by Tina Boscha
“Acht!”
Leen jumped. The light–haired soldier was holding another shovel and looking down. She had thrown mud all along his waist and the top part of his legs. She braced her shoulders and waited for the burst of pain, but instead of hitting her the soldier put the lamp down and walked away, muttering under his breath and still holding the shovel, reaching down as he brushed away the mud. The gatekeeper motioned towards the grave, telling her to keep going. His voice faded away and he turned away for a moment, covering his face.
Leen could hardly feel herself moving anymore. Her bladder was full and she concentrated on keeping the shovel steady and her muscles from shaking, just as long as she kept digging. But instead of clearing her mind she found that the thoughts kept coming in increasing speed, jumping to images of her small sister, how it seemed Mem and Pater had tried to make up for their grief over losing Wopke by putting the best of themselves into Renske, with her bright eyes and a lightness about her that seemed evident by the soft curl of her brown hair, a curl none of the other children had. Leen noticed that the gatekeeper worked his mouth like an old man, sucking his lips and releasing them, his lower chin jutting out, as if he didn’t have teeth, and that his voice was scratchy from smoking. That was how Tine sounded when Wopke died. After the accident Tine’s quiet timidity was replaced by her constant sniffles and choking struggles to quell her sobs, voice cracking underneath every word. When Tine cried she sounded just like Mem.
Mem. This, this would break her. And already she was so broken.
More than anything Leen missed her mother’s singing. Once, Wopke had surprised Mem and taken her red wash–worn hands and led her through the song Mem used to surprise each of them with, and Mem had played along, her face rosy and the words of the ditty interrupted by embarrassed giggles. “Klap us in je handjes, bly bly bly, op je boze bolletjes dy dy dy!” she would sing, taking a moment to stop and grab the hands of one of her children, clapping them together and waving them in the air, following the rhythm. Whenever she sang the final line, “Zo varen de schepjes voorby, hy hy!”, she’d run her fingers up Leen’s neck to her cheek, then give a kiss. Mem knew just where Leen was most ticklish, a space right at the back of her neck. She’d never seen Mem laugh so hard, when Wopke had worked Mem’s hands through the motions, tickling her right at the end, sending Mem shrieking. That was six years ago.
Leen dug and dug. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hot orange tip of a cigarette the driver smoked as he leaned back on his haunches, his back to her now. To him she was already a dead body. She longed to smoke, to stop, to be warm. She could always find Pater by the smell of tobacco. The only interruption to the constant cigarette smoke streaming from Pater’s mouth and ochre–tipped nostrils was during church.
The other way to find Pater was by the sound of his tapping feet and fingers, the rhythm always quick and upbeat, as he was less bound by mood or worry. He called her “ús Leen,” our Leen. When he taught her to drive, he’d said, “You’re quite good at this. And don’t tell your Mem,” and kissed her on the forehead, blowing smoke into her hair.
But it was Issac who had given Leen her first smoke. He’d laughed at her sputters and coughs, and his reaction was a joyful surprise to her, and kind; after the accident it was as if something essential was ripped away, taking away the lightness Wopke had brought out in him, leaving behind a black, gaping hole, and Issac’s sharper self scabbed over it. Yet on that day Issac had patiently taught her how to lay the tobacco down in a thin line in the middle of the filmy wrapping paper, then lick the edge and roll it up quick, all with one hand. Issac was a curious mix of their parents, carrying Pater’s facility and ambition but also Mem’s trepidation, rendering him quiet and acerbic at times, and at others, surprisingly open; Mem always said Issac was the most tender–hearted of all her children. He was the only one of them who could dance, but he only moved his feet when the mood struck him just so. And now, that was never.
Her hand cramped around the shovel’s handle. Everything in her was fading. She was ashamed that Wopke’s face was always shadowy to her now. She remembered his green–tinged eyes, wiry body and short legs and his cheerfulness, all things everyone agreed came from Pater. Now, she knew she’d see him. The Bible said in heaven you see your family again. What it didn’t talk about was how Leen would be regarded after this, her final act.
