Читать книгу Mama - Marijke Lockwood - Страница 12

The apartment had three upstairs bedrooms. Willie’s room was no more than a little alcove off the main bedroom. There was just enough space to hold a single bed and a small wardrobe.

The two boys shared the second bedroom. With two single beds and a small wardrobe. It was also very compact, as were all the rooms in the apartment. But we didn’t have much in clothes or personal belongings anyway, and we didn’t know any better. All our friends and families lived in similar apartments. For Amsterdam it was quite normal.

The largest bedroom fronted the street, with a window overlooking the kindergarten. In the room were two double beds, one with a wooden frame; the other folded up against the wall, a curtain pulled across it when not in use. When that bed was down, there wasn’t much room to move. But when the bed was folded up, there was floor space for us to get dressed and play.

“Now girls, Aunty Jos and I think it will be best if Lidy and Ineke, being the two youngest, sleep with Ann. She can take care of them if they wake during the night. Marijke, Trudy and Margaret, you three will share the other bed.”

“And Marijke, you have to remember that it is very important you do not wet the bed, as it will make too much washing for Aunty Jos.”

Oh Papa, I will try so hard not to wet the bed, I silently vowed to myself. Mama and Papa had taken me to a special doctor a couple of years before, because I still wet the bed. The doctor told them I’d grow out of it. As I had always shared beds with my sisters, it was embarrassing. Even at the orphanage I regularly wet the bed, much to the disgust of the nuns. I was publicly embarrassed by them by having to strip my bed in front of the other girls. Then I’d be lectured about being too lazy to get up to go to the toilet. It became so embarrassing that sometimes I tried to hide it from the nuns by making my bed quickly.

But they seemed to know, and shamed me more for not being honest. I couldn’t win and the humiliation overwhelmed me at times. At least at the orphanage I had a single bed, and didn’t wet anyone else.

As I got older and it didn’t stop, I became paranoid about it. Each night I told myself I’d wake up for sure, and tonight I’d stay dry. Yet, night after night, I dreamt that I did wake up and was sitting on the toilet. Then I’d feel the warmth go up my back and down my legs; I’d wake up and realise that I’d done it again. I’d be so upset, especially as my younger sisters didn’t wet the bed, not even Ineke.

“Marijke, you will be responsible for making your bed every morning and Ann you will be responsible to make your bed.” Papa’s voice brought me back from my thoughts.

“Papa, can Lidy, Ineke and I have that bed please?” Ann asked, pointing to the wooden bed. Ann had always been the motherly type from a very young age. She had Papa’s dark wavy hair, and dark eyes.

“Yes, if you want, it doesn’t really matter to me. Are you okay with that, girls?”

We all nodded. I liked the idea of having the fold up bed, because I figured that once the bed was folded up, the extra space was for those who slept in that bed. If they got the comfortable bed, we should have the extra space for playing. It didn’t take long to realise it didn’t really work out that way!

“Look everybody, we have a shower. I particularly requested it from the landlord before we moved in. I told them with so many of us we really need it.”

The pride in Papa’s voice was obvious as we followed him through the door into the little alcove next to the stairs. He loved wheeling and dealing and took great pleasure in having a win. He’d brag about any wins for days. I learned as I got older that he didn’t talk about any deals he hadn’t won.

A shower in an apartment was not common, as public bath-houses were used on a weekly basis by most people. In Amsterdam North we didn’t have a shower. Now we not only had a shower, but also a small hand basin for washing ourselves and cleaning our teeth; such luxury.

How Mama would have loved to have had a shower, I thought.

Mama and Papa had instilled cleanliness in us from a very early age, and our weekly bath had always been a Saturday night ritual.

I had a suspicion Aunty Jos had something to do with getting the shower installed. We soon found out that she was extraordinarily concerned and fussy about cleanliness, hygiene and appearances. Having worked as a housekeeper and cleaner for such a long time, she was fastidious to a fault.

“You can all go unpack your things you brought home with you today, and then come downstairs to spend some time with Aunty Jos. She wants to talk with you and get to know you all better. She has cooked dinner for us tonight, your favourite rice pot Marijke. Then after dinner she’ll go home.”

With this Papa went downstairs. We started unpacking the paper bags the nuns had given us with our few belongings.

The left side of the wardrobe had six drawers, one for each girl. The right side had hanging space, but not much was needed as we only ever had a couple of dresses each.

I opened my drawer, and saw my underwear neatly folded, next to them were my few personal belongings. We never had many toys. My most prized possession was a doll Mama and Papa had given me for my sixth birthday.

