However, that part of me I came to think of in future years as mevrouwtje Uitgekookt held me back from saying yes at once. (Uitgekookt means ‘shrewd’ or even ‘cunning’, and when we add the suffix tje to a word we make a diminutive of it, which means I called my calculating self Little Mrs Shrewd. Or little mevrouw Smartass, as my grandson Daan puts it, he having watched too many American television programmes for his own good or for his use of the English language.) You must give an appearance of hesitation, mevrouwtje Uitgekookt told me. It isn’t wise to give yourself away so quickly or so easily. This man will appreciate you all the better if you show some respect for your dignity and require the same of him. And so I thanked Dirk, and told him how astonished I was by his offer and how happy it made me (both were true and not pretence), but that I could not make up my mind right there and then (which was not true, I knew I would say yes). Would he agree that we should both think it over for twenty-four hours? After all, it would be a very big step for both of us. For him especially, as he would be taking on a child who was not his, as well as a wife for whom he knew he had not been her first choice.
Dirk agreed. And I could see he was pleased by what I had said. It was only after we had been married for a while that I found out that Dirk had always known about mevrouwtje Uitgekookt, just as I had always known that he was a big businesslike mama’s boy. He said it was one of the things he liked most about me. ‘I would not have married a woman who wasn’t scherpzinnig.’ (Sharp-witted—you would say smart, I think.) From him, this was the best compliment my Dirk could pay me. I hope, dear Jacob, you begin to see why we were such good companions for all our married life until Dirk died two years ago. For forty-eight years we always tried to be honest with each other, and anyhow, saw through each other so completely that there could be no pretence.
The following night we met in the hiding place. Little mevrouw Smartass had been working overtime. Yes, I told Dirk, I would marry him, do so gladly and with gratitude. But that I too had some conditions.
My first was that he remain here on the farm until the end of the war and not go off again to fight or work with the Resistance. After everything that had happened, after the separations, after the deaths, with the many dangers that still surrounded us, enough was enough. If he was to be my husband, he must stay with me.
My second condition was that, whatever he did after the liberation, he would not ask me to live on the farm. I knew I could never be a farmer’s wife.
The third condition. I could understand, I said, why he wanted to sleep with me. Because then we could always honestly say we had slept together. We would not have to say exactly when. People would assume the child was his. We would not have to say anything about it. Well, I would go to bed with him, I would sleep with him in the literal sense. But nothing more. To do more until after the baby was born would be impossible, an offence against what I felt for Jacob and our child. And, it seemed to me, an offence against Dirk also. Nor, I added, could I go to bed with him here in the hiding place because for me this would always be the place where I lived with Jacob. So my third condition was that he must now help me pack away everything I associated with Jacob, and then we must dismantle the hiding place completely. This part of my life must be cleared up by both of us working together before I could begin my life with him.
I knew, I said, that I was in no position to impose any conditions on him, but only if he could accept these three would I agree to marry him, because unless he could accept them I knew we would never respect each other or be happy together.
We talked for a long time after that, three or four hours I think. Not because Dirk had reservations or could not accept what I asked. He accepted at once. We talked for so long because there were many questions about ourselves and our future that had to be discussed. And both of us being talkers, how could we do otherwise! I won’t tell you of this, it has nothing to do with what I must tell you about myself and your grandfather. But I’m sure you can imagine it. And we could have gone on through the night, but if we were to fulfil Dirk’s condition that we sleep together at once and my condition that the hiding place be cleared away, we had to leave off and set to work. It took us another two or three hours to complete the task. (How much quicker it always is to destroy something than it is to build it. Dirk and Henk had spent two whole days constructing the hiding place, not to mention the time spent making it as comfortable as possible.)
That done, we went in to the house to prepare ourselves. Mrs Wesseling had already gone to bed. Mr Wesseling was sitting by the fire, though it was well past his usual bedtime, pretending to doze but really, I could tell, waiting to see Dirk again. I went to my room. The two men sat talking for an hour (I listened impatiently to the old grandfather clock striking). Then their footsteps on the stairs. Their final whispered goodnights. Their bedroom doors. And more waiting as the clock struck two more quarters.
I was lying in bed all this time in order, of course, to keep warm. It was a dreadfully cold night. And as so often when you are waiting anxiously for someone, I was on edge, annoyed at being kept waiting. Until you begin to think they will never come, and you drift off to sleep. As I did that night. The next thing I knew, Dirk was gently shaking my shoulder. I jumped, startled out of my sleep. The bed creaked loud enough to waken the whole house. We had to stifle our giggles. And so our life together began as I am glad to say it continued, with laughter.
Dirk and I were married in secret by the local mayor, a man we knew we could trust, two weeks later. It had to be in secret or Dirk would have been taken by the Germans and sent to forced labour. Our part of the Netherlands was liberated soon afterwards, in April. Jacob’s child, my daughter Tessel, was born the following August. You know her as mevrouw van Riet, Daan’s mother. You might say that she is your Dutch mother. And that Daan is therefore your Dutch brother. Jacob’s body was exhumed and buried in the battle cemetery at Oosterbeek later that year.
