Tales from the Fountain Pen (9 page)

“Your mother’s very nice today,” she says, with some surprise. “She’s making us some tea.”

I nod. “Real tea at that,” I say. “She’s happy that I’m not a collaborator. She thought there was something going on between Johann and me,” I explain quickly.

“Oh.” Siepie’s eyes widen. “Most everyone in the village believes you are innocent after that incident yesterday, but there are some who think you encouraged that soldier.”

“Mr. Dijkstra!” I say, and ball my hands into fists.

“What?” Siepie asks.

“Dijkstra, dirty Dijkstra,” I say, and quickly explain what Betty told me.

“He gave eggs to Betty? I’d be more worried about her being branded a traitor than you.”

“Why?” I sit up and lean close. We speak in hurried and hushed tones.

“Some of us know for a fact that he works with the Gestapo and was responsible for the disappearance of the Marx family. They refused to wear the yellow Star of David and did everything they could to stay out of the Germans sight. We…I mean, I heard, the Resistance were going to get them to England and then on to America where the Marxes have family.”

“What happened?” I ask. I recalled the Marx family. They were nice people, with two little kids. The father was a very good carpenter and made furniture for several shops. Theo was going to begin an apprenticeship with him.

“The Gestapo got to them first. Nobody knows where they are now. Hendrik saw them being removed from their house in the middle of the night and told me he heard Dijkstra jeering at the poor family.” Siepie’s eyes briefly well up, but she blinks away her tears and sets her face with a look of determination. “The little kids were so scared as they clung to their parents.”

“That’s horrible,” I say. And I feel bad that this is the first I’ve heard of it, since it obviously happened months ago.

“Yes, it is.” Siepie stares straight ahead, her jaw clenched.

“Are all the soldiers gone?” I ask. “And what about the Gestapo agents?”

“What?” Siepie shakes herself and refocuses on me. “Oh, I think they’re all gone, but they’ve left Meiers in charge. That sadistic ultra-nationalist collaborator.”

I shudder. Meiers used to be a German teacher in the village and he was quite cruel even then. I can only imagine what he’s like now that he has some power. Everyone knew of his National Socialist Bund membership. NSBers were the first to join the Germans after they bombed Rotterdam into submission.

“Have some tea, girls.” My mother comes in with the tea tray and sets it down on the little table by the window. “Wish I had some cookies to offer you, but I don’t.”

Siepie smiles and looks at me again. If my mother stays in the room we will have to talk of other things, but what? There are so many things I want to say, about Dijkstra, and Johann and even my sister, but we can’t.

“Siepie, how are the doctor’s twins?” my mother asks as she pours the tea.

“Oh, you know, a handful and a half,” Siepie says, and gratefully accepts a steaming cup.

“Yes, Mrs. de Jong told me they were up a tree the other day, trying to make their escape from you.” She chuckles.

I look at my friend, who nods her head.

“They climbed out of the attic window, onto the roof and from there into the oak tree,” Siepie explains. “It’s not the first time that’s happened.”

“Why do they do it?” I ask. “You can’t be that strict a governess. Are you?”

Siepie grins. “No, I’m not, but these boys want to join the British fliers. They want to fly de Havilland aeroplanes.”

“Specifically those?” I ask.

“Yes. Some relative of theirs in England told them all about the aircraft company he works for and how de Havilland make the best aircraft in the world. Now every time a plane flies over they want to see it. And they want to go to England and fly…and win the war.” She sighs wistfully, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe she would like to as well.

“Those silly boys,” my mother says. “They’re only five years old, what are they thinking?”

I don’t say anything, but I suspect a lot of us are thinking the same thing as those two little boys: we want to help out and bring this war to an end.

“Is your little brother feeling any better?” my mother asks Siepie.

“A little,” she says.

“I hope we have a mild winter,” I say. Conversation is stilted.

“That would be nice,” Siepie agrees.

We sit in silence, enjoying our tea, each lost in her own thoughts, until Betty comes in.

“You’re having tea and you didn’t tell me?” Her indignation is palpable and I must admit I feel a little sorry for her.

“There’s a cup for you here. Let me pour you some.” My mother sounds almost apologetic.

