by Tina Boscha
“Do you know about the bones?” she asked.
“What?”
“In the cemetery. At the kerk. If you go looking hard enough, you can find bones.”
“Bones? From people?”
Leen nodded. “The cemetery, it’s hundreds of years old and it’s too small. So they bury the new, the new ones on top of old graves. After awhile all the water pushes the bones up.” She didn’t say how she used to collect them as a child, looking for them after every church service. Pater had been the one to tell her about the bones. He’d said that because of the constant damp and winter rain, the soil grew too saturated and rotted the wood coffins and that there wasn’t any other way; the earth pushed the bones up as the water seeped down. This had fascinated her, but then Mem, in the same day, told her crossly that they were only the bones of little animals, squirrels and such, and she shouldn’t touch them. Despite this, Leen kept a small pouch of them in her dresser, until one day she opened a drawer to see if she could make out the place they belonged on the body, only to discover that the pouch was gone.
“I wonder how long it takes,” Leen said. Perhaps she could find Wopke’s bones now. In a few years she would find Issac’s.
“Don’t think about that,” Jakob said.
Leen flushed. She was saying strange things to him. They bubbled out. He’d seen her crawl inside a foxhole; he must think she was beyond peculiar. But when she glanced at Jakob he wasn’t looking at her the way she’d been looked at before a thousand times, the eyes summing her up as the fool she felt she was. He just looked sad.
“Who ist mei dei, Leentje De Graaf?” he whispered. “Are you doing okay?”
“Niet goet,” she said. She shook her head back and forth. By her motions she wanted him to understand that the sensations in her head felt… strong, like what was inside was bigger than what her skull could hold.
He leaned forward just an inch and she moved the rest, kissing him. It wasn’t like the first time in that same barn, not when he surprised her and all she could feel was spit and lips and the anxious, adolescent need to track every movement. The boards creaked as each of them turned to get closer, to grab a shoulder, to clutch an arm. She shifted to move closer yet, hungry, and their teeth hit but she kept going, pushing away the worry about what she was doing, ignoring the queasiness in her stomach and the ache in her head because the feeling she could most access was wanting to be near, to feel his shirt and the muscle and flesh underneath.
His hand tugged at the buttons of her shirt and then his hand was on her bare waist, then higher, and the moments slid back and forth from a questioning shock to the realization: of course. This was what people did, this was what all the whispers were about. The sighs coming from her parents’ room. What had Mem said? She was a woman now.
His hand slid up to cup her breast and she kissed him harder, clasping her hands around his neck, and everything felt surprising yet warm, and the warmth was good. His hand moved lower again, sliding around her hips, and she tried to settle into the feeling of liking it but yet there, far behind her eyes, she felt something else coming on, beyond the ache. Somehow Jakob was bringing a part of her back, but Leen wanted to sink deeper, escape. So she did not stop.
Jakob rolled her onto her back. He kissed her neck and her breath caught as his hands pulled at the waist of her skirt, sending a flash of alarm, a memory of another man’s weight on her, but yet she didn’t want to stop him and the closeness felt good but no one had put his hands there and yet reflexively she shifted towards him. He removed a hand and the skin on her shins, then her knees, then more puckered as he drew her skirt up and she breathed loudly at this and he clasped one of her hands and kissed her mouth again. Then he guided her hand down and there was not enough time to think, to catch up, and then her hand was on his pants, on him, and his hand was on her, first with the barrier of her underpants and his other hand made hers move and there was too much to concentrate on now, and part of it all was pleasurable, it was good, but that sensation behind her eyes was coming on more now and she thought of the bones and the cemetery and how she could not walk past the church. She reminded herself even as she felt herself move against his hand, felt herself moving her own hand against him, that she was not at the church, she wasn’t there. Issac was, though. Both of her brothers. How much of Wopke was just bones now? All of his small body?
He pulled her underpants down and it was fingers to skin now. At this she could not breathe at all and in the next moment that was all she was doing, gasping.
