No Greater Love (3 page)

“Well, my adoptive parents usually spoke Dutch at home and English outside of the home.” She spread her hands open in resignation. “They knew that I would need English for school and so they insisted, when I first came, that I speak English.”

“You speak Dutch?” Pieter asked, astonished.

“A little,” she said as she picked up Carl’s empty glass.

Carl chuckled. “She speaks it very well. I always asked her to speak Dutch to me so that I could keep my Dutch alive.” He shrugged. “Like everything, you have to use it to keep it.”

“And your Turkish?” Pieter posed the question gently.

“I had a friend, Emine, a wonderful Turkish-American friend. We went through nursing school together, and whenever we were together, we spoke Turkish.” With a dry laugh, she added, “I tried to teach her Dutch but she said that it was too hard and she would never need it.”

“You say, you had a friend?” Pieter risked asking.

“She married and moved to Amsterdam.” She held out her hand for his empty glass.

“Perhaps she would have benefited from those Dutch lessons you offered.” He handed her his glass with a murmured, “thank you,” and then asked as an afterthought, “Is her husband Dutch?”

“Yes. A psychiatrist. His name is Marc van Etten. She invited me to visit them but . . .” Her voice trailed off and then she turned to Carl. “You have to tell the rest of the story.”

“I’m afraid that I wandered off the topic.” He shifted in his chair. “My Uncle Henrick taught his son, Roel, the craft of copper designing that his father had taught him, but, for me, he followed my father’s wishes. He sent me to a school that prepared boys for college and then he sent me to college, a Jesuit one.” He shrugged philosophically. “My father would have understood.” He smiled at Janan. “And now we come to you. When Roel was in his mid-fifties, he spent several months in Turkey, in Erzincan, learning new techniques for creating hammered copper designs from the masters there. He worked with Janan’s father and got to know the family. Two years later, when he learned of the terrible earthquake that destroyed so much of Erzincan, he went back and found Janan in an orphanage, the only member of the family to have survived. He and his wife had no children and so they adopted Janan and raised her as their daughter.”

“And that is how you became my honorary Uncle Carl.” Janan’s voice was husky as she gazed at Carl, lost in memories, and then she stood up and said briskly, “Pieter has heard enough stories.” She motioned toward the back of the house. “We’ll eat in the kitchen.” She glanced at Pieter and stated matter-of-factly, “The dining room area is drafty in the winter.”

“Something smells delicious.” Carl sniffed. “Bay leaves, rosemary, and thyme. Dare I hope for lamb shanks?”

Pieter followed Carl down the hall and paused at the door of the kitchen. A round maple table circled by four maple captain chairs was placed in a window alcove that overlooked a tiny back garden dominated by a tall popular tree and a well-rounded mulberry tree.

Janan noticed his appraisal of the trees. “Carl planted them soon after I came,” she said simply as though that explained their presence and urged him into the kitchen.

The kitchen was small and had the well-scrubbed look of a Dutch kitchen but it was the lavender Aga stove that stopped Pieter just inside the door.

Carl smiled, noticing Pieter’s gaze. “You are wondering why I have an Aga here in this small American village, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “I must warn you it requires another story, but a short one.” He motioned Pieter to the table where brown quail-patterned plates were carefully arranged on pistachio-green linen placemats, and thin tulip-shaped wineglasses stood beside each plate hinting at the promise of a robust Bordeaux.

Janan paused in her efforts to push an old corkscrew opener into the cork of a wine bottle clamped under her arm. “Please sit down.”

“Allow me?” Pieter said as he eased the wine bottle from her grasp with one hand, the back of his hand inadvertently grazing the side of her breast, and, with the other, took the corkscrew opener from her hand.

Janan felt a tingle run up her spine. The brush of Pieter’s cool fingers had provoked a feeling that she’d never known, a yearning to be held in a man’s arms, to feel a strong, hard body pressed against hers. She felt again that moment in the snow—his cheek pressed against hers and his arms holding her firmly against him. She turned away quickly, bending over the oven to hide the blush that she could feel staining her cheeks. She removed the casserole of lamb shanks surrounded by carrots, onions, potatoes and mushrooms and, after sprinkling the fragrant gremolata mixture of lemon zest, chopped parsley, and crushed garlic that Carl loved over the top, placed it on the table. With a quick turn, she picked up the bread basket and cheese board from the counter. “Please sit down,” she said to Pieter who had remained standing until she slid into her chair.

