River in the Sea (19 page)

“Memmy, now when will Pater be home? You said that Pater–”

Issac’s voice startled them, coming from the doorway where he stood in his stocking feet, his face as blank and stony as Mem’s. He spoke right over Tine, whose mouth was just beginning to sound the
s
, maybe to say
soon
, maybe to say
shhh
. “Little sister, I don’t know. No one knows. We don’t know when Pater will be home. Now please stop asking.”

They ate in a terrible silence after that. Everyone cleared their plate and Tine put the lid back on the pot of stew and put it in the cellar so that they could eat the rest the next day. Leen’s hands and dirt–stained fingertips felt soft from the oil, and she felt guilty for it, that and the fact that she was glad for Issac’s answer.

Because Renske never asked again.

12.

Within five minutes of Leen’s arrival at the bakery, Mrs. Deinum hurried her to a stack of ironing. But Leen did not find the usual pile of shirts and table linens. Instead there was a stack of unevenly hemmed orange squares. “What are these?” Leen asked, holding one up before she dampened each with tepid water.

“Haven’t you heard?” Mrs. Deinum was agitated; her hands fluttered, her steps a jerky waltz. Tiny drops of sweat gathered on her upper lip. “The Queen is home!”

“Home?” Leen rubbed the rough cotton between her fingers. It was probably the last bolt of some off fabric a merchant hadn’t been able to sell, and no one would want to waste their few ration coupons for this, but the merchant had held onto it only for the color. Leen took the iron Mrs. Deinum had heated on the stove and pressed down, enjoying the sizzle the metal made as it flattened the wrinkled squares and the orange zigzags of thread holding the hem in place.

“Wilhelmina is on Dutch soil!” Mrs. Deinum said, almost singing her words, vibrato on the last syllable. “There will be a celebration later today, in the main square, and everyone is to wear
oranje
.” She took one of the squares Leen had just pressed and folded it into a crisp triangle, wincing at the heat on her fingertips. She tied it around her neck. She smiled broadly. “Does it look
mooi
?”

Leen nodded. The orange was bright. “She is home?” she said, not understanding the significance. She was in a fog. What day was it? The first Saturday in March, nearly six months to the day from that day in October, and it was warm for this time of year. 

Mrs. Deinum nearly shouted at her. Her smile was so big it became a grimace. “The Queen is in the
Nederlands
! She finally left England! We may still have Germans in our streets, but if the Queen can walk on her homeland, then it can’t be long. Oh Leentje,” Mrs. Deinum said, grabbing Leen’s face with both hands, “it can’t be long! Soon I will see my boy! Here.” She took a few of the kerchiefs, still unironed, and put them in Leen’s hands. “Take them home when you are finished. There will be a celebration in Wierum too, I am sure. If not, you come out to Dokkum! Wear them, give them to your family. This is something you must celebrate.”

Leen stared at the orange fabric in her hands. “This is amazing,” she said, the words finally sinking in. Surely Wilhelmina’s homecoming was a good sign, just as Mrs. Deinum said. But she couldn’t help thinking that the Queen was not going to sit at a plain table with a stack of cigarettes, rolled by expert fingers, smoked by a man with skin that folded like an accordion at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. 

Still, Leen rushed through the ironing, not because she wanted to hurry home, but because that was what was expected in light of the news. You didn’t hear that the Queen was out of exile and take the time to form a perfect crease.

“You’re home early, again,” Tine said, frowning. “And why are you wearing a kerchief?”

“Wilhelmina is back. She is home, on Dutch soil.”

Tine had always loved the Queen, and because she was embarrassed of the depth of her adoration, Leen used to tease her for it. When they were little girls, Tine would pour over the picture books and cutouts of the Queen dressed in her finery, sighing over her crown and her gowns while Leen made pig snorts and pointed out all the ways she thought Wilhelmina was ugly, just to see if she could make Tine cry. Today Leen did nothing of the kind, but Tine’s eyes misted anyway. “That is good news, very good news,” Tine said.

“There is going to be a parade,” Leen said, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. She remembered Mrs. Deinum’s sweaty lip, her manic hands. “I rode past the church and already people are gathering.” Some had already knotted orange kerchiefs at their necks while others had pinned silk carnations to their collars, the white flowers held over from years ago when the public wore them on Prince Bernard’s birthday, the unofficial leader of both the Dutch and Frisian Resistances and now leader of the Dutch army.