I kept my word to my husband Dirk, and, while he was alive, never told anyone who Tessel’s father really was. But when he died two years ago, I thought it right that Tessel should know. This was not an easy thing for her. But I have always believed it is best to know the truth, though it may be hard and hurts. I wanted my daughter to know the truth of her history. It matters where you come from and who began your journey, even though someone else fathered you along the way. Just as it matters that you know your place in the world. Besides, as I say, there is that urge to confession, the desire to tell our most secret stories. And a lie, even if it is a lie only by silence, by omission as our Catholic neighbours would say, can consume your soul like a cancer. Having a cancer of the body is enough for me. I wanted the cancer of an unspoken truth lifted from my conscience before I died.
There was someone else to whom I had to make confession. Your grandmother, Sarah. I knew, of course, that I had offended against her. It is no excuse to say that your grandfather Jacob and I were young, nor that the strains and conditions of the war were to blame, nor that we both intended to be as forthright and careful as we could be with Sarah when the war was over. These things were so. But they did not acquit us, were not a vindication, were no justification.
When I invited your grandmother to visit me, I had it in mind to tell her. I said nothing of what you, Jacob, now know about my illness and my coming death. Then she wrote back to say she could not come but asked that I invite you instead. Now that you were grown up enough to understand, she wanted you to visit Jacob’s grave and meet me so that you could hear the story of your grandfather’s last days ‘from the horse’s mouth’, as she put it (another of those familiar sayings my father and I learned).
I was upset that I would not be able to make my confession to Sarah face to face. I could have written it for her. But to confess to someone in writing is not the same. To speak face to face is to share the blunt emotion without protection. Its rawness cannot be evaded. There is no hiding place. The guilty teller must endure the wrath or sadness, sorrow or reprisal, tea
rs or scorn of the offended listener. Must endure also, if they are offered, the humiliation of receiving the listener’s understanding and forgiveness. Nothing is more cauterising than those two worst of penances. Rage from the other somehow accepts that we are as we are, no need for change, leaves us feeling virtuous, vindicated, proves we have done the right thing. But calm forgiveness and quiet, tolerant understanding confirm our mistake, reflect back in to us our wrong, provide no escape, and carry expectation of amendment. All this we avoid when we write our story and send it off to be read, at arm’s length so to speak, and out of harm’s way.
It was Daan’s suggestion that I make my confession to you. You cannot tell Sarah, he said, so tell it to her grandson. Visit the sins of the fathers on him, it’s his inheritance, as yours is mine. Let him do what he wants with it. He’ll manage, just as I have. (You will know by now about Daan’s kind of jokes.)
And that at first is what I planned to do. I began writing what I wanted to say only to help me get it right in my English, which was a little rusty at first, for though I have gone on reading much, I have not written much in English these later years. But as I went on the telling became the tale. And I began to think that you would like to have your grandfather’s story written properly, as a document you can keep and perhaps one day give to your own children in their turn, so that they can read from the horse’s mouth this part of their history. (Of course to them, it will seem very ancient history!)
So here it is.
And along with it, three things I want to give you.
One is the paratroopers’ insignia I took from your grandfather’s tattered uniform those first of our days in the cellar and kept for myself when I sent his other belongings to Sarah after the war. A memory of him and of the day I saw the parachutes descending from the bottomless blue sky.
The second is the book of poetry which poor Sam gave me, the only English-language book we had, from which your grandfather and I read to each other every day in our time together.
The third is the keepsake which I said I would tell you about. When Jacob and I declared our love, we wanted to exchange tokens, as people do at such a time. Jacob wanted us to exchange rings. But I would not allow it. However we regarded ourselves, we were not married. Jacob’s solution was to make two exactly similar little talismans. He got the idea from an old decoration used on the farms, a kind of magic charm made of wood or straw or perhaps metal which is fixed to the gable ends of barns or the peaks of haystacks to ward off evil and encourage good. Jacob cut ours with his soldier’s pocket knife out of a little piece of tin he found in the hay loft. He smoothed the edges with my nail file and polished them with the cream we used to clean the household silver. And when he cut them he made sure there was a little ring at the top so that we could thread the charms on to necklaces and wear them under our clothes.
These geveltekens, facade-signs, are in many shapes, each having its own meaning. The design Jacob chose for our love token includes signs meaning it is a broom to brush away thunder, a tree of life, a sun-wheel, and a chalice or cup. ‘Let this sign of my love for you and yours for me,’ he said in a little ceremony when we exchanged our tokens, ‘ward off the thunderous wrath to come for loving me, feed you from the glorious tree of life, ever cause the golden sun to shine upon you, and always fill you to the brim with pleasure in being my beloved Geertrui.’ (And by this time, he could almost say my name correctly.)
