Postcards From No Man's Land

‘I know what she says by heart. It’s one of my orange passages. Would you like to hear it?’

  ‘One of your orange passages?’

  ‘Every time I read it I highlight any passage I really like in orange. Sounds silly, I suppose.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m much less colourful. When I mark passages in my books I only underline in pencil. And you use orange—?’

  ‘Because that’s—’

  ‘The Dutch national colour.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Of course!’

  They laughed together again.

  ‘You’re a reader, then?’ Alma said.

  ‘A lot. From living with my grandmother.’

  ‘The one who should have been here now?’

  ‘Yes. Sarah. She reads all the time. Infected me with the bug.’

  ‘You’re fortunate. So, recite the passage about old age. After all, I’ve a vested interest in it.’

  Jacob paused a moment to check his memory before saying, ‘Okay. It goes: “‘For in its innermost depths youth is lonelier than old age.’ I read this saying in some book and I’ve always remembered it, and found it to be true. Is it true then that grown-ups have a more difficult time here than we do? No. I know it isn’t. Older people have formed their opinions about everything, and don’t waver before they act. It’s twice as hard for us young ones to hold our ground, and maintain our opinions, in a time when all ideals are being shattered and destroyed, when people are showing their worst side, and do not know whether to believe in truth and right and God.’”

  Alma had listened with her head down over her cup, almost as if she were listening to a prayer, and was silent for a moment before saying quietly, ‘She was writing during the war when everything was terrible.’

  ‘I know.’ Jacob leaned forward, elbows on the table, and spoke so that only she would hear. ‘I know it isn’t so awful now. But surely in some ways it isn’t any better, is it? I mean, Bosnia, parts of Africa, Cambodia, other places, nuclear pollution, drugs, Aids, the kids on the street. And that’s just for starters.’

  ‘It upsets me too.’

  ‘And there’s racial prejudice still, isn’t there? Everywhere. There are still plenty of Nazis about, it seems to me. People showing their worst side.’

  ‘Every day, the news is full of it.’

  ‘I mean, Anne talks about ideals. But what ideals are there to believe in? And who knows what the truth is any more?’

  Alma glanced up, assessing him, before saying with a bleak firmness, ‘You have to know your own truth and stick to it. And never despair. Never give up. There’s always hope.’ Then, as if aware of how stern she must sound, she smiled and shrugged and added, ‘This I learned during the war.’

  Jacob nodded. ‘She’s right, then, Anne?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You do have more to go on when you’re old. More experience. It helps.’

  Before he could stop himself, Jacob said, ‘And less time to live.’

  She gave him a hard look. ‘True. But don’t for a second think that makes it any easier.’ She finished her coffee. ‘Even so, in my opinion people are mostly good.’

  At once he remembered, ‘“In spite of everything I still believe that people are good at heart. I can feel the suffering of millions and yet, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end.”’

  ‘Anne Frank again?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You do love that book, don’t you.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I think I’m in love with Anne herself.’

  Surprised by his unintended confession, he sat back, drained his coffee, rubbed his thighs, was aware of his toes tapping a rapid tattoo on the floor and his face blushing. Laughing to cover his confusion he said, ‘I do feel as if I know her better than anyone else. I mean, better than any of my family or friends.’

  ‘And what do you love so much about her, I wonder?’

  ‘All sorts. For a start, she’s funny. Very witty. And she’s serious about things.’

  ‘But what do you like most of all?’

  He pondered the question, pushing back in his chair till he was balancing on its two back legs, before saying, ‘Her honesty. About herself. About everybody. She wants to know about everything. And she sees through everything. She’s a thinker. She was fifteen when … they took her.’ He always had trouble with his emotions when he thought of Anne being dragged away and of her tortured life and her ugly death in the hell of the camps. He returned his seat to its four legs, his eyes fixed on his hands clasped on the table in front of him. ‘Only fifteen, but she already understood more about herself and more about other people and more about life than I do, and I’m seventeen. Even though she was shut away in those—’ he couldn’t think of the appropriate word for what he had felt that morning ‘—those rooms.’ He rapped the table with the edge of his clasped hands. ‘She had such courage. And she really knew what she wanted out of life. I wish I had her courage. And I wish I knew myself that well.’

