Tales from the Fountain Pen

By E. Lynn Hooghiemstra

Maggie was ready to embrace life and enjoy attending vocational college when the war came to her village in the Netherlands and changed everything. In a series of interconnected stories Maggie struggles with fear, shortages, the resistance, the dangers of falling in love and who to trust. Nothing is as it had been and, as the holder of the fountain pen learns from her comfortable office in the present day, fear and uncertainty are ever-present companions.

As the narrator fills and refills the inherited fountain pen from the 1940s, the pen takes on a life of its own as it relates the details of the events that shaped Maggie's life, and strengthens the bond between Maggie and her future daughter.

A novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Sep 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611876178

Book preview

Tales from the Fountain Pen

By E. Lynn Hooghiemstra

Copyright 2013 by E. Lynn Hooghiemstra

Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Tales from the Fountain Pen

E. Lynn Hooghiemstra

For Grietje, and for Spencer

I carefully unscrew the old fountain pen and wait. In the sunlight streaming onto my desk I examine the antique. It was among my mother’s few prized possessions when she died. The shoe box clad in marble-paper had been placed by her bedside table with a note stating that I should have it upon her death.

As far as I can recall I have never seen her write with this pen. She preferred more modern ballpoints over what she called those messy old things that caused her so much trouble as a schoolgirl. She complained her fingers were always stained with ink because filling the little ink bladder was challenging, especially when it had to be done quickly in order to keep up with a dictation lesson. She claimed it leaked, and made her fingers cramp to even think of writing with it again.

But the pen tells a different story. Every time I unscrew the cap the pen tells me of her life.

First let me describe the pen before it takes over and moves my hand without my permission—though I suppose by the very act of opening the pen I give it permission. I let my curiosity get the better of me as I seek to know my mother through her scant possessions.

I can already feel the pen tugging at me so I shall hurry.

From what I can tell it is probably made of some kind of resin or early plastic, like Bakelite; modern plastics would not have been in general use in her childhood. It is a lovely old purple color, darker on the outside than under the cap, which screws securely into place over a well-preserved steel nib; at least I suspect it is steel but my knowledge of pens is limited.

I have carefully filled the little bladder with ink from an old bottle someone gave me once upon a time; an odd shade of faded brown meant to imply old.

If this relationship, for lack for a better word, is to persist, I shall have to give the pen fresh ink, high-quality ink. This pen seems to have a lot to say and many more lines to write with its distinct but soft scratching sound as an auditory guide through a hidden history.

Or perhaps the sound is the one connection I maintain to the present as the pen takes over, my one means of returning to my sunny office from wherever the pen takes me.

I feel a tugging at my hand, ink suddenly flows a little more abundantly, laying down the words almost in boldface.

The room dims and I am no longer aware that my hand keeps moving in a steady rhythm over the page. I can faintly hear the scratching sound, but I push it away, and focus on where I find myself.

There. I am in a city somewhere in the Netherlands, it’s raining and people are rushing to catch trams that crisscross the city at regular intervals.

Ducked into the collar of my damp coat I too make a run for a tram. This one is headed for a train station, I think. I look up at the clock tower in the distance and I can feel I am worried I won’t make the train that will get me home before the blackout curfew.

The heel of my shoe catches on the cobbles in the street, and almost sends me sprawling, but a hand grabs my elbow to steady me and I look up into a friendly face with blue eyes and blond hair, smiling at me. I almost return the smile before I see the uniform the young man is wearing; he is the enemy.

He is a member of the invaders who have occupied my country for the past year.

Though life pretty much progresses as normal, there are restrictions on our freedoms, and God only knows what they’ve done with those who resisted, or that kind Jewish family that used to run the grocery shop on Market Street in my village.

Instead I mumble a half-polite thank you and run faster toward my tram.

I tug at the strap of my school satchel and imagine I can feel my pen, a gift from my father when I started vocational college, rattling in the bottom of my rough leather satchel.

Just as the tram is about to pull away, I grab the outside pole and jump onto the little platform. Someone jumps on right behind me and I have a sickening feeling it’s the German soldier who kept me from falling.

An involuntary shiver runs through me, probably from the cold and damp. My coat is not really warm enough, but with shortages and rationing, I can’t get a new one. My mother is glad I have at least stopped growing, unlike my brother. How will we feed him if the shortages continue? she often wonders.

Hey, Maggie! a familiar voice calls through the nearly full tram. The windows are fogged over with condensation from all the rain-soaked passengers. A couple of little boys are playing tic-tac-toe, writing on the windows with their little fingers. Their tired mother looks on, her eyes unfocused as she stares at her children. Her look makes me wonder if perhaps she has lost someone dear to her in this war.

The thought renews my disgust and anger at the Germans.

"You have freund on tram, ja?" the soldier behind me says in a thick accent, a solicitous look on his face. He points in the direction of my friend.

Ja, I nod and try to move away from this boy in uniform. He can’t be much older than I am and I realize with a visceral discomfort that if he were not an enemy soldier I would find him attractive, and most likely go out dancing with him if he asked me.

Coming, I call out to my friend.

Without giving the soldier another glance I readjust my satchel and start to work my way toward my best friend, Siepie, and that empty seat she’s holding for me.

Hi, I say as I drop down next to her. What are you doing in Leeuwarden today?

Just running some errands…for a friend, she says; her eyes sparkle and her mouth curves into a mischievous grin, but only