The Rise of Dirck Becker: Amsterdam Trilogy, Book Three

By Judith K. White

Book Three of

Amsterdam Trilogy

While following his obsessive search for an intriguing orphan girl he met ten years earlier, a seventeenth-century Dutch youth struggles with a mystifying, rare, natural gift. Will he use it to improve the world, or for personal gain? Will his revelation of the gift endear him to Nelleke or frighten her away?

Praise for Amsterdam Trilogy

Book One

The Seventh Etching

Thrillinggrippingblends the detective, the dramatic, and the historical as it whisks the reader through one year of an obsessive, fast-paced quest for a missing, playfully sensual work of art in seventeenth-century Amsterdam. Lodewijk J. Wagenaar, University of Amsterdam, former curator of The Amsterdam Museum.

Book Two

The New Worlds of Isabela Caldern

If a trilogy can be compared to a symphony, this second movement flows like an andante cantabile. It develops multiple themes in different parts of the seventeenth-century world and weaves them beautifully together. The rhythm is mesmerizing,and the images of various cultures impinging on each other are wondrous,clear, and precise, like the Dutch paintings of those times. Maarten de Haan, CEO and founder of Opternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491798546

Judith K. White

Judith Kline White came of age in rural Ohio and earned degrees at both Oberlin College and Ohio State University. Her adult life includes extended periods in Central and South America, as well as Amsterdam. A lifelong lover of language, Judith is fluent in French and Spanish and conversant in Dutch, which she regularly refreshes during visits to The Netherlands. Her careers span linguist, educator, entrepreneur, and nonprofit fundraiser, including Peace Corps volunteer and trainer; founder, Foreign Language for Young Children; co-founder/co-director, Global Child, Inc.; and director of development, Latin American Health Institute. Her previous publications include Phrase-a-Day Series for Children in French, Spanish, and English; Amsterdam Trilogy, Book I, The Seventh Etching; Book II, The New Worlds of Isabela Calderon; and Book III, The Rise of Dirck Becker. With her husband, Allen L. White, she published a memoir, Autumns of Our Joy: A Tale of Romance, Stem Cells, and Rebirth. Mother of three grown children and grandmother of three, Judith lives with her husband, Allen L. White, in Brookline, Massachusetts, and St. Augustine / Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida. The Carving is her first collection of short fiction.

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Copyright © 2016 Judith White.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-9853-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9854-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016909747

iUniverse rev. date: 07/18/2016

Contents

Dedication

Prologue: Love or Carnage?

PART I

Chapter One: A Vow

Chapter Two: Breakthrough

Chapter Three: Away

Chapter Four: A Journal of Her Own

Chapter Five: A Pleasant Delay

Chapter Six: Arrival

Chapter Seven: Exploration

Chapter Eight: Masquerade

Chapter Nine: Isabela’s Attic

Chapter Ten: A Secret Shared

Chapter Eleven: A Name Recalled

Chapter Twelve: Stradwijk

Chapter Thirteen: Treasure and Loss

Chapter Fourteen: Up Close

Chapter Fifteen: A Journal Named

Chapter Sixteen: Wins and Losses

PART II

Chapter Seventeen: Amsterdam, Winter of 1654

Chapter Eighteen: Ice and Grace

Chapter Nineteen: Strangers

Chapter Twenty: Shared Focus

Chapter Twenty-One: Surviving

Chapter Twenty-Two: Challenge and Change

Chapter Twenty-Three: Passage

Chapter Twenty-Four: Abandoning Zazah

Chapter Twenty-Five: Another Aborted Attempt

Chapter Twenty-Six: Tempting Opportunity

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Intention Revealed

Chapter Twenty-Eight: En Route

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Guessing Game

Chapter Thirty: Deadly Infection

Chapter Thirty-One: A Successful Clue

PART III

Chapter Thirty-Two: Ultimate Sacrifice

Chapter Thirty-Three: Four Surprises

Chapter Thirty-Four: Settling In

Chapter Thirty-Five: Venom

Chapter Thirty-Six: Discovery

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Frustrating Delay

Chapter Thirty-Eight: A New Threat

Chapter Thirty-Nine: As Planned

Chapter Forty: Double Shock

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Discussion Questions for Readers of The Rise of Dirck Becker

