The Book of Everything (2 page)

N
ext door to Thomas lived an old lady. All the children in the neighborhood knew she was a witch. She lived by herself, and all her dresses were black. She wore her hair done up in a gray bun and she had two black cats. Once a week she went out to do her shopping, but all the other days she stayed at home to brew her magic potions.

Because she was a witch, children pestered her. They banged on her windows or pushed filthy stuff through her letterbox. But when Eliza-with-the-leather-leg saw this, she became angry and ran creaking after the children. “Leave her in peace,” she shouted. “You ought to know better.”

Thomas left her in peace. He knew better. In
The Book of Everything
he wrote:

“On Wednesday the fifth of September 1951, Mrs. van Amersfoort put a spell on the Bottombiter.”

This is what happened:

Every so often, a large black dog stormed into the street. No one knew where he came from or where he lived. He just appeared, big, mean, and savage. All the children ran home screaming, but the Bottombiter always managed to get one or
two of them. With his huge, growling teeth, he would bite their bottoms. And then he was gone. Where? Nowhere. He was just gone, until, a few weeks later, he appeared again.

On the fifth of September, old Mrs. van Amersfoort, who, as everyone knew, was a witch, was lugging her heavy shopping bag home. It was a fine day. Lots of children were playing in the street. Suddenly, they started screaming, because the Bottombiter was bounding up the street, all his teeth bared.

Thomas tried to run home, but Mrs. van Amersfoort got in the way. So he stopped right behind her and stood very still. The Bottombiter came straight at her. Thomas pressed his hands protectively against his bottom.

“Stop!” Mrs. van Amersfoort shouted sternly.

She dropped her shopping bag on the sidewalk with a thud and raised her hands, making her look much taller than she really was.

“Stop!” she repeated.

The Bottombiter stopped in surprise and looked up at her hands.

Then Mrs. van Amersfoort started whispering things. They were obviously magic spells, but Thomas couldn't understand them.

The Bottombiter whined softly and wagged his tail timidly.

Mrs. van Amersfoort lowered her hands, but her mouth muttered on.

First, the Bottombiter sat, then he lay down, and finally rolled over onto his back with his four big paws up in the air.

Mrs. van Amersfoort left him like that for a while, looking down on him silently.

Thomas was the only one to see it, because the other children had all run inside.

“Good dog,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. “Off home now.”

The Bottombiter rose and crept down the street, his tail between his legs.

Mrs. van Amersfoort reached for her bag, but it was so heavy she could hardly get it off the ground.

Then Thomas heard a ringing in his ears and asked, “Would you like me to carry your bag inside?” He'd said it without even thinking, shocking himself.

Mrs. van Amersfoort, who really was a witch, looked at him seriously.

The ringing changed into music of a kind Thomas had never heard before, with lots of violins. His heart was thumping anxiously and he hoped desperately that Mrs. van Amersfoort would say no.

“Yes, please,” she said. “That's very kind of you.” She unlocked the front door.

The music had stopped and Thomas started tugging at the bag, but he couldn't lift it even a centimeter off the ground. It felt as if it were chock-full of rocks.

Mrs. van Amersfoort didn't notice. “It won't be heavy for you,” she called as she walked into the house. “You're such a big boy already.”

She had barely finished speaking when his ears started ringing again and the bag rose slowly off the sidewalk. It was still heavy, but a lot less so than it had been at first.

Mrs. van Amersfoort had disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. In the distance, a light flicked on. “Just put it down here,” she called. Thomas saw her standing by the sink in the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of cordial?”

“Yes, please,” said Thomas. His heart was thumping because Mrs. van Amersfoort was a witch, and so her kitchen must be a witch's kitchen.

The cordial was as red as blood.

“Sit down in the living room,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. “I'll be right there.”

Thomas stepped into the room and took a look around. The glass with bloodred cordial shook in his hand. He thought, “Don't mind the mess,” because that was what Mother always said when there was a visitor. At home, there never was a mess, but here there was. The chairs, the tables, and the floor were covered in stacks of newspapers, magazines, and books. Along the walls stood bookshelves full of books stacked higgledy-piggledy. In one corner stood a huge globe with a black cat lying fast asleep on top. Pinned to one of the shelves was a
map on which someone had roughly drawn some arrows. A large bird with spread wings was suspended from the ceiling.

