Tales from the Fountain Pen (8 page)

I try to think of something appropriate to say. “Maybe soon,” is all I manage.

“Yes, maybe soon all this will be over and we’ll have our boys back.” She turns, but not before I see her eyes well up. Of course, her son, Jan, is in hiding too, just like Theo. Jan went into hiding a few months before my brother. He had to, as he’d been handing out anti-German leaflets in Leeuwarden.

Where Hendrik is brash and bold, Jan sometimes is just plain stupid. He figured he would be safe if all he did was quietly hand out little notes urging people to resist the occupiers.

The first time he got picked up he got off with a warning, but the second time he got severely beaten. Just a few days after that he went into hiding. That was almost two years ago. Theo’s been in hiding for over a year now and we’ve not heard from him in all that time. I miss him.

I turn to go home but instead find myself face to face with Johann, who seizes the opportunity to grab me and kiss me. I struggle fiercely and once I break free I run as fast as I can, his boisterous laughter ringing in my ears.

Now the whole village will know and brand me a traitor. How could he do that to me? After that one kiss a few weeks back I never encouraged him again, even though he brought bread every day for a week. I made sure to tell him no, in his language and mine.

I never told anyone about that first kiss either, but now it will be all over Bergum in a matter of hours.

Hot tears stream down my face as I keep running for home. My heel catches on a loose paving stone and I stumble but don’t fall. I can see our house and then I miss my step up the curb, my ankle twists and I go sprawling. Pain radiates out from my skinned knees, the palms of my hands and my right ankle. Oh, please, don’t let it be broken, especially not now that the doctor doesn’t have the materials to make plaster casts anymore.

I lie there on the sidewalk gathering my nerves to attempt standing. My muscles feel shaky and I can’t stop crying.

“Maggie!” I hear Siepie’s voice, full of concern, and I can see her shape through a haze of tears, coming toward me. “Maggie, what happened? Are you hurt?”

She clumsily tries to haul me up into a sitting position but it’s just too much for her small size. It makes me giggle a little through my tears. Just enough to let me pull myself together, and with an effort I manage to sit up on the curb. Siepie sits next to me and I notice she’s not wearing a coat. She must have seen me fall and come running out of her house. I wonder why my sister isn’t out here too, but I already know the answer to that.

“What happened?” Siepie asks again.

“Oh, great,” I cry, examining my knees and avoiding her question. “I hope I can mend those holes in my stockings.” I’m wearing my last halfway decent pair of wool stockings; they’ve already been darned in a few places and are a little too short. If my legs grow any longer, mended knees will show under my skirt. “I wish I could wear trousers, it would be warmer too,” I complain.

Siepie nods understandingly, but is still waiting for an answer as to why her normally athletic friend went sprawling.

“I’m doomed,” I say, drying my eyes with my handkerchief. My hands shake and the palms are red and raw. I pick a tiny pebble out of my left palm, which immediately starts bleeding.

“Give me that,” Siepie says, almost as if scolding a child. She takes my hand and pulls out her own handkerchief and ties it round my hand.

“Ouch, not so tight,” I cry.

“Don’t fuss,” Siepie scolds. “You want the bleeding to stop, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say, compliantly.

“Good. Now tell me why you think you’re doomed,” she says, and takes my damp handkerchief from me. She folds it and then presses it in turn to each of my skinned knees, mopping up the worst of the blood. “The soldiers have left your house. Surely that’s good, right?”

“Yes, except one of them decided to kiss me on his way to the station. Just out there, in the middle of the street for everyone to see!”

Siepie nods pensively before she says: “And what did you do?”

“What?” I ask, afraid she’s accusing me of something.

“What did you do? Come on, Maggie, your response is what’s important here and what people will remember.”

“I tried to push him away,” I say.

“So, you struggled?” Siepie asks.

“Yes,” I say, a tiny feeling of relief budding in my chest. “Yes, I did. I struggled. I’m sure I must have bruises on my arms where he held me.”

“Good, that’s excellent, Maggie,” Siepie says, and stands up. “You are far from doomed. Now, go inside and get cleaned up.”

