Her mother realized more than ever that Danya was growing up in Belgium, in a different culture. Would she still carry on the Circassian tradition as Sergey would have, had he not been involved in that terrible accident? Fatima wondered.
Throughout the day, Danya had difficulty concentrating on her schoolwork, flashing back to the encounter with Satanaya in her father’s office the night before.
Returning to her room, she found the outfit for the evening laid out on her bed. Danya’s family was wealthy, and her mother had spared nothing to have her birthday ensemble made by Danya’s grandmother with the most delicate material, embellished with ribbons and pearls. Danya had seen pictures of the beautiful girls in the Book of Sagas in her father’s study. She had adored their elegant costumes. The Circassian dresses enhanced the physical beauty of the girl’s body; over the years, these ethnic costumes had become trendsetters in the fashion world. Young girls were required to wear a corset in the form of a short, tight-fitting vest made from red Moroccan leather, worn under the chemise. It served to limit the development of the bosom and was to be removed only on their wedding night.
“What is this for?” Danya asked her mother when she saw the corset for the first time. Her mother was too embarrassed to give her any detail. She took the girdle from the bed without explanation, handing her the tiara made from twisted red velvet and multi-colored ribbons and embellished with silver ornaments. She took a quick glimpse in the mirror. She was happy that she had kept her promise to her mother. She was going to make the most of the occasion, and tonight she decided that she was going to be a Circassian beauty. She put on the green velvet skirt, with yellow panels interspersed in the colors familiar to her. She liked the short-sleeved blouse that showed off the exquisite embroidery with beads and sequins in the colors of the rainbow. I am no longer going to hide my pride in being Circassian, Danya silently resolved.
Around her waist, she tightened her belt with an oversized silver disk adorned with a purple garnet. She smiled, which brought out the dimples in her face.
“Is this the way Circassian girls are supposed to look?” Danya asked. Her mother looked adoringly at her daughter who had grown into a beautiful Circassian girl.
Danya looked forward to the presents on this particular day. When Kadir saw her beautiful outfit, he was happy, yet sad about how fast she had grown up right under his eyes. He had written her a birthday poem about time flying by too soon. He wanted to write a poem she would remember for the rest of her life.
“I just returned from a meeting at the Diamond Exchange, and I rushed home in time for the party tonight. You look stunning in that Circassian dress. Are you ready for my present?” Kadir asked.
“Let me see it, please! I can’t wait!” Danya shouted, excitedly opening the carefully gift-wrapped package. Inside, she found the poem her father had composed, titled, “To My Daughter.” He had spent many hours handwriting the rhymes in Gothic lettering on original parchment paper. Dainty graphics incorporating the symbols of Circassia embellished the poetry. He had painted little periwinkle flowers and nesting doves fluttering over the parchment paper. Danya remained silent while adoring the figures. In a quiet voice, she read:
“The moment I laid eyes on you and
Crowned you with your name
I knew my life was different and
Could never be the same
Racing past my eyes
Baby crib to boyfriends.”
She paused and hugged her father. “Thank you for putting this poem together,” she smiled. “I am sure that I will enjoy the rest of the rhymes on my own.” The poem ended with these words, but she did not finish the poetry:
“But the end was just beginning
For you have become my friend!”
The significance of the last lines would become more evident with time.
Her friends would be arriving soon for the party; she had to finish getting ready. She heard her mother calling her from upstairs. Danya entered her mother’s boudoir and walked into her mom’s outstretched arms, receiving a big hug.
She wondered about the present her mother would give her. As if reading her mind, her mother handed her an ornate dark walnut box, decorated with intricately carved ivory figures resembling Egyptian artwork. Danya opened the box to reveal its red satin lining. She drew in a deep breath and picked up the small white flask.
“Happy birthday, Darling!” her mother exclaimed. “The flask is made from alabaster and has been in our family for hundreds of years. It is traditional for mothers to pass it on to their daughters when they turn sixteen. I know you will take special care of this heirloom.” She hugged her daughter and kissed her, watching with joy how Danya admired the beautiful figurine of Satanaya in gold leaf inlay. She recalled a poem from the Book of Sagas that the ancient people recited during dance rituals in the darkness of night along the shores of the Black Sea:
“Like a flower’s head held high
Turquoise eyes shining like stars
Bearer of gladness and delight
O life’s beauty
You captivate whoever lays sight on you
All yearn for you
You are the youth’s undying hope
Our cherished love.”
At the end of the ceremony, each member of the tribe would place a single red rose at the foot of the statue of Satanaya.
Danya’s mother told her that the flask contained a perfume made from a mixture of fragrant plants from Socotra, in Yemen. In Circassian folklore, the young girls learned early in life about the “Bottle of Enchantment.” They believed the fragrance originated with the Nubian queens of Southern Egypt, who used the perfume to seduce Egyptian pharaohs. The mixture was a tightly guarded secret within the sorority of Nubian beauties, until one day, the Circassians overran the capital of Nubia and stole the secret. From that day forward, Circassian women were not only the most beautiful on Earth; they were also some of the most enchanting, thanks to the secret potent aphrodisiac.
