River in the Sea

by Tina Boscha

  “What?”

  “Tutsje,” he said, pointing to his cheek.

  She couldn’t say no, not now. “Alright,” Leen whispered. She leaned in, closing her eyes at the last second. A mistake. He grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her on the lips, not letting her go. Leen let him. She told herself not to move away, just let him press his mouth on hers. What surprised her was how, when his lips slid over hers, she followed with the same movements, not thinking at all.

  Jakob pulled back. He looked pleased, like he’d won. “That was better than last time.”

  She made a sound she hoped registered some type of agreement. She felt like she had to swallow her heart to get it back down in her chest. She tried to find a way back into the café. There was no door handle, and the outline of the doorway was so slight it looked like there had once been a door there, but it was long since abandoned, a rotting relic, not a new addition.

  “You can’t go back in from this way,” Jakob said. “You have to go around again.” He wiped the corners of his mouth. His lips were stained.

  “Okay,” Leen said. She couldn’t think of any other word to say. She felt overtaken by his kiss and exhausted by her empty pocket and she wished she could find a dark spot and lie down. Lie down and scream, just once, good and loud.

  He reached toward her and pulled the pin out of her hair. “It was loose. I’m sure you don’t want to lose it.” She reached up to touch her hair, patting it down.

  “You sure it’s enough?” she whispered.

  “Salt is good,” Jakob said, looking from left to right. The light barely infiltrated the corner’s darkness. He kissed her softly on the cheek. “Salt is very good,” he repeated, a grin glimmering on his face.

  There was a large lidded pot on the table when Leen walked into the kitchen, late. She didn’t recognize it. They had a similar one, a blue enamel pot with a matching lid, but this one was a faded yellow.

  “Did you work late?” Tine asked. She hummed while she set plates down. Renske followed with forks. Mem was already seated at the table, pouring milk into everyone’s glass.

  Leen paused before she answered. After Jakob had left, she went back into the café and sat at the bar, not buying anything. Arnold gave her a glass of water and she smoked three cigarettes in a row, not caring who witnessed. “You could say that,” Leen finally said. It was easy to distract herself from replaying what happened between her and Jakob with wondering what was inside the yellow pot. The smell roused her hunger and she imagined pouring herself a bowl of Mem’s hot groentezoep filled with bits of fried leeks and meatballs, soaking the steaming broth with some bread and a thick slice of caraway–dotted kroetje cheese.

  “Mrs. Boonstra brought us a pot of her boerekool,” Mem said. She wiped off the dribble of milk at the edge of the bottle and licked her finger. Leen saw Jakob tasting the salt and her face steamed. She bit her lip. Mem continued. “What a surprise. I can’t imagine why she would just decide to do that.”

  Leen did not look at Tine, and Tine did not look at her.

  “Shall I serve it up?” Leen said, ravenous, unconcerned that Issac wasn’t home, and they hadn’t yet opened with prayer. But it was just as much habit to start without devotions as it was to go through the ritual when Pater looked after their spirits before and after each meal.

  “Yes, we might as well start while it’s hot,” Mem said. The food seemed to invigorate her.

  “That was nice of Mrs. Boonstra,” Leen said.

  “It certainly is,” Tine said.

  Leen opened the lid. Boerekool was usually too strong for her taste, even though it was filling. Now, the mottled green mixture of kale and starchy potatoes made her mouth water. Chunks of sausage and wide slices of bacon rested across the top, emitting the savory, hearty smell of meat that filled the air, finally, in a substantial way. And there was enough for everyone, for one helping and then another. Leen spooned heaps on everyone’s plate, giving the most to Renske. With luck, there would be leftovers. Mem used to shape the leftovers into loaves and the next day, cut them into thick slices and fry them in bacon fat until the edges were crisp and browned.

  Issac entered. It seemed to Leen he was always coming and going, never there for breakfast or dinner until five minutes had passed. “What smells so good?” he asked. When he saw what was piled on his plate he nearly sang when he said, “Boerekool!” It had always been one of his favorites, and his voice rose, reminding Leen of what Issac used to sound like before his voice dropped. He speared a hunk of sausage straight out of the pot and took a bite. “Oh that’s good,” he said through his full mouth, finally sitting down. “The kale must be coming in early. It’s been a warm spring. Where is the vinegar?”

