Tales from the Fountain Pen (4 page)

“What was that all about?” my father asks.

“Hendrik. She thinks I’m upset about Hendrik and his father being taken by the Germans. Dad…I heard the soldiers in the patrol brag about it. They enjoyed beating Hendrik!” I say and begin to sob again. “I felt so mad, so helpless and…so scared.”

“Animals,” my father says with all the impotent rage he feels.

We sit together in the kitchen for some time, not speaking, instead feeling the safety of the silence.

Once again I understand how dangerous it is to be a part of the resistance. I understand my father’s fears, but I want do something, something to reclaim my life, my home. Many thoughts swirl but the pen is running out of ink, the writing becomes faint, and I feel myself coming back to my own room, far removed from the sunny, but sad kitchen of my mother’s youth.

I find I must have switched on the lamp on my desk, but I have no recollection of doing so. The light now hurts my eyes as I read over what the pen has allowed me to write.

I wonder if she ever saw Hendrik again, or if he survived being in captivity. How deeply did she care for him? Did she carry a torch for him throughout her life? She must have. When I asked her once if she ever truly loved someone, she got a faraway look in her eyes and said, “I’m sure I must have, once upon a time.”

A gloomy day draws me to my desk where I have ignored the old fountain pen for too long. Today, I feel ready to once again learn about my mother. To learn of the events that shaped her.

With a familiar tug I slip into the past that flows from the pen in little rivulets of dark blue ink. Vignettes of intense experiences and emotions threaten to drown me every time I take one of these journeys.

I find myself standing in the open doorway to her house. It is spring and I marvel at the beautiful tulips blooming despite the war, as if I somehow expect nature to be subdued while we are occupied by the Germans. The sun is out too, and it almost feels warm enough to be out in shirtsleeves.

Before I get a chance to step out I spy a column of German soldiers coming up the street. They stop at a house across the street and three doors from us, and I see the soldiers are each carrying a bag. That can only mean one thing: they’ll be billeted at homes around the village. Right now they live in tents, as there are no barracks nearby. Siepie told me Germany is bringing in more and more soldiers for the planned invasion of England. Why can’t they just all go home instead?

But I don’t stand there dwelling on it. I have an idea and rush back inside where my sister is lazing around nursing an infected thumb.

“Betty, quick,” I say, and pull another chair up to her. “Put your legs on this chair and moan.”

“What?” she protests.

“Just do it, or do you want soldiers living in our house?”

“Oh!” She quickly complies and I throw a blanket over her, just as the front doorbell rings.

I open the door pressing a handkerchief to my mouth and nose.

“Ja?” I say, and cough dramatically.

The sergeant only speaks German and I pretend I do not understand him, though I have had four years of German in school.

As he gesticulates and holds up first two fingers then three to indicate how many soldiers might fit in our home, I keep shaking my head and saying: “Quarantine, we are under quarantine.”

I point through the window at my sister in the living room giving the performance of a lifetime on those two chairs, holding up her bandaged thumb and moaning and writhing under the blanket. She’s even managed to work up a sheen of perspiration on her face and her cheeks are red; she must have pinched them they’re so fiery.

The sergeant insists in his most polite German that he must billet two of his men in our home. And I again insist firmly that we are under quarantine and I again cough loudly into my handkerchief; making it sound as phlegmy as I can.

I mumble something about typhoid fever or tuberculosis and the man takes a step backwards. Then he tips his hat and quickly moves along to the next house.

With a sigh of relief I close the door and lean against it. A grin spreads over my face as I realize I’ve just pulled the wool over the enemy’s eyes. Of course it is only a reprieve, they’ll most likely darken our door again in a month’s time.

Hopefully I’ll be home on that day too. If my father is home we will be sunk, he is so scared of these people that he will let them in. Then I will have to share a bed with Betty again and give up Theo’s room to the soldiers. At least we would not have to feed them, though they steal enough from us with this strict rationing. I can’t remember when we last had enough food for dinner.