Excerpt From The Seventh Etching: Book One of Amsterdam Trilogy

Excerpt From The New Worlds of Isabela Calderón: Book Two of Amsterdam Trilogy

About the Author

Dedication

To my late sister, Betty Lynn Trimble,

for her capacity to give and to love.

Prologue

Love or Carnage?

Dirck Becker

Ouderkerk

The Dutch Republic

August, 1652

D irck awakens with the same two memories which have haunted him for weeks. Even after a night’s rest, before opening his eyes he can feel his heart beating faster. He can taste the dust. It’s as if it were yesterday, not nine years ago.

In the first memory, with all the force of his eleven-year-old legs, he chases a rickety two-wheeled wagon being pulled away by a single horse. A little girl bounces as she tries to steady herself by holding on to the wagon’s back wooden plank. Facing him, acknowledging his futile effort to keep up, she waves energetically. At first her small arm makes a rapid, wide arc back and forth like a pendulum. As the carriage moves farther away from him, her silent waving changes to an urgent full circle. Little girl as human windmill. That is his last image of her.

The carriage hits a bump. The little girl falls backward, into the wagon. He can no longer even see the wagon. He stops running, catches his breath, stands looking at the rutted, empty road minutes longer, and turns toward home.

The second memory is simply a voice. The voice of Uncle Adam. Words spoken the one and only time he met this uncle. Last month. At his father’s funeral. Learn to read, son. Somehow, somewhere, learn to read.

* * *

Katje Broekhof

Heerengracht

Amsterdam

Same morning

"Oh, my sweet, new, pretty doll, do you like the name I’m giving you? From now on, I’m calling you Dolly Femke. Did you sleep well? I can’t tell. Your eyes never close. A doll’s eyes are always the same, staring straight ahead. I want to ask you something this morning. Are you ever sad because you have no brothers or sisters? Here, let me hold you. Don’t cry. I’ll share mine with you … I have two brothers and two sisters. It sounds simple, but it’s not. My brothers are older. They’re usually at school or studying or out with their friends. Or skating on the ice, maybe.

My sisters, well, they’re both older than me too. One of them even had parents before Mama and Papa. I can’t imagine having four parents. Can you, Dolly Femke? Nelleke’s parents died and she came to live with us. She’s lucky. She has all the aunts and uncles and cousins we Broekhofs have, but also some that are only hers. She even has her own brother—Jacob, who is not MY brother, and her cousin Willem, who is not MY cousin.

I say all my brothers and sisters are older than I am, but here’s something I don’t understand. If your sister was born before you, that makes her older than you, right? But what if she died before you were even born? Catharina died when she was three. I’m now nine. Doesn’t that make her my younger sister?

I’d like to ask Mama that question. ‘Aren’t I Catharina’s older sister now, Mama?’ But I don’t ask her. She gets too sad when I ask her about Catharina. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for my big-little sister to go to bed one night and wake up dead. That must have been so scary for her.

Here, Dolly Femke, put your head on my pillow. I’ll hold you tighter. Don’t be afraid. Every night I pray I won’t wake up dead. Even if Jesus is there. I want to be with Mama and Papa. I don’t know Jesus that well. He’s never been a parent either. How does he know how to care for a little girl like me?

Well, as Nelleke might shout or sing, sometimes in a loud voice that Mama says is … inappropriate, ‘Life is too full of surprises not to wake up happy.’

But not all surprises are good ones, are they, Dolly Femke? You must have been pretty sad when Catharina died. After all, you two played together for three whole years. You belonged to Nelleke for a short while too, after that, didn’t you? But Nelleke prefers live things. That doesn’t mean you’re dead, Dolly Femke. It means you’re not real. I know that. I just pretend.