It wasn’t a big doll, but I loved it dearly; it was a black doll with tight curly hair. I didn’t know anyone else who had such a doll. Mama had knitted a pretty pink dress for it and had helped me to knit little booties, of which I was very proud.

And there was my doll, in the drawer, looking at me with her beautiful dark eyes. I picked her up and held her to my chest and started to cry.

“What’s the matter?” Margaret asked. I knew she wouldn’t understand why this doll had suddenly brought back the tears, I couldn’t explain it myself. I was just so pleased to see something familiar. Dolly had always been my confidant, I could tell her anything, and I loved her so.

I quickly wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, and gave Margaret a hug.

“Nothing, I just missed my doll so much, I’m happy to see her.”

When I’d finished unpacking I placed my doll on the one chair in the room; gave her a kiss, and promised her she’d never be put in a drawer again.

I was back downstairs when the doorbell rang. Papa told John to go downstairs to see who it was. A minute or so later my god-mother, Mama’s sister, Aunty Rie walked in. She came over and hugged me, planted two kisses on my cheeks and wished me a Happy Birthday. She handed me a parcel wrapped in pretty pink crepe paper, with a big white bow on it.

I was pleased to see her. She looked a lot like Mama, and she always spoiled me because I was her god-daughter. She loved giving me nice things that Mama and Papa couldn’t afford. I quickly undid the bow, being careful not to tear the paper. Inside was a big ball of soft pale blue wool, a crochet hook, knitting needles and a pattern book. I thanked her and showed her my sewing box.

We sat down and Papa played his favourite record on the gramophone. We started to sing along to the song, “If I was a little white duck, swimming in the water.” Funny how that was Papa’s favourite song, as he hated being in water, except for his shower. He never went swimming, he never even put his feet in the water.

We sang some other songs. Then Willie said they’d rehearsed a special performance for my birthday. The four little ones sang a little Dutch song, dancing around the lounge-room. They were so cute, when they finished they bowed, and we all clapped. Their eyes beamed as they accepted the applause.

The afternoon flew by, and it wasn’t long before Aunty Rie had to leave to catch her tram and train home. She lived in Rotterdam, which was quite a distance to travel. With the weather getting quite cold and windy at this time of the year, she wanted to get home before dark.

As it was my birthday I didn’t have to help with any of the chores, so I went back upstairs; picked up my doll and sat on the chair.

I hugged her again, and closed my eyes, imagining Mama downstairs preparing my dinner. Although I had enjoyed the afternoon and was pleased with the cake and the presents, it felt strange. Not only because Mama wasn’t there, but because this new apartment did not feel like home.

I sat there for a while and remembered the day Mama and Papa had given me Dolly for my birthday. “This doll is special,” Mama had said. “She is black like Black Piet, who brought you to me.”

Mama told me many times I had been a present from Black Piet when I was born. For as long as I remembered my birthday was the first day of the Saint Nicholas season, which ends with a celebration on the fifth of December each year, with festive family parties when gifts and surprises are exchanged.

Between mid November and December five each child placed one shoe under the hearth or mantelpiece each night. If you’d been a good boy or girl, Saint Nicholas’s helper, Black Piet, came down the chimney and put a little gift in your shoe; usually a St. Nicholas biscuit called Taai Taai, or a lolly or chocolate of some sort.

However, if you’d been naughty you received nothing. We were told that if we’d been really bad Black Piet would take us away in his sack.

There were times I didn’t get caught being naughty by Papa or Mama, but Black Piet still put something in my shoe, so I thought he wasn’t very smart. As we were told that Saint Nicholas could see everything we did, Black Piet should have known I’d been naughty.

Mama used to tell me, “In 1947 I placed my shoe under the mantelpiece, and I must have been extra good that year because when I woke in the morning, there you were, peacefully asleep in my shoe.”

I could never get enough of this story and asked her to repeat it to me time and time again.

“Mama, if Black Piet brought me, how come I am not black?” I asked her. For some reason I always wanted to have dark skin.

“Well, because you are our girl. Although you are special because Black Piet brought you to us, you are not Black Piet’s baby.”

Mama had a different story for each of my brothers and sisters as to why they were special, but I loved my story best of all.

As I sat there cuddling my doll, I started crying again. I would never again be told by Mama that I was her special gift. I felt confused and ungrateful to everybody who had gone to so much trouble to make my birthday special. Life was just too complex at that moment, having to deal with all the changes.