Chapter 5
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
1897
I’m walking home after visiting Mrs. Kok as I promised I would do, and I decide to take a shortcut through Market Square, where the trees will offer shade on this sunny summer afternoon. I still call the square by its original name, Market Square, even though they renamed it Centennial Park twenty-one years ago to honor the hundredth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. When Dominie Van Raalte donated this patch of land to the town, he thought it would be used the way market squares back home in the Netherlands were. Instead, our townspeople prefer to shop the American way, from storefronts lined up in rows along the main street. Market Square is just a village park now.
As I emerge from the park and onto the street again, a carriage slows to a halt beside me. “Hallo, Moeder,” the driver calls.
“Jakob! What brings you into town on such a fine summer day?”
“I’m on my way to see you,” he says as he steps down. He rests his hand on my shoulder and bends to kiss my cheek. “I brought you the notebook I promised. Are you heading home? I’ll give you a ride.” He helps me climb onto the carriage seat and hands me the new notebook. I feel a shiver of excitement as I rifle through all the blank pages waiting to be filled.
“Thank you, dear. This is just what I need. I’ve been visiting with Mrs. Kok—remember her? One of the other old-timers? The committee wants her to tell her story for the anniversary book, too, but she’s going to write hers in Dutch. Someone else will have to translate it.”
“You’ve decided to do it, then? I’m glad.”
“Well, yes . . . and I’ve been stirring up a lot of old memories in the process.” We halt in front of my house a few minutes later. “Do you have time to come in for some coffee?” I ask. “It’s cooler inside, I think.” Jakob always looks so hot in his stiff clerical collar and dark suit. His round, bearded face is flushed and damp with perspiration.
“Not today, Moeder, I’m sorry. I have two more parishioners to visit this afternoon, and they’ll fill me to bursting with coffee before I’m through. Next time, I promise.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if I need to be sick or dying before Jakob would have time in his busy life to sit and talk with me—but then I remember Derk’s story about the girlfriend he’d loved, and I bite my tongue. Jakob’s work for the Lord must come first, of course. “Well, thank you for the notebook, dear.”
“Here are some pencils, too,” he says, digging in his coat pocket. “You did say that you preferred to use a pencil, didn’t you?”
“Ya. These will be perfect.” Jakob helps me down, then climbs onto the seat again. He waves good-bye as he drives away.
I’ve done enough visiting around town for today. After splashing some water on my sweaty face, I’m ready to sit down and return to the past. The clean, lined notebook pages look inviting. I sharpen one of the new pencils and begin.
The Netherlands
50 years earlier
The year before we moved from Leiden to Arnhem, the potato blight struck crops throughout the Netherlands. All over Europe, too, for that matter. The leaves and vines withered and died in a mushy black mess before any potatoes had a chance to form underground. The farmers and poor people—and there were plenty of both in our congregation—went hungry that winter. In the spring, shortly after we arrived in Arnhem, farmers planted their potato crops again. We were all filled with hope and faith in God’s goodness that year: the farmers trusting that their crops would prosper, and our family trusting that Papa’s new print shop would succeed.
We had replaced all the window glass in our new shop after that terrible night. A carpenter from our congregation fashioned wooden shutters that Papa and Maarten could close at night, including a huge pair to protect the shop’s front window. The shutters may have kept us safe from bricks and stones, but they made the inside of our apartment as dark as a cave.
“At least our tormentors will leave us alone now,” Papa said at breakfast one morning. He spoke too soon. Mother and I were about to leave for the market square when we heard voices and heavy footsteps inside the shop. I peered through the door from the kitchen, then quickly slammed it shut again.
“Mama! Soldiers! The shop is filled with soldiers! Are they going to arrest Papa?”
My mother was a tiny woman, yet her faith in God made her fearless. “Stay here,” she ordered before marching through the kitchen door in her apron to see for herself. Too frightened to remain alone, I followed at a safe distance. “What is going on?” she demanded to know of the men. “This is a print shop. Are you here on printing business?”