Part of her wanted to stop, to find more air, and yet she knew she wouldn’t. It was as if there was no connection between her body and that small corner of her mind still capable of thought. It was easy to keep going. It was easy to give over to it. He pulled his own pants away and she found him bare against her hand and his breath quickened and listening to them both pant and feeling the furiousness of it almost made her laugh.
He groaned and shifted again and she felt his weight, all of it, on top of her, cotton between them near their necks but the smooth warmth of just skin below and it kept her down, kept her from thinking, but then he moved again, fumbling, nudging her knees apart, pushing against her, and she made no protest, and his head was buried in her neck and just when she thought that this was it, just when she felt the beginning flash of pain, she thought of Minne and a girl’s white blouse, the back stained yellow.
“No, no,” she said, trying to pull herself up, back. The buried part of her returned all at once, emerging now from her eyes into her throat and she cried out. “Get off me!”
Jakob rolled off and he laid flat on his back, a hand on his face, the other on his pale stomach. He was breathing heavily. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Shit. Shit.”
The sobs were heavy, racking, but quiet. She felt herself heave up and down. She shut her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Leen, I didn’t mean to,” Jakob said.
When she opened her eyes she saw both his hands covering his face.
“Blix,” she said when she was finally able to slow down. Her skirt was still up and the middle part of her body was naked and she was cold but none of that mattered now. He had touched her and so now he could see it. She didn’t care. She wiped her wet nose on her hand and she didn’t care about that either.
“I didn’t mean to go that far, I got too carried away,” he said. He turned his face to the side. “Dammit.”
Carried away. Yes. “The dog,” she said. “I killed that stupid hoend and then everything, one, two, three, happened right after that.”
“What?”
“You have to see it. I sent him away…” It was hard to make the words but it felt good, bold, ugly, to say them out loud, to repeat what Issac said. “I sent my father away and that’s what sent Issac to the L.O., to the Resistance. And now he’s gone.”
Jakob wiped his nose too and for the first time Leen realized he was crying. She put her hand on his shoulder and this made him lift his head – he’d been looking away still – and suddenly she pushed him. He lost his balance and caught himself with one hand, a leg lifting up.
“Don’t be afraid to say it,” she said. She pushed again. Why wouldn’t he say it. Issac had said it, he’d been the only honest one. Why was everyone else so afraid to tell her what she knew? She was to blame. Six months ago she should’ve braked. “They all look at me and I can see it. Everyone, even my father now. They all look at me like I’m some stupid fool. I hate it, do you know how much I hate it? I hate it. You probably think I’m some stupid fool too. That’s why I’m here now. Right? Just some stupid foolish girl. A stupid famke.” Her throat was a torch of words and each time she said something it was like cauterizing a rough spot.
“Stop it,” he said. “Shut up. You’re drunk. You know I don’t think that about you.” He sat up and started to pull up his pants and a tiny thought told her not to but she couldn’t help it, she looked. She flushed when his eyes caught her but she looked again.
“Jakob, your…” She’d seen her father and brothers naked, they all had, when they were young and took baths. Theirs didn’t look like this. The tip of his long muscle was pink, there was no cover.
“Jakob,” she said again, pausing. She didn’t know how to say it.
He hurriedly turned away, bending over to hide himself while simultaneously pulling his pants up. “I thought you knew,” he said. “I thought Issac told you.”
She shook her head. She felt dizzy. “I didn’t.”
“I thought everyone did,” he mumbled. “I might as well have worn the yellow star.”
“Saturday church,” she muttered.
“Wat sizze?”
All this time he’d been a Jew, all this time. There were other Jews in Wierum but they had been taken away years ago now. They had not known them well and the way Mem explained it to Renske was all that Leen knew, that they had kerk on Saturdays. That and circumcision; she’d learned that by accident, overhearing Issac ask Pater what the Dominie had meant by the word after a sermon on Abraham and the covenant.
