River in the Sea

by Tina Boscha

  “Renske is with her,” Tine said, fingering the corners of the kerchief, pressing them flat.

  At Mem’s door, Leen’s nerves flickered in her hand, but she didn’t knock. She pressed the door open. The silence was so heavy she wondered if Renske had run away, or crept under the bed in a lonely game of hide and seek. But when the door swung open, Renske came into view, sitting cross–legged on the foot of the bed clutching two of her old rag dolls. Each was missing the eyes, so they faced each other blindly as she forced them in a mute conversation. When she saw Leen come through the open door, she hopped off the bed and ran out in her bare feet.

  “Hoi, Memmy,” Leen said. She waved her hand in front of her to see if Mem would register the movement. “I have some good news.”

  Mem blinked at her. She lay on her side, on top of the quilt. “Hello Leentje,” she said, whispering, and before Leen said anything more, tears rolled out of Mem’s eyes. So today was a crying day. “I see Renske has left me.”

  “The Queen has come home. Queen Wilhelmina is in the Netherlands. She is no longer in exile. Look,” Leen said, feeling childish as she held out the kerchief. “There’s going to be a parade. Everyone is going to wear orange. See?”

  “The Queen is home,” Mem mumbled. She had yet to move. She had not even shifted her weight. But there were no more tears.

  Mem’s inert response made Leen feel panicked. “Yes, Mem, and we are going to the parade. I have a kerchief just for you. Mrs. Deinum gave it to me. See? It’s orange. Everyone will have one.”

  Mem was quiet. “Come on, sit up,” Leen said. She pulled on Mem’s arm. Her voice rose. “Sit up, Mem. Let’s put on the kerchief.”

  Mem did not resist, nor did she use any of her own strength to sit up. Only when she was upright did she shift her weight underneath her. “I don’t know,” was all she said.

  “Yes, Mem, everyone must go. It’ll be nice. A celebration.” Leen fought the urge to yank Mem up by the elbow or pull her by one hand until she fell off the bed. Her fingers shook as she reached around Mem’s dank neck and tied on the kerchief. Her mother smelled sour, her skin and clothes mingling for too many days. Again. Now that Leen had begun her monthly, Tine advised her to use a washandtje and soapy water daily to wash her private areas and underarms. Mem had ceased this practice.

  Leen closed her eyes and breathed. “It’s a good sign if the Queen is home.” She adjusted the position of the kerchief on Mem’s slight neck. “You should wash up.”

  “How do you know so much?” Mem asked.

  “I hear it all at the Deinum’s.”

  “It must be nice to have a radio.”

  “There isn’t–” Leen didn’t finish. Mem had grown prone to saying things like that, small assumptions that at one time made sense. She took Mem’s hand. It felt as dry as newsprint. “Let’s wash your face first.” She led her to the washbasin, her hand firm, telling herself not to squeeze even though she was. “Here,” she said, holding out the small washcloth. “Come on, Mem, wash your face.” Mem looked at her, then the wet towel. Leen squeezed the extra water out and wiped the towel over Mem’s forehead. Mem did not flinch, did not even close her eyes, as Leen washed her mother’s face.

  Outside, the unseasonably warm air smelled of the sea, but the breeze was still tinged with the cold that was sure to return, always reluctant to let go, sometimes retaining its grip the entire year. The hard buds on the trees had yet to sprout, and the yellow tips of tulips barely pushed through the sodden earth.

  Mem lumbered slowly, keeping them at a snail’s pace as they made their way towards the kerk, except for Renske, who skipped ahead. The ends of her kerchief were long, but the fabric stiff, so they looked like pointy rabbits’ ears that bounced with each step. Mem’s gait reminded Leen of when her mother was in the later stages of pregnancy with Renske, when her toes splayed outward and her walk became duck–like with the round belly Leen thought would never stop growing. Except now, Mem carried hardly any extra weight on her frame. Tine kept her arm linked around Mem’s elbow, but Leen knew it was Tine leading Mem, not the other way around, and Leen let Tine determine how far into the crowd they went. It wasn’t far, and when anyone drew close to Mem she greeted them, but never advanced a conversation beyond “Hoi”; “Goet”; and “Ja.”