Father hurried to her side and draped his arm around her shoulder. I wasn’t sure if he was protecting her or the soldiers.
“The captain has just informed me that four of his men will be quartered in our apartment from now on,” Papa told her. “We will be required to provide their room and board.”
“But we can’t afford such an expense. Our new business isn’t established yet.” Mama broke free and took a step toward the captain. “And we have an unmarried daughter in our household. It wouldn’t be proper for her to share space with strangers—soldiers, no less!”
The captain was unmoved. In fact, the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “If you have room enough to hold religious meetings, then you have room enough to house my men. My decision is final.”
Later we learned that we weren’t the only members of our congregation who were forced to billet soldiers. Dominie Van Raalte himself wasn’t spared, and his wife had five small children to care for. We were outraged. And helpless. The four soldiers, all young men in their twenties, moved in with us that very afternoon, forcing Mother and me to cook for them and clean up after them. They decided that the attic where Maarten slept wasn’t good enough for them, so they confiscated my bedroom, leaving me no choice but to sleep on a pallet in my parents’ room.
I can’t begin to describe the bitterness I felt. I longed to spit in the soldiers’ food before serving it to them. We only wanted to worship God with all our hearts, free from the stale, lifeless routines of the established church. We wanted to live as servants of Christ, not servants of a state-controlled church system that kept God at a cold, remote distance and watered down all His commandments. I didn’t understand why we were being forced to suffer for that freedom.
On Sunday, the dominie reminded us in his sermon of how Christ had suffered at the hands of Roman soldiers. Yet as they had cruelly nailed Him to the cross, Jesus had said, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” If Jesus could forgive His tormentors, then we must also forgive ours. Dominie finished his sermon by reminding us of these words from the book of Hebrews: “‘Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”
I doubted that the coarse young men living with us were angels. Yet the sermon had touched my parents’ hearts, and they made up their minds to serve these intruders the way Jesus would have—humbly and joyfully. Mama shared our meager meals with them without complaint, giving them the best portions even if we went hungry ourselves. She sang psalms and hymns as she cooked and washed dishes, especially if the men were in the house with us. She not only swept up after them, she even cleaned the mud from their filthy boots every night. Papa invited them to join us in our tiny sitting room in the evenings, although the men preferred to go out on the town, instead. “These soldiers don’t deserve such kind treatment,” I argued after they had eaten all our bread one morning, then left our breakfast table without a word of thanks.
“That may be true, Geesje,” Mama replied. “But neither do we deserve the kind treatment God gives us. He offers us grace, and we must do the same for others, even those who we think are undeserving.”
I had a lot of time to think that morning as I hung the soldiers’ bedding from the windows to let their blankets air in the morning breeze. I decided I would follow Mama’s example and work cheerfully from now on, responding to the men’s ignorant grunts and demands with a smile and a polite reply. But I would have to pray for the Holy Spirit’s help in doing so. I couldn’t walk the extra mile or turn the other cheek as Christ commanded me to do without His help.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to notice a change in the men as the days passed, especially in the fair-haired soldier, the tallest of the three, with the lean build and muscled arms of a farmworker. He was the most talkative of the three, the most outgoing, and he also had the heartiest appetite. “Thank you, miss,” he said one morning after I’d given him the last of our butter for his bread.
I hid my shock and said, “You’re welcome.” Then I added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Hendrik, miss. And this is Gerrit, Pieter, and Kees.” He gestured to the three others. They didn’t speak. Since they had been billeted with us to punish us, I suppose they thought it their duty to treat us rudely.
“My name is Geesje.” I smiled at Hendrik, and when he smiled in return my face suddenly felt as warm as if I had opened the oven door. His deep-set gray eyes resembled liquid metal, the color of De Rijn River on a cloudy day in Leiden.
“I know, miss,” he replied. “I have heard your family calling you that.”
Mama and I made a point of addressing the soldiers by name after that. And following Hendrik’s example, the others began removing their boots at the door instead of tromping dirt inside. They made sure there was enough food to pass around before heaping their own plates. They even bowed their heads when Papa prayed before meals, although Hendrik was the only one who remained at the table afterward to listen as Papa read aloud from the Bible.
