Читать книгу THE SCARRED OAK - William Walraven - Страница 5

Chapter 1

The air filled with music of singing birds, the soft new grass, and the blue skies with high white clouds announced the new life of spring. The sounds of lowing cattle in the distant meadow didn’t interrupt Eric’s deep thoughts. Sitting on top of a hill, he accepted these familiar sounds around him. In this picturesque landscape of flowing hills, spotted with rich farmland, and woods located in the most Southern party of Holland, Eric grew up.

He was now in his early twenties, his slim but strong built body, blue eyes, and light-brown hair made him a sharp contrast with the green grass. Rolling a cigarette, he kicked off his wooden shoes, which rolled a couple of feet down the hill. This spot, overlooking all that was dear to him, was his spot. Many times, he sat here, trying to find answers to the thousands of questions that arose in the mind of a young man.

Nico, his closest friend, had been the only one who had shared this place with him. Here, where they had opened up to each other their deepest thoughts and feelings, would become past. Eric felt lonely. Within a couple of days, he would emigrate to Canada, leaving all this behind. Question after question, impossible to answer, shot through his mind. Why was he leaving all this? He could make a living here. Going to the other end of the world as a complete stranger to people with a different language (he spoke only a few words of English) and likely with different habits scared him. From the other side, the excitement of traveling and meeting the unknown had always been in his blood. Even as a young boy, his blood had urged him to find out and experience all that was beyond his vision, strength, and endurance. He welcomed the feeling of unmatched powers that the release of adrenaline gave his body in occasions of danger or excitement. But always after every experience, there was this place called home. All through his young life, it had cradled him. It was a hard decision to make, but after all, farming in this area was a poor existence, and working in the deep coal mines of this district was hard and with no future except early retirement.

He spent five years in one of those coal mines, which had not only strengthened his body but also made up his mind to get away from Holland. If he had to leave this area and try to start a new life in another part of Holland, he could just as well travel to a country that supposedly had better opportunities for willing and hard-working young men. Once he left this nest, he would be a stranger anyway.

A sparrow landed on a thin branch within an arm’s reach of him, perfectly balancing its tiny body against the gentle swaying of the branch, which accepted this added load. For a moment, it sat there nervously, twitching its head in all directions, until it noticed the presence of Eric. It made a shrieking sound and hastily left this danger zone. The sound broke Eric’s thoughts, and with a deep sigh, he pushed his cigarette butt into the soft ground beside him. On the other side, looking down the hill, he could see his village lying like a jewel with its red-shingled roofs and white-walled houses between sloping hills.

On his left in the distance was the coal mine, the only industry in this area, spitting out large clouds of smoke and steam from its chimneys.

The sound of the church bell made him look back to the village again. He would never forget his village and all its people. They were good, decent, hard-working people, and somehow, sitting here, he loved them all. He also knew that some of them he would never see again, at least not in this lifetime.

The village where Eric grew up and spent his young years was an old village with some of the relics dating back to the twelfth century. One of the houses still displayed a date of 1737 in one of the walls. It is located in one of the most beautiful provinces of Holland, a province called Limburg, where in this area the famous—or rather infamous—Limburger cheese originated. It is one of the smaller provinces and extends like a tail on the southern part of the country. This tiny strip is bordered by Germany on one side and by Belgium on the other. It is at the most, thirty miles wide, and since on each border a different language is spoken (German and French), many different dialects are spoken. Nearly every village, some only a couple of miles apart, had its own dialect ranging from low German to low French. Proper Dutch was only spoken in schools.

Eric’s village, located on and practically surrounded by the German border, had a low German dialect, which Eric would never lose, even after decades of living in English-speaking countries.

Eric’s parents were raised in villages on the Belgium border before they got married, and they had a flat French accent, which haunted them for many years for being strangers in his village. Anyone who visited or moved to a village and had no close family bonds with anyone in that village was not accepted and were handled as total strangers. Anyone having a different accent was practically an outcast. It was also nearly impossible for Eric’s parents, who moved to this village when Eric was one year old, to get to know the villagers. Everyone was called by a series of first names instead of their surnames.

