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Men have returned but are still gone. Checked out, eyes vacant, but technically present. Shell shock, they call it. Wild nerves and a thousand-yard stare.
She doesn’t need to ask whom they saw there, who they know was inside, because when a man lifts another brick, she sees it—small and dusty, the blue corner of the quilt.
She sinks against the wall. War has taken male pride and provided men with the same amount of tears as women, and in this moment there seems to be a chorus of male voices, crying, imploring.
For a second he studies her, surprised, as if unused to seeing rage in a woman.
“Did you invade this country? Did you make it so an old man was cold when he slept at night? So he needed a quilt in the first place? The Germans took my son. Your husband. They took years of our lives we will never get back, the children you never had. We shouldn’t be thankful we’ve survived; we should be angry we’ve not lived. And now this happens and you blame yourself?”
It’s all right to be angry. You should be.
What this man has is a letter, written by Emiel.
“A letter from an enemy soldier into occupied territory—you’re lucky it made it at all.
We shouldn’t be thankful we’ve survived; we should be angry we’ve not lived.
Do your part or don’t. It makes no difference to me. I’ve done what was asked. Like I said, in war, actions do not define the man.” A pause. “Or the woman.”
The way he runs his finger down their charred spines is like tracing the pain on someone he loves.
“The limp Emma’s got,” Martine continues. “I think it’s something to do with not getting the food she needs. Food that I’m supposed to get her.”
He seems like a good man, your husband. And you seem so yourself, so I hope you remember that good men don’t always do good things. It helps, to see that’s the usual.”
“You’re making me sound selfish.” “Any of us who’ve not been on the front lines should feel selfish. You’ve got your life all to yourself. It’s more than the lads can say.”
“Because I don’t talk about it. If I tell someone, they pass it off as me being damaged from the accident and discredit the voices. People love to write off what they can’t explain.
“No. What you’ve done wrong is still a wrong, and an opportunity missed is still an opportunity missed, but you understand it was necessary.
If you don’t expect to see something, you won’t. And if you expect to see it, it’s what you find. In our hearts, Evelien, we want to be soothed.
Evelien, It is presumptuous for me to hope you might care, but I want to let you know that I am alive and in Germany and trying to make things right. I think of you and wish you only the best. Again, I am sorry. Joseph
P.S. Maybe one day we should meet again, but differently.
“You assumed Petrus was the one who put this into motion?” “I did, but it couldn’t have been.” “Agreed. It could not have been.” Mrs. Vanheule smiles. Anna Vanheule. Patriotic and connected and determined and surprising.
A marvelous ability, isn’t it? To escape into one’s mind.
“I want it here, where I can be next to it. It can’t be worth much at all, but he gave it to me on our wedding night. Our first piece of art, on our first night, in our first home.”
You might be wondering why I’m writing to you. Years ago, we were in Paris and went into a gallery where she saw a painting she loved, and she hasn’t stopped drawing since.