Betty mumbles something unintelligible and takes the cup. She seems subdued and I wonder if perhaps she realizes what she accused me of and what that would mean to all of us.

“I had best be going again,” Siepie says, and puts her cup on the tray.

“Will you come again today?” I ask, hoping she will.

“I’ll try.” She smiles and nods. “But it might be late, I have some errands to run for my mother.”

This seems as good a time as any for me to take a break. I notice the pen is almost empty anyway—the ink is flowing slowly and is getting fainter on the paper. I cannot imagine my mother is in much danger at the moment so I shall pick up the thread again later, when Siepie visits her in the evening.

My shoulders feel stiff from sitting in the same position too long and I imagine I feel pain in my knees and ankle, as if I too have fallen, but I shake off the thought. Surely the pen can’t also make me feel my mother’s physical pain? Can it?

I dismiss the notion and go to my kitchen to prepare some food and coffee, but a feeling of dread dogs me, like a dark fog rising up behind me. I find myself rushing and I spill hot coffee when I pour it. After I clean it up, I rush back to my desk with the coffee and a small sandwich.

With shaking hands I pick up the pen and refill it. I’m having trouble working the bladder and soon my fingers are stained with ink.

This is absurd. Why should I feel this much trepidation? What could be coming that the anticipation fills me with such dread?

I hold my breath as I let the nib touch the paper, but I quickly let it out when the cold of the room in my mother’s house hits me.

The coal stove just has a weak flame in it, and even with the door open very little heat spreads from it.

I’m hungry but I see we’ve just finished our sparse evening meal and my father’s not home. Why not?

“Can we have some tea?” my sister asks, huddled close to the stove with an extra cardigan pulled tightly around her.

“No, we should save it. We’ve already had some today,” my mother says tentatively.

“Couldn’t we use the leaves from this morning again?” I ask. “The tea will be weaker, but it would still be better than nothing.” I know my mother hasn’t cleaned the teapot yet, so the leaves should still be in it. She nods slowly at my suggestion.

“Very well, it will keep us a little warmer while we wait for your father.” As she gets up to go to the kitchen I hear her talking softly to herself. She’s worried about my father.

Curfew isn’t for another half hour, so he could still make it home in time. But why is he so late?

Siepie should come over for a visit soon too. Perhaps she’ll know if anything unusual has happened. I’ve not been outside all day because of my ankle, but I intend to tomorrow.

I watch the clock and will time to move faster, to a time when I might hear my father’s footsteps on the walk, but it doesn’t work. If anything the minutes seem to drag by slower.

There are no sounds outside, it’s almost eerily quiet.

“Here we are,” my mother says, with a forced cheerfulness when she comes in with the tea tray. “We’ll just let it steep longer than normal.”

“Where’s Papa?” my sister asks. She too is getting worried.

I can’t tell if I’m shivering from cold or fear.

The clock chimes eight: curfew! My mother, my sister and I look at one another, but say nothing. Both my mother and Betty look pale, their eyes large and fear-filled in the light of the single oil lamp.

Then we hear running outside, more than one pair of feet by the sound of it, followed by taunting.

“Yeah, you’d better run, old man!” a voice calls out. I recognize it as Peter’s voice. We were at school together but I thought he’d gone to Leeuwarden to an apprenticeship somewhere. Why is he chasing my father? “You wouldn’t want to be picked up for breaking curfew. You wouldn’t like what we do to curfew breakers!” His jeering goes on.

“Peter’s joined with Mr. Meier?” I ask, horrified.

“Peter Visser?” my mother asks, and looks at Betty as if she should have the answer.

“What?” she asks.

“Didn’t you know Peter in school?” my mother asks.

“Well, yes, but not very well,” she says defensively.

She’s spared further questioning by the sound of my father’s key in the lock, followed quickly by his slamming the door on any further comments Peter might want to make.

We listen in silence as the footsteps outside recede. Only when we can’t hear them anymore does my father appear in the doorway to the dining room.

His face is flushed and glistening with perspiration, his breathing still rapid from running, and I notice some dried blood by his nose.

“Papa!” I cry, jumping up and going to him, despite my sore ankle. I fling my arms around him and feel his arms around me almost crushing my ribs. My mother stays at the table. I cannot understand why she’s not embracing him too.