I comply, wondering when my friend became such a mother hen.

Leaning on Siepie, I limp to my front door. My ankle’s not broken, but it certainly hurts a lot.

“Who did this to you?” my mother asks as Siepie helps me into the front room where I drop into my father’s easy chair.

“Nobody, I twisted my ankle and fell,” I say, wincing as I move my injured ankle up onto a dining chair Siepie’s brought over.

“I’ll come back later, after dinner,” Siepie says, and she slips out of the room before I can say anything.

I tell my mother why I was running home and she eyes me with more than a hint of suspicion, then decides that my pain must be real and goes to the kitchen. She comes back a minute later with a cold, vinegar-soaked rag and wraps it around my ankle. Then she fetches a bowl of warm water and some iodine to clean out and treat my many scrapes. It will sting, I know, as my mother is not the gentlest of nurses.

I clench my teeth and shut my eyes tight, wishing it were my father tending me, but he’s at work.

“There, all done,” my mother says, and awkwardly squeezes my arm and smiles at me.

Her unusual display of maternal affection leaves me a little bewildered.

“Do you think my stockings can be mended?” I ask softly.

“Probably, but it won’t look very nice on a pretty young lady,” she answers.

“Mother?” I say, surprised at this softening of her tone towards me.

“Maggie, you’re a proper young woman now and it won’t do to walk around in rags,” she says.

“But with the rationing it’s almost impossible to find stockings,” I say.

“Good thing I hoarded some.” My mother actually winks at me and for a moment I see the impish young girl my father must have fallen in love with.

How could she say I’m a proper young women now when I came in with skinned knees like a little girl?

“Why does it smell like vinegar in here?” Betty comes in, sees me in Papa’s chair with rags and bandages and sniffs disapprovingly. I suppress a giggle at the face she makes.

“I guess I’ll have to clean Theo’s room by myself,” she says haughtily. “I don’t see why I can’t have that room then.”

“Maybe because right now I don’t know if I can even make it up one set of stairs, let alone two,” I say and point to my sprained ankle.

“You should be more careful,” Betty snorts. “Haste makes waste.” And she strides out of the room again. So much for sympathy.

At least I won’t have to share a bed with her anymore. But…I stop when I realize that Johann and his fellow soldier have slept in that room for the past few months.

Now I wish I could help clean up that room. I wish I could douse it in lye and scrub it till it gleams so no trace of those soldiers remains.

Before I don’t have time to get too worried about Theo’s room, I hear my father’s key in the lock. He rushes into the front room before even taking off his hat.

“Maggie! Oh, Maggie, what have they done to you?” He rushes over and clumsily embraces me. “I heard what happened from Trijntje at the newsstand, she said you had been accosted by a German soldier.” He takes a hurried breath. “But this looks more like you were attacked and beaten.”

“No, no, Papa,” I say, clasping his cold, strong hands. “It’s not like that. These cuts are from when I ran home and tripped. I was clumsy because I was upset and I twisted my ankle.”

“They didn’t hurt you then?” His eyes search mine.

“Not really. Just a bruise or two from where he held me.”

“He did hurt you then! That bastard. Trijntje said you fought him off with the fierceness of a tigress!”

I smile. Maybe I’m not so doomed after all.

“Yes, Papa, I struggled fiercely,” I say and let him pull me close into a proper embrace. I can smell machine oil and the cold outside on his coat. His cheek feels rough and cold against mine but I don’t mind.

“How about a nice cup of tea?” my mother comes into the room again with the tea tray.

“Tea?” I ask, surprised.

“I was able to trade for some with Mrs. Sietsma,” my mother says proudly. “If we’re careful it might last till the end of the war,” she adds as a little joke. She hands me a cup of hot, real tea and pats me on the shoulder.

“Why is she being so nice to me?” I whisper to my father.

He grins and whispers back: “You’ve proved that you’re not a collaborator.”

My eyes grow wide. “She thought…?” I can’t even finish the sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could that be it?

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

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

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

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

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