  “I’ll get it,” Tine said. “Sorry, I forgot you like it with vinegar.”

  “It’s fine,” Issac said. He spoke every word through a mouth crowded with food, but no one reminded him of good manners. “I don’t remember the last time we had this.”

  Leen did. She was about to say, “Last fall, right at harvest, using the last kale from the fall planting,” when there was a knock, then another, followed by a pause, then one more knock. Leen jumped, bumping her knee against the table.

  “Issac?” Mem said. She pressed her hands against the edge of the table. She switched to a whisper. “Soldiers! Quickly, you must go!”

  “That’s not a soldier’s knock,” Issac said. His voice registered confusion, but not alarm. He walked to the door, his steps loud as he still had his klompen on. “Come back!” Mem hissed.

  He opened the door. “What the…?” Issac said, looking down. Leen was behind him. He bent over and picked up a white package. Leen took another step, taking in the whole doorway. Two huge sacks of potatoes and a tall stack of white–papered packages rested against their doorstep. A clasped satchel leaned against the potatoes that Leen knew was filled with more. With food.

  “Tine!” Leen beckoned to her sister. What had it been, two hours? Two hours and one good kiss and this was at her door.

  “What is all this food doing here?” Issac asked. At the moment, Leen didn’t fear his reaction. She was too elated that her bag of salt could get so much, so quickly. She thought of her secret pakje hidden upstairs. What could she get for that? Maybe a bar of chocolate?

  “Two sacks of potatoes, Tine, two!” she said. She bent over and hoisted one over her shoulder, remembering the heft of it, liking the feel of the lumps massaging her shoulder. “Let’s get this in,” she said, hoping Issac would pick up the other. He didn’t. He was still staring, the sores still accentuating his frown, but like hers, faded. Finally he picked up the other sack of potatoes by the top, lifting it barely over the doorstep and dropping it inside, letting the satchel slump in its spot.

  “What is going on? What is at the door?” Mem asked. She stood back, Renske behind her. “Where are the soldiers? This is a trap, I think–”

  “Food,” Issac said. “Potatoes. More. The Resistance has left food at our door.”

  “There’s ham, beef, and some flounder here,” Tine said, standing besides Leen now. She smelled each package. Leen put the potatoes down and opened the satchel. From behind her Issac pulled the door closed.

  “There’s fruit!” Leen exclaimed. “Pears and peaches, oh, jam! Jars of jam!” she said, taking out the tins and several small glass containers from the satchel. “Oh, there’s got to be twenty, thirty tins in here. Doeval, there are even little oranges!” Her mouth began to pucker at the back of her cheeks, anticipating the sweet and sharp taste of citrus. They’d have jam on toast for breakfast, and Renske would finally have her panne, biscuits and cream and jam with a sugary crust. Leen would make it herself.

  “What is all this food doing here?” Issac asked, anger edging into his bewilderment. He turned to Leen. Her relief and joy began to fade now that she saw Issac’s face. “There’s fruit,” she said, holding out a tin of pears. It felt unreal in her hands, and his tight mouth and hard–set eyes made her l
ook down again, and she saw how small the tin was, barely bigger than a deck of cards.

  “I don’t understand, all this food,” Mem said. She bent down and picked up a pakje. “Druggevisk,” she said, her tone changing. “I’ve missed that.”

  “Leentje, dunke,” Tine said, covering her mouth, her eyes watering.

  “ ‘Thank you’?” Issac said.

  “We were running out,” Tine whispered. “We were almost out.”

  “What?” Issac said, throwing his hands up, his lip curled back. “Running out? We were out of fruit. Wait. What did you say?”

  Tine took a step backwards, her arms holding white packages of meat to her chest. “It wasn’t just fruit.”

  “Here,” Leen said, holding out the pears again, suddenly wanting him to take them. It was her personal offering. He couldn’t be angry at this, not when the problem was solved. He’d be thankful, wouldn’t he? Thankful that she had taken care of it. He’d see she was good for something. He’d forgive her. He’d talk to her again.