Finally, my father lets me go and goes over to my mother. He kneels beside her chair and removes his hat.

“Things are getting worse in our village,” he says softly, and takes my mother’s hand. “There was a surprise inspection and Meiers’s men, boys really, got rough with some of the workers. It’s like they were settling old scores.”

“You got hurt?” my mother asks, and gently places her other hand on the side of his face.

“I couldn’t let them beat up young Frankie. They were savage in the way they were hurting him.” A shiver runs through my father.

Frankie is the village simpleton. It’s not his fault, that’s the way he was born, but he has a gentle way about him. Hendrik used to look out for him. Theo did too. Especially when Peter and Jan would pester and bully Frankie. Now who’s left to protect him?

“Won’t you get into trouble?” my mother says, straightening up and removing her hand from his face. It’s not that she doesn’t love him, she’s just scared.

“Perhaps, but they would have killed him right then and there if I hadn’t stopped them,” my father explains. “Even Meiers was disgusted.”

I resolve to visit Frankie and his parents the next day to see if they are all right. My father was right to stand up to those bullies, even if it means we might be watched more closely. At least if they’re watching us they won’t be beating Frankie up.

My mother nods once, and a look of deep sadness spreads across her face.

“Did you happen to see Siepie?” I ask, remembering that she’d said she would stop by.

My father looks at me for a moment then sighs before telling me how he saw her being picked up for questioning.

“She was out late, it was very close to curfew when she was riding her bicycle home. I saw her going as fast as she could, almost as if she were being chased. And then Meiers pulled her over. It was close to their headquarters across from the train station.”

“Did she come out again?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” my father says. “I did not stay to wait for her, I rushed home as fast as I could.” He lowers his eyes.

Before I can think of anything to say or ask, my mother orders Betty and me up to bed.

We silently comply, there seems little else to do. Our weak tea’s been drunk, my father’s safely home, for the moment, and God only knows what Siepie must be enduring tonight. I know I will lie awake worrying about my friend, but at least I’ll be warmer in my bed than in the dining room.

I force the pen up off the page. A deep chill has settled in my body and the room. It’s dark outside as I sit hunched over my desk. I see the occasional car lights casting big shadows on my wall as they drive by. I should get up and draw the curtains, but I find it hard to move. Much as I want to step away from the story and find warmth and comfort in my modern life, so far removed from my mother’s wartime story, I find I cannot.

These people have become as real to me as my own friends and neighbors. How would my neighbors behave in a similar situation, I wonder? How would I? It’s a test I hope I never have to face.

Reluctantly, I get up and close the curtains. I turn up the thermostat and make myself a simple dinner before returning to the pen. As hard as it is to wait, I know I must let some time pass.

No sooner does the nib touch the paper than the ink starts to flow rapidly, laying down the words in thick rivulets.

I feel the urgency of finding my friend, of knowing she’s all right.

The pain in my ankle is keeping me from running, but I hobble as fast as I can, ducking into my scarf with my mittenless hands in my coat pocket. A light drizzle falls out of a leaden sky, making it hard to tell what time it is.

“Maggie, where are you off to in such a hurry?” Mrs. Smit calls out to me from her front garden. “Has there been a delivery of food for the shops?” she asks expectantly.

“I don’t think so,” I call back. “I just want to get a newspaper for my father before they’re all gone.” It seems a reasonable story to tell her. I don’t want her to know Siepie’s in trouble.

Mrs. Smit shrugs and continues pumping up the tires on her bicycle. Her husband went missing early on, even before the Germans rolled into our village. Rumor has it he went somewhere south to join an army regiment fighting the Germans. Our army was ordered to stand down after the bombing of Rotterdam that preceded the occupation, but a number of our soldiers fled to join other armies.

I rush past the bakery with the empty shelves, trying not to think of bread and Johann.

I hurry on—the drizzle is changing to rain. My hair is soaked and dripping water down my face. I can’t shake the feeling that Siepie is in danger. That is, if she’s still alive. Meiers is known to be a sadist and I am surprised that my father said Meiers was disgusted by the beating Frankie got. That just doesn’t sound like Meiers.