Tales from the Fountain Pen (3 page)

The man purses his lips in thought while some of his soldiers openly leer at me.

I realize how incredibly vulnerable I am here in the dark with just my brother for protection. My teeth start to chatter, perhaps from cold but more likely from fear.

Why does this man not control his soldiers? I had heard they were under orders not to molest Dutch women.

Two of the soldiers slowly circle us, like predators circling prey.

Theo’s hand is holding mine, tightly, and I am grateful he is there, though I’m wondering why I thought this “adventure” was a good idea. My courage seems to have deserted me.

“Your papers!” the man barks, no sign left of the earlier purr.

“Certainly,” Theo says in a voice more calm than I know him to be.

Now comes the really big test. Will our altered identity cards stand up to official scrutiny? The only advantage I can see is that they will have to examine them by flashlight, a small shuttered beam to avoid detection from above. I wish with all my heart for a fly-over by the English right now, but the night sky remains quiet.

Theo hands over our identity cards.

One of the soldiers breaks from circling and comes over to me. He moves my hair off my shoulder and smiles greedily at me.

Revulsion ripples through my body and I swallow several times to keep the rising bile down.

The soldier notices and laughs. Then he strokes my cheek with the barrel of his pistol. The steel feels cold and menacing against my skin.

I can feel the anger in Theo rising by the way he’s squeezing my hand, but know that he is as powerless as I am to stop this. One wrong move from him and they’ll kill him where he stands and do far worse to me.

“Leave her!” the man in leather barks in German. “We do not interfere with good citizens.”

He hands us back our papers and says, “May you get to your mother in time. It is important to say goodbye to those we care about.” His tone of voice is clearly meant to convey a kind and reassuring manner. “And assure your young wife that we are not all heartless brutes. You may pass freely, but hurry.”

We quickly turn around and start walking briskly toward the farm further up the road. How I wish it is our destination, but I know we have further to go.

I can still feel the cold imprint of the pistol on my cheek. Behind us we hear the Gestapo man give the soldiers a severe dressing-down in their own language and it is a small consolation, giving me little comfort as I try to stop myself from shaking.

“I should not have let you talk me into this idea. I should have found a way to hide on my own,” Theo says, still holding on to my hand.

“I had to. If I hadn’t come along you would be in Germany by now, forced to work in one of their factories,” I reply.

“We don’t know that.”

“Yes, but you might be.”

“Maggie, nobody’s questioning your courage, but this is dangerous. These are not the kind of scrapes you normally get into. I can’t protect you from these people. I can’t beat them up if they pull your hair in class.”

“I know,” I whisper, aware of the gravity of life under the occupation. We have all had to grow up too fast.

The fear threatens to overwhelm me and I want desperately to remove the pen from the paper, but it won’t let me. I know what my mother must have felt as I feel it now. No wonder she wouldn’t talk of her experiences. I am wrestling with the pen to regain control but instead I go on, the story continues. My mother is not yet safe.

“Just a little further,” I hear Theo saying.

In the distance another rectangular shape looms up, which I guess must be the farm of our destination. I cannot remember why we chose that one over our uncle’s farm. He provides us with extra food from time to time. Why could he not hide Theo until this war is over?

I see a lantern signaling across the fields. “That’s for us, come, quickly,” Theo says and pulls me along. We run toward the lantern and toward safety.

“You’re late. We expected you some time ago,” the farmer says. His rough, weathered hands push us quickly into the warm farmhouse.

“We were stopped by a patrol,” Theo explains.

The farmer nods. “They were here before supper, but left when they didn’t find anything.”

“Where can you hide my brother?” I ask, not at all convinced that Theo will be safe on this farm.

“We have a very secure hiding place. I’d best not tell you, for your own safety,” he says.

“Understood,” I say, but still I worry.

“Come, have some warm milk and bread with cheese.” The farmer’s wife urges us into the warm kitchen. “Why, child, you are shivering.” She sits me close to the fire and wraps a blanket around me, then brings me a cup of warm milk and a plate with a thick slice of bread with cheese. I haven’t tasted anything so rich in at least a year. Most of the food is now taken to feed the German army. I start to cry, softly, hoping no one will notice.