Leen handed Tine a kerchief, still warm underneath the center fold, and Tine immediately tied it under her collar. Leen had two left in her hands. “I’ll get Mem,” she offered. Leen almost never was the one to rouse Mem; it was understood that this was Tine’s job. She was gentler, softer; she could be more patient with Mem than Leen, who quickly grew intolerant of Mem’s labored, deliberate movements, her damp forehead and underarms darkening the corners of her dress.

“Renske is with her,” Tine said, fingering the corners of the kerchief, pressing them flat.

At Mem’s door, Leen’s nerves flickered in her hand, but she didn’t knock. She pressed the door open. The silence was so heavy she wondered if Renske had run away, or crept under the bed in a lonely game of hide and seek. But when the door swung open, Renske came into view, sitting cross–legged on the foot of the bed clutching two of her old rag dolls. Each was missing the eyes, so they faced each other blindly as she forced them in a mute conversation. When she saw Leen come through the open door, she hopped off the bed and ran out in her bare feet.

“
Hoi
, Memmy,” Leen said. She waved her hand in front of her to see if Mem would register the movement. “I have some good news.”

Mem blinked at her. She lay on her side, on top of the quilt. “Hello Leentje,” she said, whispering, and before Leen said anything more, tears rolled out of Mem’s eyes. So today was a crying day. “I see Renske has left me.”

“The Queen has come home. Queen Wilhelmina is in the Netherlands. She is no longer in exile. Look,” Leen said, feeling childish as she held out the kerchief. “There’s going to be a parade. Everyone is going to wear orange. See?” 

“The Queen is home,” Mem mumbled. She had yet to move. She had not even shifted her weight. But there were no more tears.

Mem’s inert response made Leen feel panicked. “Yes, Mem, and we are going to the parade. I have a kerchief just for you. Mrs. Deinum gave it to me. See? It’s orange. Everyone will have one.”

Mem was quiet. “Come on, sit up,” Leen said. She pulled on Mem’s arm. Her voice rose. “Sit up, Mem. Let’s put on the kerchief.”

Mem did not resist, nor did she use any of her own strength to sit up. Only when she was upright did she shift her weight underneath her. “I don’t know,” was all she said.

“Yes, Mem, everyone must go. It’ll be nice. A celebration.” Leen fought the urge to yank Mem up by the elbow or pull her by one hand until she fell off the bed. Her fingers shook as she reached around Mem’s dank neck and tied on the kerchief. Her mother smelled sour, her skin and clothes mingling for too many days. Again. Now that Leen had begun her monthly, Tine advised her to use a
washandtje
and soapy water daily to wash her private areas and underarms. Mem had ceased this practice.

Leen closed her eyes and breathed. “It’s a good sign if the Queen is home.” She adjusted the position of the kerchief on Mem’s slight neck. “You should wash up.” 

“How do you know so much?” Mem asked.

“I hear it all at the Deinum’s.”

“It must be nice to have a radio.”

“There isn’t–” Leen didn’t finish. Mem had grown prone to saying things like that, small assumptions that at one time made sense. She took Mem’s hand. It felt as dry as newsprint. “Let’s wash your face first.” She led her to the washbasin, her hand firm, telling herself not to squeeze even though she was. “Here,” she said, holding out the small washcloth. “Come on, Mem, wash your face.” Mem looked at her, then the wet towel. Leen squeezed the extra water out and wiped the towel over Mem’s forehead. Mem did not flinch, did not even close her eyes, as Leen washed her mother’s face.

Outside, the unseasonably warm air smelled of the sea, but the breeze was still tinged with the cold that was sure to return, always reluctant to let go, sometimes retaining its grip the entire year. The hard buds on the trees had yet to sprout, and the yellow tips of tulips barely pushed through the sodden earth.

Mem lumbered slowly, keeping them at a snail’s pace as they made their way towards the
kerk
, except for Renske, who skipped ahead. The ends of her kerchief were long, but the fabric stiff, so they looked like pointy rabbits’ ears that bounced with each step. Mem’s gait reminded Leen of when her mother was in the later stages of pregnancy with Renske, when her toes splayed outward and her walk became duck–like with the round belly Leen thought would never stop growing. Except now, Mem carried hardly any extra weight on her frame. Tine kept her arm linked around Mem’s elbow, but Leen knew it was Tine leading Mem, not the other way around, and Leen let Tine determine how far into the crowd they went. It wasn’t far, and when anyone drew close to Mem she greeted them, but never advanced a conversation beyond “
Hoi”
; “
Goe
t”; and “
Ja
.”