They’d miss her still, wouldn’t they? Mem, Pater, all her family? Everyone? Wouldn’t Tine miss her, the whispers they shared in their small room on the second floor of their pretty brick cottage? Leen slept on the left side and Tine on the right, Renske in the middle. Tine’s dark hair made octopus arms against the pillow and her bony hips formed angled silhouettes under the quilt, too thin to be from the same body that snored so loudly, the only loud thing Tine ever did.
Leen’s hands were brown with muck. Her nose was running, she could not see clearly through her tears, and she was exhausted. The whole of her abdomen, wrapping to her back, ached. The grave was still small, growing slowly as muddy water filled the bottom. She could be there for hours. The patience of German soldiers was well known. There would never be a moment when she was alone, never a second when she could scramble into the truck and take off, and besides they had a truck too and they always had guns. She’d be surrounded, the gatekeeper, the driver, perhaps the soldier with the sooty eyelids, until the grave was finished and so was she, and so Leen started to dig again, losing all her will to keep her movements fast or steady and instead just letting go. She was not ready and she was weak. The wind picked up and iced her cheeks. The blood on the dog was now a dark black stain and the wind lifted its fur in tufts. Abruptly, the driver pushed her aside and called out to the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper held up his hands to the driver, turning away, and the driver grabbed the shovel from Leen, pushing her hard with one arm. There was nothing left inside her, and Leen fell backwards, skidding once more in the mud.
Immediately her bladder released. It was time. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaws. She shook.
Nothing. Breathing hard, soaked in her own urine, she looked. The driver began to shovel himself. But as quickly as he started he threw the shovel down and called to the gatekeeper again. The gatekeeper bent down to the dog. He stroked a clean patch of fur, then lifted the dog, its legs limp and slack, and tried to slide it into the shallow grave. When the dog fell into the hole there was a small splash.
The shaking was mostly in her shoulders now. It felt like someone was standing behind her and shaking her and the harder she tried to still herself the worse it got. She waited for the click of a gun.
A hand touched her shoulder and she cried out. It was the young soldier again, another lantern in his hand, and he took his hand off her immediately. Then he pointed toward the truck. “Fuortkomme hûs,” he said. “Go.” He raised both his hands, half his face bright, the other made a shadowy blank by the bright lamp light. His one lit eye was a deep green.
Leen paused, glanced around her quickly, looking for what might happen next. She got up and started for the truck, waiting for a shout, a click of metal, the cock of a gun, and with each slow step her feet sunk slightly into the ground. She curled her toes within her klompen, feeling them tingle with cold. She wished she could crawl along the ground, at the darkest part where the air met the earth. She was close to the truck, almost there–
Arms tackled her at her waist and pulled her forward, dragging her around the back of the truck to the side, and before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth.
In the dying light the driver pushed her into the truck’s first dent and he sneered, speaking something in German, something that said, “You thought you were going straight home?” She tried to punch him, scratch at his face, but he anticipated all her moves, easily collecting both of her hands in just one of his, yanking her arms over her head.
“Shhh,” he said, and he took his hand away from her mouth slowly, warning her without any words not to make another sound. H
is sneer morphed into something worse, a mask of pure cruelty. The tip of his tongue rested against the bottom of his top teeth while his hand reached lower. She shook her head, the movements a quiver. No no no. She shut her eyes, never filled with so much terror as in that moment.
He undid his belt.
How many meters away were the others? How far away was the grave, the dead dog inside, still warm to the touch, she knew it would still be warm, how could she think this as he grabbed at her breast? She knew what he was going to do even if she knew little of the precise act. His face, his hands, all his movements were pitiless.
Still pushing against her, he shifted to one side and began to push down his pants. For one second she was too terrified to move or breathe. Then, in what felt like one unified surge, she screamed and kicked. She felt like an animal. She kicked a leg forward, the other backward, and her wooden klompke banged loudly against the bent metal hubcap, echoing into the dark.
There was a shout, something in German. The tone was somewhere between exasperated and angry. The weight of the driver’s body on her lessened as he leaned back, roaring something in return.
