Waves of Mercy Page 4
Something stirs inside me. I want to ask if he will be a minister like the one in my parents’ church or like Reverend Torrey in the church that William forbade me to attend. I have no idea how to frame such a question, so instead I ask, “Have you always wanted to be a minister?”
Derk grins. “No, when I was a boy I wanted to be the captain of a sailing ship and travel around the world. That’s why I know so much about all the shipwrecks on Lake Michigan.” He smiles so easily. Once again I think of William, who gives away smiles as if they are rare coins that must be doled out carefully. “I gave up the idea of sailing the world when God called me to the ministry a few years ago,” Derk finishes. What an odd thing to say—that God called him. I want to ask him what he means, but he stands up. “I need to get back to work. It was very nice meeting you, Miss Nicholson. I hope we can talk again sometime.”
“Good day,” I say with a polite nod, but I doubt we’ll speak again. I can’t imagine that the Hotel Ottawa would encourage conversations between staff members and guests. I watch Derk lope across the grass, wondering how he’d dared to approach a woman of my social standing in the first place without a proper introduction. Then I realize how casually I’m dressed. He can’t tell that I’m from a wealthy Chicago family. Besides, he had mistaken me for Elizabeth—unless that was just a ruse. Mother warned me about the ways of unscrupulous men. But why didn’t she warn me that a respectable man like William, a man who was above reproach, could hold my heart in his well-manicured hands and crush it in an instant?
The bench feels cold and hard beneath me. I stand and walk back to the hotel. Derk is picking up downed tree limbs and stacking them in a pile. He gives a little wave when he sees me. “God called me to the ministry,” he’d said. But how had he known that was his purpose? I think about what Reverend Torrey said in one of his sermons: “God has a plan and a purpose for your life.” Those words had intrigued me—and they had made William furious. He said that my purpose was to be his wife, the mother of our children, to assist him with his social duties as the son of one of Chicago’s foremost families. He said that wanting more than that was ridiculous and selfish and insulting to both of our families. I think William feared that I was turning into a suffragette, when all I really wanted was to fill the emptiness inside. Something important seemed to be missing in my life, and I had an overwhelming urge to find what I had lost.
I rarely think about being adopted, yet after my conversation with Derk, I wonder if perhaps I was born for a different purpose. What if God’s true plan for me has been thwarted by my adoption? Could that be why I feel so empty and restless? Or perhaps it was God’s purpose that I be adopted, and I am called to become William’s wife.
I don’t know. I’m so confused!
I reach my hotel room and knock on Mother’s adjoining door to see if she is ready for breakfast. “I was wondering where you were,” she says when she sees me. I can tell by her cursory glance that she disapproves of my windblown hair. Even in casual clothing my mother is dressed fashionably.
“Shall I go down and choose a table?” I ask.
“Yes. I’ll be there in a moment. But please comb your hair first.”
I wait until Mother and I are both seated and our breakfast arrives before saying casually, “An odd thing happened on my walk this morning. One of the hotel workers mistook me for a woman named Elizabeth. He said she was Dutch, and that I looked Dutch, too. Do you know what nationality I really am?”
For the space of a heartbeat, Mother’s expression can only be described as frightened. She is rarely flustered—no matter how awkward the social situation—and is always ready with an appropriate reply. But for a few interminable seconds, she is speechless. When she recovers she looks away and says, “I have no idea. . . . Do you see our waiter, Anna? I would love some more tea. How about you?”
“No, thank you. But I wondered—”
“What shall we do today? They say the beach is lovely. Is that where you went for your walk?” Her attempts to change the subject annoy me and pique my curiosity even more.
“So, is it possible I might be Dutch?” I ask.
Mother is too well-mannered to sigh, but I can tell she wants to. “The adoption was handled privately, through our lawyer. We have no way of knowing the details.”
“Is there a way to find out?”
“I don’t think so. . . . Is that our waiter?” She waves him over and asks for more tea. When he’s gone she says, “What difference would it make to know, Anna? You’re my daughter, and I couldn’t love you more if I had given birth to you.”
“I know, I know.” But I silently plan to ask my father the same question the next time I see him. “Do you think Father will join us here?” I ask.
Mother knows me too well. “Your father doesn’t know anything about your background either, Anna, so please don’t ask him. You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Have I hurt yours? I didn’t mean to.” The waiter arrives before she can reply, and I watch him fill her teacup. He is wearing a white vest and black bow tie, as if he’s serving in a fine Chicago restaurant—not in a resort in the wilds of Michigan. I shake my head when he offers me some. “None for me, thank you.”
“Of course you haven’t offended me,” she says when the waiter is gone. “I suppose it’s only natural to be a little curious at times. But most girls would envy the life that your father has given you. Questioning him might make you seem ungrateful.”
She’s right. And maybe that’s why William became so angry with me. He was giving me everything a woman could dream of—a handsome husband, wealth and prestige, a beautiful new home, a wedding trip to Europe—yet I had told William I felt empty inside. Because I do.
“Very well, I won’t ask Father,” I say.
“Good girl. Now, how shall we spend our first day here?”
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.”
“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.
Geesje’s Story
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.”