  Issac’s face was red. “What do you mean it wasn’t just fruit?”

  “Pater was always going to come home,” Tine said, sputtering.

  “You’re always so angry now,” Leen said, tripping over her words at first, but once the first few tumbled out, she gained confidence. “That’s why we didn’t tell you. But we have enough now, you can’t be mad.”

  He stood still for a moment, chewing over words he chose not to speak. Finally, he said, “You mean to tell me we were out of food and you didn’t tell me? I’m here to take care of the family, this is my responsibility!” He picked up the satchel and overturned it, the tins tumbling to the floor. Renske covered her ears.

  “What the hell is this?” Issac said, bending over and picking up a small cloth bag. He opened it, peering close inside. He tasted it. A ripple of nervous heat flared at the top of Leen’s neck and traveled down in one sheet, consuming her entire back in a fiery wave of embarrassment and anger.

  “Give it to me,” Leen said. She held out her empty hand. He twisted the bag half–closed and threw the bag of salt to Leen, hard. Surprised, she tried to catch it, but missed. The bag went skittering across the floor behind her, loosening at the top and spilling precious grains as it traveled. “Don’t! You’ll waste it!” she shouted, running to retrieve the pouch.

  “What the hell is going on? Who is leaving us salt?!”

  “I used it to trade,” Leen stammered. But Jakob hadn’t traded – how could he? Barely any time had passed. He must’ve gone to a superior in the L.O., told him of her need, and from there they gathered all the sundries. They probably just had to knock on a few doors and take the offerings. Their situation would spread, people would know. It hadn’t been that long ago when Mem had sent her out, told her the exact houses to find to deliver freshly prepared pork. They were one of the needy now. Jakob never needed the salt in the first place.

  “Are you trading with soldiers?” Issac took a step toward her.

  “No,” Leen said.

  “Who?” Issac demanded.

  “Jakob. Jakob Hoffman. I asked him to trade it for me.”

  Issac stared at her in stunned silence. He blinked once. “You went to Jakob?”

  “Don’t be angry, Issac,” Tine said, her voice still soft. “We needed food and we have it now. That’s all that should matter.”

  “I could’ve taken care of it,” he said, whipping around. “I know people too.” He huffed with rage. “I will handle it from now on,” he said. “There’s no need for trades, for stupid little bags of salt. I’ll make sure the De Graafs have enough food on the table. You should’ve told me it was more than just fruit. You should have told me.”

  He picked up both sacks of potatoes and rushed down the cellar so quickly that Leen was worried he might fall. She heard a loud thump but realized it was the potatoes, not Issac. Part of her wished he would fall, cry out for help. His ankle would be twisted and she’d go down to help him, pulling him up with a capable grip, never wavering even though she knew he’d expect her to let go. It was over now, she told herself. Everything was in the open and look, look at the abundance at her feet. His anger would pass, she thought again; it had to. What was the difference between her or him going to Jakob for help, anyway?

  “What is this all about?” Mem said, exasperated. “We might not have room for all of this now. We just butchered that pig. Where are we going to put all of this? All we needed was fruit.”

  “Don’t worry, Mem. Tine and I will put it away. We’ll make room,” Leen said.

  “Here, Renske,” Tine said, holding out a tin of peaches. “Go with Mem back to the table and we’ll finish supper. You can eat that one all by yourself if you want.” Renske seized it, gazing upon it as if it was a brand new toy.

  Issac returned. He walked past them and out the door, each footstep a loud wooden clunk, interrupted by the barn doors creaking open. He returned, holding a paper bag of apples.

  “Here,” he said, giving them to Tine. “It was going to be a surprise. Tonight. After supper. They’ve been in storage but they’re still good. I knew we needed fruit.” He said this with anger still, but his voice had calmed enough to reveal a layer of hurt.

  “Issac, thank you–” Leen began to say. He’d wanted to surprise them.

  He turned to her. He was about to say something when he stopped, squinted his eyes, and cocked his head. A smile challenged his glower, drawing his face into a sneer.

  “What’s on your mouth?” he asked.

  “What?” Leen asked. She touched her lips. She had forgotten.

