by Tina Boscha
Leen stood back. She smiled and said to the mirror: Hell–o. She watched her mouth make the O, and said it again, trying to mimic the voices of the Americans she heard on the radio, the smooth sound of the L in their mouths, how it came out easy, like singing.
Hell–o. Hel–lo. Better. She forced a smile. “Oh, doeval,” she said out loud.
The door from the barn to the house slammed, sending a tremor through the walls, and Pater’s coughs followed. Leen’s insides seized to make a fist where her stomach used to be. Ever since Pater had arranged for her papers, Leen swore his hair had grown whiter, especially at the temples, and his boyish energy had dissipated – except at the dinner table. Then his voice would get firm and he asked her question after question, night after night, his forehead knotted and severe.
“You will write us a letter while on the boat, and then you will write us from Chicag–O?”
“Yes, Pater. Of course.”
“And you will obviously put the dates on the letters,” he added.
Leen nodded.
“And you will write us first and tell us when you will call us, because we have to know when we should be home and when to free up the line.”
Leen was about to agree when Pater stood up suddenly, left the table, and came back with his small leather notebook that he kept for notes about work.
“We should set up a time for the first call, ja? Yes, that’s a good idea. In three weeks, on a Sunday, what is the time there?”
He calculated the time difference, making Renske write out on a piece of paper the date, time, and the words “to call home” on it. Then he ripped out the page. “Make sure to put that in your trunk so you don’t lose it,” he said. Then he asked Renske to write the same, making sure the times matched up, and closed the notebook.
“Okay,” Leen said, smoothing the paper and placing it next to her plate. “I will, right after supper.”
“Maybe you should do it now, so you don’t throw it away on accident.”
“Would you let the girl eat,” Mem sighed, making Leen chuckle, but all the same she took the paper and ran upstairs. She opened the trunk and placed the note carefully into her envelope of money, $600 guilders. Pater had never bought a tractor.
Pater’s voice hurtled up the stairs. “Leen! Komme! Of all days to be late, this is not the one.”
“Coming!” She dropped her lipstick into her new yellow purse. She checked the clock by the bed. They had a half hour before they had to leave for Leeuwarden, but Pater never liked to leave for anything on time, since it left little or no margin for problems. She closed up her bag and looked around. Was there anything else she had missed? She opened each drawer of the chest and bent over to look in each one. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She looked in the first one more time. This one always stuck. Peering closer, she saw that a section of an old pair of hose was wedged behind the drawer. Of all things to find today – she’d forgotten about that one last pakje of zout. She pulled the hose out and worked her hand inside until she found the tiny square of paper. She unfolded it, undid the clasp on her purse, and poured the loose salt inside.
Pater filled the back of the jeep with the trunk and the bag. Leen had already helped him bring the trunk out of the house, but he insisted on lifting it in himself, and as she stood in front of the barn she saw the curtains of two kitchen windows across the street flicker and move, as if the wind was blowing inside the house.
Pater closed the back of the Dodge. He held out his hand, and Leen took it.
“A last walk on the dike?” Leen asked, hopeful. “We still have time.”
Pater took out the small timepiece he kept in his shirt pocket. He shook his head. “We shouldn’t be late.” He looked over his shoulder, then at the sky. It was overcast but the rain had held off. He softened, pointed towards the edge of Wierum, where Ternaarderweg led away from the church’s spire into a one–lane road bisecting fields before it widened again. “Five minutes.”
They walked to the top of the dike in silence. Leen felt it coming again. She hated this anticipation. She had known today would be difficult and she feared more her emotions surrounding it rather than leaving. And now the day had arrived and she had no words and it was just as well with the tightening inside her throat that made it hard to breathe except for shallow wheezes.
Pater said, “I hope to come visit you before I’m too old. I hope to before I’m 60.”
“That’s in ten years!”
“Well, I hope for five, but it’s not so cheap, you know.” Pater glanced at his pocket watch. “We should go. You can’t miss that train.”
They turned around to walk back, but before they had taken ten steps Leen felt Pater’s hand suddenly go rigid, squeezing hers tightly, only to let go and squeeze it again.
“Pater?”
Smoke curled around his cheek, as if it contained his words, releasing them as it blended into the misty sea air. “Poppie,” he said, “I know you’ll do in America what I would have done there. You do that for me, okay?”
“Shit,” she said. She thought they’d have this conversation on the road. Then, after he’d dropped her off, she planned to cry on the train. She wouldn’t care who saw her.
“You’ll do that for me?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse, unable to say anything more.
“You’re my best girl, Leen. My very best.” Pater released her hand and reached for his handkerchief. He blew his nose. “Let’s go.”
The rest of the goodbyes were quick. Hilke kissed her cheeks and told her to be a good girl and his laugh was so big that Leen hugged him harder than she meant to. Mem didn’t want to come outside, so Leen went inside the kitchen where Mem stood at the sink, and she hugged her quickly. Mem cried into her handkerchief so she wouldn’t wet Leen’s shirt, and the teakettle began to whistle, and she pushed Leen hard and said, “I need to go,” and as Leen backed out the kitchen she watched her mother’s shoulders shudder.