The charm Jacob gave to me I have given to Daan. The charm I gave to Jacob I now give to you.
So here they are. Your grandfather’s war. The words we spoke to each other. And the charm of his love for me. They are more precious to me than I can ever find words to say, whether in your language or my own.
They come to you from
Your Dutch grandmother
Geertrui
POSTCARD
That which hath been is now,
and that which is to be hath already been,
and God requireth that which is past.
The Book of Ecclesiastes
‘HAS DAAN EXPLAINED you why I wanted to see you today?’ Geertrui said.
Sitting in the same hospital seat as before, feeling just as awkward and uncomfortable, with Geertrui propped up in the crisp bed, her startling eyes fixed on the ceiling just as before, Jacob said, ‘No. Nothing.’
Silence. The air would twang if you fingered it.
‘I have something to give you.’ Geertrui snatched at her breath. Waited another moment. Turned her eyes on him. ‘Then we must say goodbye.’
Jacob’s throat was cracked, he couldn’t speak.
‘The drawer of my cabinet.’
He managed to open it, though his joints were locked and his muscles fused.
‘The package.’
A parcel the size of a laptop wrapped in shiny blood-red paper tied length-and-width with a sky-blue ribbon.
‘Take it.’
He laid it on the bed at Geertrui’s side.
‘For you.’
He could still say nothing.
‘Open it at the apartment. Not before. You promise?’
He nodded.
‘All I can say to you is there.’
He stared at the parcel as if it might begin to talk.
Another silence. The air would splinter.
Geertrui said, ‘Let us not prolong the pain.’
There was a movement on the bed.
Jacob looked up.
Geertrui was holding out her mouse’s hand.
He stood.
Her fingers were so frail he feared he would snap them, so brought his other hand to cup hers between both of his.
‘Vaarwel,’ she said. ‘Goodbye.’
He tried to speak but nothing came.
Instead, obeying his instinct, he bent to her, and with deliberate care lest his body betray him, kissed Geertrui on the cheek, one to the right, a second to the left, and a third, most gentle, on her narrow lips.
Her hand fluttered in his.
It fell from him as he straightened.
Unable to look at her, he took the parcel from the bed, held it tightly to his chest, and somehow made his way to the door.
As he reached it he only just heard her say, ‘Jacob.’
Her eyes were glazed with tears, and she was smiling.
He looked back at her, wishing to say something.
But all he could do was nod and return her smile.
POSTCARD
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‘YES,’ DAAN SAID. ‘I helped her with it.’
They were sitting in Geertrui’s apartment, the usual seats, Daan on the sofa, Jacob in the armchair, his back to the window overlooking the canal. Geertrui’s story, 125 A 4 pages bound in an orange ring file, lay on the coffee table between them.
‘Helped her?’
‘Typed it in for her. You’d never have read her writing. And anyway, she was often too ill to write, so she dictated it. She’s always studied English, reads it all the time. Watches BBC a lot. So she’s good at it. But still, sometimes she needed help. Finding phrases. Looking words up in the dictionary. And there were some passages, well … the medication.’ He shrugged. ‘I was her editor, I guess you could say.’
‘But it’s all hers? I mean it all really happened?’
‘Did you think she made it up?’
‘Just seems so amazing. Your grandmother and my grandfather.’
‘One part I did write for her. It upset her too much. She couldn’t even dictate it.’
‘Which?’
‘After Jacob died.’
‘So you made it up?’
‘No no. Geertrui told me what happened in Dutch. I don’t know why, but it’s always easier to talk about very upsetting things in your own language.’
‘So she told you—?’
‘Yes. And then I wrote it in English, as much like hers as I could. Then I read it to her. And she chang
ed some things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let’s see … Like the clock. The clock ticking. And stopping it at midnight. She hadn’t mentioned it. Only remembered when I read her what I’d written. As if she was seeing it again while she listened. You wouldn’t think it possible, but she’s still grieving for him after all these years.’
As soon as he got back from seeing Geertrui, Jacob had gone to his room, opened her parcel, examined the contents, and at once read her story all through. Three hours later he surfaced, gasping for air. Unable to sit still, confused in his feelings and not knowing what to think, he needed to talk.
Jacob said, ‘She makes a joke about you being my Dutch brother. But your mother really is my aunt. Which makes us first cousins.’
‘You mind?’
‘No. I like it.’
‘Me too.’
Jacob’s stomach cramped.
‘Oh God!’
‘What?’
‘Sarah.’
‘Yes?’
‘She doesn’t know.’
‘No one knows, except you and me and my parents.’
‘But—’
‘Forget it.’
‘She idolises him.’
‘Idolises?’
‘Well, almost. He’s everything to her. Her whole life. She even made my parents give me his name, for God’s sake! I’m supposed to be him reincarnate.’
‘Then you’ve got trouble.’
‘You talk about Geertrui still grieving. Well, Sarah never married again. No other man matched up. She believes she and Grandfather had a perfect marriage.’