MINA, A LETTER

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Summer 1968

Dear Marietje,

It will surprise you to get a letter from me after years of silence. I’ll get straight to the point and tell you at once that I’ve been very upset by events that I can scarcely comprehend. And because I don’t know anyone here whom I can take sufficiently into my confidence to tell them everything that is churning me up so at the moment, I have decided to put down my experiences on paper and send them to you. After all, in Zundert you were my best friend and back then we shared lots of secrets, big and small. By which I’d like to make clear at the outset that I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else about what I am telling you in confidence. I should be terribly ashamed if our other friends and acquaintances in Zundert knew what has happened to me.

It’s a shame that you’ve never seen or met my husband, Tony. You might have been able to give me better advice if you had known him. You know that I met him not long after I left Holland and was staying with my cousin Floortje in Delhi. That was in 1953. I’d been in Canada for about a year. I didn’t write to you about it at the time — I didn’t want to write to you, because it was a rotten period for me.

I can’t complain about my cousin and her husband. They did their best for me. I remain grateful to them for their loving support. Where else could I have gone? But they were hard at work on their farm from morning till night. They had got themselves deeply in debt to buy the business. They were working their fingers to the bone to make the repayments. I kept the house tidy, did the washing, provided meals, and lent a hand where possible in looking after the animals. In itself I liked doing that kind of work, but I couldn’t cope with the loneliness. Apart from breakfast and the evening meal I didn’t see a soul all day. Based on Zundert, you can’t imagine how remote a farm in Canada can be. Not a day went by, in a manner of speaking, without me crying with loneliness.

Only on Sundays did Floortje, her husband, and I drive into the centre of Delhi in the pickup. Don’t imagine too grand a picture of the centre of a Canadian municipality. A church and a street with a few dozen log cabins — that’s it. The ground floor of one of those cabins is usually a store or an eatery, and the living quarters are on the upper floor.

We went to Mass in Delhi on Sunday. Afterwards we drank a cup of tea and ate a piece of cake at one of the eateries. Only there in Delhi did we meet other people. Can you understand that on Monday morning I would begin to count down the hours until the next Sunday?

Because our place was so remote and I spoke only Dutch with my cousin and her husband, I didn’t have a chance to learn English. So I could scarcely talk to the Canadians in Delhi. But there is also a large group of Flemish Belgians living in Delhi, and I could converse with them. Tony was one of those Belgians.

I met Tony at the butcher’s, the Belgian butcher in Delhi. Van den Bussche’s Fine Meats it was called. They sold not only Flemish black pudding and old-fashioned blood sausage but also Liège pear syrup and a special kind of light brown sugar that is obviously indispensable for Belgians abroad. Last year I saw that Van den Bussche’s still exists and is flourishing, and that light brown sugar is still on sale there.

I had received my items from Van den Bussche and was getting confused by the Canadian money. Tony was standing behind me, and he said, “Wait, love, I’ll help you.” I immediately fell in love. I was in love with his soft, warm man’s voice. With his helpfulness. With the strength he radiated. I knew immediately that an end was coming to my miserable loneliness. You can safely say that the expression “love at first sight” applied to me.

Tony wasn’t bad to look at. He wasn’t very tall but he was strongly built. In addition he was tanned from working outside, and it made his light eyes look even lighter. His whole appearance radiated calm certainty. Tony helped me count my money at the butcher’s and then carried my packages and bags to the car. Even before we reached the car we had made a date. Tony was to pick me up the next Wednesday evening to take me for a drive in his car.

Floortje was apprehensive. She didn’t approve of my going out with someone we didn’t know. She thought we should first find out his reputation. She thought we should know what he did for a living, how old he was, where he lived, and where he came from. But her husband thought that was all nonsense. He maintained that at twenty-four I was old enough to decide for myself. He wondered jokingly whether Floortje had checked his reputation, his wallet, and his background before she first went out with him. It is more than regrettable that I didn’t share Floortje’s concern at the time.

Things went quickly. Tony came to collect me for a drive in his car. Tony came to take me to the movies. Tony came to pick me up to attend festive evenings and charity fairs at the Belgian Hall in Delhi. Tony came to pick me up to go to cycle races and horse races. Everything revolved around Tony.

I thought it was wonderful to have someone I could talk to. Tony himself was quite taciturn, but he could really listen. That was my impression at least. Of course, that is the reason I agreed to things that I would have done better to wait for, things that were actually sinful. Because that sealed our relationship.

On the one hand I had the feeling that a long period of lonely searching was coming to an end. On the other hand there was a gnawing doubt because it had all happened so fast. But generally I sang while I worked.

