Mara (27 page)

‘It’s such a tiny one, I could hardly tell you were holding a baby at all. Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘It’s a girl.’

‘What’s her name, if you don’t mind my asking?’

I hesitated for a moment. What if the woman continued asking questions about Mara’s name? What if she would look for more information than I was willing to share? Still, I answered her.

‘Her name is Mara.’

‘What a beautiful name.’

The woman leaned forward and looked closely at the face of my daughter, which just peeked out of the wrap.

‘She’s beautiful.’

I nodded and didn’t know what to say. I hoped the woman would stop talking before she discovered I was holding an illegitimate child. Just thinking of it, I could almost see her attitude change to disapproval.

‘My daughters are all older, married and no longer at home, just like you.’ She nodded at me and smiled. ‘I’ve got four grand children already, all boys.’

She was silent and seemed to expect a response, but my tongue was frozen and I was unable to speak any words at all.

‘I used to long for a boy so badly, but my girls…’ The woman closed her eyes for a moment and I saw how her lips curved up while she recalled a precious memory.

‘My girls were better than all the boys in the world. You enjoy your daughter, Ma’am. Enjoy her for as long as she is young. Before you know it, she’ll be grown up and find a husband. Now she is still all yours.’

The woman smiled at me, then looked away out of the window.

‘This is my stop, have a safe remainder of your journey, Ma’am.’ She gave me a nod, then walked slowly down the aisle to the exit.

I looked down into Mara’s blue eyes, which were suddenly open, and I couldn’t help smiling. This woman had seen my daughter and sung praises of her beauty. It had never occurred to her at all to call Mara a bastard!

I reached Utrecht much quicker than I had thought possible. Again I had to transfer, this time to Amsterdam. I was very busy trying to find my luggage and the right platform, so I had little time to worry about the imminent meeting. It wasn’t long before I sat down in the train. Tired of dragging around all my luggage I closed my eyes and quickly dozed off. When I opened my eyes, much later, I saw that it had started to rain and I remembered my first train journey. How my life had seemed hopeless, and how much had happened these past few months. I knew that I had changed.

I got off the train at Amsterdam-Central Station and felt somewhat daunted by the enormous crowds of people assembled there, but I was here, together with my daughter and there was nothing else for it but to find myself a way through the bustle. By pushing the baby carriage I practically created a path for myself and I was soon outside. There I asked someone to help me find my tram. The tram dropped me off close to my destination and I took my time walking through the now sunny streets. A few times I asked for directions to people on the street, and every one of them was friendly and helpful. I pictured myself living and working in this city. Would I enjoy it after growing so comfortable with all that space at the farm? There was hardly any growth here and I already missed the smell of the cows, the dog’s excited barks and the chickens running around my feet when I fed them. Was my future here in this city? I looked inside the baby carriage and Mara looked back at me with her big round eyes. She smiled at me and I smiled back. I tickled her under her chin and continued walking. Within five minutes I had reached my destination. I stood in front of a tall stone building and the letters above the door told me that I was at the right address. I smiled. Finally I would see her again, my praying nun. I thought of her last letter to me which at first had angered me, but after a while had touched me.

Since the day that the Good Lord, in one of his mysterious ways, made our paths cross, I have felt compelled to pray for you. Time and time again he reminded me, even when I sometimes forgot to. You and your daughter are always welcome here.

I took one last deep breath, took hold of the heavy doorknocker and let it drop against the wooden door. A loud noise resounded in the space behind the door, but I couldn’t hear anything else. I was just about to lift the knocker up again when the door opened up without a sound. A nun looked at me. She looked extremely small beside the massive door, but her face was friendly and she gazed at me inquiringly. I showed Olivia’s letter and introduced myself.

‘Sister Olivia invited me.’

The woman nodded and opened the door further. I stepped inside, into a large hallway. Immediately left of the door was an alcove with a large cross bearing a suffering Savior. Strange, how I fled from one house of God, to find peace in another.

