“But were will I work?” I asked, not expecting her to reply. But Willemien already had it figured out.
“We’ll open an electronics store, selling and repairing televisions and radios. And when I’m better I’ll teach painting classes, or English.”
Her
It was around noon on Saturday when my train arrived in Eindhoven. At twelve thirty I knocked on the white door of a newly built house in a residential neighborhood. An eight-year-old girl opened the door, her father at her side.
“Who are you?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Can I help you?” the father asked.
One of the gusts of wind that had persuaded the happy family to forgo their bicycle ride roared past and somewhere inside the house a door slammed. I pulled the collar of my coat close and wondered how to start. I had imagined that the mother would answer the door, in which case I would have started with “I think you might be able to help me with something that’s really important.” Instead, I had been surprised by this beautiful girl who was looking at me with her big blue eyes, and I wondered if Lianne Pérez-Horst’s husband might also be important.
“I’m looking for Lianne Pérez-Horst,” I managed to say.
The man smiled.
“Darling!” he called into the house.
“Mama!” the little girl echoed.
“It’s for you,” the father said. Then he turned to me and added,“Come in, it’s too cold to leave the door open.”
As I walked down the hallway of their house, I was struck again by the familiar sensation of unwarranted generosity that I had felt with Karen Abrams a few days earlier. But it was unlike what I had experienced in Karen Abrams’s flat. I knew these people, I had observed them, so in a way it was obvious they’d let me in, I already knew what they had wanted to do for the day, what they had ended up doing, and what still remained to be done. But I was also aware of the fact they knew nothing about me, and that it was therefore a leap of faith for them to let me in. For a moment I thought they might have recognized me, and that I had finally come to the right place.
I walked behind Lianne Pérez-Horst’s husband, noticing the warmth inside the house. The dining area smelled like apple pie, and bits of dough, raisins, and apple skins were scattered around the open-plan kitchen. A cat jumped onto the counter looking for scraps and the girl scolded him.
“Friday! Get down!”
The cat looked at the girl defiantly and she pushed him off the counter.
“You know that’s against the rules, Friday, sweetie. . . .”
Friday fell gracefully to the floor and crossed the room to a half-filled bowl of cat food next to the fireplace, his tail between his legs.
Lianne Pérez-Horst dried her hands on a rag and approached me. I introduced myself and could tell from her eyes that my name meant nothing to her.
“What can I do for you?” she said, gesturing to the long sofa. I sat down at one end and the eight-year-old girl sat down beside me. The older boy, the soccer player, must not be home I thought. The girl’s presence intimidated me. The various scripts I had run through in preparation for this moment had vanished. The only thing I could do was tell the truth, just as I had done with Karen Abrams that very first time, but abbreviating it—not revealing too much.
“I’m looking for someone,” the sound of my own voice soothed me,“and it might be you.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“Someone who witnessed an incident in Someren a long time ago.”
Lianne Pérez-Horst looked at her husband and they both smiled. My heart jumped. I had found them!
“Is it you? Was it you?”
My excitement was short lived.
Lianne Pérez-Horst said,“What are you referring to?”
If they were the ones, they would have known, and they wouldn’t have had to ask the question. So Lianne PérezHorst wasn’t the person I was looking for. But she did have memories of Someren, because her husband’s father had lived there, in a camp for employees of a cardboard factory.
Lianne Pérez-Horst invited me to stay for lunch; they were having soup and sandwiches, and then we’d try the apple pie. We’d talk about Someren. Lianne Pérez-Horst’s husband insisted I stay because the storm was at its peak and it was too dangerous to go outside. They had no intention of letting me leave until they had shared all their memories.
“There’s always room at the table in our house, and food for unexpected visitors,” he said.“It comes from my side of the family. I’m Spanish.”
“He always says that,” Lianne Pérez-Horst said. “But it’s not only his family traditions that make us enjoy entertaining guests. My family has always been open and friendly, too.”
Lianne Pérez-Horst put a pot on the stove and her husband went up to the attic to look for photos. I went to the kitchen.
“Why did you think we might be the people you’re looking for? How did you find our address?”
“It’s on the web.”
“Of course, through the Chamber of Commerce. I’ve often wondered if I could get them to remove it, for privacy.”
I could have continued the conversation along those lines, I could have said something about the Tax Authority, and then we would have talked about my job, and about her job, too. All very normal, appropriate, and a little standoffish. At that moment I could have decided not to tell her about the list. But I decided to go for it. I trusted her. I wanted to return the kindness of her hospitality. It didn’t seem like a big deal: to talk about the list or not talk about it. But it turned out to be a critical decision.
I’ll never know what might have happened if I hadn’t told her about the list. And I don’t know whether it would have been for better or for worse. There’s no point thinking about it. It’s impossible to go back in time and change things.
“Your name is on a list of names of people who might be the ones I’m looking for.”
“My name? Or my husband’s?”
