No Greater Love (11 page)

He listened carefully as she told him about her father refusing to renounce his Turkmen ethnicity and his refusal to register as an Arab. She described how he had been forced to leave his family home in Kirkuk, and how everything the family owned had been confiscated. “Go on,” he said when she paused.

In an emotionless voice, she told him how her father had been killed in a car-bombing and her mother and little brother had been killed in a marketplace bombing.

“What happened to you after that?” he asked in a professionally neutral voice.

“I went to live with my mother’s older brother,” she answered in a low voice with her eyes downcast. “He had a very large family.”

“And then what happened?”

“My uncle . . .” She stopped, unable to go on.

“What made you decide to leave Kirkuk?”

“I learned that my uncle was arranging a marriage for me—to an Arab with one wife and four children.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “He lived on a large farm.”

Pieter felt revulsion sweep through him as his mind supplied the missing information
. With no dowry, her uncle had arranged a marriage that would mean forced labor for her and maybe a little money for him. How could any man send a delicate child to such a fate?
“What happened next?” he asked calmly.

“I ran away,” she said defiantly. “One of my teachers was taking his family to Germany. His daughter and I were best friends and she convinced her father to take me too.”

What courage that school teacher had shown. He had risked so much to save someone else’s child
.
Pieter asked gently, “Why did you not stay in Germany with them?”

“I have always wanted to be a nurse, a baby nurse,” she said shyly as she smoothed her palms over the shabby material of her skirt. “My father had told me that the best nursing schools were in Holland but that there was a good nursing school in Urfa and he promised to send me there.”

“Urfa? I don’t know where that is?”

“It’s really Sanilurfa, in Eastern Turkey,” she explained quickly. “It’s not far from Kirkuk.” She lifted her head proudly. “He believed that the nursing schools in Holland were the best and I was determined to come here.” She held out her open hands as though trying to make him understand. “To honor my father.”

“I see. You decided to come to The Netherlands to seek political asylum and maybe to study?” Pieter wrote the information on the agency form and then sat quietly for a moment aware of how little he could do to help her. “Let’s pull the pieces together so you can plan.”

“How can I plan?” she whispered. “I don’t know if I will be granted asylum or deported.” She threw up her hands. “If I’m deported, I have no place to go.”

“You say that you are alone, your family has been persecuted and killed because of their nationality, because of their belonging to the Turkmen ethnic minority. You believe that you would not be safe if you returned.” He spoke slowly, feeding her the information that she would need to support her application for asylum. “If your application for asylum is approved, you will need to find a way to support yourself.” He waited for her speak, but when she did not, he continued. “Before refugees can work legally in the Netherlands they must pass a Dutch proficiency test showing that they can read and speak Dutch.” He leaned forward slightly. “I know they offer Dutch classes here but it would be helpful if you did some studying on your own.” He thought for a minute.
She would consider any gift from a man to be inappropriate. Any study materials would have to come from a woman.
He continued smoothly. “My mother is very concerned about refugees in The Netherlands. She plans to donate some books to Osdorp that you could use.” He made a mental note to stop at the bookstore on his way home.

“Yes, but what happens if I study hard to learn the language and am not granted asylum?”

“Knowing another language is always a good thing.” He posed his question in a nonthreatening manner. “Perhaps you already speak some other languages? Some French?”

She gave a brief nod. “In school.”

“Some Kurdish?”

A faint smile crossed her face. “Everyone in Kirkuk speaks some Kurdish.”

“Some Arabic?”

“No.” She shook her head and said vehemently, “No Arabic.”

“Because you have already learned two other languages. Dutch will come easier for you.”

She stared at the floor for a moment and then asked in a rush without looking at him, “What happens if I am not granted asylum?”

Pieter’s hands tightened on the sides of the table
. How could the authorities not accept this young woman, barely more than a child? She had seen her family killed, escaped from an arranged marriage that would have doomed her to a life of misery, and walked most of the way from Iraq to Amsterdam. She had no one to protect her if she was sent back to Iraq, and she would be subject to persecution for her refusal to register as an Arab. Who could be more deserving of Dutch asylum?
He forced himself to answer, “We will be here to help you if that happens.”