Still, Jakob had come to Wierum and in a short amount of time he had become one of them, speaking their tongue, wearing blue and a white stitched armband. The one thing that was different was his hair, that hair she had always loved.
She pushed her skirt down and tried to button her dress, her fingers sliding and fumbling.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her head pounded. Her stomach felt like it was filled with the cold waves of the sea. She clumsily climbed down the ladder. Jakob called her name as she walked out of the barn, weaving, but she put her arm up weakly and kept going. It had to be close to nine o’clock but it was still light and there, on the side of the barn, was a rickety bicycle. She swung her leg over it, hopping on one foot, nearly losing her balance. Her foot missed the pedal and her shin scraped against it but she did not even wince. She tried again and she rode wobbly at first but she continued and in two minutes she was out of Wierum, turning towards Ternaard, to Minne’s house.
24.
Minne answered the door. The stubble on her bare head had just barely begun to grow back, and the parts the clippers missed stuck out in awkward clumps. Leen stared at it. She wanted to touch it, just as she’d touched Jakob’s face, and she started to reach out but Minne took her arm and dragged her in.
“It’s late,” she said, closing the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”
“I will help you,” Leen said.
“You look a mess,” Minne said.
“I can help you hide your beau,” Leen said. The sea inside her crashed from one side to the next. She fought to keep her balance and the best way was to look at Minne’s blank, silent face. Before she’d wanted to stay drunk, but now Leen wanted to be clear, steady, articulate; and yet she could barely stand. “I want to help you. I’ll help you hide your soldier. I want to. I will do it. I don’t care if they shave my head too. I’m sorry I hit you. I can help you.”
Minne looked behind her and then grabbed Leen and Leen was grateful for the chair. She still couldn’t get her feet to move the right way. She was wadlopen now except the floor was hard, not the hard muck and slush of the black sand the tide left behind. Was that how the Germans had come back to the coastline? Hiking across the seafloor? Did the rivers in the sea carve a path? She’d never been to Minne’s house. The kitchen was red. The tiles were familiar, framing the counter and decorating the walls, depicting boats and horses and wagons and windmills, but they were red over white, not blau.
“You’re drunk.” Minne closed the door to the kitchen softly. The room was dim, dim like the barn. The wood of the seat was hard too, just like the loft. Leen didn’t want her to know what she’d been doing with Jakob. Suddenly she wanted to lie down, curl up on something soft. Rest.
“I’ll make you some tea,” Minne said.
“No,” Leen moaned. She held up her hand to stop Minne but quickly she was filling with lead. “I came here to help you, not drink tea,” she slurred, dropping her hand. She thought Minne would be happy. Excited. She thought Minne would lean close to her and say, “Really?” and ferry her to a secret place where they could talk, where they could conspire, where Leen could make it right, where by doing this she could make everything right. She didn’t expect to be seated in Minne’s kitchen while Minne put the kettle on, just like Tine would. Her shoulders were slim but broad and Minne was as graceful as ever, everywhere but the uneven lines on her scalp.
“The other girls are wearing scarves,” Leen blurted when Minne set an empty mug in front of her, along with a plate of tea bags. Leen picked one and tried to rip open the top but she managed only to remove the string. “Ver skrikelik,” she said. Minne took the bag from her and dropped it in her mug.
“I haven’t been out much.” Minne sat down across from Leen and met Leen’s eyes. She was just as defiant as she’d been on the day of the fernedering.
“You sang so loud,” Leen said. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Ver domme, I can’t talk, not how I want.”
Minne sighed. “Is this what you drank?” She got up and reached into the back of a little cabinet and took out a small brown bottle. She opened the cap and sniffed it. “Today was the funeral, wasn’t it. Oh, Leen.” She poured some in her cup, at first splashing the liquor against the rim. She wiped up the drops with the edge of her sleeve.
“I don’t want any,” Leen said. She covered her cup with one hand, her eyes with her other.