“Your name. Lianne Pérez-Horst.”
“Ah, so someone thought: Lianne Pérez-Horst’s husband lived in Someren, she might know something.”
I hesitated. Eventually I decided to say yes.
“Who is this person? Do I know them?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s their name?”
“You don’t know them.”
She looked at me, slightly offended. The feeling of trust we’d had up until then vanished with that look. I decided to go further back, to let her know where the list came from and why I was looking for these people. So I told her everything. Halfway through our conversation Lianne Pérez-Horst’s husband returned to the living room with the photos of Someren, but Lianne Pérez-Horst was no longer interested in their own memories, she was fascinated by my search and she told her husband exactly what I had just revealed to her. I realized how carefully she had been listening to me. Then I let her see the list. The soup, which was still on the stove, got too thick because Lianne PérezHorst spent a long time reading the list, looking for names she recognized. But not one of those hundred names rang a bell.
We were halfway through lunch when she said,“I want to help you.”
She could have meant a thousand different things, but she had one idea in mind. She wanted to publish the list in the paper where she worked. She wanted to interview me and share my story with the world. She was absolutely sure her plan would work. There was no better option.
“There are people who have nothing better to do, and they’ll begin searching on your behalf. Some people like this kind of mystery.”
I was stunned. I had never expected such an offer, and I wondered if I had been naïve. I should have realized that a journalist would come up with something like this. I realized how her proposal would wrest control from me. It was both worrisome and comfor
ting at the same time. I had been offered help before, by Karen Abrams and Ana Mei Balau, but it had never made much difference, because they didn’t know how to help.
Right then Lianne Pérez-Horst seemed like the best person for the job. I agreed.
Him
Willemien travelled to Barcelona by plane, with Simon and Robert, while I took the car, Arjen at my side, the trunk stuffed to the gills and a large bundle on the roof rack. It was 1977.
When Arjen and I arrived in Figueres we were met by one of Mariana’s cousins who was a sales rep for ceramic figures in the area around Girona. He met us in the flat we were renting that first year.
After emptying the car in front of our new home I left Arjen and Mariana’s cousin resting in the flat while I drove to Barcelona to pick up Willemien and the boys at the airport. She was tired but in high spirits, and she suggested that we take a look around Barcelona before driving to Figueres. I had no desire to, because I was exhausted, but I wanted to give her what she needed to begin this new life far from her home. We entered the city by Gran Via. Willemien gazed out the window as if she were dreaming, and from time to time she murmured,“We’re going to live here. The boys will grow up here, this is our home from now on.”
We hadn’t been driving through the streets of Barcelona for more than ten minutes when Willemien put her hand on my shoulder and whispered that she had changed her mind. She wanted to get to Figueres quickly to see Arjen. We left the city and got on the highway. The cars were full of people who knew where they were going; in my car two little boys and one exceptional woman, who had never seen the landscapes we were passing, slept.
I imagined that we didn’t have a destination, that Arjen was with us and that the five of us were on an endless road trip, that we’d go as far as we needed to get to the place where Willemien would be what she had been once again. I drove in silence, knowing she was dreaming the exact same thing as me. We had talked about it before; she had often said that this trip was just one step in the process of getting well again, which we’d begun when we’d decided to leave Holland, before we even knew where we’d be going. We had a year of discoveries and hard work ahead of us, of adapting and getting settled, but we knew the results would be well worth it.
After passing Girona, the low winter sun shining brilliantly in an incredibly blue sky,Willemien said, “We’re going to win,” and I believed her.
After a few days of moving in and getting to know the area, of taking the boys to school and walking the streets of Figueres, I came to the conclusion that I had neither the energy nor the resources to open an electronic appliance shop. There were already several in town and it seemed like a huge risk in a small community, where everyone had known each other all their lives. But Willemien had been very clear that we’d open a shop in Figueres and I could tell by the way she talked that she still hadn’t abandoned the dream. It wasn’t easy to convince her, but in the end I won.
The case was closed the day that I came home with the news that I had found a job at the electronic appliance shop in the Plaza del Comercio.
“It’s settled: I have a job,” I told Willemien happily.
“A job? Or a shop?” she said, determined as ever.
“A job in a shop owned by very nice people. A place that already has customers and a reputation, plus it’s welllocated, in the market square. It’s a place to start.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll repair radios and televisions, but I’ll also wait on customers if it’s busy or if the other employee doesn’t show up for work.”
“I’m so happy for you, darling,” she eventually said.
“Me too, lieverd,” I said, kissing her on the forehead.
What I didn’t tell her was that I’d had to convince my boss that I’d learn Catalan in a few weeks, because it was good for business. I promised him I would, and although he didn’t seem to believe me at first, I convinced him with a few words of Dutch, followed by a phrase I pronounced with near-religious conviction:“If I’ve learned that, learning Catalan will be a cinch.” He thought it over a few seconds, and extended his right hand to shake on it.