Leen opened her eyes. The light–haired soldier stood two meters away. He held a lantern up to them and she could not read his face. He stood straight, his stance determined but not aggressive, at once both recognizing and challenging the driver’s dominance. He spoke rapidly in Deutsch, pointing to her. Improbably he smiled, gesturing in a flippant wave, suggesting she wasn’t worth it. Maybe he said she was ugly. Too young. Too skinny. He pointed back towards the tents, speaking rapid–fire. She didn’t know what he was suggesting, but it didn’t matter, because the driver moved away, buckling his belt in a fury and walking off, breathing heavy, shouting unintelligible words. Leen turned to the side, cheek on rusted metal, breaths coming out in jagged rasps, feeling like she might turn herself inside out.
The light of the lantern grew. “Fuortkomme! Aanst!” the soldier hissed. He pointed at the truck. “Aanst! Aanst!” he repeated, his voice urgent and distressed.
She yanked open the passenger door and crawled inside, frantic and fumbling. She slid to the driver’s side and banged on the lock. The young soldier with the dark eyes stood close, watching, the lantern light a bright spot near his knees. Behind him the gatekeeper kicked the soil onto the grave with his boots, his back to her.
Leen kept her hand on the door handle while she started the ignition with the other, her foot clumsy on the clutch. As she put the truck in gear the driver appeared at her window again and she screamed: “No!”
The light–haired soldier called something out, but the driver ignored him. He walked along the length of the truck, running his hands along the edge of the hood. He slapped the front again, the metal smack echoing in the cabin. He walked back up to her window and pointed a finger at her. Piss and rain and mud trickled down her ankle as he broke into another smile.
He walked away.
Leen released the clutch slowly, but as soon as she was in second, she floored it. She leaned her body against the wheel while driving. It wasn’t until she was in fourth gear that she realized she was panting and gulping air, exhaling in shrill, reedy whines.
Then, as if it took only seconds, she was home.
3.
Leen stumbled out of the truck, her skirt and legs sticky and wet. As soon as she was upright she doubled over and sobbed, “Komme, please mei komme!” A triangle of light unfolded from the side window, revealing a corner of Mem’s face as she peeled back the tarpaper to take a look.
Leen felt too empty to move. She knew she should have opened the gate to the barn and pulled the truck inside, but instead she cried out weakly, “Please,” and waited for her mother to come out and find her, now crumpled outside in the dark, smelling of sweat and fear and urine.
The front door opened and Mem hurried to her through the deepening rain with her chin down and arms crossed. “What in the world is the matter with you? It’s raining out here.” Mem peered at her, scowling. “Look at you, you’re filthy.”
“I killed a dog,” Leen whimpered.
“What?” Mem’s hand dropped.
“They made me bury it.”
Pater’s voice made Leen jump. She hadn’t seen him follow Mem. “Whose dog?” he demanded. “Whose dog? Whose dog?”
“The soldiers,” Leen whispered. If the mud would just swallow her up, she would let it. “At the camp.”
“Inside,” Pater said. Mem and Pater lifted her under the arms and wordlessly led her into the house. Leen let their hands and shoulders guide her, dragging her feet a bit. “Sit down,” Mem commanded once they reached the kitchen.
Tine stood at the counter, tending dinner as usual. She tucked a towel into her waistband as she turned around.
“What’s all this? You’re covered in mud!” she said, looking cross as Mem had, when she saw Leen’s dirty skirt. “You can wash that your–” Tine added, but when she met Leen’s eyes, Tine didn’t finish. She knelt in front of her and slid Leen’s klompen off, her hands warm on Leen’s feet. She didn’t comment anymore about the smell or the clumps of mud and grass crumbling in her hands. Even at seventeen, Tine was anxious by nature, her clear eyes wide and darting, and she easily fell into tears and helpless agitation, but at times she surprised Leen with her calm efficiency. If she could fix it by cleaning or tidying, she would. For once, Leen was grateful for her sister’s talent.
Mem wrapped a blanket around Leen’s shoulders, standing behind her, and Leen leaned back into Mem’s soft middle and felt the heaves of her lungs slowly diminishing.
