. She’ll ruin her eyes in this poor light.

Siepie’s father isn’t home yet. He often has to work late at the rail-yard and sometimes doesn’t come home at all. Instead he’ll sleep a few hours in the station office. Well hidden from any German patrols, of course, as they don’t allow people to sleep in the station waiting room.

Siepie silently lights a candle and motions for me to follow her up to her bedroom. I’m holding a small ball of blue yarn in my hand and I know we’re going up to find her red yarn, and to talk in secret.

Her room is even colder than downstairs and I wonder how they are coping. Her little brother is in the big bed downstairs in the back room and now and then I hear him coughing. This cold can’t be helping his frail lungs. How will they all survive the coming winter?

“Well?” Siepie asks. “Have you found out anything?”

I suck in my lower lip and think where to begin. Johann had quite a lot to say after he got home from the camp. Especially after I encouraged him. I feel ashamed and don’t want to say anything, but I know I must. I know that what I did was for the greater good.

In my mind’s eye I still see the happy grin on his face after I let him kiss me.

We were upstairs, I was getting a cardigan to put on over my sweater, and he had just returned. I could taste cigarette smoke on his lips, but I didn’t stop him. Oh, why does he have to be the enemy?

“Well?” Siepie asks impatiently.

I nod and take a steadying breath. I decide not to tell her about the bread…or the kiss.

“He told me,” I say with as steady a voice as I can manage, “the invasion is planned for next month. They’re waiting on extra equipment. The factories in the Ruhr area are working around the clock building tanks and aircraft. And they plan to load a lot of troops from here, using the Waddenzee to confuse Churchill.”

An involuntary shudder runs through me.

“Are you cold?” Siepie asks.

“Yes,” I lie, not wanting to admit my revulsion at what I’ve done.

“You’ve done well. That’s very valuable information.” Siepie pats my arm to show her approval and understanding, but she can’t possibly know what I’m feeling inside.

Without waiting for her to give me the red yarn I make my excuses and leave quickly. It almost feels warmer outside than in Siepie’s house, but I find myself shivering uncontrollably; not from the cold. Before I am able to open my own front door I throw up my meager dinner, which consisted of a fried egg and a slice of that bread.

With shaking hands I open the front door and go straight to the kitchen. There I fill up a pan with water to heat for a hot water bottle to take up to bed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Betty asks when she finds me in the kitchen.

“Cold,” I say through chattering teeth.

“Are you sick?” she asks with disgust. “If you are, I don’t want to share the bed with you.”

“No, just cold,” I manage to say through clenched teeth. I do feel sick, but I know the cause: loathing and disgust.

Now I’m a collaborator. What will happen to me? Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe nobody will find out. Maybe one kiss is not the end of the world.

Conflicting thoughts run through my head and I end up spilling some of the hot water over my hand as I try to pour it into the stainless steel bottle. It soaks the wool and knitted sleeve and scalds my hand.

“Ouch!” I cry and shake the water off my hand, tears flooding my eyes.

“Clumsy!” Betty says and takes the bottle from me. I watch her screw the top on and strip off the wet cover. “Hold your hand under cold water, dummy, you don’t want it to blister, do you?”

I silently comply, letting the cold water flow over my hand while hot tears run down my cheeks. I feel like a little kid. How could I have been so stupid?

Tomorrow I shall tell Johann “no more,” and I shall tell Siepie the same. It’s too dangerous.

With my hand wrapped in a piece of flannel with ointment, the hot water bottle in a fresh, dry sleeve under my arm, I warily climb the steep stairs to the cold little attic room I share with my sister. I can hear the soldier’s voices coming from Theo’s room and feel a fresh wave of nausea rising.

I close the door to my room behind me and without even taking off my clothes I slip under the covers, clutching the hot water bottle as if it’s my most treasured possession.

The pen lifts and I find tears slowly dropping onto the paper as I relive my mother’s anguish. I remember asking my mother once if she knew how to speak German, to which she tersely said: “Yes, but I won’t ever speak it again.” Was that because of what happened with Johann?

Before dawn the next day I am at my desk to meet my mother again and to relive her life. I unscrew the cap of the old pen, top off the ink bladder and touch the tip to the paper, allowing myself to be transported back to her village in the north of the Netherlands during the war. I hope she’s all right and I will the pen to write faster despite the pain in my hand from writing the day before.

I can’t tell how much time has passed when I find myself outside on a cold morning. I’m huddled into the collar of my old coat, a scarf wrapped around my neck and my hands firmly in my pockets.

It looks like I am near the center of the village: I can see the train station some way up the road. It looks like a train is being loaded with supplies and people. No, they’re soldiers. Is the war over?

No, it can’t be. People walking past me have downcast eyes and a hungry, almost haunted look about them. That’s not how I imagine a liberated people would look. Besides, I don’t feel much joy inside either.

I seem rooted to the ground under my feet as I watch the train being loaded in the distance.

With an effort I turn my head to see where I am and find myself in front of the boarded-up butcher’s shop.

“It’s no use standing around waiting for Hendrik, my dear.” The kindly voice of Mrs. Jansen startles me. “Just because the soldiers are leaving doesn’t mean they’ll let him go from wherever they’re holding him.” She gives me a sad little smile.