* * *

Nelleke Broekhof

Same morning

Same Amsterdam house

Different room

At the first hint of sunlight, Nelleke sits upright and throws off the coverlet, knocking to the carpet the manuscripts which absorbed her attention only a few hours earlier. Taking no time to pick up the books or tidy the bed, she runs to the window. She gasps with delight at what she sees, returns to grab one of the notebooks at the foot of her bed, and arranges a set of quill pens on a small table below the window ledge.

This is a wonder of nature and she is determined to continue documenting every second of it. Yet she must balance her voracious need to understand every aspect of this spider’s life with the fears of her household. Katje would scream and run if she caught sight of a spider—even though it was safely outside the window.

If the housekeeper were to notice, she would open the window, crush the spider with her broom, and sweep away the painstakingly constructed web. So frightened are they of deadly spider bites, she dares not alert anyone in her household to the spider’s proximity. Although she is bursting to share the wonders of what she has so closely watched, she will have to wait until Willem’s next visit. Only her cousin has the patience to listen to the fascinating details she collects daily and sometimes hourly.

Days before, the spider spun its web in a corner of the outside window ledge overlooking the Heerengracht. Imagine being able to build a perfect lair in only 1½ hours, she wrote. Using building materials from your own abdomen! Threads of silvery silk. Gorgeous!

In order to get a good view of this scene without distracting the spider, Nelleke must kneel or crouch. Repeatedly, she slowly stretches upwards to observe its activity through the window, and then gently bends her knees and leans over the table to record what she has seen.

Previously she wrote: A spider has eight legs, not six, like most insects. They have no antennae or wings, but they do have something powerful—jaws that deliver a poisonous bite. Their bodies are divided into two parts, separated by a slender waist.

Now she adds: Insects are self-protective. They hide in out-of-the-way places. At the same time one is observing and writing, one must be careful not to frighten the object of one’s investigation. Spiders have poor vision, but they are very sensitive to movement. Scientific inquiry can be awkward and leave you sore all over. One must sometimes twist one’s body into unaccustomed positions and even lie flat on the ground. The rewards of doing so, however, are enormous!

Nelleke puts down the quill pen and stretches slowly upwards. Remember to rise stealthily, she whispers to herself.

What she sees takes her breath away. She dares not return to the table to record her observations and she is afraid she will not be able to memorize it all. On her knees, holding herself rigidly, she can barely contain her excitement. The spider has a visitor—maybe even a suitor?

‘This is mesmerizing,’ she thinks, trying to still the sound of her own breathing. ‘How did he find her, all tucked into the corner of my windowsill? I’ve already seen her attack and feast on non-spider insects. I think she may not have eaten since yesterday evening. He’s smaller than she is. Won’t she attack him too? She’s used to living alone. And she doesn’t see well. How does she know he’s not her breakfast? That his visit may be more significant than trapping her next meal?’

Nelleke’s fingers itch to be writing, but she holds her hands tight against her sides, imagining what she will record as soon as she can safely lower herself below the sill.

‘He seems to be signaling. He’s letting her know he’s a fellow spider. He tugs on the web and shakes it a little as he makes his way toward her, reaching forward with his long, slender legs. She’s perfectly still … waiting … for what? It’s hard to tell if she’s unaware of his approach or if she’s playing coy and ignorant, gaining his confidence before she chooses to either cooperate with his plan, or pounce.’

PART I

Chapter One

A Vow

Two years later.

D irck kept his eyes closed as long as he dared and clung to his early morning reveries. His uncle’s voice—Learn to read, son. Those memories of the little orphan girl. Was she real? Or did he make her up? No, she really did spend an afternoon on their farm. He was certain. With little effort, he could recall every word she had uttered, see every facial expression. When, through the years, Dirck had asked Sebastiaan if he remembered her too, Sebastiaan responded in his mocking, crude way: Still got a hard-on for that little blondie, huh, Dirck? Must be them big, dark eyes o’ hers.

