Mara (7 page)

‘Good morning, Maria!’

‘Good morning, Auntie Be.’ I wasn’t quite finished taking the braids apart, and, while fumbling clumsily, I tried to position myself in front of them.

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Oh, yes, I did. Thank you.’

‘What are you fumbling with your hands, do you always braid the fringes of tablecloths?’

‘I… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…’

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all right. Can I see?’

She came and had a closer look at one of the braids.

‘Just like when you were young, I remember it well.’ She had a beaming smile on her face. ‘Do you like pancakes?’

I nodded and placed my hands in my lap again. Straight backed and with my stomach as flat as possible I stayed seated, quietly. What should I do? What did she expect me to do? Would this be when the accusations came? Maybe Auntie wanted to wait with that till after the meal? I closed my eyes and shuddered.

‘Come and have a look, Maria.’

I quickly rose and walked to her.

‘I’ll just show you where everything is, so you’ll be able to find your way in this kitchen.’

‘Dishes, pots and pans are obvious of course,’ Auntie said as she gestured towards the plate rack. The spoons hung there as well, and underneath them was a blue pan shelving unit. The pots and pans were on the top shelf and on the lower shelf were the lids. Just as I remembered from when I was young.

Auntie moved toward the large kitchen cabinet and opened up the doors.

‘This is where I store my sugar, salt and flour. There are more things in this cabinet, so feel free to take your time one of these days and see what’s all in here.’ She closed the cabinet and walked toward the little steps that led to the ‘opkamer’, a room that was built at a slightly raised floor level to accommodate a cellar below. She swung the steps upward, which allowed her to open the door to the cellar.

‘I’m sure you’ll remember this.’

I followed her down into the cellar and saw in the semi-dark shelves along the walls, filled with canning jars and Cologne preserving pots. These canning jars were all filled.

‘You have plenty of stock, Auntie.’

She turned and looked at me, smiling.

‘Yes, and now we can enjoy eating it all together.’ I turned back to the four steps that led us back up to the kitchen.

‘We’ll eat soon, would you mind setting the table?’

I nodded and took two dishes from the plate shelf, found utensils and two mugs for milk. Auntie disappeared again into the cellar and emerged with butter and a jar of jam. She pulled a pot of sugar from the cabinet as well and soon we sat down to eat. I watched how Auntie asked for a blessing over her meal. With eyes wide open I looked at her face, the round red cheeks, the slightly moving lips. She looked beautiful and kind, I thought.

6

A
untie has not yet condemned me and seems to be a kind woman. Sometimes I wonder if some of her traits may be found in my mother, very deeply hidden away. Sometimes it is obvious to me that they are sisters who are very much alike, yet other times they seem to me so totally different that you would think there was no family connection between them at all. I have told Auntie as much as I could about her sister. She seems happy to finally know more about what has been happening over the past ten years, there has been such distance for so long. I can’t help but wonder if things are the same for me. Do I no longer exist to my mother, or to him who calls me his daughter? Have I been forever erased from their memories, and do they tell their friends that I have died, have disappeared? The idea of it frightens me, because, if they proclaim me dead, then what am I, who am I?

During the following days I noticed that I looked forward to good meals and I felt more and more energized. It was peculiar, but it seemed as if only here at the farm, my stomach started to grow, as if only now there was room for it, room for my shame. I also felt less exhausted, and when Auntie asked me if I would like to help her harvesting the apples and pears, I nodded. My mind went back to my younger days. I could almost smell the pan of stewed pears.

The next day we started picking fruit. When we had finished looking after the animals, Auntie took the wheelbarrow. She handed me the picking tool and asked if I was ready to come along. Together we walked toward the small orchard, which held several kinds of apple and pear trees. Auntie had already picked part of the harvest before I had arrived, but we would together finish what was left.

Auntie put the wheelbarrow down beside one of the trees and stepped onto the small wooden plank she had placed on it. This way she could reach most of the branches. It was my job to shake the branches with the picking tool so the fruit that was higher up in the tree would fall down.

