52

Oma and I worked in her small kitchen; cookies filled every countertop space, table, chair, and so forth in various stages of baking. Round and thin stroopwafels with caramel filling and thick, candied bastognekoeken. Braided sweet Dutch pretzels and sugar cookies waiting to be frosted.

Some of my fondest memories of childhood were of standing on a step stool at her counter, stirring away at the ingredients in her robin’s egg colored mixing bowl with a heavy wooden spoon. As I got older, Oma asked me to read the recipes to her, although I knew she had them memorized. Half of the Dutch words I’d learned were related to baking.

She never lost her patience with me when I mixed too hard and sent a dusting of flour onto the floor, and she didn’t get after me for tasting a pinch of the dough.

“A good baker always tastes,” she’d say, dipping into the bowl herself and placing the crumble on her tongue. “Just right.”

I no longer found the step stool necessary and I had no need to double-check the cookbook. My pronunciation of the Dutch words had become more comfortable to me as I moved my mouth around them. Being in the kitchen with Oma had become as natural to me as breathing or putting one foot in front of the other.

That day, with all our Christmas baking to do, we moved at an easy pace. No rushing, not hurrying, just enjoying our time. Usually we waited until the week before Christmas, but that year we wanted to get it done early so we could send some to Mike.

“I have a little bird that comes to visit me in the afternoons on the tree outside the window,” Oma said. “Nuthatch is what it’s called.”

“They’re cute little fellows, aren’t they?” I said.

“Oh, so cute.” She twisted off the top of the jar of cinnamon. “He climbs up and down the tree and cranes his neck to see if I have a treat for him in the feeder. Oh, I love to see him come.”

I worked a rolling pin over a lump of dough to be cut into molasses cookies, sprinkling a pinch of flour over it every few rolls to keep it from sticking.

“I haven’t told you much of Pieter, have I?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

Oma didn’t speak of her family very often. And she especially didn’t bring up Oom Pieter, her younger brother. Mom had told me that it was just too hard for Oma. There was simply too much grief in the stories. When we looked through the old photo albums she’d brought from the Netherlands, she’d point to the people and tell me their names and little else.

Mostly, what I knew of Uncle Pieter was that he was tall with a strong jawline. He was less than a year younger than Oma and two years older than their younger sister. That was all that Oma offered usually.

But the way that she drew in a good breath and nodded, I knew that she was working up to talk about him. I didn’t push but instead waited for her to begin.

“When your opa and I came to America, Pieter was still in university in Amsterdam, studying to be a teacher. He’d wanted to be a teacher since we were small.” She smiled. “Always had to teach someone something, even if it was just the lambs my father raised.”

I left my dough, sufficiently flattened on the counter, and watched her as she told her story. The lines on the outside corners of her eyes deepened, and I knew she was glad to remember her brother.

“And he did just that,” she went on. “He taught in the little schoolhouse in our village. Even after the Germans came, he continued to teach.”

“You mean the Nazis?” I asked.

“Ja. From his letters, he tried to keep on like normal for the sake of the children. I imagine they were frightened. It was a terrifying time. Many of their fathers were taken away to work for the Germans. Several of their classmates were removed to the camps. These were the Jewish children, of course. The children and their families.” She rested her hands on the edge of the counter. “Pieter joined the resistance. My mother wrote about this to me years ago and I seem to have forgotten all he did to resist the Germans. But he was caught. Arrested. Mama seemed to believe it was one of their neighbors who informed against him.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It was. It was there, in the prison, that he was killed.” She released a sigh. “That winter was the worst I’ve had. I could do nothing for them. Here I was, the world between them and me, and I could do nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a dark winter and gray. Your mother was about your age then, I believe, just married to your father. I would stand here in this kitchen.” She pointed her finger at the small window in front of her. “And I would look out into the gloomy days, praying. Mostly I asked God where he had gone. ‘Where are you?’ I’d call to him. Many days, he gave no answer.”

I hardly dared to breathe, her voice had grown so soft, and I worried that I might miss a word. Leaning forward, I waited for her to go on.

“In those days I didn’t keep a feeder for the birds,” she said. “Your opa thought it a waste, paying money for seeds that a bird could forage in the woods for free. I suppose he had a good argument. But the birds didn’t visit as often then because I offered them nothing.”

She glanced my way and smiled.

“One day, as I prayed and cried, a cardinal came to rest in the branches of my tree there.” She nodded at the maple in her backyard. “His red stood out against the gray, so vivid. Behind him, through the clouds shone a sliver of sunshine. Just for a moment, it bled through.”

Back to mixing, she smiled again.

“Achter de wolken schijnt de zon,” she said. “Behind the clouds the sun is shining. If only we have eyes to see it.”

She used her fingers to separate clumps of dough, rolling them into balls between the palms of her hands.

Dear Frank,

This is your official invitation to join us for Christmas. Believe it or not, it was Mom who reminded me to invite you. She even beat Joel to the punch. So, will you come? If you wanted, you could even show up on the Friday before and spend the whole weekend. It would be nice to have you here.

Please say yes.

Annie

Dear Annie,

I’ll see you on Friday. I’ll bring dessert.

Frank