A name like John from Pete and Mary from the Cross was very normal and, for the villagers, no problem. It meant that John was the son of Pete and Mary (everyone knew Pete and Mary) living close by the old iron cross at the outskirts of the village. It could even go a step further. If John married and had a child called Tilly, anyone asking, “Who is that child?” would get an answer like “Oh, that is Tilly, from John from Pete and Mary from the Cross.” All these villages were like close-knit families living there for generation after generation. Everyone was somehow related to others through centuries of intermarriage. Through this interbreeding, the percentage of misformed, lame, blind, and all sorts of handicapped people was very high over the whole district.

Feuds between villages was very common, and it was practically impossible for a young man to start courting a girl from another village. Naturally, it happened, but both young people, besides being in love, had to have the willpower and determination to withstand the abuse rendered to them by their villagers for not choosing one of their own kind. If after they were married, they moved to one of the two villages, it was half as bad, but if the two moved to another village, it would be a long time before they were accepted in that village.

Besides the deep coal mines and everything related to it, farming and growing of vegetable seedlings, which were sold in bunches at the neighboring marketplaces, was the only industry in many villages. Most farms were small, everyone having no more than one horse and four or five cows. Anyone having more than that was considered a large farmer.

More than half the working men in Eric’s village were coal miners. The closest mine, the largest one, was within an hour’s ride by bicycle, the bicycle being the only transportation at the time. Only the well-to-do who lived in the cities could afford a car as a means of transportation.

Eric’s parents were from good old stock. His father, John Oosterbeek, was a medium-built man and was the second oldest in a family of ten children. At the age of thirteen, John’s father had died between the bumpers of two railroad cars while his youngest child was just one year old. With only six years of grade school behind him, Eric’s father and his older brother of one year had to find a job to keep the rather poor family on their feet.

His first job was in a glass-blowing factory. In an unbelievably hot and smoke-filled factory, he was put to work as a glass blower. He dipped the long hollow rod into the hot liquid glass and blew his lungs out until his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets while turning the rod between his hands—twelve hours a day, six days a week. It made him grow up fast. The job was too hard for him. His lungs had not the volume of a mature man, and many times the red-hot glass would cool off too fast before entering the mold and would brake. He’d then receive more kicks under his behind from the forever drunken foreman. He had to take all this because in those days, a job was hard to find. His young heart, however, would burn from the unfair handling he had received for trying his utmost. Finally, he was transferred to the fine crystal-grinding section. After about three or four years with the only thing to show were his hands full of scars, the leftover cuts of the broken crystal, he found a job in a large laboratory connected to the coal mine.

Eric’s mother, Martha, was raised in the village two miles from Eric’s father. They lived above a grocery store, while her father also worked at the railroad. Her mother, Eric’s favorite grandmother, operated the store besides raising four children.

At a very young age, Martha found herself a job as a live-in maid for a very wealthy family in her village. She was a hard-working young woman, and her love for the kitchen and preparing food for the family and the many parties, made her in no time the chef cook. Her knowledge of cooking never left her, and she was well-known in Eric’s village after they moved there. She was many times asked to cook at weddings, parties, and funerals.

Martha met John with a bang. John, now twenty-four years old, went with some friends one Sunday by bicycle to Martha’s village to have some fun in the local bars. After a few hours and in a good mood, they chose to return home as unexpected bad weather was approaching the village. Before they reached the end of the village, however, the rain came down in buckets, and lightning and thunder blasted the skies above them. Quickly they decided to find cover and wait until the rain had subsided. John found cover in the hallway of the store operated by Martha’s parents. As good-hearted, down-to-earth villagers at that time, Martha was sent downstairs to invite the young man in the hallway to come upstairs out of the rain and have a warm cup of coffee. At the moment when Martha, now eighteen years old, met John, a lightning bolt lit the sky, followed immediately by the exploding sound of thunder, and that was how Eric’s parents met. Two years later, they married and moved to a small village close to John’s job. In the three years that they lived in the village, Martha gave birth to two sons. First came Johann and, two years later, Eric.

The laboratory, which was part of the coal mine where John was employed as a general laborer, manufactured large amounts of ammonia, one of the many products made from coal, to be used in the manufacturing of fertilizer. It created an impossible smell in the village when the wind blew from the wrong direction. For this reason, they moved when Eric was one year old to the village where Eric spent his young years.

