River in the Sea (14 page)

“And men are freed! God blesses the pure of heart,” the Dominie said, smiling, waving a hand in the air, his long fingers fluttering. Leen leaned forward. Freed?

“Many of you know this already, but it is something we must acknowledge in God’s house. Yesterday 51 Resistance workers, soldiers in the L.O., were freed from the Leeuwarden jail. And do you know how many shots were fired?”

“Zero!” a voice called out. Leen jumped. No one spoke in church, no one except the Dominie. Renske twisted in her seat to find the speaker and neither Leen nor Tine corrected her.

“Not a single one!” another said.

“Not a single one,” the Dominie repeated, and something about his voice made the hairs on the back of Leen’s neck stand up. The only detail she knew about the jail was that it was where the SS held their prisoners.

Leen heard a clap, then another. There was laughter. Someone near the front pumped his fist. Dominie Wiersma could hardly contain himself at the pulpit. “That’s right!” he said, nearly shouting. “Not a drop of blood! No men were lost! In fact, 51 men were saved. Saved! They are safe now, out of their cells. And for this, we have many thanks to give.”

He immediately launched into a prayer, and out of the corner of her eye, Leen watched all the heads bow. But underneath the bent necks was a flurry of activity. Women wiped their eyes with handkerchiefs, then handed them to their men, who took them but didn’t use them, simply covering their faces with their rough hands, placed next to one another like a book. Mrs. Boonstra’s chin practically rested on the orange kerchief tied around her neck. She was smiling to herself. Leen looked at Mem. She was blinking fast. She gingerly touched the corner of her eyes with her index finger, a futile effort. Leen almost reached out to touch her hand, force her mother to look at her. 

Mem must have felt her watching. She turned and met Leen’s gaze. She gave Leen a strange, relieved grin. She almost looked embarrassed by her tears but there was more, too; there was joy. There was some kind of happiness for Mem, hearing the news.

Already Leen knew that this was a story she would hear about for the rest of her life. Fifty–one men freed and not a single shot: legendary stuff. But Mem’s reaction? She couldn’t make sense of that. Pater wasn’t jailed; he was not one of the 51.

But maybe if the Resistance could so boldly and so successfully commit such an act, it must mean that the German army was weaker still. The war really was coming to an end. It wouldn’t be long. Soon, he would be home. Two weeks overdue was simply an inconvenience. It would be an anecdote to the legend. During the hymn Leen joined the crush of voices, singing loudly for the first time in years.

At the end of the service, after the offering was collected, Dominie Wiersma announced something else that caught Leen off guard. 

“It has been some time since we’ve had a social for the younger members of the congregation,” he said, smiling. “In honor of Christmas, and to celebrate recent events, there will be a youth social next Sunday to gather in fellowship, from 12:30 to 2:30. This is a time where we should still celebrate, always giving the glory to God. Let us now close in prayer.”

Leen looked at Tine, who looked back at her, a surprised little grin at the corners of her mouth. Then they both bent forward. Leen looked at Tine once more. She was still smiling.

Leen didn’t listen to the prayer. The social would only last two hours, just enough time after morning service to eat and have a weak cup of coffee and then return to church while all the adults would be on high alert should anything happen. Still, it was obviously safe enough to have a social, boys and girls. The Resistance must have given Dominie Wiersma the go–ahead. Besides, now she was old enough to go. By the time she turned thirteen, the unspoken age deemed appropriate enough to attend, the
razzias
were too numerous and frequent, and the socials had been called off. They used to be held regularly, at least one a month, where the teenagers from the neighboring villages gathered Sunday evenings after the afternoon service. Not much happened except whispers behind cupped hands and glances over shoulders. For the older teenagers, it was the sanctioned place to find a mate, the ensuing courtships and marriages practically arranged by the church. 

Tine had been, and Issac too. He pretended he didn’t care about going, but Leen knew he snuck a comb with him and ran it through his hair just as soon as he was out of the house. All during the prayer, Leen could think only of how wonderful it would be if Pater came home before next Sunday to see her bathed, neat, her hair curled, looking girlish, even a little pretty. Growing up.

She also wondered if Jakob Hoffman would be there.