  The celebration was not a full–fledged parade; there was not enough time or people to plan for that. Still, the Wierumers who gathered waved flags and kerchiefs and some members of the L.O. walked in the middle, wearing the familiar blue coveralls with the white armbands, leading them in old folk songs while standing guard at the same time, and once the voices had warmed up and elevated the emotions, they led the crowd in hymns. Leen kept an eye on Renske. As long as she could see her, she let her do what she wanted. She saw a dark head of hair. It was unmistakable, the rich darkness woven between the different heads of sandy blonds and browns. She continued scanning the crowd, pretending to still look for Renske.

  Leen sang along to the familiar tunes, each verse framed by a chorus sung louder than before, the crowd’s voices encouraged by the curling fists and pumping elbows of the Resistance men leading the singing. Tine sang openly, her face solemn, holding Mem’s hand, still threaded through her elbow. Her voice wobbled. Leen had a good voice but it was deeper than most; she knew how to sing harmony but often she didn’t, wishing instead she had the bird’s whistle Tine and Mem possessed. But today she sang out, doing what she could to cover Tine’s pitchy trills. She kept singing as she pushed forward, neck craning, to see where Renske had gone, and there was Jakob’s face, clear in her line of vision. And his uniform. A bright blue uniform. His armband was crisp and white and sewed neatly around his sleeve. His “aunt” must have done it for him, unless Jakob himself stitched on the “L” and the “O”. He made a handsome soldier.

  Jakob caught her eyes. He tipped his head to her, touching his forehead with an index finger. Too surprised to turn away, she nodded back, then lifted her hand, waving once. He smiled and at this Leen turned away. She grabbed Renske’s dress at the shoulder and pulled her back just how Mem used to grab her when she was that age. All the while she never stopped singing. She didn’t even know what the song was anymore; it was like reciting the different Creeds in church. When other voices were there, she found the words, even if they were not hers. By herself she wouldn’t know how to begin.

  She looked back, saw the top of Issac’s head, the same tweed hat pulled low over his ears. She looked away again, ignoring Renske’s writhes as she tried to free herself from Leen’s grip as Leen pulled her back towards Mem and Tine. The kerchief around her neck itched, just like the collar of the handspun sweaters, forcing the heat up into Leen’s face. As soon as they walked back to the house, she took off the kerchief and tied it around the seat of her bike.

  Still, she sweltered. It couldn’t just be from the shock of seeing Jakob in full L.O. uniform. Maybe it was the anticipation. The hope that Pater might come home had always existed, from the moment he left, but now that the Queen was back, the feeling took on a new quality. It was an urgent kind of hope. This hope, it hurt to feel it, so much that it felt as painful as dread.

  Two days later, Leen woke up to find two red sores under her chin. They prickled with an itchy heat. Tine had the same sores on her temples. Issac had not yet come home that morning, but Leen assumed he would be affected too. The only one without was Mem. Her skin was dull, but unmarked.

  Renske had it the worst. Deeply scarlet, inflamed bumps gathered around the corners of her mouth and spread onto her cheeks, so that from a distance she looked like a clown with a strange elongated grin. When Mem saw Renske’s face, she said, “We need fruit. It’s as simple as that.”

  Before, Pater had always been able to trade for tins of syrupy citrus and slices of pears and peaches. With him gone for over four months, there had been no trades. They ate, but solely meat and potatoes and a few beans scattered on their plates. Leen calculated. The last apple she’d eaten was in December, d
ays after the jailbreak, when Issac had come home with a bag, probably a gift from Mr. Boonstra.

  Leen pushed on the sores, sending the heat away, but when she released her finger they immediately prickled again. The itch was persuasive. She was late for the Deinum’s. What were their stores of fruit? At one time the Deinums must have had stacks and bags and bins of it. Mr. Deinum had baked with apricots, oranges, dates, prunes, raisins, figs, apples… But she had never seen anything beside the basics of flour, yeast, salt, and sugar; if they had fruit, they were wise to hide it from her. “Then we must get more fruit,” Leen said.

  No one answered her. “What else can we do?” Leen pressed.

  “It’s not that easy,” Tine said.

  Mem said, “There are other ways.”