Pater sat down opposite Leen and rolled three cigarettes, placing them in a line next to each other on the table. The trellis of wrinkles at his eyes looked deeper, and he ran a hand over his peppered hair, sparse at the crown. His face didn’t change so much as it grew harder through the smoke he blew from his nose and mouth, drifting to the ceiling where a heavy cloud hovered, a mix of cigarette smoke and the spitting exhaust of the lamp never meant to run on such a dirty oil. He looked uneasy. The current of Leen’s relief slowed.
The cellar ladder groaned, followed by a scraping sound as Issac slid onto the floor. “Mem, I couldn’t find it–” He too stopped speaking when he saw Leen. “What happened to you?” he snapped, his eyes taking in her soiled clothes. He almost never looked at anyone in the eyes anymore, and seeing them now, the same green–gray as Pater’s, Leen buried her chin deep into the blanket. Her nose ran and she wiped it with her hand.
“Leen killed a soldier’s dog,” Pater said, his even tone forced, the words outlined in smoke.
Leen looked up to watch Issac react. She wondered if he would look at her differently, recognizing the terrible thing they had in common.
“Doeval,” Issac said in a different voice. He took a cigarette from Pater’s pile, but before he lit it, he walked to the window and pressed at the corner of the paper, making sure it was sealed.
Renske appeared in the doorway, staring. She was already in her nightgown. To Leen, it felt like all her family members were lining up on purpose, in succession, all to make her say it again.
“A dog?” Renske said. Her eyes were round. “Why are you crying? Are you sad because of the dog?”
“Tine, take the lyts famke upstairs,” Pater said.
“Nooo,” Renske whined as Tine scooped her up. “What’s wrong with Leen? Where is the dog?”
“Leen is sick,” Tine said as she hurried Renske out of the room. When she returned, she said to Mem, “She’s got her favorite picture book,” then put the kettle on. Issac never drank tea, preferring black coffee, but when the steam sang, Issac said, “Pour me one, please.”
It was too quiet while everyone drank, except for the sound of swallowing throats and Leen’s sniffles while the steam and smoke intermingled above so that it looked like a squall was gathering over the kitchen table.
“Tine, Issac, go up and see to your sister,” Pater said, setting down his empty cup. He almost always
wore the hint of a grin on his face, so seeing the somber set of his mouth, Leen knew what his words meant. The harder questions were coming. She held her tea, her palms burning on the porcelain, waiting while Tine and Issac went upstairs. Their footsteps were cautiously quiet.
“I took some salt,” Leen said, hoping that beginning this way would distract her parents from asking what it was that made her do it. The worst answer was not a defined reason, but Ik wyt it net. I don’t know. But that was all she could come up with. Her words sped up as the story progressed. “I was in a hurry to get home, and the dog ran out in front of me. It surprised me and I jumped, and I hate those dogs, and…” She stopped.
“Ja?” Pater said. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Mem started squeezing her shoulders, her grip releasing and tightening.
“I ran right into it.” She didn’t say she gunned the gas. As she spoke it felt like tiny needles were poking into the tops of her cheeks.
Pater put out his cigarette. He had only smoked half of it. Leen watched the smoke curl into a ribbon and then die.
Leen exhaled. She realized with some surprise that she was alive. She had made it home, and she had told the story. She looked at her parents now, waiting for them to show that they felt the same thing. Of course they wouldn’t be hysterical, not like she’d been, but at any moment Mem would ask for Leen’s handkerchief to wipe her own eyes, for Pater to cover his face with a hand and then laugh in that soft way that meant he was fighting his own tears.
“Did they hit you?” Pater asked.
“What?” Leen stuttered. The driver’s awful face flashed before her.
He leaned forward again. “Did they hit you?” he asked. Her shoulders went cold where Mem’s hands had held her.
Leen touched her elbow to find the tender spot. “One, he pinched me hard, but didn’t hit me,” she answered. “He almost… but he didn’t.” She couldn’t say more. Exhaustion came over her. She was more tired than her first harvest, when her mind was alive but her body felt nearly wrung dry of energy. Now, she felt as if everything had fallen out of her.