After going out for six months, we married. We married because I insisted. Floortje and her husband had decided to sell the farm. The repayments on the loan were too high, the work was too heavy, and the proceeds of agriculture were too erratic. In addition, Floortje’s husband had received a tempting offer to work as a salesman for an agricultural machinery company, and the decision was quickly made. I felt that, as an unmarried young woman, I couldn’t stay behind in Delhi. Apart from that, I still couldn’t speak English.

To my astonishment Tony suggested that I could just move in with him, without us having to get married. According to him, the norms and customs were different in Canada than in Europe. You’ll understand that I couldn’t agree to that. Anyway, I already felt guilty and actually rather unhappy because I had infringed a lot of holy injunctions. Living together without marrying would conflict with my upbringing, and it would conflict absolutely with all the rules of the Church. Because I wouldn’t give way on that point, Tony finally, reluctantly changed his tune.

He stipulated his own conditions in turn. He didn’t want a wedding reception. After all, we had little family in Canada, and he thought that broaching a barrel for the Belgian lushes was “ridiculously expensive.” He’d rather spend his money on a honeymoon. And if we were going on a honeymoon, then it would be better if we got married during the journey, in a spot that was ours alone. I had no objection — on the contrary, I thought it was romantic.

So we were married in Niagara Falls on June 11, 1953. It is a wonderful spot on the border between Canada and the United States of America. Quite a few couples choose the fairytale surroundings of the waterfall to seal their marriage. I was a happy bride.

At that time Tony drove tractors and trucks for the tobacco growers in the Delhi area. He didn’t have a permanent job with this or that company but he was seldom without work. I myself did sewing and mending for a number of Belgian women in Delhi. I didn’t earn a full wage but it brought in quite a bit of money.

We were able to live in a cottage belonging to one of his employers. We didn’t have to pay rent; the owner was glad to have the building inhabited so that it wouldn’t deteriorate further. But unfortunately Tony did let it deteriorate. Again there was a bone of contention between us. Tony didn’t want to spend anything on someone else’s property — he viewed the cottage as temporary accommodation. On the other hand he didn’t begrudge a cent or two to build a pigeon loft in the yard. The rain came into our house and there were drafts through the nooks and crannies, but Tony’s pigeons were nice and warm on their perches.

Tony and his pigeons — that’s a separate chapter. He told me repeatedly that pigeons had fascinated him since childhood. It never ceased to astonish him how the birds always find their way infallibly back to their nests. I have to say that he knew quite a bit about pigeons. He needed only to feel the crop, wings, and breast and examine the beak and the eye to be able to assess the health and potential of a pigeon. Along with that he was extremely caring with his own pigeons.

Partly through Tony’s pigeon hobby, I again found myself isolated and lonely. Excursions could no longer be made, as there was always something to do in the pigeon loft. I never learned to drive, and in Canada that is a real handicap, as you can’t get anywhere without a car. I experience that every day.

I was delighted when I soon fell pregnant. I dreamt of a big family. I saw us sitting around a big table with five or six children amid a sociable hubbub. I fantasized about presents from Santa Claus, Christmas parties, and birthday celebrations. In my mind I heard cheerful children’s voices. But it turned out differently.

To start with, when I was pregnant with our Elly, I was sick almost every day, and the birth itself was a painful disaster. Apart from that, I got the idea that Tony wasn’t happy about the arrival of a child. Worse still, it seemed that the warm intimacy of our engagement had gone for good.

At about that time Tony also began his annual trips to Belgium. His explanation was that he was going there to buy pigeons’ eggs. He would buy eggs from prize-winning pigeons and then sell them on in Delhi at a considerable profit. But it wasn’t worth his while. Often his travel costs were greater than the proceeds from the egg trade. Only now do I know that the story of the pigeons’ eggs was just a cover.

The first time he went to Belgium, Elly was still so small that it was impossible to travel with her. When he went the following year, I was pregnant again and there was no question of my going too. Still, I would have liked to go, since I was longing for you — all of you — and for all the spots in Zundert for which I have such happy memories.

My second pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. And the third and fourth times the same fate awaited me. Then my doctor said that for the sake of my health it would be better to have no more children. He suggested an operation that would sterilize me. I hesitated for a long time. Tony had no doubts. He said he thought it was the best solution, since a man can’t suppress his urges. As a result, our estrangement grew even worse.

I discussed the question of the medical procedure with the priest. He reassured me by saying that the modern Church would accept the doctor’s advice. So I went ahead and followed my doctor’s advice and gave up my dream of a big family.

Meanwhile Elly was growing up. It’s not easy to put down on paper, but Elly was never an easy child. And she still isn’t. She is fourteen now, and her stubbornness and pig-headed silences sometimes leave me helpless. She doesn’t give two hoots about norms and rules and prefers to wear boys’ clothes. The few dresses she is prepared to wear I can only call gypsy clothes. Her unruly behaviour hasn’t improved now that her father has deserted us.

