After the Ashes (28 page)

“Here.” She set the jam jar on the table. “Can you cut the bread?”

“Of course.”

She grabbed the bread out of the bread box and set it in front of me, along with a knife. “Then get to it. Do you think you're crippled or something?” she teased. A bit of Oom Maarten's silliness had rubbed off on Brigitta. She was more carefree than I remembered. But perhaps that was because the low opinion I had held for her colored my memories of the past.

Her gentle teasing reassured me, and I smiled in spite of my dreary mood. “Are we having tea or coffee this morning?”

“Tea.” She set plates on a tray. “Would you like some butter?”

I shook my head and added the slices of bread to the plates. She popped the loaf back into the bread box.

“I need to make the bed,” she muttered, leaving the kitchen for our room. “Come on, Torben. Help me.” He trotted behind her.

The silence she left behind filled the room like a scream, and a wave of melancholy hit me. “When she leaves, I'll have no one to talk to,” I whispered to myself. “Oom Maarten can never understand what we've been through.” My eyes unfocused and tears streamed down my cheeks.

The idea of Brigitta leaving truly hurt. She was my last connection with Anjer. Oom Maarten checked every day, but the only other survivors from Anjer were the lighthouse keeper and a retired ship captain neither Brigitta nor I knew.

I placed my hands on the varnished table. The smooth, polished surface felt wrong. Our table in Anjer had been rough and plain and stained with use.
A table in a kitchen shouldn't be smooth
, I thought.
There should be nicks and cuts and marks and
damage.

But Oom Maarten's kitchen was immaculate. It always had been. Even Brigitta—who had grown up with a housekeeper and a cook and knew the way things ought to be—did not have to do much to keep the room pristine. Except for the dishes now sitting on the tray, everything was in its place. The fruit sat in a wooden bowl, the bread hid in the bread box, the staples resided in the pantry.

With a frustrated growl, I hurled the jam jar against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash, and the jam made a wet splashing sound when it hit the floor.

“What was that for?” Brigitta asked, returning to the kitchen just in time to witness my fit of pique.

I shrugged. “No reason.”

She put her hands on her hips. “So we're not having jam for breakfast, I gather.”

I shook my head.

Torben walked over to the mess, sniffing. “No, Torben,” Brigitta ordered. He backed off and looked at her expectantly. “What else is there to eat with bread?”

“There may be some honey in the pantry.” I traced the pattern in the grain.

She moved to the stove; Torben followed. “Why don't you check?”

“You know I need help getting out of chairs.” I hated relying on other people for assistance. And I hated the whine in my voice.

“I thought you wanted to do things on your own.”

“I do.” A rumble of thunder echoed outside. The rain wasn't stopping anytime soon.

“Then do it,” she said. “You can get out of that chair by yourself, Katrien. I know you can.”

“No, I can't.”

She walked over to the table, her expression touched with amusement. “You are acting like a child right now. I don't know why, but I wish you would stop. You aren't a child, Katrien. You can get out of that chair. Anyone who has been through volcanoes, and giant waves and nearly died of thirst can certainly stand up from a seated position.” She crossed her arms and gave me an indulgent smile.

I pushed up Sister Hilde's spectacles and glared at Brigitta. “You forgot amputation.”

“No, I didn't.” She brushed some crumbs off the table. “I was hoping you would. You can stand up on your own, Katrien.” She squeezed my shoulder and moved back to the stove. “What would Darwin say?”

The answer came automatically.
“ ‘Battle within battle must be ever recurring with varying success.'
”

“Why don't you follow his advice, then?”

“Fine!” Slapping the table, I pushed myself up. But my arms wobbled, and I dropped back in the chair. “I told you I couldn't do it.”

She set the silverware on the tray. “Do you think Darwin would have given up so easily? Try again,” she said, patting my hand and returning to the stove.

Taking a fortifying breath, I curled my fingers around the table's edge and clung to the wood like I had clung to the trees during the waves. My knuckles were as white as pearls. The tendons in my arms were taut like ropes. Bit by slow bit, I managed to pull myself erect.