I held the hook up high, meaning to shake one of the branches, but suddenly I stopped, lowered the hook and closed my eyes. I used to help Grandma with this. I used to pick up the apples she had dropped, but…

‘Auntie, shouldn’t I first lay down the straw?’ Auntie turned her head to me and nodded.

‘Shall I just get some from the barn?’

‘I made a few straw mats, just have a look here in the wheelbarrow.’

‘You brought them already? Why didn’t you say?’

Auntie smiled, but she gave no answer. Instead she hummed a tune and continued picking fruit.

I went over to her and took the straw mats from the wheelbarrow, brought them to my tree and spread the mats over the ground. Once again I raised the picking hook and shook the branches. The apples easily let go of the branches and they fell onto the straw mats without too much bruising. A few apples rolled away. Those were the first ones I collected, and after that I emptied each straw mat, gathered up the mats and moved on to the next tree.

My thoughts wandered to Mother who always would explain to me in detail how I ought to perform each household task. She always seemed to be right on top of me while I worked, ready to give directions and she would be angry whenever I made a mistake.

Auntie had simply given me the picking tool and had not even mentioned the straw mats. I was so glad I had remembered about the straw myself.

The following days were spent taking care of the fruit harvest. We peeled for hours, and I soon ended up with several blisters, discolored fingers and the odd cut from when my knife had slipped. We cooked pots full of fruit into puree, jam and jelly. I could tell that Auntie enjoyed the work. She hummed while she cleaned out the canning pots, distilled them and filled them with our handiwork. Every day there was a new batch of jars. Painstakingly she would apply a label to each jar, with every detail written on it, from picking date to canning date.

‘Why do you write all that information on there?’

She winked at me before she answered.

‘Just because I like to.’ She pointed at a label she just finished.

‘You see that? I like to give a suitable name to everything I prepare, I like to think it tastes better that way.’
Picked Together
it said on the label.

I smiled, and peeled another apple for the applesauce we were cooking today.

‘Shouldn’t you write to your family and friends?’ The question came out of nowhere and startled me. I quickly made up a nonsensical excuse.

‘The postman would recognize my handwriting and start asking the Reverend questions.’

Auntie Be burst into laughter and without a word she shook her head. I was relieved she didn’t pursue the issue. What could I have said? That I refused to entrust even the smallest detail about my new life, let alone a whole letter, to my mother or the Reverend? That besides the two of them there was no one whom I had left behind in the village even though I had lived there for so long? No girl friends to write to, or to miss, no happy memories to share.

I was in the middle as we skipped along, arm in arm with Elzemarie and Joanne.
We sang a happy tune and tumbled into the kitchen, laughing, and Mother welcomed us cheerfully. She had just poured us some lemonade and placed a small dish with cookies on the table when the door flew open.

‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’ His head jerked towards my mother.

‘Maria brought along two friends. Will you please introduce them, Maria.’ I noticed how Mothers cheeks flushed red, how her voice shook, but I didn’t understand why. I stood up and as I stood behind Elzemarie first, and next behind Joanne, I introduced them properly, as I had been taught to. They both remained seated, fascinated by the man who called himself my father, their new preacher.

‘I cannot tolerate such a racket. Make sure they’re quiet, Anna! How do you expect me to receive God’s word when these
children
,’ he spit the word out with vehemence, ‘make such devilish commotion!’

He gave each one of us a piercing glare and left the kitchen, but not without slamming the door closed with a loud bang. I found it hard to swallow as I tip-toed back to my seat and sat down. The cookies looked a lot less appetizing and the lemonade didn’t taste as sweet as it used to.

In silence we sat at the table. Then, way too quickly, Elzemarie had finished her cookie and lemonade. She rose from the table, walked to my mother and politely shook her hand.

‘I need to hurry home, Ma’am.’ She spoke the words softly, but clear enough for me to hear. Before Mother could reply, Joanne had also stood up and followed Elzemarie’s example.