The farmer’s wife seems to understand and nods at me, then makes sure the others won’t notice by blocking their view of me. She stands at the head of a long table cutting bread and cheese for Theo and another young man who has just turned up out of the dark night.

“Hi, I’m Willem,” the newcomer says.

“No names, son,” the farmer says quickly. “The less we know, the better. Eat up and then I’ll take you to your hiding place. You, young lady, can sleep in the hayloft. Tomorrow I can take you part of the way home. It should be safe enough for you to walk the rest on your own,” the farmer says. He picks up a lantern and leads the way.

I start to take off the blanket, but the farmer’s wife stops me, “Keep it. You’ll be thankful for the extra warmth.” She pats my shoulder kindly for a moment.

I say goodnight to my brother, not sure if I will see him again in the morning.

The hayloft is only half full, but looks comfortable enough. Not so many years ago it would have been fun; sleeping in Uncle Adema’s hayloft. It was always something to look forward to, that week in August we would spend on the farm before school started again.

“Dig yourself in back there. Nobody will see you,” the farmer says. I nod and slowly climb to where he points. “We’re up with the sun. If you want breakfast before we head out, you’ll be up by then too.” His voice sounds gruff and a little cold, but I know that the offer of food means kindness. If he didn’t care, he would have just rousted me out a minute before leaving.

I mumble an agreement and will myself to be awake by sun-up. That is assuming I will even sleep at all.

I burrow into the hay like a scared young animal and lie there listening to the sounds of the night. I don’t feel brave. I don’t feel strong. I long for the protective arms of my father who is probably awake at this very moment, worrying about Theo and me.

He didn’t like this idea at all, but I bullied him into it. Nicely, but still. He never can refuse me anything. It angers my sister no end, but I’m sure she could have her own way more often if she made herself a little more agreeable.

An owl hoots in the distance. Normally that would be a comforting sound, but tonight it reminds me of the hunt and, for the first time ever, I feel sympathy for the tiny field mouse trying to evade the nocturnal predator. I know how it must feel.

When I close my eyes I still see the leering soldier. He looms close in my face and I open my eyes again, determined not to go to sleep…ever again.

What is that noise? I sit up and strain to hear better. It sounds like the whine of an engine. Oh please, don’t let the patrol come back. Not tonight.

I hold my breath as the sound comes closer, reverberating over the fields. As it gets louder and closer I begin to recognize the drone of the fighter planes. I hope they are the English on a bombing run into Germany. Inwardly I cheer them on. Not that I want ordinary Germans to die, I just want the war to end.

I lie back and listen, trying to guess where the airplanes might be going, fighting sleep that tugs most insistently at my eyelids.

I wake to find it is still dark out, but something tells me dawn is not too far off. Perhaps it’s the chill in the air brushing my cheeks or the slight lightening of the darkness. Whatever it is, I decide to get up.

With an effort I climb out of my nest and pull the blanket along. Once out of the hay, I shake the blanket and brush off my clothes. Faint sounds of life come from the farmhouse and the stables across the yard.

I peer carefully around the door and see the farmer’s wife carrying a pail with steaming fresh milk into the kitchen. Breakfast must be soon, so I follow her.

“Good morning.” She greets me warmly. “Sleep well?”

“Yes,” I lie, but the look on her face tells me she knows better.

“Sit down, child. Have some milk.” She ladles some out into a cup and hands it to me.

It’s just like I remember farm fresh milk to be. Warm and rich with fat.

“The man will be in from milking soon.” She means her husband.

I sit quietly nursing my cup of milk and watch her efficiently prepare breakfast for many.

A pot of oatmeal bubbles on the back of the coal stove and on the front she fries eggs and toasts slices of bread.

As soon as she has everything on the table, several young men, including my brother, appear and sit down. We wait for the farmer, who will say grace before we begin eating.

My father used to say grace, but no more. He told me he cannot reconcile himself to a God who would allow this war to go on. Who would allow the rounding up of Jews, to be sent who-knows-where? My father has turned his back on the church and the rituals of faith.