Now Thomas knew for sure that it was true. This was the house of a witch. But he was not sure if it was the sinister house of a sinister witch. That remained to be seen.

“I'll be right there,” Mrs. van Amersfoort called from the kitchen. “Clear yourself a chair.”

Carefully, Thomas put his glass on a low table between a photo album and a pile of books. He lifted a stack of papers from a chair with carved legs and sat down. A black cat appeared from under a cupboard. It meowed as it approached Thomas, its tail standing straight up, and rubbed against Thomas's legs. The cat on top of the globe woke up and gave him a drowsy look.

Then Mrs. van Amersfoort came in. “There we are, a cup of coffee for me,” she said, clearing a chair and sitting down. She regarded Thomas contentedly. “I think it's damned nice that you're here,” she said.

Thomas was shocked by the word “damned.” With his friends he swore all the time, because he went to the Biblical Christian School, but this was the first time he'd heard an adult swear.

“My children all left home long ago, and my husband …”

Mrs. van Amersfoort sipped her coffee and looked Thomas in the eyes.

“Of course, you wouldn't know,” she said. “You were too young at the time. They executed my husband.”

Thomas said, “Oh,” because he didn't understand what she meant.

“‘Executed' means they shot him dead with guns,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. “The Nazis did. He was in the Resistance during the war, you know.”

Thomas nodded. “Oh, I see,” he said.

He felt a great sadness in his throat and in his stomach. The same kind of sadness as when, again and again, year after year, they nailed Jesus to the Cross. He was always glad when it was over again and the Lord had risen, safe and sound, from His grave.

“Don't be sad,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. She got up and pointed at a small blue case. “Here, have you seen one of those before?” She folded back the lid of the case.

Thomas nodded. It was a portable gramophone.

“I'll let you listen to something,” she said. She vigorously turned a handle and then put on a record.

Music drifted into the room from far, far away. It was music Thomas had never heard before, with lots of violins. The sadness melted away from his throat and from his stomach. Thomas closed his eyes and there, in the dark behind his eyelids, suddenly appeared the Lord Jesus. Thomas was scared out of his wits, but he kept his eyes closed, because he was
curious to know what the Lord would have to say.

Jesus smiled and said, “I'll never let myself be nailed to the Cross again, I just won't. I've had enough of it.”

Then He disappeared, as quickly as He had come.

That was good news, particularly for Mr. Onstein at school. He would never have to tell that terrible story again. Thomas felt intensely happy.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Mrs. van Amersfoort whispered.

“Yes,” said Thomas. His ears started ringing again. The globe started spinning, cat and all. When he was about to draw Mrs. van Amersfoort's attention to this, he saw that her heavy chair was floating above the floor like a low cloud. He barely had time to take this in when he felt the chair with the carved legs he was sitting in rising slowly, as if strong hands were lifting it. He wanted to shout with joy, but when he saw Mrs. van Amersfoort's intent face, he realized that, with this music, it was normal for chairs to float.

“Beethoven,” Mrs. van Amersfoort whispered. “When I listen to this …” She didn't finish her sentence. There was no need, for Thomas knew exactly what she wanted to say, even though he could not find words for it. His mind wandered off and he could see himself floating above green meadows and a castle with a Rolls-Royce parked in front. A wondrously beautiful princess waved to him with a white handkerchief. She had a leather leg that creaked when she walked, and
she wore a sky-blue dress with a white collar. Her father stood on the terrace playing the violin while her mother sang sweetly.

The record came to an end and started making a scratching noise. Thomas was startled.
Bump!
The chairs landed gently on the carpet. “Did Mrs. van Amersfoort notice we were floating?” he wondered. He didn't know and waited to see if she would say something, but she didn't. She was staring into the distance. Perhaps she was thinking of her husband who had been shot dead with guns.

Thomas took a sip of cordial and said, “You have such a lot of books. What are they all about?”

“Heavens,” Mrs. van Amersfoort exclaimed. “What are books about? They are about everything that exists. Do you like reading?”

Thomas nodded.

“Hold on,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. “I may have something for you.” She turned to one of the bookshelves. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Happy,” said Thomas. “When I grow up, I am going to be happy.”