Mother accompanied the girls to the door and waved them goodbye.
I remained seated as I heard them leave. I didn’t say goodbye and I didn’t wave them off.

‘I think you should at least write to your father and mother. They will want to know how you’re doing.’

I could barely contain my annoyance when Auntie brought the subject up again. She meant well and she could hardly be expected to understand my reluctance.

‘We’ll add your letter to mine each month, all right?

I nodded, knowing full well that the letters would turn to ashes, without ever being read.

In silence we continued peeling apples until there was a big pile of apple pieces on the table. Auntie rose and took her largest pot from the shelf.

‘Shall I put them on, or would you like to do it?’

‘May I do it?’ I eagerly stood up. At home Mother had never allowed me near the stove. She’d say, ‘You’d just start a fire, Maria.’

‘Of course you may. Go ahead. If you inherited your mother’s skills it’s going to be a delicious applesauce.’

I raised my eyebrows and looked at Auntie. Was she serious? My mother’s skills? Mother, who worked in the kitchen only to prepare plain, sober meals?

‘What do you mean?’

Auntie smiled again and went back to her seat.

‘Just thinking of her applesauce makes my mouth water,’ she said. ‘And her stewed pears. Delicious! Does she still make it the same way?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t recall ever eating applesauce or stewed pears at home.’

Auntie looked up, shocked, and started to speak, but I was quicker.

‘We only eat what our bodies need. God has given us the food and we ought to be grateful for it.’

I thought back to the bland meals we had every afternoon. Usually everything was mashed together into one, colorless, shapeless, unappetizing paste. For the rest we would only eat whole wheat or rye bread, and on Sundays there was a little bit of butter and a slice of cheese. Naturally, the Reverend had filled sandwiches everyday, since he was the head of the house.

‘We only have extra’s to eat when we have visitors, and that hardly ever happens because Mother can’t stand a mess.’

‘What has happened to her?’

Auntie sounded shocked, but I didn’t reply.

‘The applesauce…’ I said instead, ‘How do I start?’

We were not only busy with canning fruit. The regular daily chores also had to be looked after. Auntie’s days started very early and I was determined to adjust to her schedule. Ever since that first late morning, I got out of bed early enough to help her with the chores. There were six cows to be milked twice a day. I could recall how Grandpa used to let me taste the milk while it was still warm, and I still remembered how he would sit on the little stool between the cows legs and pull at the teats to let the milk squirt out.

I had never done it myself, and now I watched while Auntie showed me. She had pulled out an extra stool for me beside her so I could sit up close and see well.

‘First you rub your hands warm,’ she said, ‘because cold hands aren’t very comfortable for the cow.’

When she was ready she held the teats in her hand and started to pull with slow, regular movements.

‘You have to pull your hand down and at the same time you squeeze, but not too hard. If you do she’ll kick you.’

I watched and saw how two streams of milk squirted into the bucket. It looked easy enough, I thought, and the cow stood placidly and did not seem to mind at all.

‘Would you like to give it a try, Maria?’

For a moment I hesitated. I was very conscious of the fact that so close by a cow was large and warm, but I agreed to try it. We switched stools and Auntie put her seat behind mine and put her arms around me. She wrapped her hands around mine and placed them around the teats, her body against my back.

This is different
, I told myself and I remained seated on my stool, motionless. She was a woman, she was my aunt. But she was also tall and strong. The pressure of her fingers forced my hands into the right direction, but my breath came faster and faster, and I could feel the world start to whirl around me. I swayed on my low seat and almost fell over, but Auntie’s arms caught me.

‘Maria, are you all right?’ She pulled me up and had me lean with my back against her chest. I could hear her heartbeat. The rhythm of her heartbeat mingled with his.
Too close
. He was way too close. I tried to push him away, but he was too strong and too heavy.

‘Behave yourself, Maria.’

Too close. The thumping sound in my ears became one with his heavy breathing. With much effort I managed to suck in enough air.
Too close.

‘Do you need something to eat, or something else?’