  “I know it’s not easy,” Leen said, ignoring Mem. She didn’t want anyone to see the sores, didn’t want anyone to ask what they were, how she got them.

  “When was the last time we got our rations?” Tine whispered. She quickly licked the last bit of butter off her knife.

  “They haven’t filled the rations in a long time.” Leen remembered her ration card. This much butter, this much flour, this much for adults, this much for children. Then the first cuts were announced and Mem put the cards in a drawer. It was a matter of pride for their family, for most in Friesland, to go willingly without the meager allotments. Not when they could grow their own or trade with the merchant ships that parked along the coastline, moored in the ocean floor so hard it was walkable during low tide.

  “Can’t we trade? Aren’t the ships still coming? Maybe Issac could go out,” Leen offered.

  “I haven’t seen the ships in months,” Tine said, rising and reaching to take both of their plates. “Don’t worry, leave it to me. I’m sure it can’t be that much trouble to get a little fruit. Go now, you really shouldn’t be late.”

  Leen left. She couldn’t blame Tine for wanting to avoid Issac. Leen barely spoke to him, and he to her, not even to pass a food dish at the supper table, even when her stomach demanded more. But maybe in this case, they ought to make an exception. After all, it was Issac who was supposed to look after these matters in Pater’s absence. But Leen was not going to nominate herself to remind him of it. Surely handling this problem did not qualify as trouble or drawing attention to themselves. She briefly thought of Jakob in his uniform, then quickly turned her thoughts to other matters.

  “Ik wol mear,” Renske said. She pressed her hands on the cold glass of milk and then held them against her cheeks. They were as red as the empty jar of beets, the inside of the glass stained a deep fuchsia, the only color of its kind in the house, that and the De Graaf children’s inflamed faces. Renske scratched at the sores until they oozed and scabbed over, only to pick the new scab off again, even though Tine told her she was going to look like a pickled fish head if she wasn’t careful. The same pustules collected at the bottom corners of Issac’s mouth, forming a ruby frown, the counterpart to Renske’s painted smile. “I still have room in my stomach,” Renske whined.

  “Come now, you haven’t let your food settle,” Tine said. She scanned the table and picked up the butter dish. “Here.”

  “But I already ate the bread!”

  “Listen to your sister,” Mem said. She stroked Renske’s face. “They’ll go away, leafe. Mem has some special medicine.”

  Renske nodded. “I think I will still be hungry,” she said, verging on tears.

  Leen couldn’t stand it. Her baby sister needed more food. Of course Tine was trying to be careful; in lean times you must. But at least give enough for Renske. She was still growing. “We must have more druggevisk,” Leen said, pushing her chair from the table.

  “Leen, wait!” Tine cried.

  Leen ignored her. She didn’t want to admit it but she was hungry too. The torn strips of dried fish wouldn’t sate her, but at least she and Renske could suck on torn bits of papery skin to extract the traces of salt. She, too, was tired of butter. It was plain and cloying and piled on everything, pure fat, pure fuel. Bacon grease was saved too, and melted and drizzled over bread, but Leen hadn’t eaten bacon at home for two weeks now; the last time she’d eaten it was at the Deinum’s.

  She grabbed the lantern kept by the cellar steps and began to climb down.

  “Come back,” Tine said, right behind her. “We haven’t read the Bible yet.”

  “When was the last time we read the Bible?” Leen called out. Holding the coughing lantern, she searched the shelves for the fish. It was always easy to find because of the sharp, brine–y scent hitting the nose as citric and sour. Pater used to cure his own, bringing home a string of flat, plump flounder. She remembered how he would gut them outside, sitting on a bucket with another between his knees, splitting the fish one after another while she, Issac, and Wopke coated them in a thick layer of salt and strung them up on rough twine.

  Her memory quickly died as she turned up the lamp. She searched the shelves, the bottoms lit by the flame, the rest blank, cast in deep shadow. She moved a few jars of canned beans. From behind her Tine whimpered. Leen put her palm on a shelf, patting the shadows lest one miraculously become a paper packet of the fish. “Tine, where is it all?” She moved the lantern up, down, across each shelf. “We keep the meat in the dugout, that’s where the hog is, right? It keeps better out there, we keep it there.” Leen turned around. Her chest seized.