I leave the dark hallway and settle on the sofa in the sun. My sister slowly pushes off the blanket and looks at me, then asks: “Did you get rid of them? It was me that scared them off, right? Oh won’t father be proud of me.” On and on she goes, not realizing that she only played a part and that father, in fact, will be furious that we stood up to the Germans like that.

“Sure, Betty, sure,” I say to placate her.

I have homework to do, and more knitting too. Summer might be on the way, but building up a stash of socks for winter takes time, especially if I have to carefully measure out the amount of wool I have with all this rationing and inflation.

Mrs. Jansen in my textiles and crafts class wants to see my lace edgings improve as well, and I so hate knitting lace with these thin steel needles. They prick my fingers.

Her motto is that “just because there’s a war on we should not let our standards slip.” We are ladies after all, and some day when the war is over we will all be seeking employment as teachers or getting ourselves married to nice young men who appreciate beautiful lace edgings and well-made socks.

And to think, I could have gone to the University of Amsterdam to study mathematics if this war hadn’t happened…and if my mother would have let me.

“Maggie?” my sister asks, “are you still brooding over Hendrik? He’s probably in some prison in Germany. He shouldn’t have joined the resistance. It won’t do any good anyway.”

She prattles on, but I have learned to ignore her. It’s not easy though when she says such stupid things.

My thoughts do turn to Hendrik from time to time. I miss seeing him about the village making deliveries for his father. I miss the way he would wink and smile at me.

After I finish my homework I go out to bring the washing in off the line. The sun is still out but it is getting closer to dusk now. I work slowly to enjoy the last bit of sunshine—it might well rain again tomorrow.

I slowly fold each item before placing it in the basket, and I put the clothespins in the bag on the line.

“Hey, Maggie,” I hear a loud whisper from the other side of the fence. “Maggie, psst.”

I go to the back gate and find Siepie standing there holding a small child by the hand. A little girl with dark curls and dimples in her cheeks. She can’t be more than four or five years old.

“Siepie?” I ask, wondering what she’s up to now. I’m still a little leery after the fountain-pen-message smuggling incident.

“Open the gate, hurry,” she says, looking behind her. I comply and let her and the child in.

“What’s this all about?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and try to look stern, but I have a hard time of it; the little girl is so cute and Siepie is still my best friend, no matter what.

“Shh, keep your voice down,” Siepie says, and places a finger against her lips, which the little girl copies with a very serious look on her little face. “I can’t be sure we weren’t followed.”

I raise an eyebrow. Why would anyone want to follow her and that adorable child? Surely they would think they were sisters or cousins out for a walk.

Siepie pulls out a yellow Star of David from her pocket and holds it over the girl’s coat. Only then do I notice the stitches that once held the star in place, in compliance with the rules of the occupiers of our country.

A child! Must they label and threaten even an innocent child?

I nod at Siepie. “What can I do?” I ask, for I feel sure she wants me to do something. Something I won’t like.

“I need you to shelter Irma for me.” Before I can even protest and say how scared it will make my father, she places her hand over my mouth and continues. “Her mother is on her way to England, we think her father might have been captured, but we don’t know for sure. Her uncle was killed. We hope to send Irma to England on the next crossing—her mother is working with the Dutch resistance there. You know, Her Majesty, Wilhelmina’s group.” I nod and take her hand away from my mouth.

“How long?”

“A few days. Just keep her out of sight. No playing outside, at all!” Siepie says sternly.

I wonder what my father will say, but I can’t say no. Siepie had to be very desperate to bring this child to our house, especially after I got so mad at her over the fountain pen.

“I’ll keep her safe, but don’t leave her here too long,” I say. “My father might get attached to her.” I smile but inside I feel sadness; the sadness my father will show in his eyes when I tell him the little girl’s story.

Siepie says goodbye to Irma and hands me a small overnight case. She tells Irma to be a good girl and that they’ll have her back with her mother very soon.

“Come along, Irma,” I say and take her hand. “Would you like some warm milk?” I offer when I feel how cold her hand is. When did she last eat, I wonder? I notice she’s very thin when I help her out of her coat.