Mrs. van Amersfoort was about to pull a book from the shelf, but turned in surprise. She looked at Thomas with a smile and said, “That is a damn good idea. And do you know how happiness begins? It begins with no longer being afraid.”

She pulled the book from the shelf. “Here you are,” she said.

Thomas felt himself flush. He stared at the book on his lap.
Emil and the Detectives,
it was called.

“Thank you very much,” he stammered.

“It's about a boy who does not want to be afraid, and who fights the injustice in the world,” Mrs. van Amersfoort explained. “You can keep it.”

She finished her coffee and Thomas his cordial.

“You've been very brave today,” she said. “You've come in even though all the children say I am a witch.”

Thomas didn't dare look at her. She knew! She said it just like that, straight to his face.

“They're right, of course,” she said. “I am a witch.”

It became dead quiet. So quiet Thomas could hear Father shouting and Mother wailing, clean through the wall. “Goodness,” he said. “It's after half past five. I have to get home.” He jumped up with his book in his hand. “Good-bye. And thank you.”

He walked out of the room, but stopped at the front door. Had he thanked Mrs. van Amersfoort sufficiently? No. He returned to the room. “For everything,” he said.

“That's all right, my boy,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. “You won't be afraid anymore, will you?”

“No,” said Thomas. “Not of witches, anyway.”

W
hen he walked into the living room, clutching his book, Father and Mother were sitting at the table in silence. Mother's housekeeping book lay open in front of them. That was where she wrote down all the things she bought and how much everything had cost.

“I really must get dinner going now,” she said.

“No,” said Father. “First we have to finish this.”

He checked the housekeeping book, one purchase after the other. He had a red pencil in his hand.

“Hello, Thomas,” said Mother.

She turned her cheek toward him, but Thomas said, “The other cheek, Mama.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because,” said Thomas.

He saw her flush. Then she turned her right cheek toward him. He kissed it. It was the cheek that had been hit.

“Where did you get that book?” asked Father. He wrote figures on a sheet of paper, one underneath the other.

“From Mrs. van Amersfoort.”

Father looked up. He took off his glasses and looked at
Thomas absently. “So you met Mrs. van Amersfoort and she said, ‘Here you are, have this book'?”

“No, that's not how it went,” said Thomas.

“So how did it go?”

“I carried her shopping bag in for her.”

“That was nice of you!” Mother exclaimed. “That poor woman is so alone….”

Father put his glasses back on and continued his figuring. “I would rather you did not go there,” he said.

There was a silence. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six. Thomas looked at the copper geckoes that climbed up the chimney-piece toward the ceiling.

“But why not?” Mother asked softly.

“That woman is a Communist, you know that perfectly well,” said Father. “When the Russians come, she'll be out on the sidewalk cheering. And all of us Christians will become slaves.”

There was another silence. The veranda doors stood open and you could hear the neighbors talking and laughing in their gardens. A wave of music floated into the room.

“Isn't that lovely,” Mother whispered. “Beethoven …
All men will be brothers
…”

“Let me have a look at that book,” said Father.

Thomas put it down on the table.

“
Emil and the Detectives
,” Father read out. “By Erich Kaestner. He is a Communist too, I think.”

“It's only a children's book,” said Mother. “What harm could it do?”

Father pushed the book across the table at Thomas. “Take it back as soon as possible,” he said. “And don't ever go in there again.”

“Can I go and start dinner now?” asked Mother.

“But how do you think you will get to the end of this month?” Father asked.

“I'll make it up out of my clothes allowance,” said Mother.

“No, no, that's going a bit far,” he said. Sighing, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out a twenty-five-guilder note. “Here, take this,” he said. “But do try to manage on the housekeeping money.”

Thomas crept out of the room with his book. Mother went into the kitchen, the twenty-five-guilder note in her hand.

 

“Dear Eliza,” Thomas wrote in
The Book of Everything
. “Maybe you think you are not beautiful because you have a leather leg that creaks when you walk. Or because one of your hands has only a little finger and nothing else. But that is not true. You are the most beautiful girl in the world. I think that later you are going to live in a castle with a Rolls-Royce in the driveway. I do not write this because I want to go out with you, for you are already sixteen and I am only nine (nearly ten), so that is not possible. I write it because it is true.”

