The Letter

By April Barcalow

When a letter mistakenly makes its way to Elly’s door, an unlikely friendship grows between herself and a young stranger, Pieter. Pieter has recently lost his mother and Elly has always wished for a son–perhaps it was God’s will that they found one another. But over months of correspondence, Elly begins to suspect the truth about who Pieter is. She must find the courage to go on being a shining candle to the very man who holds the power to extinguish her light.

Pieter is at odds with himself, his family, and his nation. He is convinced that the only way to a strong and healthy Netherlands is through radical means. But Elly’s gentle guidance shows him a different way. When he finds himself at a crossroads, he must choose: will he save Elly, or hold fast to his ideals?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781304952950

Book preview

Chapter One

The wind blustered, and torrents of rain plastered Eleanor Berman’s hair to her face. She closed the door of the grocer’s shop, pushing hard against the gust that sought to wrench it from her hands. It was only early evening, but already the streets of Levendam were growing dark. Once, warm light would have splashed out onto the cobbled road from the apartment windows above. Now those same windows were draped in blackout fabric and wood scraps, nothing but empty rectangles gaping like open mouths. Here and there neighbors bustled in and out of stores, completing their shopping before curfew and hurrying home to prepare the evening meal.

A few children skipped rope and bounced balls along the sidewalk, apparently undeterred by the foul weather. It was good to see children still playing.

Turning the corner, she stopped abruptly at the sight of a poster in the shop window before her. The subject of the poster was a young man, smiling easily in the evening sunlight. He raised a pitchfork over his head and a stack of wheat towered above him, with many more in the background. A neat barracks lay nestled comfortably in the hills beyond. Emblazoned beneath the image were the words, Nederlandsche Arbeidsdienst, Dutch Labor Service.

Ach, she said under her breath. Such promises they make. It is no good. No good.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of many footsteps. Up and down the street, doors closed and neighbors scurried out of sight to the relative sanctuary of shops and homes. Elly found herself boxed in, a brick wall on one side and a fenced garden on the other. She pressed herself as close to the cold, wet bricks as she could just as the first officer reached her. He was so close; she could have reached out and slapped him, though she would never dare to do it. These foreigners and their nerve, running over the cities and towns of Holland as though they were somehow superior. And worse, fellow Dutchmen joining the Socialist party and turning against their own people… Elly could have screamed at the madness of it all.

Seeming almost oblivious to her presence, the German officer marched past with arms swinging stiffly at his sides. Fifty or so men followed suit, goose stepping down the center of the street. Their woolen fatigues were beaded with rain droplets. In spite of her anger, cold fear gripped her stomach and constricted her throat. She barely dared to breathe until they had passed.

After what felt an eternity, she watched them disappear around the next corner, the sound of their boots heard long after they had faded from view, echoing off of the surrounding buildings. It made it seem as though there were hundreds of them marching down the streets of Levendam. Perhaps there were.

Elly shivered and covered the last block of her journey as quickly as possible. She pushed open the heavy blue-painted shop door. Glad to be back in the safety of home, she peeled off her drenched coat and hat, and patted her hair, as though any amount of primping could help the mess of soggy grey curls that hung about her shoulders.

Ah, it’s good you are back, Elly, came her husband’s voice from behind the counter. This weather is not fit for being out.

Elly nodded grimly, tying an apron over her wet dress. She joined him behind the counter and stood on tiptoe to kiss his whiskered cheek. He patted her shoulder affectionately.

This came for you earlier, he said after a moment.

For me? Elly took the letter he extended to her.

It had been badly affected by the day’s weather. The address had been washed away, leaving behind a circle of bluish ink and only three letters barely legible, Mvr. Mrs. The green Nederland postage stamp clung loosely to the damp corner of the paper. Miraculously, the only portion that seemed unaffected by water was the red ink reading, Censuur Gepasseerd, Passed Censorship. Elly cringed and shook her head, then shrugged.

