River in the Sea Read Online Free
Author: Tina Boscha
shaking mostly in her legs, behind the kneecaps, the muscles in her thighs spasming as she stood back up.
The driver gave her a push and Leen jerked forward. Every part of her body quivered. She tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but she couldn’t remember how it started, and then she thought about Psalm 23, but the only line that came to her was, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,” the line she’d always thought described Friesland.
The driver nudged the gatekeeper, still bent over Minsha, and spoke to him again quickly under his breath, pointing to the soldier who held the shovel. He was blond, like most of the other soldiers, but his hair looked lighter than theirs since it was not slicked down with brilliantine and instead curled over his ears. His eyes were dark, maybe brown, and all around them the skin was dark, not with fatigue or wear, but naturally colored that way, like they had been smudged with the clay soil. It made his eyes seem almost warm. There were others in Wierum with that sallow coloring; several of them were from the islands a few kilometers off the coast, Texel and Ameland and others.
The gatekeeper finally stood up. He took the driver’s handkerchief and wiped his face. Then the driver took the shovel from the light–haired soldier, and the gatekeeper said something in an exasperated tone, as if he was giving in to something. His movements unexpectedly direct and sudden, the gatekeeper grabbed the shovel, and walked over to Leen. He pressed the shovel into her chest, sending another cold wave of fright into her throat. The light–haired soldier started to say something, his voice expressing protest, but the driver said something sharp and cut him off.
The gatekeeper pointed to Leen and said, “You.” The driver poked her hard in the shoulder and then hopped over the ditch to a spot just outside the barbed wire fence surrounding the perimeter of the camp. He dug the toe of his boot into the soil, dragging his foot, drawing a shape. He pointed to the dog, then at her.
Leen walked with jerky steps to the spot he had drawn. The outline of a large rectangle was faintly visible in the soil. In places the clay looked like it had been wiped flat, the sheen of the mud reflecting flatly in the waning light. In other spots, the thick soles of the driver’s boots made a deep impression. All she could think was, doeval, doeval .
“What…” Leen started to say, but couldn’t finish. She knew clearly that she had been ordered to dig a grave. What was going in that grave, the dog or her? But she knew. She’d be shot and buried there, with the dog. Suddenly she remembered what Pater had told her years ago, his eyes somehow both mischievous and serious, a cigarette pointing at her from his yellowed fingers: “First you are God’s child. Then you are Frysk. Finally, perhaps you are Dutch. But never, no matter what happens, are you German.” To all Friesians, little else mattered besides their own land and their own ancient tongue, both existing for centuries before the Netherlands enveloped them into one nation. The Dutch were their countrymen, and they paid the same currency and at times shared the Dutch language, but now Leen was digging Frisian dirt to bury herself and a German dog.
All along the curves of her body felt cold, all the usual places that felt warm: underneath her arms, under the small, bare curve of her new breasts; behind her knees; the creases where her thighs and crotch met. It felt like the air was snaking through her clothes and finding where she could least control her shaking, coming through the wrists of her coat, down the neck of her shirt, and suddenly all she could think about was that if she could just get home, she would beg for a bath, one that she could have herself, no one else dirtying the clean water. She longed for the warmth of the water, to be inside her house on Ternaarderweg, alone in the room where
The driver gave her a push and Leen jerked forward. Every part of her body quivered. She tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but she couldn’t remember how it started, and then she thought about Psalm 23, but the only line that came to her was, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,” the line she’d always thought described Friesland.
The driver nudged the gatekeeper, still bent over Minsha, and spoke to him again quickly under his breath, pointing to the soldier who held the shovel. He was blond, like most of the other soldiers, but his hair looked lighter than theirs since it was not slicked down with brilliantine and instead curled over his ears. His eyes were dark, maybe brown, and all around them the skin was dark, not with fatigue or wear, but naturally colored that way, like they had been smudged with the clay soil. It made his eyes seem almost warm. There were others in Wierum with that sallow coloring; several of them were from the islands a few kilometers off the coast, Texel and Ameland and others.
The gatekeeper finally stood up. He took the driver’s handkerchief and wiped his face. Then the driver took the shovel from the light–haired soldier, and the gatekeeper said something in an exasperated tone, as if he was giving in to something. His movements unexpectedly direct and sudden, the gatekeeper grabbed the shovel, and walked over to Leen. He pressed the shovel into her chest, sending another cold wave of fright into her throat. The light–haired soldier started to say something, his voice expressing protest, but the driver said something sharp and cut him off.
The gatekeeper pointed to Leen and said, “You.” The driver poked her hard in the shoulder and then hopped over the ditch to a spot just outside the barbed wire fence surrounding the perimeter of the camp. He dug the toe of his boot into the soil, dragging his foot, drawing a shape. He pointed to the dog, then at her.
Leen walked with jerky steps to the spot he had drawn. The outline of a large rectangle was faintly visible in the soil. In places the clay looked like it had been wiped flat, the sheen of the mud reflecting flatly in the waning light. In other spots, the thick soles of the driver’s boots made a deep impression. All she could think was, doeval, doeval .
“What…” Leen started to say, but couldn’t finish. She knew clearly that she had been ordered to dig a grave. What was going in that grave, the dog or her? But she knew. She’d be shot and buried there, with the dog. Suddenly she remembered what Pater had told her years ago, his eyes somehow both mischievous and serious, a cigarette pointing at her from his yellowed fingers: “First you are God’s child. Then you are Frysk. Finally, perhaps you are Dutch. But never, no matter what happens, are you German.” To all Friesians, little else mattered besides their own land and their own ancient tongue, both existing for centuries before the Netherlands enveloped them into one nation. The Dutch were their countrymen, and they paid the same currency and at times shared the Dutch language, but now Leen was digging Frisian dirt to bury herself and a German dog.
All along the curves of her body felt cold, all the usual places that felt warm: underneath her arms, under the small, bare curve of her new breasts; behind her knees; the creases where her thighs and crotch met. It felt like the air was snaking through her clothes and finding where she could least control her shaking, coming through the wrists of her coat, down the neck of her shirt, and suddenly all she could think about was that if she could just get home, she would beg for a bath, one that she could have herself, no one else dirtying the clean water. She longed for the warmth of the water, to be inside her house on Ternaarderweg, alone in the room where
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