Leen kissed Woppie and mumbled to her not to grow too fast and then Tine handed her to Hilke. She gripped Leen’s hands and asked her to please write her, separate letters from the ones she would send to Mem and Pater, so that Leen could share all her adventures with her. Her face was red but she did not cry very hard, not what Leen had feared, and for this Leen was grateful.
Inside the Jeep, Pater tapped her knee and asked, “Ready?”
“We need to go to the school first, okay? I told Renske I’d come by,” Leen said. She nervously bounced on the seat. She started to pick at her thumbnail and then sat on her hands. She checked at her feet for her yellow purse. Everything was there.
Pater started the jeep, gunning it hard so his hips could be spared first and second gear. In a moment they were driving down her street the opposite way she and Pater had just walked. The schoolhouse was on the same road as the church, but past it, on the other side of Wierum towards Ee. But Pater turned right onto the road that went towards Dokkum. He punched in the horn twice.
“The school is to the left?” That was the wrong way, even if Pater forgot; it was going south instead of east towards Leeuwarden, where she would board the first train. “Heit, they moved it, remember? This is the wrong way.”
Pater’s eyes squinted as he secured a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “I forgot my tobacco,” he said curtly. Leen began to worry that she really would be late. She couldn’t skip saying goodbye to Renske. Pater hated to be late but there was only one thing for which he’d make an exception. Oh, not now! she wanted to shout. I’ll buy you some at the train station.
They turned again, then once more, making the square back into Wierum, onto Ternaarderweg. Her heart pounded.
He drove past their house.
“You passed it–” She watched the house grow smaller. “Pater,” Leen said as the jeep slowed and jolted as Pater downshifted. “Pater!” she said, unable to control her nerves now.
“Leentje, look,” he said, pointing out his window. He pulled her arm. “Here, le
an this way.”
There was a crowd, climbing the dike, men and women, kids pulling on their parents’ arms. She looked behind her and saw more running out of their houses, waving to others as if to say, come on, come on, you’ll miss it. “What is this?” she asked.
Pater rolled down the window and she slid all the way over, leaning against him to see. “Would you look at that,” he said. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Right on time.”
She recognized every face. She had seen every one of them before. She saw Mr. Boonstra, Mr. Iedema, the old woman who had given her a dime, Jan Fokke, everyone was there, every single Wierumer, all of them standing on the dike in a line.
“There’s your lytse suster,” Pater said, pointing.
“Renske!” She stood in the middle of her classmates, holding up a sign that read, “Good luck Leentje De Graaf!” in large red, painted letters. Standing a few feet away was Mem and Tine, Hilke behind them, holding his infant daughter high up against his chest. He lifted her tiny hand and waved it back and forth. He nuzzled her head and Leen could almost hear him whisper, “Say goodbye to Tante Leen, Woppie, say goodbye…” Both Mem and Tine stood with their arms clutched to their chests, a handkerchief crushed in one hand. They looked like two versions of the same woman, one young and plump, one old and slim.
Leen held out her hand, intending to wave, but all she could manage was to extend it, palm facing out, and in a quiet explosion the crowd on the dike began waving back, and she could make out shouts of “Good luck!” and “The best to you!” and “God bless!” intermixed with her name and the word Amerika. They said it like she did, with the k hard, the syllables coming out in a song.
There were more: the Dominie; Arnold; Mrs. Deinum. The café and bakkerij must be closed this morning, just for her. She looked at face after face, ruddy and flushed and pale and fair and then there were two more, a couple, much like Tine and Hilke but both smaller in frame, and their baby was old enough to be balanced on his mother’s slim hip. The man wore a cap pulled low, shading his already deep–set eyes, and she had pretty short hair, curled at the chin. Leen waved to Minne. “Goodbye,” she said aloud. Next to them stood Jakob Hoffman, his hair dark as ever. She blew him a kiss. He held out his hand. “Goodbye,” she repeated.
They reached the end of the dike. Pater honked the horn, two quick bursts. Leen frantically waved with both hands, smiling and crying, surprised, overwhelmed. Happy.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Pater said, shifting to neutral. The engine idled. “There are hundreds out there, nearly all of Wierum.”
She could not speak. Leen had been waiting for this day for nearly a year; nee, she had always been waiting for it. Finally, the thing she’d always wanted was there in Wierum, in Friesland, standing in a line behind her. She felt hot at the same time a rack of chills rolled down her neck and spine, sending fear into each vein, each drop of blood. She worried about finding the right train. She was afraid she would never eat a piece of kroetje cheese or good salty drop. What if she couldn’t master English and what if the phones didn’t work over such a long distance? Maybe there would be a terrible storm and the boat would sink, like the Titanic, and she would never get to the States at all.
Thoughts tumbled through her in a torrent. It’s too much. It’s too big. I can’t do it.
