Tales from the Fountain Pen (10 page)

I turn the corner and nearly collide with Mr. Dijkstra.

“No new soldiers for you, my dear,” he says in a syrupy tone, making me feel very uncomfortable. “You know you are the prettiest one. Your sister can’t hold a candle to you, but she is freer with her kisses.”

I glare at him, trying to get past, but he spreads his arms to block my way.

“What’s the hurry?” He pauses and follows my gaze. “Oh, you actually care about that little mouse, Siepie, don’t you? Best switch sides, if you know what’s good for you.” He leans in and tries to kiss my cheek, but I’m faster as I duck under his beefy arm and rush away.

“What a revolting man,” a kind voice next to me says. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he were a collaborator. I’m sure I could point out all of them in this village.” The voice now sounds stern and I recognize it as belonging to my old elementary school teacher, Miss de Kijzer. I turn gratefully to look at her. She’s under an umbrella, her eyes crinkled in a squint as she stares after Dijkstra. She looks so much older than I remember.

“I’m sure you could, you know all of us,” I say.

“After this war is over those filthy collaborators will get their due, you mark my words.” She shakes her fist at the receding back of Dijkstra, who’s hurrying away in the rain.

“And you be careful, Maggie, a few malicious tongues are wagging and could do a lot of damage,” she warns.

I tell her I will be and smile at her. She’s right though, in these times a few words in the right ear and a person could find herself in a whole lot of trouble. And to think, this used to be such a friendly village.

I’m almost at the Gestapo office when my courage fails me. What will I say? Will they even let me in? I can’t very well just barge in and demand they hand over my friend. They’d laugh at me and then they’d probably lock me up too.

I stand there in the rain outside the office. The horrid red flag with its black swastika hangs in the window, in front of the blackout curtains so it’s always visible, like some evil specter haunting this part of the village. It’s the first thing people see when they come out of the train station. And now I see it. It obscures my view of what might be going on inside, which only fuels my imagination of what might be happening to Siepie.

A car rushes past and honks at me before driving through a puddle that splashes all over my shoes. It’s Peter and his band of thugs. He laughs at me when he gets out of the German army car.

“Waiting for your little friend?” His voice is high-pitched and grates on my ears. “She was really easy to break. It wasn’t much fun, maybe we should try you next!” He takes a few steps closer, but lucky for him one of his compatriots pulls him toward the office. It’s a good thing because I’m so angry I would have flung at him and pounded him with my fists till he shut up.

The door closes with a clang behind them, but I remain motionless outside. The rain is really pouring down now.

There are few people out and about but no one says anything to me as they pass by. Some nod with an understanding look, but no one talks to me.

I hear the next train leaving for Leeuwarden. The crossing gates clang their familiar warning bells, the conductor calls out a final few words and then the train chugs out of the station, leaving behind a quiet broken only by the rain pattering on the road and rooftops.

Still I don’t move. I stand and stare at that dreaded building and horrid flag, willing my friend to come walking out, healthy and uninjured.

Time drags on but I keep standing there in the rain. My coat is nearly soaked through and my shoes are filling with water, but I won’t leave Siepie.

After what seems an eternity the return train pulls into the station behind me. The brakes squeal on the wet rails. And then the door to the office opens. For a moment no one comes out, then I hear a stifled scream of pain and Siepie is roughly pushed out of the door.

I rush forward to catch her before she falls on the pavement. She’s unsteady and shaking. She no longer has her winter coat and I notice dried blood on her face as well as a dark blue bruise on her left cheekbone.

“Siepie?” I whisper as I pull her close. “Siepie, what have they done to you?”

“Home…” she stammers. “Please take me home.”

I put my arm around her to support her, and I half carry, half drag her on home. Her breathing is ragged and I can’t tell if she’s crying or if her face is wet from the rain.

We pass Mrs. Smit’s house just as she’s coming back from her errand. She quickly jumps off her bicycle, leans it against her fence and rushes over to help me.

“Oh, heavens,” she cries, and gently supports Siepie from the other side. “Siepie, my dear girl, who did this to you?” she asks.

“I can’t make it…” Siepie stammers and starts to sag toward the ground.

“Right. My house,” Mrs. Smit says. And we lift Siepie to more easily carry her into the house.