The light mood carried Leen into the kitchen, where she helped Tine and Mem cook and lay out the
tafel
without complaint. Tine hummed, her high voice sounding like a reedy flute, notes reminiscent of Mem’s old singing voice. Issac wasn’t home yet, staying behind to smoke with a group of men Leen had never seen him talking to before. There were two conversation topics discussed after church, the jailbreak among the older crowd, the social among the younger. Issac had chosen the former.

Renske was underneath the table, grabbing absently at the chair legs. “Renske, you can help put out the knives and forks,” Leen said, bending over to smile at her baby sister. Renske crawled out without protest. Her curly hair was matted in the back. The Dominie’s announcement shifted Leen’s ennui to ambition, and she decided she would work those knots out when it was Renske’s turn for a bath that afternoon.

“How many forks?” Renske asked. Tine was teaching Renske her numbers this way.

“Six,” Mem sang. “Always six knives and six forks.”

Leen got out the glasses, weaving around Renske as she carefully placed each piece of silverware down, pressing each as if it was a flower to be kept between pages, arranged just so.

“I have one extra,” Renske said. She held up a fork in one hand and a knife in the other.

Leen stopped and counted. Tine, who had been scooping potatoes out of the pot of boiling water into a clean bowl, looked at Leen in dread. Steam rose from the starchy clumps. The extra knife and fork in Renske’s hands threatened to blow down the fragile scaffolding of Mem’s new mood. Mem’s eyes flickered with a shadow of sadness, but then mercifully, she shrugged it away, holding her smile. “
Acht
, I forget,” she said. “Five is good. Put the extra away.” Mem turned to Tine, who quickly dumped the cooling potato into the bowl and resumed scooping the rest. “Are we almost ready? It’s time to eat
smakelijk
,
ja
?”

Issac walked in as Leen set down the plate of pork chops and onions. He too looked different. He wasn’t smiling, but yet he didn’t appear angry or sullen. Instead he looked preoccupied, wary. He sat down and speared a chop and was about to cut it when Mem said, “Issac, shouldn’t we pray first?”

He glanced at the door. “Of course,” he said, putting his fork down. Leen sat down, nudging Renske to put her hands together and close her eyes. She did the same, putting her hands close to her face so she could watch Renske. 

“Issac?” Mem said.

Leen opened her fingers and saw Issac shake his head, as if to clear it, and then he began mumbling, starting the prayer the same way that Pater did, using the familiar phrase, “Dear Lord, we come before you this day to,” but then his words fumbled, unused to the responsibility of crafting a meaningful supposition to God. As the man of the house, Issac was meant to lead all of them in matters related to religion, which usually meant opening and closing the meals with prayers and a reading from the Bible. Pater usually selected the book, chapter, and verses and made one of the children read it, his own reading too slow and labored, but his memory of the passages crystalline. But since Pater had been gone, these standards had been more lax. If Mem did not enforce it, no one else would push for it, not even Tine.

Today, though, Leen heard her vigor echoed in Issac’s voice. At first, his phrases were fumbling as he mentioned the easiest things: “Thank you, Lord, for this food and bless it onto our bodies. Forgive us for our sins, and guide us through the upcoming days.” His voice grew heartier as he said, “We thank you Lord, for the success of the Resistance this last day, and for the lives of our brave soldiers who weathered their stay at the jail, knowing they would one day be set free, from the tyranny and evil of the Nazi warmongers.”

Leen looked at Tine. Pater didn’t pray like this. But Tine didn’t look, and when Issac’s tone finally descended she closed her eyes before he said, “Amen.”

They began eating, and then Tine asked Issac, “Will you go to the social?” Her voice was timid. She – all of them – had spoken to Issac only in clipped, meaningless phrases since Pater left: “The door didn’t close all the way, it has to latch.” “Pass your plate to the end of the table, please.” “I pressed your shirts.”

Issac shook his head, chewing noisily. His eyes were fixed on the front door.

“Why? You used to,” Leen said. She wanted Issac to be there. She wanted to see what he looked like with his face unlocked, even playful.

Issac spoke directly to Leen. He was so serious he struck Leen as comical, like he was over–acting. “What do you think is going to happen?  Is the SS just going to say, ‘
Ver dikke
, we lost a few. That’s too bad.’ Right now, I can tell you that they’re cutting the dikes all around the Rhine.”