  “Is that lipstick?” he asked. “Little sister, are you wearing lipstick?”

  She took her sleeve and wiped her lips, not caring that she might stain the fabric with smudges of deep reddish–pink. “I just put it on for fun, just for today,” she said to Tine, willing her to understand.

  Issac snorted. He rolled his eyes and laughed once, twice, short rusty breaths.

  “What?” Leen asked, hands growing damp around the bag’s thin white cloth. “What?”

  Issac shook his head, laughing once more. “Jakob is a fool. He should’ve kept the salt.”

  “Issac!” Tine said. “Shut your mouth!” Her voice was stern but it did not matter. Issac was the eldest. He wouldn’t listen to her. Tine pursed her lips. “And you wonder why I didn’t want to tell you. Komme, let’s go eat. All of us. Come.” In the kitchen Leen could hear Renske giggling over the peaches.

  But Issac did not leave. Neither did Leen. His words were a long, sharp nail that punctured her chest. But she held onto her air, keeping enough to press against the wound. She could stand up to him, she realized. The food at her feet felt like a fortress. She had trumped him.

  “You think our heit would stand for you wearing that smut on your face? You got it from your hoer friend Minne, didn’t you?”

  He had been careful, she knew. He hadn’t directly called her a whore. He had threaded the needle perfectly. But she knew what he was implying, and the tears surfaced quickly, too many of them for Leen to will them to withdraw.

  “Shut up, Issac,” Leen said, ashamed at her impotent response. She squeezed the salt in her hands, clenching it, tighter, tighter still. Her words began clumsily but they righted themselves as she spoke. “I’m sorry I ruined your surprise. You must hate it when someone does a better job than you. Here,” she said, throwing the salt at his chest where he caught it. She wished she had undone the top so that the crystals stung his eyes, his nostrils, reopening the sores on his mouth. “I don’t have a use for it anymore.”

  Her words lacked sophistication but they had an effect. His sneer disappeared. He simply looked at her, stony–faced except for the unexpected welling in his eyes. The red that had begun to subside reappeared, deepening the faded crimson that surrounded his mouth.

  Leen walked back to the table. As she sat down, now complete with open tins of peaches and forks happily spearing slice after slice, she whispered to
herself, “I took care of it.”

  14.

  “I think you should go home,” Mrs. Deinum said, coming into the kitchen.

  Leen was darning a sock. She was botching it badly, her stitches pulling and puckering. She blamed her shoddy workmanship on the hard chairs. They were too uncomfortable for such work, even though she had never been good at it and always surrendered the chore to Tine.

  Mrs. Deinum brought her hand to her face and it shook. There was a smudge of flour across her knuckles and the color was not very different from her brow.

  Leen looked at the clock. 1:30. The table was still moist in spots from when she wiped it down after lunch. “What?” she whispered. Instinctively she put her hand on her pocket, even though it was empty. She’d put the salt back, what was left in the bag after Issac had thrown it twice, first to her, then to the ground after she’d given it to him. She hadn’t asked Jakob why he hadn’t traded it, or at least kept it, and she wanted it out of the house. So she brought it back to its rightful place. And now, after returning the loot, here it was: finally, finally she was caught. Of course, Leen thought to herself. Of course it would go this way.

  Mrs. Deinum shook her head slowly, expressing disgust. Leen braced.

  “There was, there was a fight,” she said, and the way she said it made Leen understand right away that “fight” was not the right word.

  Mrs. Deinum had nothing in her hands to hold, no reason to be there other than to deliver some type of news. She nervously patted her hair. “Mr. Deinum just told me and asked me to tell you. It was a witch–hunt. Several men, 21 they say, at the garden at the end of Hoofdstraat. They were Resistance men, men in hiding, men suspected of sheltering others. Gestapo rounded them up and shot them all.”

  This time, Leen anticipated the sensations before they began, the way her body told her what she felt before her mind could name the particular mix of emotions. There was the tingle down her neck and spine that shrank her skin, the feeling of cold and hot, the sudden sense of being so small in a large space, surrounded by crushing air. All these sensations were dread, shock, fear; the precursors to grief.