in months. She knew there would be heather beyond Woldijk. The marsh gentian wouldn't be out yet, but there would be yellow pimpernel and bog violet she could pick and bring back that would last a day or two. Already the sun breaking through the clouds made the water glisten in silver patches.
But first Stijn went to the barn.
She stood still and closed her eyes. Katrina's endless chewing filled the room.
Across the water she heard him shout. Not words. Not a curse. Just a deep bellow of anguish.
Through the window she watched him thrash ing the water with the oars. She had no place to put the older children so they wouldn't see what would come next. She put Jantje far back into their cabi net bed.
Stijn was already yelling as he climbed in the window. "Saskia, how could you? The seed pota toes! You've been using the seed potatoes."
Piet flattened himself against the wall.
"I—"
"Every farm wife knows, every farmer's daugh ter knows that you don't touch the seed potatoes. There's only a quarter of a barrel left! Not enough to seed more than a few rows of potato mounds."
Marta crawled deep into her bed.
"I thought there was another barrel behind the bales," Saskia said, though she knew, even as she said it, that it was not the truth. They wouldn't get a planting this year so she thought they might as well eat them. The potatoes wouldn't last a year. Now she knew—he hadn't given up the hope of putting in a late crop.
"Another barrel? You knew there wasn't. And you knew if I knew, we'd have to sell the painting."
He didn't lay a hand on her—that he'd never do—but he glared at her with a look that shriveled her soul. She felt God Himself scowling down at her. "Selfish. Selfish! I never knew you."
"Maybe I should tell you then. It was your idea to come up to this barren place. I haven't been back home for three years. My parents haven't seen Piet since he was a baby, but not once have I com plained. And not once have I regretted it. And not once have I cursed the flood or bad luck or God Himself. Or you."
"But a man's seed potatoes are his future. It's what he is."
"Nothing more? You're nothing more than that? I don't believe it. You're holding a grudge. And you know what? It's not against me, because of the potatoes. Or because I didn't sell the paint ing. Or even against Jantje. It's because of the flood. And you know who it's against? It's against God. All you see in life is the work. Just planting, hauling, shoveling, digging. That's all life is to you. But not to me, Stijn. Not to me. There's got to be some beauty too."
The upper room was too small to contain him. He climbed out the window, taking Piet and Marta with him, still good for his word to take them on an outing, and she was left with Jantje and Katrina. Their first day outdoors together after more than a year. Ruined. Sobbing, she paced the few steps back and forth across the room, picked up a dried dung cake and hurled it out the window after the retreat ing boat. It didn't even reach half the distance.
A fine time Piet and Marta would have with that man today. Good riddance to him. She flung her self on the bed so hard Jantje bounced.
Stijn stayed away all day. For the first time dur ing the flood, she was afraid. She'd had a simple faith that everything would be all right—it always was on her family's farm in Westerbork—but Ol ing wasn't Westerbork. And Stijn wasn't her lov ing father.
It wasn't that Stijn was unloving. It was just that after eight years, she still had trouble telling the dif ference between his love and his worry. She'd been wrong about one thing. Stijn's hope. It was there, stronger than hers, but more deeply buried in the dark soil of his soul.
Late in the afternoon she took a good long look, and put the painting in an empty grain sack and sewed it closed.
At dusk she heard the children's voices singing, and his deep voice coming in on the refrain of a silly children's song, but as the skiff drew nearer, the
But first Stijn went to the barn.
She stood still and closed her eyes. Katrina's endless chewing filled the room.
Across the water she heard him shout. Not words. Not a curse. Just a deep bellow of anguish.
Through the window she watched him thrash ing the water with the oars. She had no place to put the older children so they wouldn't see what would come next. She put Jantje far back into their cabi net bed.
Stijn was already yelling as he climbed in the window. "Saskia, how could you? The seed pota toes! You've been using the seed potatoes."
Piet flattened himself against the wall.
"I—"
"Every farm wife knows, every farmer's daugh ter knows that you don't touch the seed potatoes. There's only a quarter of a barrel left! Not enough to seed more than a few rows of potato mounds."
Marta crawled deep into her bed.
"I thought there was another barrel behind the bales," Saskia said, though she knew, even as she said it, that it was not the truth. They wouldn't get a planting this year so she thought they might as well eat them. The potatoes wouldn't last a year. Now she knew—he hadn't given up the hope of putting in a late crop.
"Another barrel? You knew there wasn't. And you knew if I knew, we'd have to sell the painting."
He didn't lay a hand on her—that he'd never do—but he glared at her with a look that shriveled her soul. She felt God Himself scowling down at her. "Selfish. Selfish! I never knew you."
"Maybe I should tell you then. It was your idea to come up to this barren place. I haven't been back home for three years. My parents haven't seen Piet since he was a baby, but not once have I com plained. And not once have I regretted it. And not once have I cursed the flood or bad luck or God Himself. Or you."
"But a man's seed potatoes are his future. It's what he is."
"Nothing more? You're nothing more than that? I don't believe it. You're holding a grudge. And you know what? It's not against me, because of the potatoes. Or because I didn't sell the paint ing. Or even against Jantje. It's because of the flood. And you know who it's against? It's against God. All you see in life is the work. Just planting, hauling, shoveling, digging. That's all life is to you. But not to me, Stijn. Not to me. There's got to be some beauty too."
The upper room was too small to contain him. He climbed out the window, taking Piet and Marta with him, still good for his word to take them on an outing, and she was left with Jantje and Katrina. Their first day outdoors together after more than a year. Ruined. Sobbing, she paced the few steps back and forth across the room, picked up a dried dung cake and hurled it out the window after the retreat ing boat. It didn't even reach half the distance.
A fine time Piet and Marta would have with that man today. Good riddance to him. She flung her self on the bed so hard Jantje bounced.
Stijn stayed away all day. For the first time dur ing the flood, she was afraid. She'd had a simple faith that everything would be all right—it always was on her family's farm in Westerbork—but Ol ing wasn't Westerbork. And Stijn wasn't her lov ing father.
It wasn't that Stijn was unloving. It was just that after eight years, she still had trouble telling the dif ference between his love and his worry. She'd been wrong about one thing. Stijn's hope. It was there, stronger than hers, but more deeply buried in the dark soil of his soul.
Late in the afternoon she took a good long look, and put the painting in an empty grain sack and sewed it closed.
At dusk she heard the children's voices singing, and his deep voice coming in on the refrain of a silly children's song, but as the skiff drew nearer, the
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