The Blackberry Bush Read Online Free PDF Page B

civilian Dutch in these clothes , he thinks, as long as I don’t have to say a lot .
    It has been a long time since Walter has been in church. But the sound of the organ reminds him of his home congregation, and all that home means to him. Homesick and a little depressed, he opens the door and walks in.
    Placing his wet umbrella in the stand with the dripping others, he realizes, awkwardly, that he’s late for the Sunday evening service and that this door opens near the pulpit. Every eye in the place turns to him briefly as he moves quickly to the left…and out of the line of sight.
    There’s an empty place on a bench next to an elegant young woman with wavy, shoulder-length dark hair that peeks out from under a brimmed hat. He can’t see her face from this angle.
    Walter sits down, not sure if he is wet mostly from perspiration (it’s a humid summer night) or the rain. But he feels wetter than everyone else in the room. Grief and disappointment well up inside him. Both seem out of place in this ancient holy place that overflows with goodness and promise.
    As the sermon winds down, the congregation rises to sing another psalm from their little black books, and Walter shares a book with the young woman he noticed earlier.
    As the organ prelude pauses for the congregation to begin singing, something otherworldly happens.
    Her voice, clear and potent, resonates with Walter’s very body. They say the precise pitch/note that gets produced when you “ping” a crystal glass, when amplified, will shatter the glass.
    She’s not even looking at the book. This psalm is coming from a deep, deep place—perhaps from the patriarchs and matriarchs of her proud nation.
    “ De afgrond roept tot den afgrond (Deep calleth unto deep)…”
    Something like crystal shatters in the back of Walter’s throat, and little pieces of emotional broken glass catch in his mouth.
    In that very instant, this young woman outranks him, both emotionally and socially. Some people just have power over others. Walter chokes up and struggles for breath. He has to sit down. While she continues to sing forth, a wave of emotion rolls over Walter. All the seeming vanity of his pointless, non-heroic life rolls in hot tears down his cheeks. It is simply impossible to stay dry in any way tonight.
    He gathers himself and automatically looks up and to the left. She has placed her perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder. Her concerned brown eyes match her resonant voice. “ Gaat het, meneer (Are you okay, sir)?”
    That face.
    How can someone so young—at least ten years his junior—have such an “arrived” countenance? Here he is, the occupying soldier, and his heart defers to her instantly.
    In a few minutes, he’s regained his composure—taking part in the church service with the rest of them. Walter leaves quickly after the blessing, wondering whether the Dutch black-robed minister would still bless him if he knew he’s German.
    Rounding the corner into the neighborhood with broad sidewalks and massive leafy trees, he slows down and glances up at the moon that’s trying to break through the thickly clouded sky.
    Hearing sudden footsteps next to him, Walter pivots, startled.
    The woman’s eyes look up from under the brim of her hat. “I’m Cornelia. But everyone calls me Nellie. And your name, sir?”
    She reaches out her elegant hand to him. Instinctively he bows and kisses it, as if a knight with a princess at court.
    “Walter, Gnädiges Fräulein (graceful young lady),” he whispers politely after the kiss.
    Her other hand shoots to her mouth as she steps back quickly.
    A German.

    11 September 2001
Oberwinter am Rhein, Germany
Just south of Bonn
    Opa Harald
    O PA H ARALD SITS ALONE at the kitchen table in the Dornbusch family home, turning an antique key over and over with his fingers. He has finally located the key to his father Walter’s sea chest.
    Kati has been begging him for years to open it, but it isn’t in Harald’s nature to force