  He paused, thinking hard before he went on, ‘I don’t know how to put this, but—. It isn’t what she talks about that matters so much. It’s the way she thinks that I like. And it’s not just thinking, not just her thoughts. It’s more than that. I always feel more myself, always feel better in myself I mean, when I’m with her … When I’m reading her … I know I’m not really with her. I know she’s only words in a book.’

  He gave Alma an anxious glance.

  ‘Never told anyone that before.’

  ‘You’re away from home in a foreign country, you have just had a shock, I am a sympathetic stranger. It’s not unusual.’

  ‘But you must think I’m mad, falling for a girl who’s only words in a book.’

  ‘Some people say falling in love is a kind of madness whenever it happens. If that’s so, all I can say is I would rather be mad than sane.’

  They laughed with the warmth of friends who share a secret.

  ‘Nog koffie?’ asked the waitress as she passed their table. The place was busier now.

  ‘Nee, dank je,’ Alma replied, pushing herself to her feet; and to Jacob, ‘I should telephone again.’

  ‘Gelukt!’ she said when she returned. ‘He was there and will wait for you. Now I’ll put you on a tram to the railway station. You can have my strippenkaart to pay for the journey. It has only two journeys left on it so you see I’m not being so generous. You know the station from your arrival this morning. The tram terminates there. When you get out, look across the plein in front, to the left. You’ll see a large church standing above the rooftops. Go towards that, across the road by the water, and down the small street behind the church. There’s a narrow canal between the street and the church. You have the address on the paper I gave you, and here are five guilders to use should you need to telephone again. But you’ll be quite all right now, I think.’

  ‘You’ve been very very kind.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you. You’ve earned your keep!’

  He held up the coins. ‘I’ll return the money.’

  ‘No, no. Think of yourself as one of my street kids.’

  Putting the money in his pocket he found the book of matches. He showed it to her.

  ‘Someone gave me this just before my stuff was stolen. Look inside.’

  Alma gave a loud guffaw, and exclaimed, ‘Dat kun je in Amsterdam verwachten!’

  ‘The words he wrote, what do they mean?’

  ‘“Be ready”, you understand of course. Perhaps “be prepared” would be better English. Niets in Amsterdam is wat het lijkt. “Be prepared. Nothing in Amsterdam is what it appears to be.”’

  ‘I see.’ Jacob pocketed the book again, thinking how in Ton’s case that was certainly true.

  ‘Now we must go.’

  ‘Have I time to use the toilet?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll pay the rekening.’

  As the yellow tram came bowling up to them, a caterpillar on roller blades, Alma said, ‘Not to be outdone, I’ve written
something for you too.’ And she gave Jacob one of the café’s paper napkins folded into a small neat square. ‘Now, dag hoor, goodbye. I hope the rest of your stay in Holland is happy and mug free.’

  She held out her hand, which Jacob took with such a sudden rush of grateful affection that he couldn’t stop himself from giving Alma a brief kiss on her cheek. She let out a little breath of pleasure, brushed her cheek with her hand, and smiled broadly. Flustered by his impulsive action, he stumbled up the steps of the waiting tram, the doors hissed shut, the bell tringalinged and the tram jerked into motion. By the time he had located the yellow box which automatically stamped his ticket and had found a seat by the rear window, they had crossed the bridge over the Prinsengracht and Alma was already lost to view.