The change in Hendrik so intrigued me that I started observing him from a distance. Of course the only time I could stare openly at him was when everyone bowed their heads to pray for our meals. One evening when I peeked from behind my folded hands, Hendrik was staring back at me. I could feel my heart trying to escape from my rib cage. Neither of us looked away until Papa said, “Amen.” Mama asked me to pass the bread, and my thoughts were so scrambled I passed the butter instead. I had never reacted this way before but I recognized the symptoms—this was the addle-headed way Maarten always behaved around me.
The following evening Mama had an errand to run after supper, bringing a pot of soup to a new mother in our congregation. I was washing the dishes by myself in the kitchen when I glanced over my shoulder and saw Hendrik standing in the doorway. The room seemed to grow very warm. His nearness made me suddenly aware of my soiled apron and my messy hair, falling loose from my braids after a long day of housework.
“May I ask you something?” he said. I nodded, my throat so tight I wasn’t sure I could make a sound. “Why have you been so kind to us,” he asked, “when we are such an inconvenience to you?”
I swallowed to loosen the lump in my throat. “Because . . . because we’re Christians . . . and it’s what Jesus would do.”
When Hendrik didn’t reply I grew nervous. His face didn’t reveal what he was thinking. I had never spoken to a stranger about my faith before, and I worried that he might laugh at me or mock my family. I knew I shouldn’t care what he thought of me, this soldier who had been forced upon us. And yet I did. I held my breath as I waited for his reaction.
“I have never met people like you and your family before,” he finally said. “People who live the way the Bible tells us to live.” He gazed directly at me, his expression open and frank. It unnerved me. Maarten was always too shy to look directly at me, staring at his feet or the table or the wall beyond my head, instead.
I leaned against the work counter, the dishes forgotten. “Are you a Christian, too? Do you know the Bible?”
He ran his fingers through his fair hair, which was darker at the roots, making it stick up in places like a small boy’s. “My parents baptized me in the village church. We attended services there when I was growing up. We learned about the birth of Jesus and how He died on a cross, but knowing those things didn’t seem to make a difference in anyone’s life.”
“That’s why we left the State Church and started a separate one,” I said. “We think Christians should do more than just agree with what the Bible says. We should obey it and do things like loving our enemies.”
Hendrik still stood in the doorway, and I was afraid he would leave now that I had answered his question. I didn’t want him to. “May I ask you a question?” I said. I waited for him to nod. “Why did you become a soldier?”
He leaned against the doorframe, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “My parents died in the cholera epidemic nine years ago.” His gaze never left my face. “I was eleven. I lived with my aunt and uncle for a while, but they had too many children of their own and couldn’t afford to keep feeding me. I couldn’t find regular farmwork after the potato blight, so joining the army seemed like my only choice.”
“Do you regret your decision?”
“No. . . .” He hesitated before saying, “It brought me here.”
I felt a growing excitement that I couldn’t explain. I wanted Hendrik to stay here in the kitchen and keep talking with me, so I asked him another question. “Where did you grow up?”
“In a little farming village in the province of Groningen. You’ve probably never heard of it. May I?” he asked, gesturing to a kitchen chair. “I don’t want to keep you from your work. . . .”
“Ya, please. Sit down.”
“My family was very poor,” he continued. “I loved them very much, but I don’t recall us ever being as happy as your family seems to be.”
I realized how lonely Hendrik must be, living far from home, his parents gone, and I was glad I had been kind to him. “We are happy,” I said. “And the church is like a family to us. We don’t have much, but we help each other out.”
“I’ve noticed that. You Separatists aren’t at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I smiled, and when Hendrik smiled back, I felt like I was floating above the floor.
“We were told that the Separatists were crude, ignorant people. And that you had radical beliefs. I imagined I would see all kinds of strange rites and rituals.”