The celebration was not a full–fledged parade; there was not enough time or people to plan for that. Still, the Wierumers who gathered waved flags and kerchiefs and some members of the L.O. walked in the middle, wearing the familiar blue coveralls with the white armbands, leading them in old folk songs while standing guard at the same time, and once the voices had warmed up and elevated the emotions, they led the crowd in hymns. Leen kept an eye on Renske. As long as she could see her, she let her do what she wanted. She saw a dark head of hair. It was unmistakable, the rich darkness woven between the different heads of sandy blonds and browns. She continued scanning the crowd, pretending to still look for Renske.

Leen sang along to the familiar tunes, each verse framed by a chorus sung louder than before, the crowd’s voices encouraged by the curling fists and pumping elbows of the Resistance men leading the singing. Tine sang openly, her face solemn, holding Mem’s hand, still threaded through her elbow. Her voice wobbled. Leen had a good voice but it was deeper than most; she knew how to sing harmony but often she didn’t, wishing instead she had the bird’s whistle Tine and Mem possessed. But today she sang out, doing what she could to cover Tine’s pitchy trills. She kept singing as she pushed forward, neck craning, to see where Renske had gone, and there was Jakob’s face, clear in her line of vision. And his uniform. A bright blue uniform. His armband was crisp and white and sewed neatly around his sleeve. His “aunt” must have done it for him, unless Jakob himself stitched on the “L” and the “O”. He made a handsome soldier.

Jakob caught her eyes. He tipped his head to her, touching his forehead with an index finger. Too surprised to turn away, she nodded back, then lifted her hand, waving once. He smiled and at this Leen turned away. She grabbed Renske’s dress at the shoulder and pulled her back just how Mem used to grab her when she was that age. All the while she never stopped singing. She didn’t even know what the song was anymore; it was like reciting the different Creeds in church. When other voices were there, she found the words, even if they were not hers. By herself she wouldn’t know how to begin.

She looked back, saw the top of Issac’s head, the same tweed hat pulled low over his ears. She looked away again, ignoring Renske’s writhes as she tried to free herself from Leen’s grip as Leen pulled her back towards Mem and Tine. The kerchief around her neck itched, just like the collar of the handspun sweaters, forcing the heat up into Leen’s face. As soon as they walked back to the house, she took off the kerchief and tied it around the seat of her bike.

Still, she sweltered. It couldn’t just be from the shock of seeing Jakob in full L.O. uniform. Maybe it was the anticipation. The hope that Pater might come home had always existed, from the moment he left, but now that the Queen was back, the feeling took on a new quality. It was an urgent kind of hope. This hope, it hurt to feel it, so much that it felt as painful as dread.

Two days later, Leen woke up to find two red sores under her chin. They prickled with an itchy heat. Tine had the same sores on her temples. Issac had not yet come home that morning, but Leen assumed he would be affected too. The only one without was Mem. Her skin was dull, but unmarked.

Renske had it the worst. Deeply scarlet, inflamed bumps gathered around the corners of her mouth and spread onto her cheeks, so that from a distance she looked like a clown with a strange elongated grin. When Mem saw Renske’s face, she said, “We need fruit. It’s as simple as that.”

Before, Pater had always been able to trade for tins of syrupy citrus and slices of pears and peaches. With him gone for over four months, there had been no trades. They ate, but solely meat and potatoes and a few beans scattered on their plates. Leen calculated. The last apple she’d eaten was in December, days after the jailbreak, when Issac had come home with a bag, probably a gift from Mr. Boonstra.

Leen pushed on the sores, sending the heat away, but when she released her finger they immediately prickled again. The itch was persuasive. She was late for the Deinum’s. What were their stores of fruit? At one time the Deinums must have had stacks and bags and bins of it. Mr. Deinum had baked with apricots, oranges, dates, prunes, raisins, figs, apples… But she had never seen anything beside the basics of flour, yeast, salt, and sugar; if they had fruit, they were wise to hide it from her. “Then we must get more fruit,” Leen said.