Six years later, Martha gave birth to another son, Paul. Another six years later, Eric’s only sister was born, Ellie. For two years, they lived in a very small house on the main street of the village.

Eric was only three years old but still remembered them moving into a larger house. His father was moving the furniture piece by piece with his heavy wheelbarrow, while his mother was packing and unpacking the smaller articles. He remembered having a hard time pedaling his little tricycle up the loose white gravel-covered driveway of the new home. Constantly, the little wheels of the tricycle got stuck. It drove him into a tantrum. His father, noticing the misery his little son had created for himself, picked him and his tricycle up with one arm and, with a couple of large steps, put him down on a flat concrete walking path behind the house. Eric never forgot this incident because at that moment, he realized how strong and powerful his father was.

The new house had a very large kitchen, his mother’s paradise, and a huge living and dining room with very high ceilings separated by two unbelievably hard-to-move sliding doors. Upstairs were three large bedrooms; only two were occupied—one by his parents and the other by Eric and his brother, Johann. The third was used for storing space.

The reason that Johann and Eric slept together in one large bed was to preserve body heat in the wintertime; central heating in homes was unheard of at that time. The only room that was heated by a coal stove was the kitchen and once in a while, on a special occasion, the stove in the living room was used.

Eric could not remember if the dining room was ever used. Everyone had a room like that. It had the best furniture and was only used as a showroom. Eric always got a scary feeling whenever he walked into this room. The forever-shining massive table surrounded by chairs stood there like a statue, and the big heavy framed pictures of his grandmothers and heavy-mustached grandfathers without a smile on their faces would watch every move he made. Even if he moved from one side of the room to the other, it seemed that their eyes were always following him. At one time, he even stuck his tongue out to one of his grandfathers, and he was positive that one of the moustaches moved slightly. It scared him so much that for many weeks, he didn’t dare go back into this room again.

Sleeping with Johann in the same bed had its problems. Johann had in his young years the nasty habit of bed watering, with the result of Eric waking up many times as wet as Johann was, depending on what side Johann was sleeping when the accident occurred. Johann’s or, for that matter, Eric’s misfortune didn’t promote brotherly love, because many times Eric would use in their arguments the striking word “bed pisser.”

Across the road from their new location was a farm—one house and an animal stall, with one horse, two cows, three or four pigs, and some chickens. This farm became Eric’s home away from home, and Willem, the farmer’s son, who was in his early thirties and still a bachelor, became his second father. They became pals for life. Working at this farm with the animals and working the fields introduced in Eric at a very young age the beauty and feelings for animals and the outdoors.

Within a couple of years, Eric could handle very easily the huge Clydesdale horse named Max, and Max and Eric were the closest of friends for many years. Many times, Eric would share a sandwich with him, and gently with his big lips and huge teeth, Max would take this gift out of his small hand while giving him with his big brown eyes a warm feeling of understanding.

At this farm, Eric learned the beauty of the animals—their courting, reproduction, birth, and the close relationship in these matters between man and beast.

Besides school, Willem was his teacher for everything you couldn’t find in books. If a cow would behave quite oddly in the meadow, then Willem would explain that nature’s forceful urge of mating had entered her. In a noneducated but beautiful way, Willem would tell Eric while sitting on the large wooden feedbox in the cow stall the story of life and reproduction. Shortly thereafter, they would walk with this cow a couple of miles over many small field pads to the only farmer who could afford to have a bull. Eric was too young to be allowed to enter the large barn to see the mating of these two animals, but Willem would direct Eric to a window where he, with eyes possibly larger than the bull, would witness the beauty and power of mating and the start of a new life. On the way back, they seldom talked, both full of their own thoughts and feelings. The cow walked behind them in grace, once in a while grasping for a patch of juicy grass.

Behind Eric’s house separated by a huge old private hedge was the village school. From the first through the seventh grade, Eric spent seven aggravating years here (aggravating because it took his valuable time away from Willem and the farm). Who needed all that baloney about arithmetic and language? And who cared about the old people in history who were already dead for many centuries? Sitting in this classroom filled with the stinking smoke of the teacher’s forever-burning pipe while listening to the music of the horse-drawn farm wagons and the sound of the cattle in the nearby meadows made schooling an aggravation.