  While he calmed himself, he stared, half-seeing, at the procession of small shops and larger office buildings and the bustle of people along the way. But by the time the tram swung round a sharp busy corner in to a wide street, Rokin, a canal to his right packed with waiting tourist boats, he began to relax. Only then did he think to unfold the napkin still clutched in his hand. On it were the carefully written words:

  WAAR EEN WIL IS,

  IS EEN WEG

  GEERTRUI

  IT WAS LATE on Wednesday evening when Jacob returned. Or I should say, when he was brought to us. There had been another bombardment. After it, a wounded man was found unconscious in our garden and was carried in to the cellar. We laid him on a mattress and inspected his wounds. None of us recognised him because his face was completely black, covered with what looked like a cake of soot and mud, as were his hands, and his legs from which the trousers seemed to have been torn away. He was bleeding from a deep cut in the temple, and from a bad injury in the calf of his right leg.

  One of the soldiers went searching for a medical orderly. While he was gone, Mother and I prepared a bowl of water and clean cloths, and carefully removed the wounded man’s equipment and loosened his battledress. We were afraid to do more in case he had other injuries and we made them worse.

  It took about half an hour before the medical orderly reached us. He himself looked exhausted. He said he had seen many like this man, he knew what must have happened. A shell had exploded near him, knocking him unconscious and covering him in mud and burnt explosive, and injuring him with flying shrapnel. He quickly did an examination, said there were no internal injuries he could identify, and began cleaning and dressing the wounded leg. ‘He’s lucky to have got off so lightly,’ the orderly said.

  While he worked he told us that the blackened skin would have to be cleaned with disinfected water, but that we must be very careful because there would probably be many painful scratches on the skin under the dirt caused by tiny splinters of shell. There might also be little pieces still stuck in the dirt, which would cause more damage if we rubbed too hard or quickly. Cleaning would take much time. The troops in this sector were suffering a lot of casualties and so he was needed everywhere. Did we think we could clean up the wounded man and bandage his head wound? I translated for Mother, who said we would do our best, asking how long the man would remain unconscious and what we should do when he came round. The orderly said it was difficult to tell. He had seen cases like this come round in a few minutes, but others had remained unconscious for days. Nor could he be sure how the man would behave when he came to; some were all right, but others were so badly shaken they were, as he put it, ‘basket cases’. Do whatever seems best, he told us. Shouldn’t he be taken to the hospital? Mother wanted to know. The fighting and shelling between here and the nearest dressing station, said the orderly, were so bad that the poor chap would probably be killed before he arrived. At least here in our cellar he was as safe as he could be and would be well attended ‘by two devoted nurses’. He gave us some ointment for the wounds and some painkillers, said he would return when he could to see how we were getting on, checked the injuries of the other wounded men in the cellar, and scurried off in to the night. Such courage. We never saw him again. I have often wondered if he survived the battle.

  By now most of the soldiers were upstairs, taking what rest they could during the lull in the shelling. As well as the container for the lavatory, Father had managed to find an old paraffin lamp packed away in the garden shed along with some fuel. He got it going and by its light Mother began cleaning the wounded man’s face and I his hands. Father made it his business to keep us supplied with fresh warm water (not easy to do by this time) and to rinse out the cloths, which had to be done often because they soon became soiled from the thick grime we were slowly removing from the poor man’s encrusted skin. Meanwhile, he took off the man’s boots and cut away what was left of his trousers and covered him with a blanket.

  We had been working for about half an hour when Mother said, ‘Look, Geertrui, look who he is!’ She had cleaned his brow, his closed eyes, his nose and mouth, so that his face looked like a white mask on his still blackened head, with tiny blood-red scratches all over it. ‘Isn’t he one of the soldiers on Sunday?’

  Father said, ‘He is. The one called Jacob.’

  ‘The one you gave a glass of water,’ said Mother when I did not answer.

  But I had seen at once who she meant. I was thinking: the one with the melting eyes. But I said, ‘He called me an angel of mercy.’

  ‘More of a prophet than he knew,’ said Mother.

  After his face and hands we began on his legs and lower body. All was in a dreadful state. Then we came to his private parts. This was a shock to me, the first time I had seen a mature man’s penis, let alone been expected to handle it. I was fascinated, seeing so closely this secret of maleness, and felt a twinge of fear too. How innocent we young people were in those days. How little informed about such things. An embarrassing shyness came over me. I turned my eyes away. Though I did so, I think, more because I felt this was expected of me, rather than because I wanted to. On the contrary, I wanted to look and look.