“They were already doing that,” Leen corrected, feeling smug that she too knew what was happening, thanks to Mr. Deinum. It was all he spoke of now, feverish with reports of the Allies trying to move up again, coming through France this time.

Mem’s brows pulled to the center of her forehead in a knot of concern. “I would think the social can only be held because the L.O. said so.”

“Maybe, but no matter to me. The war isn’t over yet.” 

Leen winced. It was all falling apart.

“It’s just for two hours,” Tine said, trying to hold on. “Mem, can we still go?”

Issac pushed back his plate. He reached for the Bible, then handed it to Mem. He cracked his knuckles. He spoke like a worn–out shopkeeper. “I’ve got other things to worry about. But you go, if that’s your preference.” He got up and stood at the edge of the kitchen window, looking both up and down the street.

“I’m not asking you for permission,” Leen snapped. Issac said nothing, unmoving.

“If the Dominie and the L.O. thinks we can have one, then the girls can go,” Mem said, finding a hidden source of resolve. Leen nudged Tine’s foot under the table. Mem put down the Bible. “Let’s have something sweet, okay? Time for a little dessert. Tine, shall we have some pears and cream?”

“Is there
panne
?” Renske asked, brightening slightly.
Panne
was nothing more than a makeshift pie of shortbread topped with cream and jam, then heated on the stove, a wartime dessert, but Renske loved it. 

“Ugh, Renske, there is no
panne
,” Tine said. “But I will get you something
lekker
, just a minute.” She stood up and hurried to the cellar ladder, her skirt swishing as her legs took long strides.

“I’ll help you,” Leen called, eager for a moment to say under her breath to Tine,
What’s gotten into Issac?

“I’ve got it, don’t come down,” Tine said, the ladder emitting short, tight groans.

“Let me get the bowls and spoons,” Leen said.

“It’s alright, Leen, you work so hard all week.” Hearing this, Issac snorted. Leen did not respond. Tine came back to the table with her arms full, each hand balancing too many pieces of dinnerware. Leen took the tin of fruit Tine had tucked inside a bowl, about to tip out. She opened it. The slices of pears were narrow, and when she served them, there was no more than three slices to the bowl. “That’s all?” Leen said. “We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“It’s plenty,” Tine said. “What are you going to read, Mem?”

“Oh,” Mem said. “Yes.” She opened the Bible. “Why don’t you eat while I read, okay? Something about Christmas,” she said, thumbing through the pages. Issac was still at the window, just inside the shadow.

Already Sinterklaas and Swarte Piet had come and gone, and Leen hadn’t bothered to put out her
klompen
to collect a sweet or a small handmade present. It was Mrs. Deinum who gave Leen an apple as a gift. Maybe now that the tide had changed the De Graafs would celebrate Christmas as they usually did, with Pater and tiny snifters of
nobeltje
and slices of a grand brandied pudding.

Mem began reading a passage about Mary’s vision. Issac had read the same passage last week. While Mem read, he never moved from the window.

“I have no idea what to wear,” Tine said to Leen as she dropped into the bath, sighing with disappointment. Mem, Renske and Issac had already been in, and Leen, as penance, had offered to go last. The cool humid air made Leen hug her arms around herself. “Actually, I do know what I want to wear. The trouble is, we don’t own it. I wish I could get a pair of heels.”

“I know,” Leen said, trying not to look too long at Tine’s chest. It was full, and the brassiere she’d draped carefully over the back of the chair Leen sat on now looked rigid, necessary. “Next week, will you set my hair?”

“Of course. I’ve seen the mess you make of it when you do it yourself.”

Leen looked at the towel Issac left crumpled on the floor. “Why do you think Issac won’t go?”

Tine shrugged. She sank her head back into the water and took the bar of soap and began scrubbing. A gray lather foamed underneath her fingers. It looked like she was whipping up thunderstorms all over her scalp, and Leen wouldn’t need any soap in the water after Tine was done. 

“He probably thinks he’s too old,” Tine finally said, wincing underneath her own fingernails. “I don’t know. That’s just Issac. Hand me the pitcher, please.”

Leen held it out by the handle and Tine took it, dipping it into the water and pouring the milky water over her head.