I laughed out loud and sat down at the table across from him. We lost all track of time as we talked about our lives and our families, our hopes and our dreams. I told him about growing up on De Rijn in Leiden and how much I had enjoyed the excitement of city life. He told me how he used to play in the fields and along the dikes with his three brothers as a boy. They had died in the cholera epidemic, too, along with his parents and grandparents. “I have only one sister left,” he said. “She still lives in our village in Groningen.”
“Are you able to travel there to visit her?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since she married three years ago.”
“Will you stay in the army all your life?”
Hendrik shook his head. “I don’t want to. I would love to have a patch of land of my own to farm someday. I want to work with my hands and have a family—like yours.” He paused, then asked, “What about your future, Geesje? What do you wish for?”
I realized that I didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know . . . I haven’t thought much about it. I imagine I’ll have a husband and children one day. But for now, God hasn’t told me what His future plans for me are.”
“Does God always speak to you in such a . . . a direct way?”
“Not with a voice I can hear,” I said, laughing. “But I believe that if we pray and ask for guidance, He’ll help us decide what to do.”
We were still sitting at the table talking, the dishes unfinished, when Mama returned from her errand. I had learned a lot about Hendrik, and he fascinated me. After that first night, he often lingered in the kitchen after supper to talk with Mama and me instead of going out on the town with his three friends. I looked forward to those evenings more and more, and I often caught Hendrik watching me while I worked. Was I imagining it, or did he seem to want to be near me as much as I wanted to be near him? I stole glances at him whenever I could and decided he was the handsomest man I’d ever met. Everything about him was attractive, from his tall, lean frame, his tousled blond hair and warm gray eyes, to his easy smile and friendly personality. Each time we talked, he never failed to make me laugh.
I didn’t know what I was feeling, at first—this breathless giddiness whenever I was near him and the hollow emptiness whenever he was gone. I didn’t know why I felt a surge of happiness whenever I heard him and the others returning home, their feet tromping up the wooden steps, their deep voices laughing in the distance. Then one day as Papa sat at the kitchen table, weary after a long day in the print shop, Mama came up behind him and began kneading the tension from his shoulders. He sighed and reached back to cover her hand. I had witnessed these simple gestures dozens of times, but that day they spoke to me of how much my parents loved each other. I longed to massage the ache from Hendrik’s shoulders at the end of the day and feel his tender touch in return. Was I falling in love with him?
Throughout the next few months I tried to deny my growing feelings for him. I didn’t understand them. And I knew for certain that my family would never allow me to marry a man who didn’t share our faith. Maarten also took a liking to Hendrik and they became good friends. Hendrik would often sit and talk with Maarten while he tidied the print shop at the end of the workday. One evening, Maarten stopped me on my way upstairs, his voice hushed with excitement.
“Geesje, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to tell you.”
“Ya . . . what is it?” Maarten had made no move to court me even though Papa had given him permission, yet I feared he was about to declare his love or offer a marriage proposal. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt Maarten, but how could I accept his advances? As it turned out, that wasn’t at all what he wanted to discuss.
“I have such wonderful news, Geesje. You know how I’ve been talking with Hendrik, the tall soldier with the sandy hair? He has been asking many, many questions these past weeks, and tonight he said he wants to become a believer!”
Hope and joy bubbled up inside me. “Really? That’s wonderful news!” My excitement wasn’t for the same reason as Maarten’s. I wouldn’t have to deny my feelings for Hendrik if he became one of us. It seemed like a miracle to me.
“Ya, it’s really true,” Maarten continued. “Just think! The king put Hendrik here in our home to punish us, but God brought good from it. Will you pray for him, Geesje? And pray that I’ll know the right words to say to him?”
“Ya, of course I’ll pray.” Poor Maarten couldn’t know that his kindness to Hendrik might mean sacrificing his hopes of marrying me.
I lay on my pallet that night, wide awake with excitement, listening to the low rumble of the soldiers’ voices through the thin wall, punctuated by occasional laughter. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Hendrik’s voice, the deepest of the four, sent shivers through me. Love your enemies, Jesus taught. And I had obeyed. Now His command had transformed into something I never imagined or intended. For the first time in my life, I was in love.