Somehow Pater knew. “Hey,” Pater said, “stop it.” He pressed his hand down on Leen’s. “Don’t look back. You just look straight ahead now, ja? Roll your window down and stick your arm out and wave to them, but don’t look back. Okay?”
Leen looked at Pater. His face was firm. He meant this.
She breathed out, then again. Chills surged down the back of her neck once more as she opened the window. She was doing it. She was driving on her way out of Wierum, out of Friesland, a thousand people gathered on the dike, holding back the sea as they formed a river of hands and faces, waving her on.
“Time to go,” Pater whispered. He put a new cigarette in his mouth and shifted. He turned onto the next road and pressed on the gas. Then, a mile out, he pulled over.
“Pater–” She had barely begun to slow her breath. She still felt the faces watching her.
“Komme,” her father said, grinning. “Give your old man a chance to sit still for a change.”
Her hands were shaky but the wheel gave her something to hold onto. As long as they gripped it loosely it they didn’t quiver. Leen put the gear out of neutral and shifted, once, again.
Slowly at first, then faster, she felt the Jeep’s engine burn beneath and then all around her, going, going, moving forward, steadily gathering speed.
Acknowledgements
I’ve been joking (kind of) that this book has enjoyed a long gestation, and so it stands to reason that I have a lot of people to thank. And really, I’m happy about this, because it shows how wonderful my friends and family are. And let’s face it, every writer wants to write the acknowledgements page, so here goes.
I started writing this in 2001 during my MFA days at the University of Oregon, and our small group of women in workshop were my first audience. In particular I’d like to thank Caroline Goyette, Mir-Mir Gershow, Connie Zhu, and Jessica Kim. Together with the poets, we had an amazing group of individuals in our cohort and I will never forget our graduation party where we wore toilet paper seats as mortarboards and danced the night away to Prince and Neil Diamond.
Many writing teachers read sample pages and gave excellent feedback, but David Bradley was the one to ask me tough questions I didn’t yet have answers to. He pushed me to think about this project more carefully and from that point on, the pages I had written began to form chapters. Grace Talusan was incredibly sweet and encouraging and Porter Shreve was an oasis of calm. While she probably does not remember me, and only taught me as part of a week–long workshop, Lan Samantha Chang made me think this book could really be something.
Two organizations provided much–needed financial support that gave me the most precious resource: time. The University of Oregon’s Center for the Study of Women in Society funded the work of writing and revising this book no less than three times, and their last grant, together with the Leslie Bradshaw Fellowship from Oregon Literary Arts, gave me one of the best summers of my life. In 2007, my days consisted of writing, revising, and walking my dog to a beautiful field where I often sat in awe at the joy I felt. To wake up every day knowing all I have to do is write? Amazing.
Many read the manuscript in its various forms and gave feedback and encouragement: Mary Boscha, Meg O’Leary, Dana Giles, and Adina Szalai. Curtis Russell, my literary agent, provided much wisdom and feedback about the state of publishing. Dana Boonstra, such a wonderful friend she can only be considered family, called me after finishing the draft and shouted in the phone, “I love your book!” Kate Ristau juggled a newborn while providing keen edits at the book’s final stage. And Erin Parker, fellow stepmom extraordinaire, is a rockstar reader and superstar friend. She paused, took a breath, and told me exactly what I needed to hear.
Of course I have to thank my parents, to whom this book is dedicated. I grew up fascinated by the stories they told of the war, of hiding in potato heaps, surviving raids, and ferrying food to fathers, brothers, and uncles in hiding. My mother’s courage to leave the Netherlands at age 19 – knowing no English – started our whole family saga in America, and my father’s incredible pluck and hard work provided amazing opportunities for all of us Boscha kids. While the De Graaf side provided most of the inspiration for the story, my father’s sharp memory supplied several key details not found in history books, and a casual anecdote about the ocean gave me the title. I would be remiss to not mention that my siblings and extended family have shared the joy of finally being able to read the book (and perhaps shut me up!).
Kai Persons (kaipersons.com) designed this beautiful cover, and several others I had the pleasure of choosing from. Hire him. He’s absolutely wonderful.
My girls Eva and Camille listened to me talk of writ
ing and publishing for years and now get to see me do it. Remember, failure is just a part of finding the path to success.
Finally, thanks – suddenly the word seems too narrow to convey the depth of what I feel – to my husband Damien. Your insight, enthusiasm, support, endless patience, and most of all, your belief in me, have meant the world. I love you.
Photo by Damien Sands
About the Author
Tina Boscha lives in Oregon’s Willamette Valley with her husband, Damien Sands, and stepdaughters Eva and Camille. They share their home with two nutty boxers and one silly black cat. A graduate of the University of Oregon’s MFA program in creative writing, she teaches composition and technical writing and blogs about writing and crafting at www.tinaboscha.com. For her next novel she is working on a good old–fashioned ghost story titled The Sleeping Fields.
A note from Tina:
The very best compliment is for a reader to select my book. For that, thank you!
The second best compliment is for a reader to leave a review. If you’re so inclined, I would be thrilled and honored if you would leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or wherever you go to read reviews of good literature.
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