Chapter 9

It was only midafternoon but early October dusk was already shrouding the steps and front porch of the old house that Janan had known for so many years. She picked up the snow shovels that always stood on the front porch and carried them to the garage where its emptiness echoed that of the house. Box after box of Carl’s belongings had already been shipped. She sighed remembering the blankets, clothes, books, china, and favorite mementos that she had packed under his close supervision. Her own packing had taken little time—clothes, some favorite books, and the few pieces of newborn clothing that she had not been able to resist buying. The boxes were already on the way to Leiden and tomorrow she would be on a plane with Carl, flying to a home she had never seen, to a country she did not know.
A country that held Pieter.
The thought sent a burning desire zipping through her before she could squelch it.
Would she ever see him again?

Carl met her at the door as she hung up her coat and hat. “Are you sure that your doctor said that it is safe for you to travel?” he asked anxiously.

“Quite sure,” she answered calmly, recalling her doctor’s exact words. “
It would be better if you don’t travel but, if you must, don’t delay any longer.”

“Do you think we should have stayed here?” Carl had asked the question one way or another again and again.

“You’ve wanted to go home for a long time,” she answered gently. “I think it’s the right decision.” She led him to his favorite chair. “Rest now while I get our supper. It is going to be a very tiring day tomorrow.”

For Carl, as the taxi stopped in front of the narrow, three-story, gray brick house braced on each side by imposing red brick houses with intricate stepped-gables and cream-colored rococo trim, it seemed as though the house was welcoming him back. He stopped to study the front of the house—the black door with its four heavy wood panels and the large window on the first level, the two tall, narrow windows on the second level, a single tall window on the third floor, and the sweeping bell-shaped gabled roof tiled in gray.

He nodded slightly and, leaning on Janan’s arm, walked across the irregular cobblestone pavement to the door that was separated from the pavement by one shallow, worn stone step. He stopped for a moment and stared at the step.
He didn’t remember walking across it when he had left so long ago. Had his father carried
him?
He walked past the dour, black-clad housekeeper who opened the door with only the briefest of greetings. Unerringly, he walked down the narrow flagstone hallway, past the dark, heavily paneled living room and dining room to the last room, his father’s library. Here, the heavy paneling was lightened by the glowing pink and dark- blue colors of the old, hand-woven Sarouk rug lying in front of the green-tiled fireplace with its high protruding carved mantel. He motioned toward the cracked brown leather chair and ottoman on the left side of the fireplace and Janan led him forward to it. He waited patiently as she helped him out of his coat and then he settled into the chair with only enough energy left to murmur, “Are you going to be all right, my dear child?”

“Yes. Of course,” she said briskly, covering him with a plaid wool travel rug that she found on the worn, brown leather couch that had been pushed close to the fireplace. “I will see about getting us some coffee.”
And heat,
she thought
as she shivered in the frigid room.

“The kitchen is on the lower level. The stairs are at the back of the hall. You will probably find the housekeeper there.” His voice trailed off. “I think she said her name was Betje but I don’t remember her.” He sighed. “So many years. She’s probably new.” He gave Janan a rueful half-smile. “We are refugees again, reverse refugees. I have come home and you are 4,000 miles closer to your home. There is no one to welcome us, but at least we have a place to live, not like Pieter’s poor refugee children.”

Janan flinched at the mention of Pieter’s name. “Don’t worry. We’ll manage,” she said calmly as her thoughts raced
. So many new things to learn, so many adjustments to make and all so different from the life she knew.
Walking slowly down the narrow, gray hall that led to the back of the house in search of the stairs to the kitchen, she paused at the half-open door of a room tucked under the stairway
. Yes! This cozy breakfast room would serve perfectly as a retreat for her and the babies.
She looked around quickly.
Move the small gate-legged table under the window. Add a rocking chair, a chest to serve as a changing table, and a portable playpen and it would do very well.