I hadn’t told him anything about Willemien’s situation, or about the fact I had three kids to feed at home.
I learned Catalan by listening and guesswork. Arjen, Simon, and Robert were learning it at school, and Willemien learned by listening to the rest of us stumbling along. I soon realized that though I might not speak it well, the customers appreciated the effort. After a few months, when they had seen me in the street with my three Dutch boys a few times, they forgave me my linguistic inabilities. Arjen was learning Catalan, and he spoke Spanish perfectly, but he still talked to his brothers, and sometimes even me, in perfect Dutch that impressed the Figuerans.
Bit by bit we settled into a routine that gave us peace and hope. It was a difficult year, in which I became the anchor of the family instead of Willemien. Arjen was eleven years old and was determined to survive the temporary absence of his strong, nurturing mother. Without even saying a word about it, he began to take responsibility for getting his brothers to and from school, for settling quarrels between Simon and Robert, or dashing out to the shops if we needed something for dinner.
At the time I didn’t realize how much effort my son was making to ease my burden. Later, in hindsight, I was able to see how vital his help had been. A few years ago I talked to Arjen about it. And he said to me, “Of course you would have managed without me, Dad. We’re built to survive. We adapt to situations, bit by bit, but we eventually adapt. Sometimes we think we can’t take it anymore, but we get up the next day and it turns out we can. Especially when we knew there was a point to it all, that mother would get better, that normal life was just around the corner. And you’re the expert in adapting, Dad. You managed in Holland, and if you were happy in a country that’s so different and so far from your own, you’d find a way to be happy in Figueres, illness or no illness, with or without a responsible son. And you were.”
“I’m just thanking you, son.”
Arjen paused for a moment and said, “Don’t thank me for being who I am. You brought me up.”
When Arjen turned eighteen he went back to Holland to study. That day, when my son flew out of Barcelona, I recalled the words my father had said to me in the main street of my hometown, and my departure on the bus, time and time again. Before he left I told Arjen that his room would always be his room, that if things didn’t work out the way he hoped, he could always return without regrets.
I already knew he’d never come back home, but I needed to say those words to him, in case things got off to a rough start.
That first year, Arjen lived with his grandparents, until he found a room in a student apartment in Eindhoven. After that he lived in the city and went to Someren once in a while to visit his grandparents.
I remember the day Arjen called to tell me they were knocking down the camp in Someren to build an industrial complex of offices and warehouses. Whenever he visited his grandparents he’d ride his bike around Someren to see what had stayed the same and what had changed in town. He took photos of the new buildings and sent them to me.
One day Arjen sent us a photo of a field in Someren with a highway in the background, and a burnt out car rammed into an ancient tree. The image deeply affected me. You couldn’t tell what kind of car it had been, but you could tell that after it had burned, the firemen had sawed it open to get the driver’s charred body out.
Arjen had witnessed the accident. He was riding his bike through Someren with his girlfriend at the time. He’d wanted to show her the places where he had spent his childhood, his grandparents’ house, the streets where he played with his brothers, and the place his father had spent his first months in Holland after arriving from Extremadura.
The camp was on the outskirts of Someren, practically in Someren-Eind, so they took the bike lane that ran p
arallel to the highway. When they were halfway between Someren and Someren-Eind, they were startled by the sound of tires squealing on the highway behind them. They stopped to see where the sound came from, and before they turned around they heard the impact of the car’s body against a tree next to the highway. The car was a smoking wreck, about one hundred meters away from Arjen and his girlfriend.
My son dropped his bike and ran over. You could hear only the sound of his clothes as he ran, and the sound of his shoes hitting the ground. His girlfriend ran behind him, and on both sides of the highway—nothing. No cars, no bicycles, no one. Arjen turned to his girlfriend and told her to go back and get on her bicycle and ride to SomerenEind to call an ambulance.
When Arjen got to the damaged vehicle, the engine was already on fire. He could see that the driver and the woman at his side were covered in blood, and completely trapped by the body of the vehicle. He tried with all his might to open the driver’s door, unsuccessfully, so he went around to the other side. That door opened and Arjen could see that the woman’s skirt was on fire. He was filled with panic, pity, and helplessness, he was frozen; but then he realized that in the backseat there was a girl lying between the seat and the floor of the car. It was a hatchback, so he tried to reach the girl through the broken right-hand window but he realized he could only reach her leg.
The front seats were already on fire by the time Arjen opened the hatchback and leaned into the car. Leaning against the rear seats he could reach one of the girl’s legs and one of her arms, he pulled her and lifted her out, and ran from the car, which was engulfed in flames.
Arjen held the girl for several minutes, not knowing whether she was alive or dead. He brought his face close to her soft skin. She would be seven or eight years old, she was blonde and pale, like an angel, Arjen once said, and ever since when he talked about the experience it was of the day he saved an angel.
Landing Page 8