He stared out of the window and thought, “What a pity I don't dare write this to Eliza.”

Pity, pity, pity, for it was a lovely letter, particularly that bit about the castle and the Rolls-Royce. “I won't dare, never in my life, no way.”

“Do you know how happiness begins?” Mrs. van Amersfoort said in his head. “It begins with no longer being afraid.”

That was easy for her to say, because she was a witch. But wait a minute. Perhaps she had become a witch
because
she was no longer afraid.

Thomas found a sheet of paper and wrote: “Dear Eliza, I actually don't have the courage to write this, but I'm doing it all the same….” Then he copied his letter, castle, Rolls-Royce, and all. He folded the paper twice and slid it into an envelope. “For Eliza,” he wrote on it in beautiful script with lots of flourishes. He put the envelope into his trouser pocket. Maybe, just maybe, he would one day give it to Eliza. You never knew.

“Thomas, Margot, dinner is ready,” Mother called from downstairs.

He met Margot in the hall. “What was it like in there?” she asked.

“Where?” asked Thomas.

“At the witch's place.”

Thomas suddenly thought that the word “witch” sounded
nasty. He had to swallow before he could say, “How should I know?”

They went down the stairs. “I know perfectly well that you've been there,” Margot hissed. Before they reached the living room door, she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Come on, tell me. What was it like in there?”

He looked her in the face. How could he explain to an onion what it was like at Mrs. van Amersfoort's? “It was … ah … different,” he said.

Margot shook him. “Different from what?”

“Different from our place,” Thomas said.

She let go of him. “I'll talk to you later,” she said.

They went into the room. Father and Mother were already at the table. The pots stood steaming under the light. Thomas could smell it right away: potatoes, cauliflower, and meat. He didn't like cauliflower.

They sat down.

“Let us pray,” said Father.

They folded their hands and closed their eyes.

“O Lord our God,” Father began.

“Hey there, Thomas,” Thomas heard in his head. In the dark behind his eyelids he saw Jesus in a long white dress that flapped in the breeze. “How's it going, my boy?” Jesus asked.

“Good,” said Thomas.

“Just good or Beethoven good?”

“Just good,” said Thomas. “But …” He didn't dare go on.

“No need to be afraid, lad,” said Jesus. “You can tell me. I won't tell anyone. Word of honor.” The Lord Jesus spat in His right hand and raised two fingers.

“He must not hit Mama,” said Thomas. He felt his eyes fill with tears, but he didn't want to cry.

“Who must not hit Mama?” Jesus asked.

“You know perfectly well,” Thomas said angrily.

“Blank's my name,” said Jesus.

“How odd,” thought Thomas. “Granddad always says, ‘Blank's my name,' and no one else does.”

“I mean,” said Jesus, “that I know nothing about it.”

“Papa, of course,” Thomas cried.

Jesus said nothing, but you could see in His face how shocked He was. And sad and angry too. “Well, I'll be….” He said then. “Has he gone completely off his head?!”

That last expression was one of Aunt Pie's!

But then Thomas heard his father say, “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, amen.”

Thomas opened his eyes, and Jesus was gone.

“Enjoy the meal,” said Mother.

Father cut the meat. The knife slid through the meat as if it were foam. But it wasn't, because you could see blood oozing from it.

“Isn't that knife razor-sharp, Papa!” said Margot.

“Yes,” said Father proudly, “I sharpen it every week.”

“It cuts clean through everything, no matter how tough!” said Margot.

“That's right,” said Father. “You could butcher an old cow with it.”

“Rip, rip, right through it,” said Margot, her eyes glistening.

Father shared out the meat, giving himself the largest piece, because he had to work so hard in the office. “I dislike blunt knives,” he said.

 

That evening, when Mother was putting Thomas to bed, she whispered, “Mrs. van Amersfoort's husband gave his life for our freedom. She saved people herself, too, during the war. I'll always let you visit her, but just make sure Papa doesn't notice.”

“Okay, Mama. Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, my own boy, because you make me happy.” She kissed him, switched off the light, and went downstairs.

Thomas thought about what Mother had said. That he didn't have to obey Father, as long as he did it secretly. And that she was happy. He had the feeling that something was not right, but he couldn't quite work out what.