After our meal I am urged to quickly say goodbye to my brother and I leave with the farmer on his cartful of milk cans.

We slowly clang along the road behind a team of draft horses and I think again about the cost of this war. Clearly this farmer is one of the better-off ones, but I know the Germans won’t pay the top price for his milk. He probably loses money every time he brings his goods to market. And he is in danger because he has several young men in hiding at his farm.

“My brother will be safe, right?” I ask.

“God willing,” the farmer says, and leaves it at that.

We ride on, along the roads that seemed so ominous last night and are now bathed in early morning light. A slight mist rises from the fields and the ditches bordering them. It obscures the lower legs of the cattle. Another time I would have found this amusing.

“Here’s where you get off, young lady.” The farmer pulls up the horses at the crossroads where he will turn left toward the cheese factory and I will turn right to go home.

Only two fields over and I will be at the outskirts of our village. A good forty-five-minute walk.

“Here, take this,” the farmer says, and hands me a basket filled with eggs, a bit of cheese and a small sack of flour. True riches for my family at this time.

“Thank you very much,” I say.

The farmer nods and makes a clicking sound while gently slapping the reins to get his team moving on their journey. I turn to continue mine.

The basket feels heavy. My legs feel heavy, as does my heart. I miss Theo and I want to get home again, quickly.

I see shapes coming toward me in the growing fog. I so hope they are not a patrol. It’s still early in the morning and I don’t know if I am allowed to be out by the new curfew rules. What would they do to me if they found me? Am I allowed to have this basket of food or would they take it from me? If it’s the same patrol Theo and I met last night, they’ll wonder where he is. That could get me into a lot of trouble.

I quickly climb into the ditch beside the road and hope the water level isn’t too high. There are a lot of reeds in it, so maybe they won’t be able to see me. Unless they’re looking very closely.

With any luck they did not see me coming down the road; the fog might have obscured me. Their footsteps sound muffled from in the ditch, which is deeper than I expected.

Crouched down and holding reeds closely around me, I wait. I keep my head down and hope that my sleep-tangled hair resembles the blond-brown reeds enough to fool the soldiers.

Despite the fog their voices carry as they talk loudly and coarsely in their language. I can pick up bits and pieces of their speech and it makes my stomach lurch.

One of the soldiers is bragging about having captured a suspected member of the resistance. He calls him “the butcher’s boy” and tells how he was ordered to destroy the butcher shop.

Surely they can’t be talking about Hendrik and his family? The butcher shop was fine when I left last night. Hendrik was still making deliveries on his bicycle yesterday afternoon. He waved and winked at me, nearly crashing into the mayor’s wife. I see him so clearly in my mind’s eye.

I want to climb out of the ditch and yell at those soldiers to stop talking, to let Hendrik go, but I know that would be very foolish. Instead I try not to listen to them talking about what will happen to Hendrik and his father. I try to keep from throwing up while they’re still too close and might hear me.

I wait until I can’t hear them at all anymore. Only then do I climb, shaking, out of the ditch. My shoes are soaked through and the lower part of my legs muddy and cold.

In the growing light I see the soldiers far off in the distance, at least two fields away. It should make me feel safe, but it doesn’t.

I hurry home on numb feet, barely able to feel the weight of the basket. I stumble in through the back door, into the empty kitchen.

After I put the basket on the counter by the sink, I collapse onto the step stool and cry.

“Maggie?” My father comes in. “My dear girl, are you all right? Did you get hurt? Is Theo safe?”

I first shake my head, then nod while I struggle to regain my voice. The tears just won’t stop.

“Theo’s safe,” I manage to say between sobs. “I’m not hurt…had to hide in a ditch to avoid a patrol.”

“You brave girl,” my father says and envelops me in his strong arms.

“Have you heard?” My sister bursts into the kitchen. “Oh, I suppose you have. Surely it’s not that bad. They’ll keep Hendrik locked up for a while and the girls will just have to do without his constant flirting. Serves him right.” And Betty casually walks out of the kitchen again.