He liked some of the teachers, but in general, they were not his kind of people. They were the master. They would give you with their soft, ladylike hands a likken for no reason at all, or worse, they would give you for punishment a hundred sentences to write, like “I will not interrupt the classes during schooltime,” to be handed back to them the next morning. This punishment was really rude, because besides giving him a sore hand and wrist, it took his freedom away. No, schooling was not for him. It was all the teachers’ fault. They were the reason of his lost freedom in nature’s beauty. If there were no teachers, there wouldn’t be any schools.

One of his neighbors was an old grouchy lady who didn’t like Eric too much because he would throw small stones at her skinny dirty chickens. Willem’s chickens were a lot better, whiter, and he would listen with pleasure to the early morning cries of the big red and brown rooster, the undisputable master of Willem’s chickens.

At the end of the street was the village cemetery. This sinister place surrounded by high walls and a steel gate was the most gruesome place for Eric in the whole village. In daytime, he would avoid it as much as possible, but in no way would he dare to pass or come even close to this place during early evening or darkness. Surely not after his mother had told him that if someone would hit or kick his own parents, his hand or foot would protrude above the grave after this person was dead and buried. The first time after this shocking news came to him, he visited the cemetery in procession with the village pastor on All Souls’ Day. His eyes were shooting from grave to grave, looking for these members. He was quickly put at ease when he couldn’t detect one in the whole graveyard. Coming home, he requested an immediate answer to this grave lie. His mother’s serious answer was that this only happens at night and when daylight breaks through, these members would disappear again. He decided he would never pass this place at nighttime, because with his inquisitive mind, he would hear these arms and legs plopping out of the ground.

The other end of his street crossed the Main Street, which encircled the village to find its way back to the only street leading approximately two miles through fields and meadows to the closest city. At this crossing point was the village church and across from this church was a large stoop in front of a small general store at one corner. This was the only evening gathering place for young and old to hear the latest on everything, including who was sick or died or stranger in town. Many stories were told by old farmers and coal miner, and Eric, sitting between them, could listen for hours about the dangers of coal mining and the stories of old farmers about werewolves and ghost they had seen around the old farms. Many nights, Eric could not sleep because there were ghosts all around him. The south part of Holland was predominantly Roman Catholic and the rest Protestant, including the Dutch royal family. These southern villages were very fanatic about their religion, because anyone not being of the Catholic faith was automatically branded as a heathen and was not accepted in the village.

Eric’s pastor was the tallest man in the village. Not only was he the tallest man, who automatically demanded respect, but as pastor, he was also the most knowledgeable and most powerful man. He was the spiritual advisor for the local soccer team, brass band, and drum-and-flute corps. Between these tough but good village people, he was the man of God with power to spare.

Weather permitting, he would walk every midmorning back and forth in front of his church, everyone passing him paying respect by nodding their heads and greeting him, “Good morning, Mr. Pastor.” Always he would walk with his hands loosely together at his back, the outer hand repeatedly opening and closing. Eric, at about four years old, had watched this procedure for days, maybe weeks, while sitting at the big corner stone at the crossing on his street. One day, it got the best of him. This opening and closing, slightly squeezing of this hand began to work on his nerves. A farm wagon went by, and the horse beautified the street with some fresh droppings. For a moment, he observed the fresh droppings and the squeezing hand. The rest is village history… Before he realized what he was doing, he sneaked behind Mr. Pastor and dropped the still-warm round droppings in his hand at the precise moment of squeezing. For a second, he was awarded the most unforgettable sight. However, this triumph was short-lived.

The next thing he remembered was a sound of disgust, an unbelievable quick turn of such a big man, and a lightning-fast hand dazzling his head. Next with his dirty hand, he grasped Eric by his clean shirt (remember, it was still morning) and, with steps a mile long, dragged him while screaming over his lungs for mercy in the direction of Eric’s home, passing bystanders with a look in their eyes that no good would come from this kid. His mother, hearing his alarming cries, came running toward them. After some, he guessed, unpleasant words between the two, he was handed over into the safe hands of his mother. After coming home, his entire body still shaking and gasping for air, his mother gave him a couple of good lickens on his behind and sent him for further punishment to his bedroom for the remainder of the day. Lying on his bed, he hated Mr. Pastor and his mother for this harsh and unfair punishment for nothing at all. When later that day his father came home from work, he gave him another good and hard talk about his deed. When leaving Eric’s room, however, he could not prevent a weak smile on his face. One thing was sure—Eric had gotten rid of his frustration and Mr. Pastor of his squeezing habit.