‘She’s probably about seventeen now, old enough to leave the orphanage,’ Dirck mused. ‘Maybe she’s married, maybe with a little babe who looks like her.’ It frustrated him so that no one in his family remembered her name.

Poor little thing, his mother would say if he asked. Didn’t know where she was headed. Had I known, I would have kept her myself.

Dirck knew exactly what he would see when he opened his eyes and there was nothing that enticed him to wake fully. The same single room he’d lived in his entire twenty years. Only, dingier and dustier than in his childhood. The same utensils. Only, more worn and cracked. One clay pitcher with a piece of the lip missing. You had to hold it to one side to get a straight stream or risk losing precious milk. One jug with ladle. One large bottle for storing beer. In fact, he mused, only one of almost everything they used each day.

A broom whose few bristles were ever less effective, if it was used at all. A large tin bucket for hauling out ashes. A covered urn for storing wheat. The large kitchen knife they sometimes couldn’t locate, fallen behind their only barrel or wedged under the platter they all three ate from. The large bowl that held rising dough. The large cooking pot that was used to send steam into the room all day, along with the enticing smell of a delicious supper.

A rickety chair and a bread basket hanging on a wall hook above a table made of crude, uneven planks. As the older brother and now owner of the humble farm, Sebastiaan always claimed that chair. The primitive crutch their father used during his last year of life still leaned against the wall. Absent was the clay vase their mother used for wildflowers—broken the day she died and never replaced.

After Dirck forced his eyes open, his glance alighted first on a small wooden box on a high shelf. It used to hold a few coins, but he knew it was empty now. Having no coins at all in the house seemed downright unsafe, even dangerous. What could he do about that, he wondered.

At least there were enough wooden spoons and bowls so that he, his brother, and sister-in-law did not have to take turns eating soup. Nearly every day the same cabbage-and-onion concoction, occasionally with pieces of pigeon floating in it. Sebastiaan always drank his soup in one gulp, anyway. Although they kept a small supply of candles, they burned only one at a time. Cheap candles that left layers of soot. A few three-legged stools were scattered around, but Dirck usually ate sitting on his low cot, his bent knees reaching his ears. Dirck remembered that during his childhood, all five family members slept in their only bed. As he, his brother, and his sister grew, his father had constructed simple cots for them.

The odors coming from the bed next to his cot drove his eyes open and his body up. If Dirck had known the word ironic, he would have applied it to the name of his sister-in-law. Rose smelled nothing like a flower. Her unpleasant scent reached every corner of the room and even lingered beyond the doorway and around the shed.

He did not remember his mother or sister smelling so bad, but he suppressed thoughts of his little sister. After his parents died, his aunt came all the way from Friesland to get her. A little girl should not live alone with two big, older brothers, the aunt said. Besides, we got plenty of work to keep her busy. His sister, ten then, cried and clung to Dirck, but he sensed the aunt was right. He wrapped up two of the remaining six pewter beer mugs his parents received as a wedding present decades earlier and put them in her arms. To remember us by, he said, giving her one last hug and kiss.

Sebastiaan was furious when he found out. As the oldest son, he said—(that was his favorite expression)—I inherited those beer mugs. You had no right to give them away to anybody. Sebastiaan must have hidden the remaining four mugs or sold them. Dirck never saw them again.

The two fish Dirck caught yesterday afternoon lay on the table. Their eyes and mouths were open as if they were shocked to find themselves one minute happily swimming in the river, the next lifted from their home and, after a hammer slam to the head, dead, waiting to be scaled, fried, and devoured. Dirck took two steps to chase the cat off the table. Every time she gave birth to kittens, his brother drowned them. Dirck suggested they keep one kitten in case they suddenly lost their aging cat.

Nah, his brother answered without explanation.

