people mentioned the dog to Leen. One morning, Mr. Boonstra leaned over as if they were the only ones in on the secret, and said, “I heard about you and that German shepherd. Goodness gracious, famke !”
Mr. Iedema bought her two more chocolate milks. Jakob began pinching her on the shoulder and laughing when she jumped, then running a finger across his throat and making a strange grimace that Leen guessed was supposed to look like a dying dog. Mrs. Cuperus, a woman rumored to be mildly crazy after having seven babies in eight years, all boys, had pressed two nickels into her hand while Leen was in Wierum’s only general store and patted her directly on top of her head and said simply, “That’s for getting rid of that hoendtje !” Leen tried to give the money back, but Mrs. Cuperus wouldn’t allow it. “I hate those awful dogs,” she’d said. And Leen replied in partial truth, “I can’t think of a time I ever liked them,” and everyone in the store started laughing, but for the first time, Leen could tell they were laughing with her, not at her. She had always stood out before, but was never appreciated for her unconventional driving, smoking, rolling tobacco, working the fields until her fingernails accrued so much muck that Mem forced Leen to stand at the table while she scrubbed them clean with a coarse brush.
Leen did not forget what Pater said: they could come back. The soldiers could find her and finish their inclinations. But it was hard not to grow accustomed to this new feeling. Pride crept into Leen with each wink, clap, shout, and nod. Leen felt as if she was someone, a Resistance member, maybe; someone who had done something bold enough that she might have lost her life, but survived. And thanks to her, there was one less barking dog to antagonize the innocent villagers. Now, when someone winked at her, she winked right back, always careful that Pater or Mem was not around.
5.
Leen slid her damp palm down the front of her skirt, took a clipped breath, opened the bin, and plunged her hand in. Salt spilled out of the sides of her fist as she drew it out and dropped the salt onto the ragged piece of white wax paper she’d hurriedly tore moments before, and the tumbling crystals sounded like the sand she poured out of her klompen after walking on the hard seafloor when the tide was out.
She twisted the paper at the top and dropped the package in her pocket, pressing against it to flatten the bulge protruding away from her narrow hips. She licked her palm and her mouth puckered with the bright rush on her tongue. The taste was so delicious, and she ran her tongue over her lips, wondering if she ought to take some more. She brushed her hands against each other and put them in her pockets, one hand around the plump bundle.
That would be greedy. Leen let out a grunt of a half–guilty laugh. This was greedy. Neither Mem nor Pater asked her to get any salt, and although they’d welcome whatever she brought home of her own volition, they weren’t expecting any today. Nor did she intend to offer it to them. This was hers.
She’d never done anything like this before. Not this audacious. She wasn’t clear on what possessed her to act on the urge, except perhaps feeling confident, truly assured of herself, for the first time. It was peculiar that it took something so awful to feel this way, yet Leen felt somehow she earned it. The catcalls were sure to die down; things would settle. But until then she was determined to enjoy her newfound celebrity, this change that allowed her to show herself to be worthy; an individual, not an oddity; brave, not impetuous. Besides, she hadn’t seen a soldier outside the camp in weeks.
So, when Leen found herself in the bakery’s small supply room, sweeping the trivial pile of gray dust that used to be white when there was enough flour to bake with, she saw the salt bin and knew. The thought didn’t have enough time to fully
Mr. Iedema bought her two more chocolate milks. Jakob began pinching her on the shoulder and laughing when she jumped, then running a finger across his throat and making a strange grimace that Leen guessed was supposed to look like a dying dog. Mrs. Cuperus, a woman rumored to be mildly crazy after having seven babies in eight years, all boys, had pressed two nickels into her hand while Leen was in Wierum’s only general store and patted her directly on top of her head and said simply, “That’s for getting rid of that hoendtje !” Leen tried to give the money back, but Mrs. Cuperus wouldn’t allow it. “I hate those awful dogs,” she’d said. And Leen replied in partial truth, “I can’t think of a time I ever liked them,” and everyone in the store started laughing, but for the first time, Leen could tell they were laughing with her, not at her. She had always stood out before, but was never appreciated for her unconventional driving, smoking, rolling tobacco, working the fields until her fingernails accrued so much muck that Mem forced Leen to stand at the table while she scrubbed them clean with a coarse brush.
Leen did not forget what Pater said: they could come back. The soldiers could find her and finish their inclinations. But it was hard not to grow accustomed to this new feeling. Pride crept into Leen with each wink, clap, shout, and nod. Leen felt as if she was someone, a Resistance member, maybe; someone who had done something bold enough that she might have lost her life, but survived. And thanks to her, there was one less barking dog to antagonize the innocent villagers. Now, when someone winked at her, she winked right back, always careful that Pater or Mem was not around.
5.
Leen slid her damp palm down the front of her skirt, took a clipped breath, opened the bin, and plunged her hand in. Salt spilled out of the sides of her fist as she drew it out and dropped the salt onto the ragged piece of white wax paper she’d hurriedly tore moments before, and the tumbling crystals sounded like the sand she poured out of her klompen after walking on the hard seafloor when the tide was out.
She twisted the paper at the top and dropped the package in her pocket, pressing against it to flatten the bulge protruding away from her narrow hips. She licked her palm and her mouth puckered with the bright rush on her tongue. The taste was so delicious, and she ran her tongue over her lips, wondering if she ought to take some more. She brushed her hands against each other and put them in her pockets, one hand around the plump bundle.
That would be greedy. Leen let out a grunt of a half–guilty laugh. This was greedy. Neither Mem nor Pater asked her to get any salt, and although they’d welcome whatever she brought home of her own volition, they weren’t expecting any today. Nor did she intend to offer it to them. This was hers.
She’d never done anything like this before. Not this audacious. She wasn’t clear on what possessed her to act on the urge, except perhaps feeling confident, truly assured of herself, for the first time. It was peculiar that it took something so awful to feel this way, yet Leen felt somehow she earned it. The catcalls were sure to die down; things would settle. But until then she was determined to enjoy her newfound celebrity, this change that allowed her to show herself to be worthy; an individual, not an oddity; brave, not impetuous. Besides, she hadn’t seen a soldier outside the camp in weeks.
So, when Leen found herself in the bakery’s small supply room, sweeping the trivial pile of gray dust that used to be white when there was enough flour to bake with, she saw the salt bin and knew. The thought didn’t have enough time to fully
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