“Is this the perfume grandmother spoke of years ago?” Danya asked. Holding up her hand and looking Danya in the eye, her mother answered solemnly.
“I must ask you to keep this gift a secret between us. It belongs to the sorority of Circassian women. To keep the Circassian tradition, promise not to open this bottle until the time has come. But only you will know in your heart when that day has arrived.”
When Danya went to bed that night, she could not sleep. Her mother’s words of secrecy puzzled her. What is so special about this bottle that I’m not allowed to open it? Holding the bottle, she considered opening it but decided to honor her mother’s wishes. Years later, Danya would learn the power of the fragrance. Exhausted, she laid down in bed thinking about this particular birthday, full of mystery.
Chapter 2
A Family United by a Common Bond
It was late in the day, and the wind blew hard. The family sat at the dinner table, and, as usual, Manus was late. There was a good reason for his tardiness. The rain came down in sheets, creating deep puddles. He drove into a ditch while looking at a pair of cows lowing their heads off, complaining about the heavy rain. Manus was the compassionate type, and he wondered if the farmer had forgotten about his animals.
The wind howled with an eerie sound through the narrow street in Mill, Holland, where the Habers lived in a small house. Painted in moss green with white trim, the homes in the little cities of Holland resembled a tableau in a classic Dutch painting.
Manus could easily pass for a second-rate hobo. He was not handsome, but was somewhat odd-looking, with shoulder-length hair covering his slumping shoulders and bushy sideburns. His beady blue eyes, pointed chin, and pouting lips, along with his quarrelsome know-it-all nose, gave him away as an individual in search of something extraordinary. He was determined to find it somehow. No wonder his artsy friends called him a know-it-all; he had
a firm belief in himself.
Manus arrived exhausted from pushing his bicycle against the gusting wind. With one hand, he steered his bicycle through the deep puddles while maneuvering his umbrella to ensure it did not flip over with the other. Through the driving wind, he could barely make out the roadway. He had to keep his wet beret from sagging over his eyes. His long hair was dripping wet, but he was okay because he knew that mother was cooking bratwurst tonight.
He had attended another lecture at the Academy for Fine Arts. In his class, only three students considered a future in sculpting. The academy did not spend a lot of time or resources on education for sculptors. They had produced several famous Dutch painters, and this was the discipline they favored.
Finally, he reached his home and parked his bicycle in the courtyard, next to his younger brother Arie’s. The back door slammed shut with a bang, thanks to the wind. Manus was soaking wet and starving. He quickly dried off. Shoulders slumping, he saw the negative looks his family gave him. One could not help to notice the comical look on his face. To his family’s annoyance, he never seemed to worry about the world. He knew where to find good food. He loved red cabbage, boiled potatoes, and bratwurst. Pulling his chair up to the table to start his meal, he noticed his family staring at him in silence. Arie snickered. Manus looked like a tomcat that had crawled out of a well, dripping wet.
“You know what you remind me of?” Arie chuckled mockingly. “You look like a cat who lost her mouse under the sofa.” Manus did not care to answer and started to load his plate with food. Everyone started eating again. Manus knew they had been talking about him. He looked at his mother; she was in one of her dark moods. He blamed it on the four days of rain, which depressed her. Despite being tired from cooking all afternoon, she found the energy to address Manus in a stern, shrill voice.
“How old are you now, Manus? Ah yes, twenty-nine. As if I have to remind you, you are still without a job. You are not bringing in a single guilder, yet, every day, you are here for your meal. Oh yes, you want to be an artist. Let me tell you; there is no money in it.” His mother was a stoic individual with little tolerance for dilly-dallying. Manus could not get his brain working under his wet, matted hair. Only warm, comforting food could put his mind back in gear to give an intelligent answer. When mother spoke, no one dared to jump in, either to support what she said or to smooth things over for Manus.
His father also remained silent. He preferred to think matters through before speaking. Antonius Habers had been married for thirty-two years and had a lot of patience; he was gentle and caring by nature, as long as he had his pipe. He talked about his pipe smoking as if it were the medium whereby he gained clarity about the future. His wife, Cornelia, wished he would stop smoking, but now that Manus had taken up the pipe, she knew she had lost that battle. Manus had found a common bond with his father.
He decided to jump in. “Manus, did you understand your mother? You need to earn a wage, and until you do, I agree that we have a problem,” his father announced, looking seriously at his son. “I looked through your portfolio of drawings and was impressed with your work,” his father told him, boosting his self-confidence. “You show real talent. But talent alone does not translate into money. We need to see some income to support this family.” He rose from his chair and put his hand on Manus’ shoulder. Manus appreciated that his father stood by him and encouraged him to succeed.
The Academy, where he was a guest lecturer held Antonius in high regard. A master painter in his own right, he often lectured about the Old Dutch painters. His favorite subject was how to translate realism into poetry and splendor.
“Our own eyes are the key to making art our guide and solace, our delight and comfort,” he told Manus as a wise father and mentor. Manus stayed behind after dinner with his father. He offered him a wad of tobacco for his pipe as they enjoyed a good smoke. Manus wore a hurt look on his face. His father put his arm around him, and Manus felt encouraged that eventually, he would find a way to make money for the family.