I just hope the inside fared better than the outside! Do you mind if I take a moment to read it before I join you?

"Of course, Liefje, of course. Bring some tea when you come back, ja?"

Elly smiled at his familiar term of endearment, Little Dear, and nodded as she left the room. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove to heat before carefully opening the soggy envelope. Thankfully, the contents had been mostly spared from water damage.

My dear friend,

I write to you today from the province of Utrecht. My travels have taken me many places in the past weeks, but I hope to stay here at least a while.  I include my new address in the post-script.

How has this autumn treated you? Have you fared well? What of your garden; have you harvested the things you hoped to grow? I often think of your eyes and how they would light up as you described the dreams you had for your beds.

I had such plans for a visit, but now it appears they were all for naught. It seems my work will keep me quite occupied—and, what’s worse, quite far from you. This is very sad, indeed. I could use your warm coffee and a slice of that wonderful bread you make. Of course, I would bring you all the latest news and regards from all your friends I’ve seen along the way. When last I saw my father, he asked that I give you his love as well. I will confess to you that he is not the same since Moeder is gone, but then you knew that. None of us are the same without her. I am sure you miss her as we do.

I am afraid I must leave you, dear lady, after just a short note this time. I look forward to hearing from you at the earliest opportunity.

Yours,

Pieter V.

The whistle of the kettle startled Elly. Shaking her head, she stood and removed the pot, pouring its contents into the two cups on the table next to her.

Pieter? She wondered aloud. I do not know any such Pieter.

She picked up the envelope, turning it over and over in her hands. There was no way to read the address to know its intended destination. She scanned the letter again. No clue as to the person for whom it had been written. Finally, Elly sighed, setting the letter aside to carry the cups of tea back to the shop and her waiting husband.

Was it a good letter, my dear? he asked as she handed him a steaming mug.

It was strange, at least. Do we know of a Pieter with surname beginning of V?

Pieter V? No, no such Pieter. Well, there was the butcher’s boy—he was Piet Vermeulen, ja? Syberen paused and shook his head. Ah, no, that is no good. He has been gone now for the past year. All the others have different surnames.

I thought that was the case. My letter was from a Pieter, but I think it must have come to the wrong place.

Well, you can speak to the postman tomorrow. I’m sure he will straighten it out.

Yes, this is good. I will speak to him tomorrow.

Elly turned to the shelves in the shop. She would need to work quickly to close up for the night before making dinner. She dusted the wooden blocks, stacking them into a pyramid shape when she had finished. She cleaned a set of nesting dolls and carefully brushed off a tiny china tea set. It was her favorite item in the store, imported from Delft just before the Occupation. She had always wanted a set like it for herself, and the miniaturized version made her smile. Each piece was beautifully hand-painted with tiny blue windmills and perfect flowers on glossy white porcelain. Her husband had felt it extravagant when she pressed him to order it. You will see, Syberen, she had insisted, Someone will want it. This will be perfect for just the right child and you will be glad you let me talk you into it.

She hoped she was right. It seemed impossible to imagine anyone purchasing such a frivolous item now. The Occupation had changed everything. She thought again of the children she had seen playing in the streets. It had been so good to hear their laughter. How she loved children.

She sighed as she turned from the china pieces. For what seemed the thousandth time, she wondered how it would have been to hear the laughter of children in her own home. To scoop a little one up into her lap, singing and rocking him to sleep. But it was not to be. Those years had long passed and with them, the dream of a family. The laughter that filled these walls came instead from children staring with wonder at the toys on display in the little shop.

Her mind returned to the mysterious letter. The sender had spoken of travels and of gardening. He had mentioned his mother. Had she passed recently? He seemed to feel the loss acutely. Her heart went out to him, a stranger.

Syberen, she called from the shop window, what if I wrote to him?

What are you talking about, El? Who is this you are writing?

The young man—Pieter. What if I wrote him back?

"Ach, it