River in the Sea

by Tina Boscha

  “Who brought them here in the first place?” he sneered.

  She’d heard people say that words could be as sharp as knives, but this felt like a brick, hitting her with blunt force.

  “You’re being reckless. You need to stop. You’ll get yourself killed. You need to be at home.” You, you, you. She wanted to say his name, like Mem and Tine had, but she couldn’t bring herself to. It felt too intimate. He no longer felt like he was her brother.

  Issac looked up and then to the side, breathing like a bull. He threw his hands up, his voice rising too as he answered, “I’m not going to stand back and do nothing. What can the Germans do now? They don’t even have hands to tie! They’ll be out of Dokkum any day. And, if anything, I’ll bring Pater back quicker. I’ll be the one who brings him back.” He pointed at his own chest.

  “But he is probably dead!” Leen shrieked. She hated how she sounded, what she was saying. But she couldn’t control it; everything inside her was rising, rising like sea water. “You ought to be here, not escaping off to do something stupid! Don’t you know what it’s been like here? You left us. You left us a long time ago. You’re barely a part of our family.”

  “Leentje,” she heard a voice say. She thought it was Tine but when she looked, she saw it was Mem who spoke. Her lips were quivering.

  “And you left us too!” Leen shouted at her. Mem sucked in her breath. She covered her mouth.

  “Renske, go upstairs,” Tine whispered. But Renske didn’t leave and Tine didn’t rebuke her.

  Issac walked toward Leen. His lips were thin and curling as he pointed at her. “And whose fault is that? Who? Who is responsible for this whole mess? Who was the one who sent him away? You thought you were some type of hero by killing that dog, never telling anyone how you came home covered in mud and pisje. And in the end, what did it get us? Say what you want, Leentje, but at least I wasn’t the one who sent my father away.”

  The heat from his words burned up her spine like an angry fire, gathering force, gathering words. Gone was the stumble, the struggle to find words. “Our father may still be alive. At least there’s that, right? Because at least I wasn’t the one to kill my own brother. Pater could still come back, but no one can ever say that about Wopke!” She spoke so fast foam formed at the corners of her mouth. It was so much easier than she expected to shout. The rain rapped against the windowpane.

  “Leentje!” Tine shouted. “Enough!” By her voice Leen knew she was crying. Mem’s face was still, so still Leen thought she might shatter, her brittle frame collapsing into kindling and matchsticks. Renske crawled underneath the table.

  Issac’s mouth fell open in shock. He stammered, saying, “You – you – I didn’t.” His face was red and his voice trembled. His eyes clouded. “How dare you,” he whispered.

  Leen knew she had said the very worst thing she could have ever said, and she’d said it because he had said aloud the very worst thing she never hoped to hear. Finally, each of them had drawn their swords and drew blood, blood they shared.

  Issac’s breath was so quick it seemed made entirely of fury instead of air. “I’m bringing Pater back and you will see. Even if it’s just his goddamn bloody body, do you hear me? But I’ll be the one to make it all right, not you. When he comes home he’ll be home because of me, his son, not his daughter with the bits of salt that aren’t worth a thing and with a friend who’s fucking a German soldier. Did you know that, Leen? You didn’t know that about Minne, but I do. She’s got a reputation and it’s catching up to her. And it might just catch up to you too. Because yours isn’t that great to begin with, now, is it?”

  Hearing this, Leen felt sliced open. She was sure he was lying. He lied to her just to be cruel. It felt like her knee would give out any moment.

  “Is it?” he asked again. “I made a stupid mistake and don’t you think I paid for it? But I was young and I didn’t know…” He shook his head and struck at the air. “But you, you went out and practically put Pater into German hands! You drove them to our doorstep! You brought them here, not me. And what did you do after that? Go find a sympathizing whore to be friends with.”

  “Stop it!” Leen shouted. “Shut your mouth! You’re making that up!” The heat turned to chills.

  “Why don’t you ask her? You better be careful, little sister. You’ve done enough now. If I were you, I wouldn’t make it worse.”

  He stopped. His chest heaved as if he’d been running.