Rose did arrive with some assets, though. A rolling pin, for one thing. When Dirck saw it, he picked several tin buckets of fresh berries. She immediately made two pies, but no matter how often he gave her berries after that, she never made another. She also brought wooden goblets some relative gave her on her wedding day. And the most important item: a spinning wheel, along with the knowledge of how to use it. Last fall she spent hours each day spinning wool and knitting scarves, capes, and caps for Sebastiaan and Dirck. He was so grateful for the extra warmth, he was willing to forgive her stench and the rooting and grunting sounds coming from the couple’s bed most nights.

It took him a while to understand how Rose’s large girth could expand every day. Not until he noticed her spending more and more time knitting small blankets, did he understand. Sometimes his own naiveté irritated him.

He dared not point out to his brother that he was soon to become a father. Did he even know? Neither Sebastiaan nor Rose mentioned it. How could they feed a growing child? Where would it sleep? Play? Dirck’s suggestion to Sebastiaan that Dirck build himself a small sleeping space up against the shed was met with the usual scornful Nah. Accompanied this time with an explanation: Can’t spare the timber.

Dirck pulled himself up from the cot, tiptoed to the other side of the room, broke off a piece of bread, and cut a bite of cheese. Before going outside, he inspected the flour supply. Only a few cupsful left, not enough to make a loaf large enough for the three of them. Why didn’t Rose mention they were low on flour?

When Dirck stepped outside to feed the ducks and chickens, he discovered six eggs. Four eggs were enough to trade for two kilos of flour. That empty wooden box high on the shelf haunted him, though. Not a single coin in the house? Perhaps he could sell the other two eggs.

He set to work weeding the cabbages, carrots, and turnips. Best to do that work early, before the sun was too high.

When he spotted Sebastiaan stretching in the doorway, he called to him: Going to trade the eggs for flour, Seb. I’ll patch that spot on the roof when I get back.

Dirck braced himself for the usual Nah. But they both seemed to realize that Dirck had used a new approach. He wasn’t suggesting. He wasn’t asking permission. He was stating his intention. Sebastiaan responded with a mild look of surprise, turned his back, and disappeared into the darkness of the cottage.

Throughout his teens, Dirck had hoped to grow enough to reach his brother’s height—or even surpass it. Now he realized he never would, that Sebastiaan would continue to flaunt his height and broad shoulders. Shrimp, Sebastiaan would sometimes suddenly say over his shoulder. The Shrimp and Nah comments increased, Dirck noticed, after Rose moved in. And the quick Nah Dirck was accustomed to hearing was sharper and delivered with a snarl if Dirck’s suggestion involved Rose in some way.

Rose has a gift for making warm garments, Seb. Maybe she could make some to sell. We could use the extra money.

Nah. Rose has enough duties around here.

‘Yes,’ Dirck thought, but did not say, ‘she has duties, all right, but she mostly sits around swatting flies. And I suppose you don’t notice, Sebastiaan, that your wife was happiest at her wheel? She doesn’t even spin anymore. Just keeps knitting those small blankets and booties and making a futile effort to fight flying insects.’

* * *

The nearest windmill was a kilometer away. Dirck could see the upper half of it in the distance, turning, signaling that wheat was being ground. He put an empty sack over his shoulder and wrapped the eggs carefully in the burlap shirt that came to his knees. He tied the shirt and, holding the bundle in one arm, walked slowly so as not to jostle his fragile cargo.

Good day, Mr. Gerritson, Dirck said cheerfully.

He usually completed his errand quickly and returned home. Today he lingered and looked around at the farm, not a lot larger than the Becker farm, but so much neater. Garden vegetables arranged in careful rows—not haphazardly. Farm tools lined up in one spot where the roof overhung—not left to rust wherever they were last used.

Four eggs for two kilos, Mr. Gerritson, Dirck said with his newfound mild assertiveness.