“Well, my dear boy, if you will pour the wine, I will tell you about my wonderful Aga stove.” He paused for a moment and then said, “It is one of the things I remember as a little boy in Leiden, the big black Aga stove in the kitchen.” He stared out the window and then shook his head. “Let’s see, my stove. How long ago was it, Janan?”

“About three months ago,” she answered softly.

“Yes, that’s right.” He smiled impishly at Pieter. “There was an old gas stove that had been here for ages. It was one of those with an open flame and sometimes you had to light the pilot light with a match. Well, one day I had a little accident. I called Janan a
nd she came right away and took me to the emergency room. It was just a little burn but Arnold, my great-nephew—I don’t think you’ve met him—well, somehow he learned about it and got all upset, yelling at me that it was unsafe for me to live alone, that I should be moved to a retirement home. Me, in a retirement home? Never!”

“So what happened?” Pieter asked, his eyes on Janan’s face.

“Janan figured it out.” He chortled with glee. “She found a very small Aga stove that fit in the space of the old stove. No open pilot light or open flames and, the best part, the kitchen stays cozy all the time during the winter months.”

Pieter turned in his chair to study the stove. “It is very efficient-looking, very sturdy.” He shot a teasing grin in Janan’s direction. “Very lavender.”

“The color is heather,” she bristled. “It’s an English stove.”

“I stand corrected,” he said meekly. “You must forgive me. English is not my first language.”

“You seem to manage very well when you want to,” she fired back and then continued stiffly, “I had a very short time to find a stove to fit the space and within budgetary restrictions.”

“But she did it,” Carl chimed in cheerfully. “She found a builder whose customer had changed her mind and no longer wanted that color.”

“Incredible.” Pieter shook his head in mock disbelief.

“The price was much too high but Janan made a bargain with him and now I have my lovely stove.”

Pieter could not resist. “What was the bargain?” He met her glare. “In case I ever need to replace a stove,” he added meekly.

It was Carl who answered his question. “After his wife died, he had been doing his own cooking, but now, Janan makes a dinner for every day of the week and freezes it for him.”

“How long will it take to pay off the bargain?” Pieter asked soberly as he thought of all the extra work she had taken on.

“A while, but it doesn’t matter. I am cooking for us anyway.” She rose quickly and began to clear the table.

“I will help you.” Pieter gathered up plates in each hand and carried them to the sink.

Pieter’s efforts to help surprised Janan. “Thank you, but no. Carl has been waiting so long for your visit. I will bring the coffee into the other room and you can talk without interruption.”

When they had settled into their chairs with fragrant cups of Dutch coffee, Carl began calmly, “So tomorrow you will spend the day at the Cancer Institute.” He studied Pieter carefully. His years of clinical practice clicked off what he was seeing. The fit of Pieter’s clothes indicated weight loss, his skin was pale with a grayish cast, and he had eaten lightly. He put down his cup and questioned Pieter directly. “What is it that you are suspecting?”

Pieter answered slowly, “At first I had headaches. They were similar to migraines.” He touched the birthmark on his left cheek. “I wondered if I was developing symptoms of Sturge-Weber syndrome. It often goes with birthmarks like mine. I know it usually occurs in early childhood but there have been a few late onset cases.” He shook his head. “Then I began to have fevers, lots of bruises that I couldn’t explain, bleeding, and some weight loss.” He held his cup in both hands as he leaned forward in his chair. “The most troublesome is a terrible sense of fatigue. It is there all the time.” They studied each other in silence and then Pieter said flatly, “I am thinking leukemia but the type . . .” He stared at the cup in his hands before saying with a quiet acceptance, “The type doesn’t really matter all that much.”

Carl said tentatively, “There is no history of leukemia or any cancer in your family that I know of.”

“No, my father died young. He was only 55 years old, but it was cardiac arrest, not cancer.”

“That is young.” Carl frowned and then asked abruptly, “What year was your father born?”