Without a word we gently lower her onto a sofa, where she sits huddled in a shivering heap. Mrs. Smit goes off to get some warm water and a rag to clean Siepie up with while I stay by her side and hold her.

I try to be careful but she winces whenever my hand touches her ribs. After a moment she allows herself to collapse, sobbing, against my shoulder. I cradle her like a small child and clench my teeth to keep from crying too. This is just too much, and I cannot imagine what horrors she must have endured through the night.

Mrs. Smit returns with warm soapy water. She kneels in front of Siepie and very gently takes one of her hands and starts to wash it. The warm water and gentle care seem to calm my friend and slowly her sobs become fewer, until only a rare one shudders through her.

“Maggie, why don’t you wash her face? I’ll go see about something hot to drink,” Mrs. Smit says, handing me the washcloth.

Siepie leans back on the sofa and closes her eyes while I very carefully wash the old blood off her face.

I spread a blanket I find on a chair over her and am rewarded with a weak smile.

“I held out, Maggie.” Her voice is raspy from crying, and probably from screaming too. “I didn’t betray anyone.”

“It’s all right, Siepie,” I say, holding her hand. “It’s all over now.”

She slowly shakes her head and opens her eyes, fear spilling from them along with fresh tears. “It’s not, Maggie. They won’t give up, not until the war is over anyway.”

“I’m afraid she’s right.” Mrs. Smit stands in the doorway holding a tea tray. “This won’t end until the war ends. They will keep after her. She may need to disappear for a while.”

For a moment I imagine Mrs. Smit looks sinister, but then I realize it’s a trick of the light…and my imagination. I just don’t know who I can trust anymore.

Mrs. Smit sets down the tray and comes over to adjust Siepie’s blanket.

“Did they hurt you badly?” she asks, her hand resting very lightly on Siepie’s shoulder as her eyes search the battered face.

“They just beat me…this time.” Siepie’s voice cracks and her face distorts into a grimace as she tries not to cry again.

“They threatened though, didn’t they?”

Siepie nods, her lower lip trembling.

It takes a moment for me to catch on but the truth dawns and an uncomfortable feeling spreads up from my stomach.

“Here, I had a little tea and sugar left. I was saving it for when my husband comes home, but I think this is more important.” She hands Siepie a cup of tea and turns to pour me one.

“Easy, easy,” I say, quickly grabbing hold of the shaking cup and saucer. “Let me help you.”

Siepie doesn’t resist and I carefully bring the cup to her lips so she can take a sip.

“Should we send for the doctor?” I ask.

“Best not. I’m not sure whose side he’s on,” Mrs. Smit says. Again I find myself feeling stunned. I hadn’t ever in my wildest dreams imagined the doctor being a collaborator. If it’s true that he is, then Siepie is in a lot of danger working there—or was that why she took the job in the first place?

“Perhaps Siepie should stay here today and tonight. I’d like to look at those ribs to make sure they’re not broken. Besides, she’s in no fit state to walk home,” Mrs. Smit says to me. “She’ll be safe, I promise,” she adds when I don’t immediately agree.

I look at Siepie, who licks her cracked lips and says, “It’s all right, Maggie. Annaliese will look after me.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” I say, not entirely convinced.

Siepie nods and I stand up to go.

“I’ll just tell your parents that you’re safe. Anything else you want me to tell them?” I ask.

Siepie hesitates for a moment then shakes her head. “No, that will have to do.”

Mrs. Smit sees me to the door. Before opening it she places her hand on my arm and says, “Maggie, you must be careful. They’ll be watching you closely because of your friendship with Siepie. But there is a lot at stake and you have your whole life ahead of you. You deserve to come out of this unscarred.” She gives my arm a meaningful squeeze and opens the door.

It’s still raining and my ankle still hurts as I walk slowly home again, Mrs. Smit’s words playing in my head.

Somehow I doubt any one of us will come out of this unscarred.

The pen is done, it has told its tale for now. Nothing more will flow from it for some time, this I seem to know. It leaves me wondering if I’ll ever find out if Siepie survived the war. I don’t recall my mother ever talking about her.

She was correct about nobody coming out of the war without scars. I can see now that her experiences made her distrustful of certain people, almost on sight. She also held a deep dislike for grand public displays of military pomp and circumstance. I can now understand why.

I hope that once some time has passed the pen will tell me the rest of story.

The End