All his life his sentences had sounded like questions. During the walk to the windmill he had practiced different ways of saying those words. The old way would have seemed hesitant and given the listener too much leeway to say no. He turned over the four chicken eggs and watched the mill owner place a standard weight on one side of the balance.

Dirck could not read words, but he did know some numbers. He knew up to ten, in fact—the highest number his only teacher—his mother—knew. He was momentarily distracted when Mrs. Gerritson waved from the doorway. A slight, pretty woman, she had not yet put on the customary tight bonnet. Her blond hair was visible and arranged in a neat bun.

When a ray of sun reached her, he was reminded of the first time he saw the little orphan girl. The noon sun shone down on her, creating a halo effect. Dirck had stopped to stare. ‘God has sent me an angel to play with,’ he remembered thinking. Perhaps he still believed that. But why? And why for that one afternoon only?

After nodding and bowing slightly to the golden-haired Mrs. Gerritson, he turned back to the brass scale. He never paid much attention before. He usually waited while the miller filled his sack, or he exchanged a few words with the missus. For the first time he noticed something awry. The tray on the right held the usual round black weight with the number two clearly visible. That was correct. But the bowl in which Mr. Gerritson was pouring the flour was also being weighed, wasn’t it? Once the two trays were in balance, the miller usually emptied the bowl into Dirck’s bag. In fact, he was already doing that.

Excuse me, Mr. Gerritson. Would you please weigh the bowl without the flour in it?

Sure enough, the bowl was quite heavy. The balance tray on which it sat was certainly not even with the round weight on the other side of the scale, yet when completely empty the bowl was being used to balance that side.

The miller said nothing, but Dirck sensed some reluctance on his part as he poured the flour from Dirck’s sack back on the tray and then added more flour until the two trays were in balance. The bowl was completely unnecessary. The tray was deep and could be tipped to pour directly into the sack. Dirck figured that without that bowl weighing down the scale, he had gained four more cups—enough for one entire loaf of bread or several blackberry pies.

‘Has this been happening all my life?’ Dirck asked himself as he said good-bye. The sack felt heavier than at any time in the past. How many loaves of bread could they have made all these years with that missing quantity? He realized with a jolt how damaging his ignorance was. What else was he missing? It was too easy to cheat someone who could not read. Mr. Gerritson apparently assumed Dirck could not read numbers either, and that he was probably not very intelligent.

Then and there, he made a vow to himself. ‘From now on, I’m going to be more alert. What’s more, I’m going to do whatever it takes to educate myself.

‘I sure would like another look at that comely Mrs. Gerritson, though,’ he thought as he put one foot in front of the other. ‘But it’s strange, isn’t it, that she always seems to be only a few feet away whenever I’m there? And what about the absence of a bonnet? To see a woman’s uncovered hair gleaming like that is unusual … and unsettling, I have to admit. Did the couple have an agreement? Was Mrs. Gerritson there to deliberately distract me? To keep me from noticing what I now know was her husband’s stealing?’

Taking advantage of any guilt the miller might feel, Dirck turned back. I’d like to sell these two duck eggs, he said, feeling disappointed the wife had gone back inside.

The miller agreed to the exchange and added the eggs to a sizeable collection in a basket next to the scale.

‘He already has six chickens of his own,’ Dirck thought, ‘as well as two ducks. What will he do with all those eggs? Sell them in the village? For maybe twice as much as the two coins he placed in my outstretched palm?’

Duck eggs, Dirck said in a kindly way, as if he were giving a gentle reminder. Larger than chicken eggs.

He kept his palm outstretched and gave the miller an encouraging nod. The miller said nothing and did not smile or nod, but he did hand over a third coin.

All the way home, those coins made a soft, playful jingling sound in Dirck’s pocket. As if they were teasing. As if they were saying, There are more of us coins out there, Dirck. Come find us.

That night when he dropped two of the coins in the wooden box and replaced the lid, he noticed the burlap-wrapped package next to it. Although he hadn’t glanced at it for years, he knew what was inside. The only book he had ever seen.