  “My son–” Mem said. “You can’t be…”

  Issac turned. As soon as he started to walk, Leen called out, “It was an accident, with the dog! Just like it was an accident with Wopke!” The desperation was too apparent and she stopped, strangled by her sobs. She wanted to say that she was sorry for what she’d said about Wopke, sorry she had been so stupid, sorry for still feeling so angry. She folded into a chair. Remorse fathoms deep filled her as she watched Issac disappear, again, and she ached for him to turn around and say something, even if it was more of his rage, so that there would be an opportunity for this episode to end. Maybe he would tell her that he didn’t mean all that he’d said, and she could say the same. Except at the moment, she had. There were some things she wasn’t sorry for. And he knew it.

  “That was awful,” Tine said, crying. “That was so terribly awful.”

  Mem didn’t move. She didn’t meet anybody’s eyes. “So he is fighting,” she finally said. “My son is fighting now.”

  Renske spoke from under the table. “Memmy, is Pater dead? I thought that when the war is over, then Pater will come home.” Her eyes were wet. All that they had kept from her she still knew. “Does Pater have to have a funeral?”

  No one answered her. The rain drummed like anxious fingertips on the roof, on the windows, on the street. There was little light. Leen felt sick.

  Tine finally spoke. “He is not dead, Renske. We don’t need a funeral.”

  Just then, a loud crack of lightning struck. It lined the edges of the room in brilliant white and Leen could see the frightened eyes of her little sister before it went dark again.

  17.

  The tapping at the door startled Leen, not because of its force, but lack of. The delicate touch couldn’t be soldiers – they never knocked that lightly, even now, after having been pushed out of village after village. The soldiers were expected to evacuate the camp any day, and they barely ventured outside their tents, only visible as shapes behind the tarpaulins. The knocking couldn’t be of a neighbor’s knuckles, either. When Mrs. Boonstra stopped by that morning with a basket of eggs, her knock was confident and loud, like her husband’s, unsurprising and reassuring. It’s just us.

  So then, here it was. Finally the news they had been expecting. Leen would be the only one to receive it. She’d have to deliver it to the rest of the family. She’d have to say, “Pater is dead.” She’d have to say, “He will never come back.”

  The restrained knocking sounded once more, tiny drumbeats from a nervous, curved finger. The shock of Pater’s name on the list, the list of names from the Dokkum massacre that still wasn’t complete, that required a softer approach. Leen breathed, preparing. She put her hand on the doorknob and held it. It was a strange paradox; she wanted to pull the door open so she could, finally, know. Yet she did not want to physically hear the news, see the eyes that wouldn’t look at hers, watch anxious hands wring.

  But when she answered the door 4:30 that Friday afternoon – noting the time just before she turned the doorknob – she found Minne in her doorway, dressed in a gay blue shirt and black heels. “Hoi there, Leen,” she said. “I wondered if you wanted to go to the café with me.”

  It was astonishing to Leen how she could so quickly turn from anticipated grief to considering Minne’s request. The café. Even though Tine and Renske were across the street, Leen looked over her shoulder, searching the empty kitchen and listening, not for Issac’s old sullen stomps but some type of stealth movement. He had left before dawn but he had that new habit of appeari
ng without warning. What else had the Resistance been training him to do? There were rumors and stories of riots and fights and skirmishes and in some places, full–blown fighting. Actual battles, with guns and uniforms on both sides. It was still difficult to believe that Issac, Jakob too, had one of those uniforms. Issac’s words from yesterday had yet to stop ringing, and there were moments when her heart beat with the certainty that what Issac had said about Minne was true. And then there was the guilt of what she’d said to him, words that still pealed in her ears. Her guilt alternated with anger, then a weighty worry about his safety.

  But now, seeing her friend, Minne’s blank, pretty face, decorated with red lipstick that suddenly looked theatrical in its precision, Leen decided to push her doubt and anxiety aside. Better, easier to stay with anger. It required less of her to remain resolute. “Yes, yes, I will go,” Leen said, and Minne’s face released a soft smile.

  “Goet,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in so long. I wondered if you were cross with me. I told myself this was the last time I’d try to find you.”