She paused in the doorway to the spotless but barren kitchen. There were no rows of gleaming pots, no hutch cabinet loaded with china. It looked as though it had been stripped by the previous occupants and she was thankful that Carl had insisted on packing his favorite china, silver, and wineglasses.

“Good morning, Betje,” Janan said in the precise Dutch that she had learned as a child. “We would like coffee in the library, please.” She straightened her shoulders at the woman’s sullen nod. “We will have lunch at 12:30 and dinner at 6 p.m.” She waited but there was no response. “What have you planned for our lunch?” she asked bluntly.

“I haven’t planned anything.” The housekeeper sniffed. “How would I know what you might want?”

Janan gritted her teeth. “A light lunch will do very well, an herb omelet with some vegetables and buttered rolls.” When there was no answer, she added, “You can manage that, can’t you?” Janan turned to leave and then remembered that Carl liked a crisp white wine with his lunch. “Do you have the key to the wine cellar?”

The only answer was a resentful shake of the head.

“Coffee, as soon as possible.” Janan turned to leave the kitchen barely controlling her urge to shake the woman. She could understand the housekeeper’s waiting to learn what the new occupants would want for lunch but she could not understand the woman’s sulkiness
. Why had she stayed on if she resented them so much?
She turned back as another problem occurred to her. “Is there additional staff? Someone to carry the luggage upstairs?”

“There’s my husband, Wim,” Betje offered but did not expand on what his duties were.

“Please ask him to take the luggage upstairs,” Janan said wearily.

“To the master bedroom?” Betje asked with a thinly disguised sneer.

“Yes, of course.” Janan forced herself to show no emotion. Carl would use the master bedroom and she would choose another but she was not going to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing that right now. “I assume all the bedrooms have been thoroughly cleaned after the last occupants left?”

“I keep the entire house thoroughly clean,” Betje snapped.

“Perhaps, but the windows are grubby, the library is dusty, and there are no flowers in the vases,” Janan retorted quickly. She did some quick calculations of what work was involved. “I’ll be doing the shopping from now on.” She gave Betje a firm look. “And I will expect you to take care of the cleaning, cooking, and laundry.”

At the other woman’s disrespectful snort, she said firmly, “If the work is too much for you, you must let me know.” She waited a moment. “I assume your husband looks after the outside work?”

Betje nodded slowly. “He is getting on a bit.”

“Tell him that if the work is too much for him, he must let me know,” Janan said, turning to leave. Confronting the obstreperous Betje had not been easy but she knew that she had to start as she meant to go on.

“I am sorry that I can’t be of any help,” Carl said fretfully as she entered the library. “The flight seems to have drained all my energy.”

“That’s all right,” Janan said cheerfully, “everything is under control. We will have our coffee in a few minutes and then you can rest while I go to the market to pick up a few things for our dinner.”
And a bottle of Jenever and some wine. Flowers, too. Flowers would help to offset the drabness of the rooms.

The days fell into a quiet pattern. Early in the day, Carl would stay in the library, reading the morning paper. Later, he would move to sit by the wide window in the living room overlooking the Rapenberg Canal and watch the color change from a glistening sapphire blue in the morning, to a burnished gold in late-afternoon, and to an indigo blue in the early evening. He never tired of watching the canal and the flow of people and bicycles hurrying along the narrow cobblestone pavement that separated his home from the canal. He did not seem to mind that the only caller was his doctor who came regularly to check on him.

For Janan, the days seemed monotonous and dismal. It was not just the constant, bone-chilling drizzle but the house as well as the housekeeper seemed hostile and rejecting. She missed the wide lawns in front of her old home that provided a barrier to the street traffic. She missed the feeling of the car keys in her pocket and the car in the driveway awaiting her command. She missed the snippets of news shared with the nurses she worked with and the bustle of the small village where everyone knew everyone. Most of all, she missed having someone to talk with and that desperate feeling of loneliness had almost pushed her to write to her best friend, Emine.