“Thump-Drag was cast from the sea and told by Poseidon to put an oar over his shoulder and walk inland until someone asked what he was holding. Then he was to plant his oar in the ground and build a church to the god of the ocean.”
My father went on, but of all the stories, hearing the start of this one now pained me the most because now I saw no matter where he went or who Thump-Drag came upon, he was perpetually moving away from his home. As my father spoke I understood Thump-Drag would see the whole world, but do so alone. I turned to the hulking shadow of my uncle steering our boat through the night. In the dark, my father’s voice went on and then braided his own truth into this story. I wish my father told a different story altogether, one that would not come to resemble his own.
3
Uncle Martin was still at the wheel our last morning aboard. Out the windows, the sun was like a great rolling cat’s eye. Waves crested and crashed into each other until they reached the thin strip of shoreline. I opened the door and felt the briny air all around the Lighthouse Lady. Ahead of us, channel markers led the river up to the town of Leer. Next to the harbormaster’s house in Leer was a large scaffold pyramid.
“That radio tower is probably where the navy cruiser called our location in. They used the tower to order the PT boat to come turn us back.”
“That really got under your skin, didn’t it?” my father asked.
Uncle Martin nodded and gave my father that put-on smile he had given the German sailors.
Our father and Uncle Martin walked us through town. The three of us boys ran ahead and then doubled back in our excitement. We each had our backpacks stuffed with camp uniforms, a tin of biscuits, and a sleeping bag crammed into a small canvas sack my mother had sewn that we could fill with spare clothes and use as a pillow. We detached our sleeping bag pouches and heaved them up in the air where they drifted upward before freezing for a moment at their peak and dropping back into our arms. We ran ahead, laughing and tossing our bags up like it was our voices lifting the sleep sacks upward. The drab lemon morning light slid up the brick buildings in town and made the dark, earth-colored walls shine like honey.
At the station Uncle Martin gave us a silly sailor’s salute with a wobbly left hand. “Don’t buy too much into what these people are going to tell you.”
“Stop that, Martin,” my father said.
“All right. All right. Just a little advice.”
The two of them ushered us onto the train steps. “Drop this in the post when you arrive,” our father said and handed Edwin a letter.
“Eisenbahn,” our father said.
“What?” Edwin asked.
“It means happy travels on the iron road,” our father said. “And, please, practice your German.” He cupped the back of our necks one at a time. Ludo’s too. “Do well,” he shouted as we entered the second-class passenger compartments. When I looked back, the two giants of my youth waved good-bye to us.
Once we were moving, the train leaned into curves. Groaning metal rose into our cabin as we picked up speed.
Ludo kept saying, “Look at that. Look at that,” as we clattered across bridges, through tunnels, and over several canals that were emerald green with scum. Had we been close enough, we could have reached out and written our names on the surface until the sour algae pulled our letters under like secrets. We ran parallel to the blue outline of a river in the distance that cut through lush, green patchworks of barley, alfalfa, and potatoes. Dim silhouettes of medieval towns flashed by through the clearings of trees.
Edwin drew in a notepad, sketching the tapestried landscape; elm trees, low hills, church steeples, gray-blue wisps of smoke from the Tudor farmhouses with high rectangular windows. I was nervous about what lay ahead, but Edwin’s steadiness and focus on his drawing put me at ease. I peeled back the flap of the letter my father gave to Edwin so as not to tear it and be able to seal it back together. It was nothing interesting. A note to a Mr. Gunnelburg, an executive at Volkswagen: In hopes to continue to grow our business together and to more years of good relations. He thanked the man for telling him about the camp. Said we were very excited about attending. I folded the letter back to look unhampered and watched the countryside roll along.
The train rode through dense forested areas of old-growth elm and pine trees before slowing at the edge of a tan, umber, and rose-colored town. When we got off the train, we entered the train station, a large stone building, its roof black with age. Birds nested high up the wall in veiny cracks through the mortar. Inside we used a rest room next to a bakery. The toilet smelled like urine and dense, black artisan breads. The square in front of the station filled with boys our age. Across the square, bicycles leaned against tenement buildings that were covered in ivy which wrapped around the grillwork of their balconies. The sky was drained and pure and I was so excited to be in this new place that I remember it all very clearly.
“What do we do now?” Ludo asked.
A group of older boys were in front of the station. They wore gray socks up to their knees, gray shorts, and white shirts with brown suspenders and soft brown cloth hats. They were mostly lean and blond with wide, tan faces and glistening mouths. It would be easy to think they came from the same family of two dozen blond brothers. Compared to my own brown eyes and pale form, I couldn’t pass for a distant cousin. One of them yelled out, “Camp boys. Form a line here.”
The three of us merged with the other boys and were led out the front of the station to a row of buses. We were counted off by tens and told to board the third bus, where one of the older boys was to mark us off on a clipboard. A sprig of hair fell down and bent like a stork’s leg over his forehead. His mouth was full of yellowed teeth.
“Edwin Koopman.”
“Koopman, Koopman. Ah, you are Dutch.”
“Yes,” Edwin said.
“Well, good to have you here.”
“Jacob Koopman,” I said, stepping up to the older boy.
“Jacob Koopman,” the older boy said. “A pair of Dutchmen, very good.”
We got on the bus, and I heard Ludo behind us.
“Ludo Shoemackher.”
“Look at this,” the older boy said. “The Dutch are coming to their senses and joining us.” The boy with the clipboard patted Ludo’s weak left arm. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” Ludo said.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Ludo tried to walk onto the bus but the boy extended his clipboard and blocked the stairs.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
“Nothing.”
“An injury?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s nothing,” I called back from the bus’s steps.
“Tell me,” the boy said.
“Polio. From a long time ago.”
The boy stepped back. “Can that make me sick?”