John, Eric’s father, was a hard-working man and very caring for his family. He was a wise man and a forever optimist and loved fun in his life. However, sometimes he would go overboard, like that one time when Eric went with him to the High Mass on Sunday. During the service, they had to stand up and kneel constantly, which Eric found ridiculous. He cheated sometimes by not kneeling. One of the times when they had to stand up, his father let a fart go that sounded like a cannon shot.

Eric got very embarrassed even more so when his father turned around and said to a very old lady sitting behind them, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

When they walked home, Eric confronted his dad. “How could you do such a thing to that poor old lady?”

“Well, let me tell you,” answered his father. “It was unfortunate, and it happened too fast. Everyone was looking in our direction, so I made a quick decision. When a very old person farts in church, nobody will blame her because of her age. However, if they all suspected that it was me, the whole village would talk about this for a couple of weeks. Don’t tell Mother anything about this.”

Eric felt better, and they continued home.

Holland located on the North Sea, that part of the ocean between England and Europe, has a sea climate. The summers are mild but with a lot of rain when the wind comes from the west from the sea, spring and fall is beautiful, and winters are very raw. In general, however, the temperature in winter doesn’t drop too far below the freezing point, and the snow was not more than five or six inches at the most at one time, but the icy cold winds filled with ice crystals played havoc with any unprotected part of the body. It was winter again and getting closer to St. Nicholas and Christmas. The raw, howling winds would whistle tunes in the chimney flute, and Eric, sitting on the heavy cast iron coal box beside the kitchen stove, could listen for hours while watching his mother preparing the evening meal.

“I noted that your carrot was still in your shoe this morning,” said his mother without looking at him. “You know that is a reminder from St. Nicholas and Black Peter.”

Eric was shocked. He didn’t know that his mother noticed it, too, this morning. It took him by surprise, because he had woken up very early and sneaked down the stairway to see what had happened to his wooden shoes and his brother Johann’s. A terrible feeling came over him when he discovered that the carrot was gone from Johann’s shoes but was still in his. What had he done to deserve this? He was in disgrace with St. Nicholas, and that meant no presents on St. Nicholas Day. He didn’t feel the cold in the kitchen but sat there in the kitchen chair, in deep thought, trying to find out what he did wrong.

Could it have been the incident with Kathy yesterday at the kindergarten? He had pulled a little too hard on her hair so that she’d started crying when he ran into her while playing with the other boys on the playground. These dumb girls were constantly in the way. They were only good for playing with dolls or playing house. But surely, they weren’t rough enough to play with the boys. He was lucky enough that his parents had chosen him to be a boy. What would have happened if he were a girl? Just terrible!

Or was it that he had forgotten last night to bring the kindling inside the house and put it neatly underneath the kitchen stove for his mother to light the kitchen fire the next morning? It was his job, but he had been playing too long outside last night with the children, and when he came home, it was so late that his mother reprimanded him. He had been angry about that because he felt he really wasn’t that late, but surely, he wouldn’t go and get kindling for her now after she spoiled the happy mood he was in. She must have done it herself because he noticed the kindling underneath the stove.

This St. Nicholas certainly was a holy man if he knew all that had happened this quickly. Somehow, he had to set things right today with his mother and with Kathy. Otherwise, it was no use for him to put out his wooden shoes again tonight.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his mother coming down the steps. Quickly he took the carrot out of the wooden shoe and hid it in the garbage can. He couldn’t let his mother know because she would ask questions about why the carrot was still in his shoe, and he was not in the mood to answer any of them this early in the morning.

When his mother entered the kitchen, she looked in surprise at Eric. “What are you doing up so early? You must be freezing down here in the kitchen.”

“Well, I just woke up early this morning, and I couldn’t sleep any longer,” answered Eric.

“Come on, go upstairs and quickly put your clothes on before you catch a cold,” she said while kindly pushing him out of the kitchen door in the direction of the stairway.

