Tales from the Fountain Pen Read Online Free PDF Page A

the growing light I see the soldiers far off in the distance, at least two fields away. It should make me feel safe, but it doesn’t.
    I hurry home on numb feet, barely able to feel the weight of the basket. I stumble in through the back door, into the empty kitchen.
    After I put the basket on the counter by the sink, I collapse onto the step stool and cry.
    “Maggie?” My father comes in. “My dear girl, are you all right? Did you get hurt? Is Theo safe?”
    I first shake my head, then nod while I struggle to regain my voice. The tears just won’t stop.
    “Theo’s safe,” I manage to say between sobs. “I’m not hurt…had to hide in a ditch to avoid a patrol.”
    “You brave girl,” my father says and envelops me in his strong arms.
    “Have you heard?” My sister bursts into the kitchen. “Oh, I suppose you have. Surely it’s not that bad. They’ll keep Hendrik locked up for a while and the girls will just have to do without his constant flirting. Serves him right.” And Betty casually walks out of the kitchen again.
    “What was that all about?” my father asks.
    “Hendrik. She thinks I’m upset about Hendrik and his father being taken by the Germans. Dad…I heard the soldiers in the patrol brag about it. They enjoyed beating Hendrik!” I say and begin to sob again. “I felt so mad, so helpless and…so scared.”
    “Animals,” my father says with all the impotent rage he feels.
    We sit together in the kitchen for some time, not speaking, instead feeling the safety of the silence.
    Once again I understand how dangerous it is to be a part of the resistance. I understand my father’s fears, but I want do something, something to reclaim my life, my home. Many thoughts swirl but the pen is running out of ink, the writing becomes faint, and I feel myself coming back to my own room, far removed from the sunny, but sad kitchen of my mother’s youth.
    I find I must have switched on the lamp on my desk, but I have no recollection of doing so. The light now hurts my eyes as I read over what the pen has allowed me to write.

    I wonder if she ever saw Hendrik again, or if he survived being in captivity. How deeply did she care for him? Did she carry a torch for him throughout her life? She must have. When I asked her once if she ever truly loved someone, she got a faraway look in her eyes and said, “I’m sure I must have, once upon a time.”

    A gloomy day draws me to my desk where I have ignored the old fountain pen for too long. Today, I feel ready to once again learn about my mother. To learn of the events that shaped her.
    With a familiar tug I slip into the past that flows from the pen in little rivulets of dark blue ink. Vignettes of intense experiences and emotions threaten to drown me every time I take one of these journeys.

    I find myself standing in the open doorway to her house. It is spring and I marvel at the beautiful tulips blooming despite the war, as if I somehow expect nature to be subdued while we are occupied by the Germans. The sun is out too, and it almost feels warm enough to be out in shirtsleeves.
    Before I get a chance to step out I spy a column of German soldiers coming up the street. They stop at a house across the street and three doors from us, and I see the soldiers are each carrying a bag. That can only mean one thing: they’ll be billeted at homes around the village. Right now they live in tents, as there are no barracks nearby. Siepie told me Germany is bringing in more and more soldiers for the planned invasion of England. Why can’t they just all go home instead?
    But I don’t stand there dwelling on it. I have an idea and rush back inside where my sister is lazing around nursing an infected thumb.
    “Betty, quick,” I say, and pull another chair up to her. “Put your legs on this chair and moan.”
    “What?” she protests.
    “Just do it, or do you want soldiers living in our house?”
    “Oh!” She quickly complies and I throw a blanket over her, just as