Dirck unwrapped the burlap and blew the dust off the Bible’s cover. He studied a few pages and stared at the indecipherable letters. Letters that formed words. Words that ended in a point. Words arranged in blocks. He thought the Bible contained nothing but words, but now he noticed numbers. Numbers everywhere. Each block had its own number. What’s more, each page had a number at the bottom. He took the book outside, sat on the stoop, and began with the first page, quietly saying out loud to himself, One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He turned to the last page in the Bible: 293. He could say two, nine, three, but was that correct or did numbers grouped together like that have a name of their own?

* * *

The following Sunday, Dirck casually announced to Sebastiaan that he was walking to the village to attend church.

Our family’s gotten along fine without no preacher tellin’ us what to do and not to do, Sebastiaan grumbled. He took a sip of beer from one of Rose’s wooden goblets. We got everythin’ we need. We Beckers take care of ourselves.

Dirck knew that was not true. He saw enough on his walks to and from the windmill to realize he and his brother were among the shabbiest families in the area. What allowed them to get along as well as they did was their proximity to the river. During the worst of times, fish kept them alive. He noticed two years ago, though, how important it was to know your neighbors, to team up with the neighbors when the floods came. Once, their cottage almost floated away. Yet they still rarely mixed with any other family. God had not blessed them with his bounty. Attending church might draw God’s attention. God might show him another way to live.

But trying to impress God was not Dirck’s main purpose for attending church. Seated on a bench in the back with his cap in his hands, he listened intently to the prayers, to the hymns, to everything the preacher said, to every word he read from the Bible.

One passage alarmed Dirck: "And the men said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides thy son in law, and thy sons, and thy daughters, and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring them out of this place: For we will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the LORD; and the LORD hath sent us to destroy it. And Lot went out, and spake unto his sons in law, which married his daughters, and said, Up, get you out of this place; for the LORD will destroy this city. But he seemed as one that mocked unto his sons in law."

After the preacher read the passage a second time, in an even more dramatic tone, Dirck realized he could repeat it in his own mind. Every word, exactly as the preacher had said it.

He cast his gaze around at the gathered farmers and village families. ‘Are they all walking around with the preacher’s words stuck in their heads?’ He tried it again and again, and was always able to recall every word, as if hearing the preacher’s voice.

Dirck felt guilty, staying away from his farm chores for so long, but he needed to seize this chance. He waited until the preacher greeted everyone else, and then approached in his shy way.

Reverend, sir, he began—but which of his many questions should he pose first?

May I ask … could you please tell me … on what page in the Bible these words are found?

Dirck startled the preacher by reciting the entire passage flawlessly and in the same tone the preacher used. It was if the preacher heard his own voice echoing back to him. The preacher had assumed the youth was illiterate. He was vaguely aware of the Becker family and the way they mostly stayed to themselves. Yet the youth must have read the passage many times to be able to repeat it so effortlessly.

No, Reverend, I cannot read, he answered when the preacher asked, but I do know some numbers. That’s why I’d like to know … if you can tell me … I’d like to know on what page of the Bible those words appear.

Come with me, the preacher said as he led Dirck back into the church. The church’s worn Bible was still on the lectern, open to the passage.

Here it is, the preacher said, Genesis 19. The Destruction of Sodom. You seem to have memorized verses 12, 13, and 14 in their entirety. They’re found on page seventeen.

Verses 12, 13, and 14? Dirck asked.

Yes. Here, the preacher answered.

Dirck followed the authoritative finger as it rested on the words. Genesis. The Destruction of Sodom. Then, on the numbers 19, 12, 13, 14. When the preacher ended by pointing out the number 17 at the bottom of the page, it felt to Dirck as if a new world suddenly cracked open and invited him in.

May I? he asked, to be sure it was really this easy.