29

T
he time I spent in the convent with sister Olivia was in many ways a time of healing and rest. She took me into town and showed me the most beautiful sights. We walked through streets and looked at tall, old canal houses that leaned against each other.

‘Like a bunch of old ladies on a bench,’ sister Olivia said, and I smiled.

She also took me to see the nursery that was run by the nuns. It was a large house where the nuns looked after little children all day while the mothers went to work. It was only after several visits that I understood it concerned fatherless children. Not only children whose fathers had died, but also children like Mara. Their mothers were women like me. When we were at the nursery I helped out as much as I could, so there was little opportunity to talk to sister Olivia, but when we were in the convent we had plenty of time for talking.

The old nun seemed to understand me. Her letters had shown me that already, and now I noticed it again. We talked a lot and I shared with her more than I had ever shared with anyone. She listened and understood, sometimes she cried.

One day she showed me a bundle of papers and gave it to me.

‘Go and read these again,’ she said and walked away. When I looked at the papers I saw that they were all the letters I had sent her these past months. She had neatly ordered the letters by date, the oldest at the top and I began to read. After I had read everything I sat still for a long time, staring ahead of me. Only when there was a persistent knocking on the door I was jolted out of my contemplations.

‘Come in.’

‘I just wanted to see how you were doing,’ sister Olivia explained. She peeked around the edge of the door without coming in.

‘Come on in, please.’

She stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her. I rose from the only chair in the room and sat down on the bed, but instead of choosing the chair, Sister Olivia sat down beside me on the bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Strange. I’m feeling strange.’

‘I had half expected you to feel sad.’

Sad? Well, I was, but not just that. Reading my own writing also had a kind of a cleansing effect. I felt the same way as I had the day when I told Auntie Be my secret for the first time. I felt relief. Nothing was like it had been anymore, so much had changed and I felt happy. I felt happier now than I had then.

‘It hasn’t all been bad.’

‘Not?’

‘I’ve got Mara.’

‘Yes, you’ve got Mara.’

The nun didn’t speak for a long while, but sat with me in silence. Finally she spoke again.

‘I think there’s one more thing you need to do before you return to your aunt.’

I swallowed hard and interrupted her.

‘I’m not going back to Auntie Be.’

‘You’re not?’

‘I wanted to ask you, maybe…’

‘You are not suited for a nun’s habit, Maria,’ Sister Olivia said after she had listened to my stumbling words.

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘What is it you mean then?’

‘I want to find a job, and a place to live.’

‘In Amsterdam?’

I nodded and cast a hopeful glance at her. The nun looked straight ahead, I couldn’t make out her expression.

‘We’ll talk about this more some other time,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask you something else, something much more important.’ Now she looked at me. ‘It seems to me that there’s one thing left for you to do, maybe even two, though it may be a difficult thing to do.’

She was silent and I saw how she inhaled deeply, as if she was nervous.

‘Have you ever considered telling your mother everything?’

The question came as a total surprise and I gasped.

‘What!’

She didn’t answer, but remained silent.

Tell everything to Mother? Of course I had thought of that, often. So often I had almost told her, so often I had practiced the words in my mind before I went to her to tell it all, but I always kept my mouth closed in the end.

‘It’s too difficult.’ I said finally.

‘Maybe you could write it down.’

Sister Olivia stood up, put her hand on my head, a gesture I had become used to these last few days. She mumbled a short and inaudible prayer, and went to the door.

‘Think about it.’

I didn’t answer.

It turned out to be the hardest thing I had ever done. Harder than guarding my secret, harder than carrying the shame of my pregnancy alone, harder than going through childbirth. I told myself that it really shouldn’t be that difficult. Had I not gone through it all, and hadn’t everything turned out all right in the end? All this misery had given me Mara.

Still, I couldn’t write a word.