“I did it!” I was astonished.

Brigitta handed me my crutches. “I knew you could.” Her face glowed with pride. “Now, go look for honey.”

I stumbled with my crutches over to the pantry and found a pot of sticky gold. “There is some here, but I can't carry it and work the crutches. I need a third hand.” My voice was no longer whining, but tinged with suppressed laughter.

“I'll get it as soon as I clean up this mess.” She bent down to the floor and scooped the jam and broken jar into a rag, which I noticed was made from the shirt I had forced her to wear in the jungle. “Why don't we have some
belimbing
with breakfast, too? And I'll get the tea. We're going to eat in the dining room. I think we need a good start to the day.”

After taking out the rubbish, she carried breakfast into the dining room on the tray. Bread and honey and
belimbing
and tea. The juicy star fruit sparkled in the dreary light.

“There,” she said, placing my plate in front of me and pouring a cup of tea. “Doesn't that look nice? It's so much better to eat in a beautiful dining room than around the kitchen table.”

Tears blurred my vision, but I managed a steady reply. “You're a good cook.”

“Dank u.”
She smiled. “My mother taught me.”

“You're an even better friend,” I added.

She gave a small laugh. “You're a good friend, too.”

Torben barked at us, and I slipped him a piece of bread.

The carriage lurched to a stop. We were at the docks. Brigitta squeezed my hand, and I clenched my jaw.

This was it.

She was leaving today.

My friend was going to her grandparents'.

Oom Maarten climbed out first, and I passed him my crutches. With Brigitta's help I made it to the door of the carriage, and Oom Maarten lifted me to the ground. After that I was on my own. “What we'll do at home, without Brigitta, I don't know,” I whispered.

The two of them joined me where I stood, and we watched the porters haul Brigitta's small trunk onto the ship. Part of the money her grandparents had sent her was meant for new clothes. She had generously split it between the two of us, and she still had enough left over to buy herself four blouses, three skirts, new undergarments and the trunk.

I leaned on my crutches, and they cut into my underarms. Tante Greet's voice popped into my head. “Stand up straight, Katrien.” So I did, my feet wobbling on the wet docks.

“Ah,” said Oom Martin with satisfaction. His attention had turned from the porters to a large group of families preparing to board the ship. “You will have good company for your voyage, Brigitta,” he said. There was a hint of relief in his voice.

The three of us made our way toward the group, which had begun boarding. But in front of the gangplank, Brigitta hesitated. “Katrien, I do not want to go.” She clutched her reticule. “Not by myself. How will I manage an entire ocean voyage all alone? I cannot even hear out of my left ear.”

Oom Maarten still stood nearby, and I crutched a few steps farther away, motioning for her to follow. By the time she joined me, I had my speech prepared. “Brigitta Burkart,” I said sternly. “You escaped giant waves. You marched for days in the jungle. You survived on oranges and hope.” I smiled at her. “You can certainly handle a simple sea voyage of a few weeks.”

“That lecture sounds vaguely familiar,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“It should. I heard it from a trusted source.” I wavered a bit on the crutches, and she steadied me.

She bit her lip. “I'm still scared.”

“I know. I would be, too. But you're brave and strong. You can do it.”

“It's not the voyage. Not entirely.”

I searched her face. “Then what is it?”

She took a deep breath. “I've never been to the Netherlands before. I've never met my grandparents.” Her voice turned thin, like a mouse's squeak. “I know they've been very kind to me, sending me that letter and offering to take me in, but what if they decide they hate me? What if they blame me for surviving?”

I placed my hands on her shoulders and looked her full in the eyes. “Brigitta, you have done nothing wrong by surviving. Do you understand that? You can't blame yourself for that. That has nothing to do with strength or weakness or any biological characteristic.”

She grinned at me.