  “You were looking for me?” Minne’s words, unintentionally flattering, added to her resolve: Yes, Issac was mistaken. “I’m not cross with you. It’s been, it’s been difficult here lately.” Minne must know her father was still gone. She must know what happened in Dokkum; surely she was sent home that day too. Leen didn’t need to say any of this aloud, then. She didn’t need to explain what it had been like for her the last few days.

  Minne nodded in reply, giving her a soft, sympathetic grin, and Leen took this as a confirmation of Leen’s suspicions about Minne’s knowledge. Minne said, “I’ve waited at the Deinum’s a few times, and then they told me that you weren’t working there anymore. They said there was an accident.”

  “Accident?” Outside, walking slowly, the air was warm and damp, the kind of weather that rotted the potatoes after planting. “Oh – yes. I fell,” Leen said. The bruise had faded but it still hurt when she stood too long on it. “It’s better now,” she lied.

  As they approached the café, Leen reminded herself it was good to be out of the house, to break the silent routine she had established with Tine. Leen understood now the necessity of keeping a plan to the day, the attraction of ironing tablecloths and scrubbing the film off teacups; all of it was devised to break the continuous line of thought that still managed to dance into coherence. For Leen, it was this: Pater is dead the war is over soon when will my father be home I miss my brother Minne is a whore where is my father where is Issac where is Pater I’m such a fool. Sometimes she wanted to hit herself to stun her mind’s chatter into silence.

  “Why did you stop?” Minne asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Leen was unaware she had stopped walking. She looked at Minne. Her hair was perfect today. Not a strand out of place. This was all right, wasn’t it? Keep busy by either holding to the routine or breaking it up. Avoid the difficulties, but do something kind. Was this why Minne had come by? Getting her out of the house? If that was it, Leen wanted to talk. They were girlfriends. She needed to hear Minne say she was sorry, even if she said that yes, it was reasonable, perhaps even best, to believe that Pater was one of the Dokkum Twenty–one. She wanted Minne to take her hand and admit there were rumors about her and look her in the eye, pressing her hand tighter, while she told her how they were untrue. It was just because she was pretty and drew the soldiers’ attention. She’d tell Leen not to worry. They would even joke that they would see each other after the war’s end. Any day, right? Any minute, any damn second, any moment everything would change completely.

  “Maybe I should go home,” Leen said. They were at the church, a half–block from the café. She stared at the weathered church door. It was centuries old. Its stillness called to her.

  “Nee, don’t go home. Come sit with me. Keep me company,” Minne prodded. “It’ll be good for you. A change of scenery. You don’t have to stay long.” She touched Leen’s shoulder. “Please.”

  “I shouldn’t be going,” Leen said, still looking at the door. “It’s been a lot, you know?”

  “I know,” Minne said. “It’s hard not to worry sometimes,” she said in a low voice. Leen was relieved to see her head down, the toe of her boot poking at the base of a daffodil. Leen suddenly understood Minne was speaking to her in code, reassuring her about Pater. If she’d been to the Deinum’s then Mrs. Deinum must have told Minne everything. Perhaps Minne had her own anxiety about the war. Maybe she worried about her own father.

  Minne pulled out a small hand mirror and reapplied her lipstick, although she didn’t need to. She forewent her usual attention to detail and swiped the color once over each lip. “I need a cigarette,” she said, glancing at Leen.

  “Me too.”

  Inside, Leen walked to the counter where Arnold stood. She would buy a glass of chocolate milk, drink half, and then take the rest home to Renske. She started to order it and then she noticed that Minne had stopped, standing motionless a meter ahead of the bar, staring into the center of the tables. Leen turned around to see what Minne was looking at. She dropped her dime on the bar and it spun tighter and tighter and then stopped, as if it vanished into the air, sucking all sound away with it.

  Two men wearing dull gray uniforms sat at the middle table. Upon noticing Minne, one straightened in his seat and with a drunken jerk of his arm, raised his hand. The other remained still, his eyes rooted in his glass of beer.

  Leen grabbed Minne’s arm, meaning to pull her towards Arnold and the bar, but Minne’s arm was limp in her hands. Leen opened her mouth to object, but the silence was ruptured first by the drunk soldier, who slurred, “Minne! Hoi, Minne!” His voice was jovial. His tone, familiar.