  Mother touched my arm and said with a sad smile, ‘This week, I think you finally leave your childhood behind.’ And with that she got on with the job, and I too.

  For fear of hurting him, I’m sure we went far more slowly than we needed to. It was nearly two hours before we were finished.

  During the next four days the fighting worsened. At times I thought our house was being demolished brick by brick. More and more wounded soldiers were brought in to our cellar, and Mother, Father and I had our hands full tending them. They bore their pain with great fortitude. Except for one poor boy called Sam, who was suffering from what was then called shell shock. One of the medical orderly’s ‘basket cases’. His nerves had completely gone. He crouched in a corner, suffering from terrible bouts of shivering, would sometimes suddenly cry out or burst in to tears with his head held in his hands, but would say nothing and would not allow anyone to comfort him.

  ‘You wanted to be a nurse at the Schoonoord,’ Father teased. ‘Well, you’ve got your wish, only here at home.’ And then he said in English one of the ‘familiar sayings’ we had used for practice in those days before the parachutes fell from the sky, which already seemed a century ago: ‘All things come to he who waits.’

  The soldier I was tending at that moment, hearing this, said, ‘But he who hesitates is lost.’

  To which Father replied, ‘Because time and tide wait for no man.’

  Not to be left out, I said, ‘But a stitch in time saves nine.’

  At which: ‘Come what, come may,’ called out another soldier, ‘time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’

  And another, ‘“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things—”’

  ‘“Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax—”,’ another butted in.

  At which several voices shouted together, ‘“Of cabbages and kings.”’

  Everyone was laughing by now.

  ‘You can fool all the people some of the time,’ someone sang out in a comic voice, ‘you can even fool some of the people all o
f the time—’ and the others shouted back, ‘But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’

  We were just recovering from the fresh burst of laughter this caused, when someone, flapping a piece of paper in the air, said in a high squeaky voice, ‘Peace in our time!’, which reduced them to such uncontrollable gusts of laughter that some soldiers upstairs heard the noise and came down to see what was going on. So the joke had to be repeated, which caused further gales of merriment. Even though I did not understand why it was so funny, not knowing about Mr Chamberlain and his pact with Hitler at Munich, their laughter infected Papa and me and soon we were holding our sides too.

  ‘What is it, what is it?’ Mother kept asking. ‘What are they saying?’ But neither of us could find the breath to tell her.

  Then, just as we were calming down and blowing our noses and wiping our eyes, a mock-cheerful voice said, ‘Well lads, for sure, life is a bowl of cherries.’ There was a second’s pause before another voice muttered with exaggerated sorrow, ‘But someone’s eaten all mine.’ And this set everyone off in aching laughter again.

  As we were recovering from this I saw poor Sam laughing with us—or I should say that is what I thought he was doing. It was only when he suddenly stared unblinking at me with blazing raw eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks, the skin of his face stretched tight and white over the bones of his skull, that I knew he was not laughing at all but—well, I think wailing would be the right word. Everyone else seemed to become aware of him at the same moment. I was about to go to him when the soldier next to me laid a hand on my arm and shook his head. And then Sam spoke for the first time since he was brought to us, saying in a clear high sing-song voice, ‘I have desired to go where springs not fail, to fields where flies no sharp and sided hail and a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be where no storms come, where the green swell is in the havens dumb, and out of the swing of the sea.’

  *

  How must I know such things, from so long ago and in a language not my own? The old often say they remember their youth more clearly than the day before yesterday. But this is not it. I know these things because those few days and the few weeks that followed them were such an intensity of living, so much more than any other time of my life, that they are unforgettable. And I have gone over and over them ever since. Sometimes you live more life in an hour than in most weeks, and sometimes it is possible to live more in a few weeks than in all the rest of your life. This is how those days in 1944 are to me. And also I know what was said in that other language I already loved because, as I shall explain you, these events during the battle were later talked over with Jacob again and again.