His portfolio contained a large bundle of drawings of Mary and Jesus; his father inquired about his choice of subject matter. He was uncomfortable telling his father that his first love was sculpting. “I’d like to come with you to Saint Anna Church, where you are painting the biblical figures,” he told his father. That evening, he joined his father and climbed a tall ladder to the church ceiling. They balanced themselves carefully on the scaffolding and started painting. Manus noticed how the pastel colors, accentuated by solids, brought to life the spiritual aspects of the figures on the ceiling. He wished he could find a likewise style in sculpting to call his own. He knew he had talent in drawing figures, but if he wanted to sculpt, moving from two- to a three-dimensional artwork was essential.
Back home, he began to experiment with a new style. Suddenly, as if he had flipped a switch, he started to create multidimensional figures that sprang to life from the paper, telling a story. He began drawing from his heart.
Manus longed to have a place of his own. Laying on his bed, he searched for his pipe to help soothe the frustration. Resting on his elbow, he searched for the tobacco pouch on the nightstand. The pouch was empty; another reminder that he had no money. Late into the night, he fell asleep.
He woke up refreshed, feeling a renewed zest for life. He was making progress with his drawings and would soon take the plunge and start his very first sculpture. Downstairs, his mother had set the table for breakfast, and Manus helped himself to a cup of tea. He grabbed the daily paper. The headline highlighted Holland’s economic difficulties, with a 30% unemployment rate.
As Manus turned to world news, his father came in holding his pipe and pointing to the headline: “Freedom of the Arts under Attack in Germany.” Antonius started explaining about the Socialists in Holland.
“The Democratic Workers Party in Holland is in a strong alliance with the Nazis. In Germany, the Nazis issued strict guidelines for the practice of the arts. Under the direction of Hitler, who thought of himself as an accomplished painter, the regime banned all modern styles; only classical styles approved by Hitler were allowed if they exalted the virtues of Aryanism.” Antonius kept a close eye on political developments in Germany about the arts. He had several friends that were leaders in the art world who were also Jews.
“I am concerned by these developments in Germany. The Democrat Socialists want to import these restrictions to Holland. I will fight these misguided policies in whichever way I can,” Antonius remarked adamantly. Manus set his cup down, surprised at his father’s uncharacteristic outburst. Was he still angry over yesterday’s discussion or was he going to protect freedom of the arts in Holland? Manus knew his father to be a calm and reasonable person.
Arie walked in, eager to relate the news he had heard at the Police Academy. “Guess what?” he began excitedly. “At the Academy, cadets were talking amongst themselves about German agitators forming secret cells in Amsterdam and Rotterdam to create unrest amongst the population by murdering and plundering. We’re going to need more officers to deal with this problem.” He looked at Manus and waved his hand. “No, no, no! You would never qualify; this is not for you. You have no idea how dangerous police work can be. Chasing German agitators requires agility, fast thinking, and a willingness to pull the trigger. The agitators are well trained in Germany to become terrorists.”
“Well, it’s a good thing for men like you, Arie!” Manus said, feeling insulted as he left the house in search of work.
Later that night, the rains had stopped, and Manus came in at suppertime with an announcement. “After listening to father, I decided to stand and fight with him in the resistance,” he announced, avoiding eye contact with Arie. Arie looked surprised. Had Manus mentioned the resistance? He found it hard to believe that he and his brother agreed about standing up for freedom.
“You mentioned something close to my heart: fighting,” said Arie, putting his arm around hi
s brother’s shoulder. “We will make you a real man yet!”
Later that evening, their father came home from his meeting at the Academy, his face revealing deep concern. He hesitated to share his news with the family, but given the perils involved, he could not withhold the information. He took another drag from his pipe and placed it in the ashtray. The family knew he had something important to say.
“During my years as editor of the Academy News, I developed close relations with well-known painters and academicians in Germany; mostly Jews,” Antonius began. He showed them the headline he had written three days ago: “Never shall we surrender our freedom in the arts to the Nazis.”
“I found out today that three of my closest friends were arrested in Berlin while attempting to escape from the clutches of the Gestapo,” he told them. “When they searched them, they found a copy of the Academy News, with my name as editor.” The Habers sat silently, staring at the teapot on the table. Antonius was a proud man, and he sat up taller in his chair, looking at his sons as he continued in a determined voice. “The Academy director called me in to reprimand me, warning that he would dismiss me from the Academy as a docent and editor of the Newsletter and that he would not tolerate anyone on his staff to be a ‘Jew sympathizer.’ I advised him that I had every intention to rescue artists and academicians who came to town persecuted by the Nazis. Right there, the director dismissed me.” Despite the challenging economic time for the family, Antonius stood firm in his beliefs.
Manus looked at his father, admiring his courage. His resolve sparked him out of his laziness and prepared him to take action. He needed to find a way to join the fight for freedom of the arts.
The dark clouds of war blew in from the east. Antonius informed his sons that his name was on the German Gestapo’s list. It was general knowledge that German agitators in Holland were conducting surveillance on any individual who was an enemy of Hitler. He warned his sons that he was a marked man.
Madonna On the Bridge Page 3
