Tales from the Fountain Pen
Tales from the Fountain Pen
By E. Lynn Hooghiemstra
Copyright 2013 by E. Lynn Hooghiemstra
Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Tales from the Fountain Pen
E. Lynn Hooghiemstra
For Grietje, and for Spencer
I carefully unscrew the old fountain pen and wait. In the sunlight streaming onto my desk I examine the antique. It was among my mother’s few prized possessions when she died. The shoe box clad in marble-paper had been placed by her bedside table with a note stating that I should have it upon her death.
As far as I can recall I have never seen her write with this pen. She preferred more modern ballpoints over what she called “those messy old things” that caused her so much trouble as a schoolgirl. She complained her fingers were always stained with ink because filling the little ink bladder was challenging, especially when it had to be done quickly in order to keep up with a dictation lesson. She claimed it leaked, and made her fingers cramp to even think of writing with it again.
But the pen tells a different story. Every time I unscrew the cap the pen tells me of her life.
First let me describe the pen before it takes over and moves my hand without my permission—though I suppose by the very act of opening the pen I give it permission. I let my curiosity get the better of me as I seek to know my mother through her scant possessions.
I can already feel the pen tugging at me so I shall hurry.
From what I can tell it is probably made of some kind of resin or early plastic, like Bakelite; modern plastics would not have been in general use in her childhood. It is a lovely old purple color, darker on the outside than under the cap, which screws securely into place over a well-preserved steel nib; at least I suspect it is steel but my knowledge of pens is limited.
I have carefully filled the little bladder with ink from an old bottle someone gave me once upon a time; an odd shade of faded brown meant to imply old.
If this “relationship,” for lack for a better word, is to persist, I shall have to give the pen fresh ink, high-quality ink. This pen seems to have a lot to say and many more lines to write with its distinct but soft scratching sound as an auditory guide through a hidden history.
Or perhaps the sound is the one connection I maintain to the present as the pen takes over, my one means of returning to my sunny office from wherever the pen takes me.
I feel a tugging at my hand, ink suddenly flows a little more abundantly, laying down the words almost in boldface.
The room dims and I am no longer aware that my hand keeps moving in a steady rhythm over the page. I can faintly hear the scratching sound, but I push it away, and focus on where I find myself.
There. I am in a city somewhere in the Netherlands, it’s raining and people are rushing to catch trams that crisscross the city at regular intervals.
Ducked into the collar of my damp coat I too make a run for a tram. This one is headed for a train station, I think. I look up at the clock tower in the distance and I can feel I am worried I won’t make the train that will get me home before the blackout curfew.
The heel of my shoe catches on the cobbles in the street, and almost sends me sprawling, but a hand grabs my elbow to steady me and I look up into a friendly face with blue eyes and blond hair, smiling at me. I almost return the smile before I see the uniform the young man is wearing; he is the enemy.
He is a member of the invaders who have occupied my country for the past year.
Though life pretty much progresses as normal, there are restrictions on our freedoms, and God only knows what they’ve done with those who resisted, or that kind Jewish family that used to run the grocery shop on Market Street in my village.
Instead I mumble a half-polite “thank you” and run faster toward my tram.
I tug at the strap of my school satchel and imagine I can feel my pen, a gift from my father when I started vocational college, rattling in the bottom of my rough leather satchel.
Just as the tram is about to pull away, I grab the outside pole and jump onto the little platform. Someone jumps on right behind me and I have a sickening feeling it’s the German soldier who kept me from falling.
An involuntary shiver runs through me, probably from the cold and damp. My coat is not really warm enough, but with shortages and rationing, I can’t get a new one. My mother is glad I have at least stopped growing, unlike my brother. How will we feed him if the shortages continue? she often wonders.
“Hey, Maggie!” a familiar voice calls through the nearly full tram. The windows are fogged over with condensation from all the rain-soaked passengers. A couple of little boys are playing tic-tac-toe, writing on the windows with their little fingers. Their tired mother looks on, her eyes unfocused as she stares at her children. Her look makes me wonder if perhaps she has lost someone dear to her in this war.
The thought renews my disgust and anger at the Germans.
“You have
freund
on tram,
ja
?” the soldier behind me says in a thick accent, a solicitous look on his face. He points in the direction of my friend.
“Ja,” I nod and try to move away from this boy in uniform. He can’t be much older than I am and I realize with a visceral discomfort that if he were not an enemy soldier I would find him attractive, and most likely go out dancing with him if he asked me.
“Coming,” I call out to my friend.
Without giving the soldier another glance I readjust my satchel and start to work my way toward my best friend, Siepie, and that empty seat she’s holding for me.
“Hi,” I say as I drop down next to her. “What are you doing in Leeuwarden today?”
“Just running some errands…for a friend,” she says; her eyes sparkle and her mouth curves into a mischievous grin, but only for a moment. She catches herself, pushes her glasses back up her nose and suddenly looks serious.
“Mother needed new buttons and I needed ink for my fountain pen,” she says, and pulls a small paper bag with delicate-looking white buttons out of her bag. “Mother has found some white muslin in the attic where grandmother used to keep all her fabrics for sewing.”