While Eric was gone, his mother noticed the missing carrot out of Eric’s shoe, and a faint smile came onto her face. She knew her youngster. He would be worried all day, but he would try to make up for whatever he thought he did wrong.

That day, he pushed an apple into Kathy’s hands, a real shining apple, because he had rubbed it for quite some time on his trousers. Kathy had a surprised look on her face, but Eric was gone already before she could ask a question.

He was really surprised to see the look on his mother’s face when the carrot was gone out of the shoe that morning. How could she know? He was up before her, but then he had experienced in many situations that mothers seemed to know everything, and he didn’t ask the question that was on the tip of his lips. Without saying a word, he got up and went to the stall, found a carton, and filled it up to the top with kindling. It was so heavy that when he finally reached the kitchen, he was out of breath.

“Here, Mother,” he uttered. “This will surely be enough for two days.”

“Eric, you shouldn’t have,” replied his mother. “That was too heavy for you.” But then she picked her youngster up, hugged him, and kissed him on both cheeks. Somehow Eric knew at that time that his carrot would be gone the next morning.

Already more than a month before St. Nicholas Day, the sixth of December, the younger children were kept in line by the constant warning of their parents that they would tell St. Nicholas all about their bad deeds. Night after night, they had to place their wooden shoes filled with fresh straw, a carrot, some bread, and a piece of paper filled with their wants—if possible, in their own handwriting—as they awaited the arrival of St. Nicholas on a white horse and his helper, Black Pete.

The carrots and the straw in the wooden shoes were a gift for the horse. If the wooden shoes of some of the children in one family were emptied the next morning and some were not, that meant that Black Pete had come that night, gone down the chimney (hence the name Black Pete), and would deliver the message of the good, behaving children to the saint. But the untouched wooden shoes were a warning for their owners that a lot of catching up and good deeds had to be done.

The story of St. Nicholas was as follows: Some centuries ago, Nicholas, a bishop of Madrid, Spain, was walking one evening through his city and found the massacred bodies of a couple of children in a barrel. The bishop was so shocked by this cruel and bizarre scenery that he fell on his knees and prayed to the Lord to return life to these bodies. The Lord granted his wishes, and the children came to life again. This story, true or false, made this bishop a saint and was chosen in Holland as the saint for the children. St. Nicholas was dressed as a bishop. He had his staff, high pointed hat, and long white beard and mustache, and he sat on a white horse. Black Pete dressed in colorful clothing with short bulging pants and a cap on his head and a large plumb feather leading the horse. They made a trio that demanded respect even by the rowdiest of the youngsters.

Black Pete was a young man who had colored his face and hands black because of the lack of colored people at that time in the villages of southern Holland. Ringing a hand bell or rattling a chain, he drove many tiny tots into a tantrum or drove the wide-eyed, panic-stricken older ones behind their father or mother, holding on for life to their legs, when this trio passed through the village to the local school grounds a couple of days before St. Nicholas Day.

Seated on a golden throne in one of the classrooms, the friendly, smiling saint would welcome the children one after the other. The quiet ones could sit on his lap, but the screaming little ones, who by now were carried on their father’s or mother’s arm into the room, squeezing the daylights out of the already embarrassed parent, would only be patted by the white gloved hand of the saint, which drove their little bodies even further into life-saving jerks that many times completely closed the windpipes of the bulging-eyed parents trying to utter at least a few friendly words in apology. Quickly, Black Pete, who had a big gunny sack filled with candies, cookies, and little presents, would push a handful of these goodies into the hands of the parent. Trying to ease the situation, Black Pete would smile at the youngster, which most of the time ended up into the cliché of the event.

Seeing only the white of the eyes and teeth of the smiling Black Pete made the youngster scream at the top of his lungs and would hasten the embarrassed parents through a maze of anxious onlookers who still had to follow that same path. At the exit, the youngster, heaving for breath and losing his grip, would calm down.

The older children who could sit on the old man’s lap were asked all kinds of questions, like “Do you help your parents?” “Are you good in school?” “Do you do your homework well?” and so on. Naturally, with innocent eyes keeping Black Pete in line of view and with hefty nodding of their heads, the children would answer, “Yes, Sainter Klaas [a short form of Saint Nicholas]” to all questions. In the child’s mind, everything was going in the right direction, and they could expect some nice gifts, but most of the time, the parents would drive a spoke through the wheel by mentioning a couple of misbehaviors of the youngster. This information would make Black Pete angry. Rattling his heavy chain and rolling his eyes would cause the child to portray a deep sorrow or to defend this outrageous interference when everything was going so well.