Because that is in fact the drama that has befallen me: my husband has upped and left the country without a word, leaving me all alone with my child. The last few months before his departure were hell, but the state I’m in now makes me completely helpless.

In a short space of time I discovered all sorts of terrible things. I had never concerned myself with our family finances. I can say with a clear conscience that I’ve always been a thrifty housewife. Besides wanting to drive a big car, like so many people here, I never saw Tony go in for lavish expenditures either. We bought the house where we now live in 1960. Obviously we had to take out a mortgage, but that was the only debt we ever had — so I thought. I was convinced that we had no financial problems at all. More than that, I was convinced that we had put aside a nice amount of savings over the years. Tony always implied that. On the odd occasion when I asked about it, he mentioned amounts that reassured me.

At a certain moment we found ourselves in an unedifying dispute with neighbours. You won’t believe it, but in a burst of anger he started shooting at his own pigeons with a rifle and in so doing shot the neighbour’s roof full of holes. After a shameful to-do with lawyers we were obliged to pay hefty compensation. It suddenly emerged that we didn’t have a penny in the bank. Not a cent! And Tony couldn’t think up any other explanation than that he had helped a friend out of trouble. At first that friend was supposed to live in Delhi, then it was Toronto, and finally the man was hanging about in Belgium. To cut a long story short, until recently I never knew where our money went, and now that Tony is gone I have to pay a considerable sum each month for the expensive roof that his lordship damaged.

But there weren’t just money problems and neighbour disputes. It suddenly emerged that Tony had not been to church in all those years. Instead, he was visiting bars in Delhi every Sunday. Suddenly he no longer had to go urgently to Belgium just once or twice a year but wanted to go more often. He did hardly any jobs in the garden or the house and he refused to take me to the mall, even though things there are much cheaper than in the local stores. You’ll understand that we had more and more fights. When we argued, he was always able to twist things as if everything that had gone wrong was all my fault. On top of that, Elly always took his side. That’s very painful for a mother too.

Tony left as if he were going shopping. He whistled as he closed the door. Twisting his keys around his index finger, he got into his car and he was gone. Only hours later did I discover that he had secretly packed his bags, when I found the envelope he had left on my pillow.

In the envelope was a note. It was a page he had torn out of Elly’s exercise book. I’ve gone to Belgium and I won’t be coming back. The house and the Chevrolet are yours. You can pick up the Chevrolet from the parking lot at Toronto airport. That was the message he left. There was no signature or name underneath. There was no address at the top. There was, though, a spare car key and just over two thousand dollars in the envelope.

At first I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it and I didn’t want to believe it. But gradually I had to face reality. And that reality is more horrible than I first thought possible. Not only did my husband desert me, it turns out he had another wife for years. Probably he knew that woman in Belgium before he knew me. Instead of going to buy pigeons’ eggs, he was visiting the woman he was carrying on with there. How evil can a person be?

Acquaintances I’ve known for years come and tell me in dribs and drabs that they always knew or suspected what was going on. Can you imagine how humiliating that is? Can you imagine how guilty I feel because I was blind to his lies?

Only now do I understand why he never wanted me to go to Belgium with him. Only now do I understand why in recent years he never allowed me to go to Delhi with him. Only now do I hear that in that rotten bar in the cellar of the Belgian Hall in Delhi there were stories circulating that were not meant for my ears. Only now do I understand why years ago he wanted at all costs to move from Delhi to St. Thomas, where there are few Belgians.

Because I received a bill for it, I discovered that just around the corner his lordship had a postal box to which he had mail from Belgium sent. I discovered that the mortgage debt on our house is much higher than I had ever imagined. I discovered that the car he so generously left me still has to be paid off in large part. I tumble from one discovery to another. I am so miserable I have a stomach ache. I have no appetite and I can’t sleep.

I have to go out to work to make ends meet. I clean for other people while my own house is dirty and messy. On top of that, Elly blames me for the fact that her father left. I ask myself whether I should tell her the whole truth. I ask myself whether I should tell her everything I know. I haven’t told her that he has a wife in Belgium. The fact that he stole from us I have told her only in part. I think it’s better if I bear what I can myself. I think it’s better if I spare her the harsh truth. It’s just a shame that she can’t be grateful to me for that. But I hope that will change in time.

Dear Marietje, I am signing this letter with my own name. Here in Canada I am obliged by law to continue to use the name of my lawfully wedded husband, despite the ignominy he has caused me. I will have to learn to live with that too.

It’s been a relief for me to write this letter. I try to go on believing in a brighter future. I look forward to getting a reply from you, and to receiving news of Zundert.

Yours affectionately,
Mina
Wilhelmina Strijbos