“Is she going to make you that blouse you wanted?” I ask, a little envious that Siepie will have something new to wear this spring. If only the war would be over by then.
“Yes, the one with that small collar I showed you in the English magazine.”
“That will look so pretty on you.” And I genuinely mean that. My friend is rather tiny, with a delicate, long neck, and a small, rounded collar on a fine muslin blouse will look lovely on her. It would be wasted on my tall, athletic frame, so there really is no point in being jealous.
“Will you look at this color blue!” Siepie pulls out the little bottle of ink and holds it up to the window.
“It looks like the sky on a summer evening,” I say, wishing it were summer. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s all the way from England. A special shipment smuggled through the Waddenzee in a small rowboat. Very courageous if you ask me.”
“I didn’t think Holland was running out of ink yet,” I say, pensively. “Why smuggle this in?”
Siepie shrugs.
“Maybe it’s special. Maybe it can aid the resistance.” She lowers her voice.
“Would be nice,” I say. “But then, why were you able to buy it?”
Siepie shrugs again. What is she not telling me, I wonder? We never kept secrets from each other before. I decide a tram with at least one German soldier on it is not the place to press her on it, though.
“The shop also got some new fountain pens.” Siepie pulls out another little paper bag and takes a purple fountain pen out of it.
“Hey, that’s just like mine,” I say when I recognize it. I open my satchel and feel around for my pen. I scrape my hand on a sharp corner of one of my schoolbooks.
“See!” I say, holding up the pen.
“You’re right. It’s identical,” my friend says, taking the pen from me.
“Careful, it leaks into the cap sometimes,” I say when I see her unscrewing it.
“Be careful girls, you are being watched,” an elderly man says in passing as he makes his way to the door for his stop.
“What stop is this?” I stand up to get a better look outside, but sit back down again when I realize we have one more to go before the central station.
“Here, you’d better take your pen before they accidentally get mixed up.” Siepie hands me back the capped pen. “You’re right, it does leak.” She shows me her small ink-stained fingers.
“Told you so.” I smile at her and put my pen back and fasten the buckle on my satchel.
Another forty minutes before I’ll be home, if I’m lucky that is. Yesterday they stopped the train to search for resistance members and I had to walk home through the pitch-black streets of our village. Father was nearly sick with worry when I finally came home. He was so worried he could not even work on his illegal wireless set. Why have they forbidden the wireless? Are they afraid we might get secret messages from Churchill? Or from Wilhelmina, our Queen, who lives in exile in London?
I suppose I should consider us fortunate that they haven’t billeted any of the Reich’s soldiers in our house—then we would have to bury the wireless in the backyard. Father could get shot if they found it, at least that is what Hendrik the butcher’s son told me.
We make it to the station and make a frantic dash to the train platform where our train stands waiting.
“Hurry, Siepie,” I say, and pull my friend along.
“I’m hurrying…” she puffs behind me. “I don’t have your long legs, you know.”
To help my friend I grab her hand. As I look back I see that the German soldier is following us. Why? Surely if he is in Leeuwarden then that is where he is supposed to be. What possible reason could he have for following us?
It’s easy to become paranoid in wartime.
I give myself a mental shake and focus on making it onto that train home.
“Made it!” I triumphantly drop onto the bench in the second-class compartment. It smells of wet wool and cigarettes; my mother will suspect me of smoking again, but at least I won’t come home in the dark tonight.
“You’re very strong, you know that?” Siepie says, sitting across from me, rubbing her wrist.
“Sorry. Did I hurt you?” I ask.
“No, it’s nothing,” she smiles, then changes the subject. “Got much homework?”
“Loads,” I sigh. “I’ll be busy for hours on a history report. If my pen hadn’t run out of ink I would be halfway done by now. At least algebra will be easy.”
The compartment door slides open and the soldier comes in. He takes off his cap and smiles politely. Both Siepie and I give him frosty smiles and then do our best to ignore his existence.
We don’t talk much further. It’s just not fun with the enemy listening in, even if he can only understand a little of what we’re saying.
The train picks up speed once we’re out of the station area and I sit back to watch the farmland go by. A few horses stand clustered under a tree to shelter from the rain, which has changed from a drizzle to a downpour.
Just when I think we will make it to Bergum without being stopped and searched, I hear the squeal of the brakes and feel the train slowing down again.
I scowl at my friend and say, “Not again. They stopped us yesterday too.”
Siepie just nods and crosses her left leg over her right, adjusts her skirt and looks out the window.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the soldier getting up. He grins and nods before leaving our compartment.
The train comes to a complete stop. I can hear doors being flung open, followed by the heavy tread of German soldiers tromping through the corridor, and the coarse, brusque commands barked at either their own kind or passengers on the train.
They are now at our door and my heart beats wildly against my ribs. I hear my father’s warning in my ears: “Maggie, don’t challenge them, you will be safer if you do as they say.” I can’t now remember all the arguments I made against his advice, but only my love and concern for his safety keep me from standing up to our enemy; from joining the resistance.