Eric was in many such situations and discovered already at an early age that his mother was more likely to go along with his answers than his father. At times when his father had an afternoon shift and Eric was only accompanied by his mother, he would end up a winner.

A few years in a row, Eric noticed that a month or so before St. Nicholas Day, his small wheelbarrow was gone. But he received a beautiful new one (in a different color) as the main part of his presents. Some years later, he found out when a big paint chip broke off, how many colors of paint this wheelbarrow had received from his father during his early years. Christmas was always a day to remember, because Christmas and the days leading up to it were always very special to Eric.

On the day before Christmas, when his father sharpened the ax and put his heavy winter jacket on, Eric knew the time had come for him and his father to pick out a Christmas tree in the woods surrounding the village. Eric was kind of stocky in build, and he loved to work with his father, while Johann was slender in build and hated already at a very young age anything that had to do with manual labor.

Eric walked behind and tried hard to step in the same footsteps his father left behind in the soft snow to prevent the snow from entering his wooden shoes. With heavy knitted shawls around their necks and heads, the twosome made their way silently through the harsh cold, windy landscape. The silhouette of his father in front of him with the ax over one shoulder made Eric think of the story of the Woodcutter in the Black Forest his mother had read to the children on one of the longer winter evenings.

Sometimes his father asked if he could carry him, but Eric refused. He wanted to be just like him. Walking behind his father, trying to make the bigger steps, made him breathe heavily, his breath changing to steam just like he saw his fathers’.

Arriving in the woods, his father wiped the snow off a fallen tree, and together side by side, they took a rest from the long journey. Silently, they sat there listening to the eerie sounds of the wind through the trees, the cracking and rubbing of cork dry branches, followed by a tranquil stillness when the wind ebbed. Eric heard the sometimes backbone-shivering sounds, but sitting beside his father, he wasn’t afraid and could feel the strength, closeness, and warmth of his father. Together, out of many, they chose the right tree, and with a couple of powerful cuts by his father’s ax, the tree slowly moaned and groaned as if protesting. Finally subsiding, it fell into the snow. As always, it was a beautiful young tree, seven to eight feet tall. Eric stood there looking at the fallen youngster of the woods.

His love for nature made him sad. This young tree that had taken years to develop in this harsh climate didn’t even have a chance to grow up like its neighboring huge masters of the woods. His father, knowing his son’s feelings, interrupted his thoughts by telling him that it was good for these wild woods to be thinned out so that more sunlight would reach other young trees, who would then have a chance to become giants.

When Eric got cold, his father put him on his lap, opened his jacket, and let Eric nestle himself against the warm body of his father. While putting his arms around him, Eric noticed how rough and big his father’s hands were. He also noticed that one of his fingers was quite crooked on the tip, and he questioned his father about it.

“Oh,” his father replied, “that happened when I was a youngster like you. I got my finger stuck between the heavy doors of the church, but at that time, there was no money in the family for doctors, so my mother put a bandage around it, torn off from an old sheet, and that was it. I guess the finger must have been broken and grew together crooked. It never bothered me. Remember, Eric, in that time, we were really poor. Every penny counted, and there surely was no money to go to a doctor for just a finger.”

His father tied a loop around the base of the tree and put Eric on it so that his wooden shoes could keep him in balance, while his father pulled the tree home.

On his way back, his father stopped a couple times to catch his breath from the heavy pulling and to wipe at the same time the drip off his nose with the top of his rough hands. Eric followed the same gesture as if he had pulled the tree. As they arrive home, the tree’s bottom branches were removed and used all throughout the house behind pictures and wall plaques. The tree itself was planted in a big pail filled with wet sand and moved to the corner of the living room, where for generations his ancestors stood. Now it really was Christmas.

Within a few hours, the whole family filled the house with the Christmas spirit—shining decorations, small candles on the tree, white angel hair, silver paper strips, and the pine smell. Not only the rooms but also the people in it were filled with wonderful Christmas feelings.