  There were only a handful of other patrons in the café. Arnold coughed. Leen looked at Minne, whose face was unmoving except for her eyes. They blinked constantly, her eyelids thrashing. She looked straight at the soldier who beckoned her to come to him.

  “Minne, let’s go, now,” Leen said, her voice thick with desperation as she realized she’d have to be in charge. She’d have to be the one to get Minne out. Her grip grew tighter.

  The soldier spoke again, his voice uneven with alcohol, using a mix of Frysk, Dutch, and German. “Minne! Famke, meikomme! Why are you standing so far away?” He patted an empty chair. Just like the rest, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. His body was thin and bony, his movements lacking the assuredness of adulthood. Both of the soldiers looked haggard, unshaven.

  The soldier pushed his chair back, then tried to stand up, but he didn’t leave himself enough room between the table and his chair. His knees gave and he started to fall backwards, and the other soldier stood to catch him, yelling “Shit!” as the drunken soldier hit his head against the seat of the chair, his boots knocking the chair he’d meant for Minne.

  The few bits of laughter that followed quickly dissipated. Minne turned once to look at Leen. Her mouth was set, her eyes blank. She seemed resigned to something. Wordlessly she lifted Leen’s fingers from her arm. “Minne, what–” Leen said. Minne turned back, and Leen followed where Minne directed her gaze. Her eyes did not rest on the fallen soldier, but to the other, the one who kept his head down, and Leen immediately knew him as the one who had held the lantern, the one who had told her to go when she’d dug the grave, the one with the can of oil, the one who had nodded to Minne, the one with the shadows under his eyes. He got up and helped his drunken colleague to his chair.

  “I’m alright, I’m alright,” the soldier slurred as he settled into the chair. “I just wanted you to sit by your girlfriend.” He grunted and pointed to Minne, still standing, arms straight at her sides.

  The café was completely quiet. No one spoke, sipped, coughed, made any movement whatsoever.

  “Minne, komme, now!” Leen cried, trying once more. Her voice sliced into the silence. They should’ve been halfway down Ternaarderweg. She remembered Jan Fokke, how sudden it had all began, but what was happening before her didn’t
match the scene she was witnessing. The loud one, perhaps he might be the one to lunge and attack, but the other? By now she knew he would not do anything of the kind. Not to her, not to Minne. It was clear they knew each other, not by how they looked at each other, but by the way they avoided each other’s eyes. Everywhere but toward each other they cast frightened, furtive glances. This, and their shared silence, a mutual protest, confirmed that they were sweethearts, lovers even.

  “Minne,” Leen said. She shook. “Minne, no.”

  The desperation that had filled Leen deepened into a stony rage, her belly hardening and jaws clenching as she thought to herself that this should not happen, that the soldier should not know Minne’s name. But it did happen; both of them knew Minne; and she had taken Leen there willingly, drawing her out of her house, even acknowledging the De Graaf troubles, the trauma of Leen’s father. She’d held back her lipstick for that reason, hadn’t she – she’d known Leen couldn’t be that frivolous, not now. But Minne was. She was fraternizing with a German soldier – worse, admitting it publicly. But what weighed Leen down far more was her friend’s betrayal. She might have even planned this. Her hair, her makeup, even her black heels; she must have known he would be here.

  Arnold grasped Leen’s shoulder. His stern face gave her direction. In a low, sharp voice he said, “Leentje De Graaf, no one under sixteen is allowed here. I think you had better get home.” He didn’t lie. But he had never before enforced that rule with her. “Don’t be stupid like your friend.”

  Leen hated that she was crying. She hated that she was the only one speaking. She hated seeing Minne so still, unresponsive to her cries. She hated that Issac was right, that she should’ve listened to him all along. In his own aggressive way he had been trying to protect her, just as Pater wished him to.

  Minne turned around. She was crying too. “You should go,” she whispered. Whatever reason she had for Leen’s presence was no longer needed. She turned back to the soldier, her narrow shoulders dropping to acknowledge all the stares. She took a single step towards him, supplying her final answer.