  “Please,” Tine whispered, “we cannot tell Mem.”

  “What can’t we tell Mem,” Leen said, emotion flooding her voice. “How can we be out? How did we run out?”

  “Leentje! Quiet! Please,” Tine pleaded, grasping Leen’s hands. “What is there is there. That pig? Maybe three, four more dinners if I stretch it. We have enough potatoes for the week. You see the beans, all from last year. It’s too early to plant, it’ll be months before we have fresh. That’s it. That’s all.” She spoke in a frantic whisper. “Please, don’t tell Mem. Don’t tell Issac. I didn’t know what to do.” She squeezed Leen’s hands. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “How,” Leen said, looking at the barren shelves once more. Her pulse beat in her face, inside the sores. “Why didn’t you tell me? You must have known. You’re here every day…” Even a month ago Renske had been hungry. But Leen had thought she’d just wanted dessert, all those times she begged for panne. “No,” Leen said, shaking her head. “No, no, no!”

  “I thought Pater would be back by now. It was always getting better, the end is so close. I tried to stretch it. I was never wasteful. I never snuck anything for myself, not ever! Every day you tell me how it’s going to end.” She was crying hard now.

  “Don’t blame it on me!” Leen hissed. “Tine, you are down here every day!” She bent over and squeezed her hands over her head, feeling like she might throw up.

  “I know, I know,” Tine sobbed. “But I couldn’t ask Mem. You see how she is. And Issac, he will be so angry. You don’t know…” Upstairs a chair scraped against the floor. Tine was uncontrollable now. But Leen was too panicked to cry.

  “Don’t let them come down here,” Tine whispered. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth. “Promise me you won’t tell.”

  Leen looked at her sister. Suddenly she understood Tine, wanting so bad for it to be better that she let it get worse. Her crying now was the release, the relief of the revelation. Seeing this kept Leen distant, kept her thinking, kept the dread from taking over. She felt something new inside her, iron gathering into a core, a new kind of steeliness.

  “I will take care of it,” Leen said. She grabbed a jar of beans. “Our sister is hungry. She needs to eat. Come, let’s fix these for her.”

  Tine reached for the jar. “Leave it. Please.”

  “I said, I will take care of it,” Leen said, turning so Tine’s fingers grasped only air. Leen opened the jar with a single twist, the broken pressure escaping in a hiss, the vegetal smell of summer and dirt filling her nostrils. “No one goes hungry in Friesland. They send people her
e to eat. This, this is ridiculous.” She’d never used that word before, not in a way where she truly understood the meaning.

  “You haven’t promised me yet,” Tine said, grabbing Leen’s hand once more. Her face looked spongy, like over–risen bread, her pale skin puffed up with nothing but air. One move, the slightest hit, and she would fall.

  “They’ll never have to know,” Leen said.

  Just before it was time to rise, Leen opened her eyes to see Mem creeping into the room, an orange kerchief gathered around a pointing finger, dark at the tip. “What are you doing?” Leen mumbled.

  “Shh, Renske first,” Mem said. She sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress barely shifting under her weight. She reached past Leen, the fabric close to Leen’s face, and when the scent filled her nose Leen was suddenly awake. “Ver skrikelik!” she said, sitting up. “What is that?”

  “Quiet,” Mem said. “Renske, sit up, poppie.” She daubed the orange cloth on Renske’s cheeks.

  Renske’s eyes sprang open and she pushed Mem’s hand away. “Stop it! Stop it! It’s pisje!”

  “No, it’s not,” Mem said. “I swear it. Komme,” she commanded, but her voice was weak and she shrank back, defying her own order.

  Leen leaned past Mem and lit the bedside lantern. She leaned close to the kerchief and immediately backed away. Renske was right. The kerchief was dipped in morning urine, yellow and pungent.

  “It’s the only way to get these sores cleared up,” Mem pleaded.

  “How do you know this?” Leen asked.

  “There have been shortages before, when I was young. Renske, come here.”

  But Renske escaped Mem’s feeble reach. She crawled off the bed and then fled the room.

  “I didn’t like it either,” Mem sighed. Before she would’ve stood up, her step long and her arm quick as she caught her naughty child’s collar. But today she was easily overcome.