shadows casting misshapen figures on the kitchen cabinets and wall. With the kerosene lamp light on her back, her mother followed her own weaving shadow into the living room. She was dressed in jeans and work shirt. She picked up a blanket from the couch and flung it over her shoulder as if she were ready to wander off and away from the whole scene.
All summer the tension had grown in her mother, an edginess that could erupt into sharp words or strange actions at almost any time. She acted as if she was expecting the worst, though Alice didnât know what âthe worstâ might mean for her mother. She probably didnât either. Sometimes Alice assumed that her mother was afraid of everything and anything the future might bring, whether that was an influx of immigrants or the inevitable change of farm life. The millennium was a magnet that drew all of her unspoken fears together. Now she moved across the living room and became a long silhouette in front of the picture window, then stood motionless again, staring out into the darkness. It was impossible for her to see the hail damage, but she must have known as well as the rest of them that it was there and that it had been devastating.
Aldahâs bedroom was a small room, which before the remodeling had
been a large pantry off the kitchen. With her father holding the lantern, Alice led Aldah into her pantry-bedroom and tucked her into bed.
âRead to me.â
âNo light,â said Alice. âIâll play something on the piano.â
âNo light,â said Aldah.
Alice knew most of Beethovenâs Moonlight Sonata by heart, but when she started playing it in the dark, Aldah yelled out, âNot that one! Not that one!â
Alice switched to âHave Thine Own Way, Lordâ and played the simple hymn three times to the quiet approval of her sister, who was soon asleep. Alice found her way up to her own room, got in bed, and wondered if she should pray but found her mind was filled with cacophonous sounds of clattering hail and squealing hogs warring against country music and a church organ playing âA Mighty Fortress Is Our God.â The Devilâs work, she thought to herself, and closed her eyes.
8
Sleep did not come easily. The truth of what had happened to their farm came to her with the weight of the silence. Cool silence, but a silence that was heavy as the sultry silence before the storm. It was the kind of silence her great uncle told about when he spoke of the deathly calm that followed a German bombardment of Rotterdam. Nobody moved because that might have invited more destruction. The old Krayenbraak house had been their bomb shelter while their farmland was machine gunned to death. They had been strafed for an hour, and now the final aftermath was upon them: Silence. Numb silence. Posttraumatic silence.
What was the point of it all? What issue did the sky have with them? Hadnât they suffered enough? She felt battered and defeated like the fields outside. She was wrung out, flat, with neither an urge to pray nor to shake her fist at God and scream, âWhy us?â
She thought of her parents and how everything had come to this moment. Her father had been his usual strong self through the storm. She could understand why her mother had fallen in love with him: he was handsome, he was gentle, and he was strong in a crisis. But what did he see in her? True, the pictures of her as a young woman made her look beautiful. She had that wry and sultry look and the hint of a smile, combined with an inscrutable expression coming from her eyes, what Alice had come to regard as an intense blankness. What did her father see? He must have seen somebody who needed rescuing, not from the world but from herself. What did he see in her now? Alice saw a woman who was so erratic in her moods and so unpredictable in her behavior that sheâd hate to see what label a certified psychiatrist would give her. Maybe she was only a
All summer the tension had grown in her mother, an edginess that could erupt into sharp words or strange actions at almost any time. She acted as if she was expecting the worst, though Alice didnât know what âthe worstâ might mean for her mother. She probably didnât either. Sometimes Alice assumed that her mother was afraid of everything and anything the future might bring, whether that was an influx of immigrants or the inevitable change of farm life. The millennium was a magnet that drew all of her unspoken fears together. Now she moved across the living room and became a long silhouette in front of the picture window, then stood motionless again, staring out into the darkness. It was impossible for her to see the hail damage, but she must have known as well as the rest of them that it was there and that it had been devastating.
Aldahâs bedroom was a small room, which before the remodeling had
been a large pantry off the kitchen. With her father holding the lantern, Alice led Aldah into her pantry-bedroom and tucked her into bed.
âRead to me.â
âNo light,â said Alice. âIâll play something on the piano.â
âNo light,â said Aldah.
Alice knew most of Beethovenâs Moonlight Sonata by heart, but when she started playing it in the dark, Aldah yelled out, âNot that one! Not that one!â
Alice switched to âHave Thine Own Way, Lordâ and played the simple hymn three times to the quiet approval of her sister, who was soon asleep. Alice found her way up to her own room, got in bed, and wondered if she should pray but found her mind was filled with cacophonous sounds of clattering hail and squealing hogs warring against country music and a church organ playing âA Mighty Fortress Is Our God.â The Devilâs work, she thought to herself, and closed her eyes.
8
Sleep did not come easily. The truth of what had happened to their farm came to her with the weight of the silence. Cool silence, but a silence that was heavy as the sultry silence before the storm. It was the kind of silence her great uncle told about when he spoke of the deathly calm that followed a German bombardment of Rotterdam. Nobody moved because that might have invited more destruction. The old Krayenbraak house had been their bomb shelter while their farmland was machine gunned to death. They had been strafed for an hour, and now the final aftermath was upon them: Silence. Numb silence. Posttraumatic silence.
What was the point of it all? What issue did the sky have with them? Hadnât they suffered enough? She felt battered and defeated like the fields outside. She was wrung out, flat, with neither an urge to pray nor to shake her fist at God and scream, âWhy us?â
She thought of her parents and how everything had come to this moment. Her father had been his usual strong self through the storm. She could understand why her mother had fallen in love with him: he was handsome, he was gentle, and he was strong in a crisis. But what did he see in her? True, the pictures of her as a young woman made her look beautiful. She had that wry and sultry look and the hint of a smile, combined with an inscrutable expression coming from her eyes, what Alice had come to regard as an intense blankness. What did her father see? He must have seen somebody who needed rescuing, not from the world but from herself. What did he see in her now? Alice saw a woman who was so erratic in her moods and so unpredictable in her behavior that sheâd hate to see what label a certified psychiatrist would give her. Maybe she was only a
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