The manger (made by his father from rough birch wood), the sheep and shepherds, the donkey, the ox, and the Holy Family all found their places under the tree. The three wise men were located a distance away from the manger and were moved every day a little closer until the thirteenth day after Christmas—the day, as the legend went, they arrived at the manger.

That same evening, the whole family gathered in front of the tree. As they sang Christmas songs, the candles were lit, while all the other lights were dimmed. The sparkling of candlelight into the youngsters’ eyes and the glow on their faces made Christmas in these villages what it was supposed to be—peaceful. Eric was too young yet to go to midnight Mass, but he would stay awake in bed and listen to the village people passing by in subdued voices, walking in their wooden shoes through the snow. The bedroom was cold as only the coal stove in the kitchen and living room was used in the daytime, but Eric cuddled in the warm blankets and didn’t feel this cold. It was Christmas, and with his young head still full of the happenings of the day, he fell into a deep, restful sleep. Christmas Day was not only a day to always a beautiful peaceful day for the villagers. It was a family day; the married sons and daughters would come home in the later afternoon to have a big family dinner.

Before the High Mass started at ten o’clock in the morning, Eric was already at the church so he could spend some time looking at the big manger in front of the church’s altar. It was a big manger, nearly as big as a real stall. The Christ child the size of a real baby lay there in the straw with his arms spread and with a big smile on his face. Mary and Joseph were kneeling beside the child, and Mary, with beautiful rosy cheeks, had a smile on her face, which reminded Eric of the face of his own mother. Shepherds and sheep were all over the place, and the huge ox and donkey lay in the back of the manger, supposed to heat the child with their breath. At least that was what his mother told him. Eric noticed something strange about the ox, and after careful inspection, he came to the conclusion that a chip had come off the ox’s head and it was missing one eye. Someone had painted the whole spot just black, but it looked quite odd to Eric, and he had to laugh at the whole situation.

All through the Mass, they were singing beautiful songs, and whenever Eric knew a song, he did his utmost to sing as hard as he could until one of the nuns who sat behind, watching the children, came over to him and, with a kind of subdued voice, demanded Eric to stop.

When they came home after the Mass, the radio was playing Christmas songs. His mother was preparing for the big Christmas dinner, Johann was reading a book beside the kitchen stove, and his father, sitting in the living room, was talking to one of the neighbors while sipping on a small glass of Dutch gin for Christmas cheer. All in all, it was a real Christmas Day, but for Eric, it was a very boring day. He couldn’t even play that day with Nico, his best friend and neighboring boy, who only was a couple of months younger than Eric. Somewhere around the house was a picture showing the two of them in a baby carriage taken in a meadow. It was impossible for Eric to understand why he had to stay home all day.

Why couldn’t he play with Nico, or why couldn’t Nico come over to their place? He questioned his mother repeatedly.

“This day of all days, you stay home, and Nico stays home also. To stay home one day a year isn’t too much to ask, is it?” his mother frowningly replied.

“Why don’t you play a game with Johann?” his father called out from the living room. “That will keep you busy for a while.”

“I’m reading!” Johann shouted back. “And I don’t want to play with him anyhow.”

This was all right with Eric because he was not too crazy about his older brother anyhow, and he knew that in no time, they would be in fights. So he just as well had to make the best of it that day.

In the winter, John had afternoon shift twice a month. Martha, after the children went to sleep, enjoyed the quiet evening sitting beside the warm kitchen stove, reading her history books, which she loved. In the evenings, she always wore slippers with a large “pom” on top. If she sat very still, a small mouse would come through a hole in the corner and nestle itself in one of the poms.

When she told Eric about this, he did not believe her. So she said, “Okay, Eric, this evening, instead of going early to bed, you can lie on the couch, but you have to be very still.” After some time, very boring to Eric, a mouse came out of the hole. It was twitching its head nervously in all directions to make sure that the surroundings were safe. Then it nestled itself in one of the poms. Eric was amazed at the sight, and he watched it a for a while. The next thing he heard was his mother telling him to go to bed. He must have fallen asleep and had moved.

Martha told John about it. He was not particularly crazy about having mice in the house, and when after some time more mice visited the kitchen, he closed the hole with cement. That was the end of the visiting mouse.