Dirck repeated the preacher’s gestures and words. He had just added five numbers and five words to his reading knowledge. When the stunned preacher patted him on the back and nodded, Dirck thanked him, ran out of the church, and continued running the whole three kilometers to the humble family cottage.

The expression on Sebastiaan’s face told him he’d better see to his chores immediately. He was out of breath, though, and his throat was dry. He slunk inside for a sip of beer and afterwards got to work. The chores were mechanical by now—mend the fishing net, milk the cow, churn the butter. Butter churning had always been women’s work, but Rose was too large to turn the stick around the butter urn. She’d turn it a few times, abandon the task, and fall down on her bed. Soon her snores filled the room, and Sebastiaan would point silently with his chin, directing Dirck to take over the task.

Dirck would have preferred to escape Sebastiaan’s sneers and mocking comments—Found the Lord all of a sudden, have you? If you’re set on prayin’, ask for some rain, why don’t you? Hah!—but Dirck was too impatient and there was no place to hide. As soon as he dared, he lowered the Bible from its abandoned resting place, sat in the front doorway in the remaining daylight, and turned to page seventeen. There they were. Those same five numbers and five words he learned earlier in the day.

Now for that daunting block of words numbered 12, 13, and 14. Slowly, in a whisper, he repeated to himself the memorized passage. He easily matched the first three written words with the spoken ones—And the men … And the men—and continued on whispering and matching. Said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides thy son in law, and thy sons, and thy …. The next word gave him pause. Were so many letters necessary for daughters? Or had he already lost his way in the text? "… and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring them out of this place." That last part was right, he was sure.

He had successfully read all of verse 12. He would save verses 13 and 14 for the next night, confident that the entire passage would remain in his mind. He moved to page one of the Bible and again read the page numbers he knew. He skipped over the unknown number eleven and continued to the page numbers he had learned that day—twelve, thirteen, and fourteen. He realized there was a pattern in some of the numbers. Perhaps five teen, six teen, seven teen, eight teen? he speculated, before arriving confidently at nine teen.

He was impatient to ask the preacher—or perhaps the miller or his missus—about twenty, twenty-one, and the other numbers. He had heard about zero. So, did those numbers also follow a pattern? Could they be two zero, two one, two three, and so on? He was burning to find out, but night had fallen. He carried the candle into the cottage, shut the door, and sank onto his cot.

The next night, comparing his memory of the spoken language with the written words, he was able to read verses 13 and 14. He would have to wait until he had an opportunity the following Sunday to memorize the spoken words of the following passage in order to teach himself to read further. But he did try. He saw familiar words in verse 15: Lot and daughters again. He lingered over wife and struggled with iniquity. ‘I’ll have to ask the preacher how to pronounce it and what it means.’

By now, his curiosity about reading the words extended to the story itself. Why is the Lord about to destroy the city? Why do the sons-in-law not take the danger seriously? Will the Lord follow through on his threat? What will happen to the people if their city is in ruins? Will Lot and his family be saved?

Chapter Two

Breakthrough

T he following Sunday Dirck again rushed through early morning chores and walked to the church. Although he referred to the area as the village, it was really little more than a cluster of five cottages around a small dirt plaza. Like the homes, the church was made of wood. The heavy, crude cross which once jutted from the roof now leaned against the front wall—knocked to the ground in a recent storm and not yet repositioned. When Dirck entered, the preacher was beginning to read another Bible passage. The preacher interrupted his reading long enough to nod at Dirck and allow him to slip into a bench.

Dirck listened intently, hoping he would learn what happened to Lot’s threatened city. To his delight, the preacher resumed where he’d stopped the previous week.

I am reading from Genesis, chapter 19, the preacher called out. Page seventeen in your Bibles. Verses 15 to 23, he announced before counting slowly and clearly as if emphasizing each number.

‘Was that counting for my benefit?’ Dirck asked himself, feeling foolish but also exhilarated. ‘I’ve learned four new numbers and I guessed right. There is a pattern. I didn’t have the