“You survived,” I continued. “I survived. Both of us survived for no reason except coincidence. We're not stronger than those who died. We're not better examples of our species. We're just lucky. I know you don't want to hear it, but Mr. Charles Darwin said it best, that
‘species are produced and exterminated by slowly acting and still
existing causes, and not by miraculous acts of creation and by catastrophes.'
Do you see? Catastrophic disaster can wreak havoc with natural selection, but it doesn't destroy the process. We're still here. You are going to be fine.”

She nodded, tears streaming down her face.

“And if you find you cannot tolerate Amsterdam or the Netherlands or your family, you can always come to us. Oom Maarten and I will welcome you back with open arms.”

“Would you? Truly?”

“Of course.”

And at that moment, I knew at last what Tante Greet had tried so hard to make me understand.

“You wouldn't even have to knock,” I said, choking on the words. “Because that's what friends do.”

“
Ja
, we are friends now, aren't we?” she said, using a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“The very best,” I agreed.

Oom Maarten walked over to us. “They're asking everyone to board,
lieve
. We will miss you terribly. Torben most of all.”

“I'll miss you, too, sir.”

“None of that ‘sir' nonsense.” He engulfed her in his arms and kissed her cheeks.

I hugged her, too. “Don't forget to write when you arrive.”

“I'll write more often than that.”

Smiling, I said, “You had better.”

“
Dank u
, Katrien.”

“Whatever for?” I asked, pushing Sister Hilde's spectacles up.

“For saving my life. For being my friend.”

“You would have done the same for me.” I rocked back onto my crutches.

“Would I?” She shrugged. “I'm not so sure.”

I laughed. “It's done. And I don't regret my decision.” I leaned over and whispered in her good ear. “
You're
the one who saved us. You helped me on the beach. You spotted the boat. And even after we were rescued, you saved me.”

She gave me a puzzled look.

“You taught me to walk on these.” I lifted the crutches. “If I was still in that chair, I don't know what I would do. But you . . .”

She squeezed my hand.

“I can never repay you for that,” I said.

“Nevertheless,
dank u
.” She kissed me on the cheeks—right, left, right.

We hugged each other again, said our last good-byes, and she walked up the gangplank. When she got on board the ship, she waved.

Tears fell down my face as I waved back. Oom Maarten squeezed my shoulders. I kept waving until the boat was a speck on the horizon.

By the end of October, I was able to stand a bit easier with my crutches and I even managed to visit the market a few times. One Sunday, Oom Maarten suggested we attend mass. Since I no longer thought of myself as housebound, I agreed.

“I'm glad you're willing to come,” my uncle said softly, taking my hand. “You should know, though, that today's mass will honor the people we lost in the disaster.”

I took a moment to digest this. I wondered if I would be better off staying home. Oom Maarten could go alone, and when he returned, we could talk about it together. But when I looked up and saw the love and kindness in my uncle's eyes, my hesitation dissolved. I gave his hand a squeeze and, with a few wobbles, stood up. “I'll get ready, Oom Maarten.”

Hundreds of people filled the pews in the Catholic church that morning. I'd forgotten that the church in Batavia was about twice the size of the one in Anjer. I hadn't been inside this church since my trip last May with Vader and Tante Greet. Had that only been five months ago? How could so much happen in such a short amount of time?

Oom Maarten and I took our seats near the back. My crutches slipped from my hand as I laid them at my feet. The clatter reverberated around the nave, much louder than the whispers of the crowd. Some people glanced at me with irritated looks.

I glared back. I didn't drop them on purpose!

An awkward silence descended as the last people to arrive settled into seats. Then, above us, the choir sang. The congregation stood, and Oom Maarten helped me to my feet. The priest, in black mourning vestments, led the procession solemnly up the aisle. Their lumbering pace reminded me of the heavy footsteps of a Javan rhinoceros.

The choir sang the same song that was sung at my mother's funeral. She had died so long ago, I thought the pain from her loss had gone away. It hadn't. It still hurt. And now that hurt was compounded many times over.

Oom Maarten placed his arm around me, and I leaned against him.