“Would anybody care?”
“Maybe. Think about the man this way: Is what he’s feeling so different from someone poor and hungry in a city somewhere today? Or, in that moment, what he feels might be what a soldier feels before battle. In his case, hunger made him braver than he ever thought possible. It drove him to take chances.”
“Or maybe the animal ate him,” I challenged. I started thinking of all the directions his story might go, feeling the power of creation.
“The story is up to you, and even if the story is about something else, it’s really about you. Look inside and then tell people what you see.”
“I don’t know what’s in there.”
“Keeping a journal will help you find out.”
Being a writer seemed a more practical goal than becoming a ship captain. I devoured the book Tante Hannah had given me. The characters were young people in my country, and the author opened up their minds for me to look inside. The characters were all so serious, though, and some questioned God’s dominion. But it fascinated me, and I began thinking of people as characters, and I worked to observe them and capture their traits.
I thought of my mother. In the house, she was so presentable and prepared for the day, with hair and clothing in proper order. She was a different woman in the fields after the men left, covered in dust and chaff, sweating like a native. It made her real nature only more visible. “Unbowed,” I wrote of her. Father was easy: “Indestructible.”
I thought of Tante Hannah and her too-eager embraces offset by her kind teaching. I could not write anything too warm because my mother might someday see my journal, and I could write nothing cruel because Tante Hannah might someday see my writings.
Of Hannah’s mother, Ouma Wilhelmina, I wrote “filled with emptiness.” The words seemed an illogical pairing, yet perfect for her. I imagined tapping her on the shoulder and hearing an angry echo as from a hollow gourd.
I tended to write more about Bina than about anyone else. She was unique in my life. I did not understand all she said, but I wrote down her sayings to study later. I wondered whether anyone had ever written a story about a native woman, because I did not think that Bina could write one for herself. I thought that someday I might invite her to tell me about her life and all the truths she hadn’t shared.
Before filling half of the first notebook, I turned the pages back. So much had changed that the early words already seemed like someone else’s life. But the writing helped me gather my thoughts. Writing was like prying a cactus sticker from beneath my skin. Sometimes the process was painful, but it felt better once it came out, and only then could the healing start.
12
March 1901, Concentration Camp
Janetta’s twin, Nicolaas, was fevered with a rash. Measles, surely. Moeder insisted I tell them to put a bottle of hot water on his chest and another on his back directly between the shoulder blades. But they would not allow entry, so I relayed the message to Janetta through the tent flap. I fretted for her health and then for her brother’s. And after a moment’s thought, I worried for mine as well. I’d been very close to her recently, touched her, taken in her breath. And now she was swallowed up by her tent.
Two days earlier, Nicolaas had acknowledged my existence for the first time, saying hello when I came to gather Janetta. This, I thought, was the start of something. I spent the next day going through possibilities that included Janetta’s being family. But that might have to wait now. It seemed absurd that, as far as I knew, my brother at war was still healthy, while hers, in this camp, was ill abed.
I had to fill my time without her. Looking to free more pages of rules that had been tacked on posts around camp, I found a message for a hymn meeting for young people to be held in the large tent. Moeder denied permission after having heard the word “measles.” I pointed out that if I had been infected by Janetta, I would have had the rash by now.
“But a gathering of many children . . . in the same tent?”
“Singing hymns, Ma, singing his praises. I’ll pray for us all. What better use of time?”
She called as I stepped from the tent. I peeked back in. “Do you think they have an organ?” She moved her fingers as if playing an invisible keyboard. I hadn’t thought how much she must miss playing, having done so almost every night at home.
I was early but was soon joined by many dozens of others who entered behind me. They were so thin and dirty. Who were they all? They looked like shrunken adults, with worn faces, appearing twice their actual age. And were there no boys at all?
“Welkom, boys and girls,” the dominee said. I hated being considered a little girl. “So nice to see you here. This will be an evening of rejoicing and song.”
“Rejoicing” was not a word I had heard in camp.
As if he had read my mind, he said: “Yes, rejoicing. . . . Your families may be sundered by war, but your men are protected by the hand of God, and we have all been given this day through his Holy Providence.”
I looked across the tent. There were no guards, so it seemed safe for the preacher to talk about our men being guided by God, a comment that probably violated some rule. The dominee started a tune on his autoharp and encouraged us to clap. We failed to catch the rhythm at first.
“Psalm one forty-six,” the dominee said. When he started singing, I found I had to clear my throat and focus on the process. I always sang so poorly that it drew nasty comments. So I sang only to amuse Cee-Cee and most often at home in the barn, and those were children’s songs about chicks and pigs and the like. It took several scratchy lines to find the rhythm, but then I felt a joy of stretching muscles that had gone unused. I decided I would sing in the tent. It would remind me of better times, and, of course, it would annoy Mevrou Huiseveldt. So rarely is an activity rewarding in two important ways.
After the psalm, the dominee repeated lines he wanted to stress.
“Recite after me,” he said. “He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry . . .”
Gives food to the hungry?
“The Lord sets prisoners free, gives sight to the blind . . .”
Sets prisoners free?
“The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down, and loves the righteous . . .”
The words made me worry again about those stubborn thoughts that were less than righteous. Was this psalm written specifically for me?
“You praise God with your voices,” the dominee said. “And know that he hears you. He hears and sees everything. And we are here by his will. Know that, if you are tempted to doubt.”