I sit her down at the small table next to the stove in the kitchen and pull out a pan and some milk. We have extra because my uncle Adema will often bring us a bottle or two on his way to market. He could get in trouble for that but he seems to enjoy putting one over on the enemy.

“Toast, too?” I ask, and see the eager look in her eyes as she nods her head, her curls bobbing along in harmony.

As I slice the bread Betty comes in and stares at the child.

“Who is that?” she asks. “And why are you giving some of our meager rations to her?”

“Betty, sometimes I’m ashamed to be your sister,” I snap. Then I tell her Irma’s story, hoping it will soften her.

“I see,” she says, still with a sharp edge to her voice.

All this time the little girl has kept quiet.

“I’m waiting here for my mommie,” she says in a soft, high-pitched voice. I can see Betty start to melt a little, but rather than admit it, she turns and quickly leaves the kitchen.

“Here you go, sweetheart.” I place a cup of warm milk and a plate with buttered toast before her and am rewarded with a big smile.

I watch the child enjoy the food and milk and I again wonder when she last ate. What will I tell my father tonight when he comes home from work? First I have turned away German soldiers from being billeted here, and now I have taken in a little Jewish girl. A refugee, so very far away from her mother.

I shall just have to tell him the truth. Surprisingly, I am not nearly as worried about what my mother will think or say. She’s not quite as cold as Betty, but certainly as pragmatic and perhaps even selfish. She’s used to my bringing home strays and I am used to her telling me she expects them gone in a day or two.

The pen lifts from the paper, it is nearly empty so I obligingly refill it from the jar of ink, eager to find out the end of this story.

When the nib touches the paper again I find time has passed. It is now dark at my mother’s house, the blackout curtains are drawn and we are all sitting around the dining table. A small oil lamp on the sideboard is lit and another one in the center of the table. We sit in a tense silence.

I look at the little girl and marvel at her courage. Here she is in yet another home with strangers who are having to share their rations with her and provide her with shelter. She seems so calm.

I look at my father and see his jaw is clenched. His eyes glisten with the tears he is holding back.

My mother glares at me. I can feel it even though I am avoiding her.

I wish Theo were home, he would take my side and help me to convince our parents. Well, my father does not need much convincing. My mother does, but he so rarely stands up to her. I don’t need to look at Betty’s face to know she has a smug look all over it. She is so very good at the “I told you so” look.

Now is not the time for me to say anything, I must wait for the verdict, which my mother will deliver in words as sharp as Solomon’s sword.

“Go ahead and eat, Irma,” I whisper. The child is no doubt hungry and shouldn’t have to wait because the grown-ups have put down their forks to discuss her future. At least that is how I see it. I catch my mother’s eye out of the corner of mine as I straighten up and see that she’s still glaring at me.

Finally, I can stand it no longer. “What was I supposed to do? Siepie needed a place for the girl, she had no place to go.”

“Well, of course not, who wants to be caught with a little Jew in their home!” my mother replies sharply.

“How does that make her any different from another human being?” I say, defiantly.

“They’re different,” my mother says. “They’re different, that’s all.”

My father stirs uncomfortably on his chair, the wood creaks.

“That didn’t bother you when I courted you,” he says, softly but firmly, “or stop you from marrying me.” A tear now slides down his cheek and he does nothing to hide it.

“That was different,” my mother replies, with an air of indifference. “You weren’t practicing and neither was your family. It was just something in your past, your distant family history. Besides, you converted to the Reformed church so we could be married,” she declares with her customary firmness. She crosses her arms over her ample bosom and dares any of us to talk back.

Well, I dare, if only for Irma’s sake.

“Maybe Irma’s family is not practicing either, but they were just tagged as Jewish; counted and rounded up like cattle led to…”

“Maggie!” my father cries, “banish the thought. Surely no one would be that cruel.” His face is pale as if all blood has drained from it, and the look in his eyes is one of pure fear.

For the first time I truly understand why he fears the occupiers so much. He’s afraid he will be found out as a Jew and forced to wear the yellow Star of David.