“I wasn’t planning on giving any to you.”
“I know where I can hide him,” Leen said. “In our yard, we have a little dugout. It is small but I can bring him food. We have so much food now. The salt, remember all the salt?”
Minne said nothing. She closed her eyes and everything about her was still except her mouth. Her lips did not part but the layer of the muscles underneath moved.
“I mean it,” Leen said. “My father came home, but I think I can still do it.”
“Be quiet,” Minne said softly. “Don’t be sick. You look like you’re going to be sick.” The kettle emitted its first sharp whistle and Minne got up quickly to remove it from the heat. “Drink some tea,” she said quietly, pouring the boiling water into Leen’s cup.
The steam was hot on her face. “No, I’m not sick,” she moaned, lying. The humid air curdled everything inside her. She tried to sip her tea and the heat of it scorched her tongue and immediately it began to swell. “Too hot,” she said.
“It’ll make you feel better,” Minne said but Leen knew she was lying. She was seasick inside. The waves were sloshing and Leen felt like she was drowning.
“Don’t you want me to help you?” she whispered.
“Leentje, shut up now. It’s done. I handled it myself.”
“What?” Leen said. She put both hands on the table, gripping the edge tightly to steady herself.
“I took him to the L.O. I told them the truth. They have him now.”
“They have him? He is with the L.O.? Did you see my brother?” Leen gave up. She crossed her arms underneath her and put her head on the table. Speaking onto her wrists, she asked, “Do you know what happened to Issac?”
“Yes, I do,” Minne said. She briefly touched the top of Leen’s head. “I’m so sorry, Leen.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t help you, Minne,” Leen said. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She tried to bring her tea to her but Minne’s fingers slid it away. She wouldn’t have spilled but it didn’t matter and she felt so wretched with remorse and a new pain hurtled to her forehead so she moved her arms aside so she could put her cheeks directly on the tabletop where it was a little cooler. “Better,” she said, but then she realized nothing was really better. “I should go home,” she said, lifting her head suddenly. “It’s the funeral,” she whispered. Her head throbbed.
“Why do you want to help me? Why now? Because you feel guilty?” Minne asked.
Leen could not answer. Her head was iron. How could she tell her that being w
ith Jakob, how seeing him naked below the waist after what they’d done and almost done together had made her realize that none of it mattered? The blood, the differences, the distinctions. Jakob could say beppe now. Jakob knew the Frisian tongue better than the soldier. There was more she wanted to tell her, feelings more clear to her than the words; that she’d looked for Mr. Deinum at the funeral, but was told he was in jail; he’d beat a man who had informed, long ago, about where his son Klaus was, now dead. She wanted to say how losing Issac and regaining Pater made her wish for no one to lose anyone else. How Minne’s friendship had saved her from rowing herself from the still canal out to the sea where her loneliness would have washed over her in tall, cold waves.
“I don’t want to go home,” Leen whispered. “But I have to go.” There would be less people in the barn but the ones who were left would be there far into the night. They would sing and that’s when the men would weep. Pater would sit with them, surrounded by empty bottles and cups. Mrs. Boonstra would lead Mem to bed.
“I know,” Minne said, but she didn’t help Leen up.
“Leentje, time to get up now.”
“No.” She was still clutching her sleep, covers drawn to her forehead. It lessened the vicious swirling that came when she opened her eyes.
“Come on now. It’s time. You’ve slept enough.”
She opened her eyes. Pater was there, sitting a few feet away. The room was bright.
“Turn it down,” Leen said.
“What?”
“The lantern.”
“It’s almost 11. Come, get up. You’ve slept it off by now.”
Then she woke, really. She sat up and she felt the sea, nee, the canal still inside her, the waves weaker but still following the motion of her head, a few seconds behind. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then she remembered where she’d been, where she’d gone, where she had escaped from. She did not open her eyes, afraid to look at Pater. She felt herself rocking, swaying like the pig in the rafters.