“He was born August 21, 1945.” Pieter stared at Carl. “His mother would have been pregnant during the Dutch Hunger Winter, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes,” Carl answered slowly. “There have been some studies showing an increase of certain health problems among people who were conceived during that time and also among their children, but . . . leukemia?” He paused. “I am not aware of any connection.”

“I’ve gone over all the known risk factors. I don’t smoke. I don’t think I’ve had the Epstein Barr virus, and I know that I’ve never worked with benzene or pesticides.”

Carl stroked his chin thoughtfully as he lived again that terrible moment when he heard the news that a nuclear power plant in the Ukraine had exploded spewing 400 times more radioactive material into the atmosphere than that released by the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. He remembered his horror on hearing the calm words of the newscaster saying that the fallout was expected to spread across all of Europe contaminating water and food sources. The Netherlands would have been one of the first countries in the path of the fallout. “How old were you when the Chernobyl explosion occurred?”

“That was in 1986. I would have been 12 years old. I remember that we could not drink milk and had to buy bottled water.” He continued thoughtfully, “The official reports say that no definite association has been found between the Chernobyl explosion and increased cases of leukemia.”

“Hmm, there are conflicting opinions and some say that the studies need to be longer.” Carl shifted restlessly in his chair. “As you know, we often never know the cause of an illness.”

Janan paused in the doorway. “There is a weather alert for more snow. I think I’d better sleep here tonight.” She turned to Pieter. “I’ll pick you up at the Inn in the morning and drive you to the hospital.”

Pieter stood up and answered quickly, “No, you don’t need to do that. I can drive myself.’

“No, no, my dear boy,” Carl said soothingly. “It is better for Janan to take you. Her Subaru can go through anything.”

“It will be an early start,” Pieter warned in a tight voice.

“Then I’ll turn in now.” Janan smiled at both of them. “You relax and have a nice visit and I’ll see you in the morning. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

Pieter nodded briefly and turned to Carl. “I should be going too.”

“No, please stay a little longer.” Carl settled more comfortably into the old Morris chair, with his arms resting on the flat, wooden arm rests. He put his feet up on the matching ottoman and gestured toward the chair facing his. “You haven’t told me about your work.”

“I’m still with the Department of Psychiatry at the University, teaching and mentoring the residents, but in the last few months, I’ve had to cut back.” He had fought against the body-numbing fatigue as long as he could before requesting part time. “I work a few hours each day with the children and adolescents in the holding centers.”

“Holding centers?” Carl’s words rang out with startling ferocity.

“Places for unaccompanied asylum-seeking minors—children without parents or children who became separated from their parents as they fled their countries.” Pieter’s expression remained that of a professional describing a clinical situation but the gruffness of his voice gave away his feelings. “Orphans, most of them
.”

“Dear God, holding centers. Have people forgotten? The Nazis turned the Dutch Westerbork refugee center into a holding center before they put the people on trains for the concentration camps.” He stared at Pieter. “Are you telling me that children are put in Dutch camps?”

“Carl, today we have one of the highest number of refugees seeking asylum of all the European countries.” Pieter stood up and began to pace. “There are 23 refugee centers scattered throughout The Netherlands, eight in Amsterdam alone.” He paused to let Carl appreciate the scope of the problem. “The Holding Centers provide medical care, teach them Dutch, and keep the children safe from predators while they wait to learn if they have been granted asylum.” Exhausted, Pieter dropped back into his chair.

“I had no idea that there were so many refugees seeking asylum in The Netherlands. Where do they come from?

“Wherever there are problems: Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan, and Somalia, some even from China.”

“What is the main reason they come?”

“Probably the most common reason is war in their countries. Some fear persecution for political views, and some come in search of better economic opportunities.” He shot a look at Carl. “Many of the male teenagers come alone to try to earn money to help their families.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Of course, there is always the problem of child-trafficking.”

“So much human misery,” Carl muttered. “How long are the children held in those camps?”

“It depends on how long it takes to process their applications. Sometimes there is missing information, or an appeal, and so on.” He met Carl’s eyes. “It’s usually about three months but sometimes it’s much longer.” He sighed. “As soon as they turn eighteen, they have to leave the camp.”