I sat at the table with the empty sheet of paper in front of me. It was the very first sheet. I was so scared, I hadn’t written a word yet, not even the salutation. I finally found some courage when I reminded myself of the fact that I had, very consciously, decided to do this. Sister Olivia was right, this was one of the last things I had to do to properly deal with the past. Slowly I started to write, first the date, then the salutation. I couldn’t get beyond a simple ‘Mother’, but it would have to do.

As the minutes passed, I thought about the things I would have to write. What was important, what wasn’t? Slowly words came together in my mind and I started to write. First with some hesitation, but then, more and more confidently I entrusted the words to the paper. It was important that Mother knew I had had a good childhood, that she had given me that. I remembered all sorts of incidents and choose one that had often given me comfort in difficult times. I wrote about how we would go for picnics together after picking wildflowers, just the two of us, no one else. And how we would give the flowers to Grandma when we came home in the evening and how Grandma would display them in a vase like a prized possession.

My hands were trembling as I wrote the first paragraph. My fingers were moist and the pen slipped from my hand and it made an ugly mark on the paper. I put the pen down and kicked hard against the table leg, frustrated that I had ruined the letter. Here I was finally getting somewhere and then I let the pen slip. Why could nothing just work out for once? I wiped the sweat off my forehead and dried my hands on my skirt. I decided to leave the mark there. First I had to finish the letter. I could always decide later to copy it.

I started on the second paragraph and realized that I had to write down things I would rather ignore. But I had faced up to them before, when I talked about them to Auntie and later to Reijer, so I could do it again.

My pen scratched over the paper, sometimes the tip would catch and make a stain, but I kept writing. Every word I wrote uncovered a new wound. Writing everything down seemed to open up the wounds, but even though it hurt, it made the infection flow away. Maybe I really needed to do this if I wanted to heal?

I didn’t need many words to describe my physical pain. I found it much harder to think about my mother’s betrayal. Why had she never been there, why did she never hear anything, had she not known? Had she really not known about it?

Should I accuse her of negligence, or had she really been unaware of what had been going on in her home? I decided not to write down this question, but ended the letter with a different question.

If you love me, please be honest with me. All I ask of you is to be honest with me.

Maria.

The end of the letter came so sudden that I sat still for a while, with my pen hovering above the paper, ready to continue. But there was nothing left to write and finally I laid the pen down on the table and picked up the page and waved it back and forth for the ink to dry. Then I folded it and slipped it into an envelope. I wanted to stand up and check on Mara, but my legs trembled and were so weak I didn’t have the strength for it for several minutes.

‘I wrote the letter.’ I proudly held up the envelope for Sister Olivia to see.

‘That’s good, that’s very good.’

‘I’ll post it tomorrow.’

‘You mean you’re going to let the postman deliver it?’

Sister Olivia looked at me as if she didn’t understand what I had just said.

‘Yes.’

‘You told me once that your mother doesn’t read any of the mail that gets delivered.’

My mouth fell open and slowly closed again. No, she was right, Mother didn’t read any mail. Everything first passed through his hands and then it was destroyed. In all the years not one of Auntie’s letters had been opened by Mother. She also wouldn’t open mine.

Defeated I let my hand drop, still holding on to the envelope. As if the letter suddenly was too heavy, my fingers lost their hold on it and the envelope floated to the floor.

‘She won’t read the letter at all.’

‘You’re going to have to bring the letter yourself.’

I crouched down and picked the envelope up from the floor.

‘How can I? I can’t go back. He’ll grab me and hold me, he’ll destroy me again, claim his authority over me.’

‘He is not all-powerful, Maria. Only God is.’

‘The Reverend is his servant.’

Instead of responding to this, Sister Olivia brought up a different topic.

‘A little while ago you mentioned a job and a place to live. Unfortunately I won’t be able to help you to find those.’

I blinked my eyes and at first I didn’t understand what she was talking about. My mind was still on the manse and the Reverend. A few seconds later I understood what she had said. My shoulders slumped.