Villi Asgeirsson

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19 February 1916, 8:07 A.M. – a short story

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The distant rumble of bombs and artillery never seems to stop. Every moment of every day, it penetrates my mind. I have been at the front for almost three months and it’s driven me insane.

Sleep didn’t come this night. What good would that do, anyway? While insomnia allows me to experience life, for as long as that lasts, it gives me no pleasure. It’s dark and cold here. What day is it anyway? 12th of February, I think. I’m not sure. I fear the dawn. It will arrive too soon.

I tried to count the days as I lay awake. 19 years, five months and sixteen days have I been in this world. Should I count the seventeenth day? Tomorrow? 365 times nineteen, add the leap years, I lost count. Try it again. There is nothing else to do.

I tried to look at the photo in my hand, tried to see her face as she smiled at me. Does she worry about me? How will she react when she hears the news after tomorrow? Will she cry? I wish I could hold her in my arms. That’s all I wanted. I wanted to get away, get back to her. Have a normal life, away from this madness.

Will she find someone else? 

Dear mom. I’m trying to read the letter you sent two weeks ago, but it’s too dark in here. You were so proud when you saw me in uniform, said I was a real man now. It doesn’t feel like it. The uniform turned me into a monster, not a man. Running away was me trying to get away from this hell, I don’t want to turn into them. There is no sanity in the trenches, just madness. Grown men cry. There is nothing but noise, mud, insanity and death. I was fully expecting to die here, but wasn’t it supposed to be a German shell or a bullet? It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

I see the faint glow on the dirty window above me. I would welcome it, but this dawn brings no sunshine, no warmth, no future. I read the letter again. Posted two weeks ago, but they only gave it to me three days ago. I almost didn’t get to see it. Who knows what else I will miss? Charlie is doing well in school, father had the flu but is getting better. Grandma is worried, but assures me we’ll meet again. Poor soul. I hope she won’t be too sad.

Mr Gilbert also sent a letter a while ago, saying he looked forward to seeing his boy again. Hopefully soon. The bookshop is doing well, considering everything, and he hopes his apprentice comes back shortly to pick up where he left off. He says war makes no sense, the only one I ever heard talk against it. I wish I could walk in through those doors now, smell the old books, wish I could complain about how early in the morning it is and how I don’t want to end up listening to wannabe poets that hang around all day, hoping to gain inspiration by being surrounded by old books, and lonely women looking for fantasy romances as they have none in their lives. I miss Mr Gilbert and would give up everything to be there now, to be tired and grumpy, arranging Shakespeare in chronological order again. I wish my life was boring, as it used to be.

The first rays of the sun light up the dirty glass in the window. They are late. Have they changed their mind? Have they pardoned me? I jump up on the bed to see the outside world. The dead trees, the wet ground. I hear them. Footsteps coming my way. I jump down from the bed, so they won’t think I was running away again. Then I wonder why it would matter. It’s not as if they can give me a harsher sentence or sentence me to death again. The door opens, the Sergeant enters. He is holding a piece of paper, states my name, looks at me. His eyes are cold, like my cell.

‘It is 8:07 A.M.’ He looks at his watch as if to verify that what he’s just said is correct, then he looks at me. ‘The court has charged you with desertion and your sentence is death,’ he states.

I say nothing. Can’t say anything. Two men standing behind him wait until he gives them a signal, then tie my hands behind my back. We then proceed out into the chilly morning. The first rays of the sun kiss my face, but have no warmth to offer. Like the heavens are trying to say goodbye but not caring enough to show emotions.

It’s not that I wanted to run away. I genuinely wanted to fight for king and country, but after months of bombs going off around me, officers that treated me like scum, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I had to get away. Get back home, to my girl, to the bookstore, to the family. I wanted this war to end, to have a family of my own and loved ones around, exchanging presents at Christmas, celebrating another birthday. I hadn’t planned on leaving the trenches when I did. There was heavy fighting and as I lay there, sheltering myself from the flying dirt and bullets, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat in the knee deep mud, crying. The rain was pouring down, and I was cold, shocked and drained. An officer kicked me and called me a coward, pointed a rifle at me and told me if I didn’t get up he’d shoot me himself. I got up and aimed my rifle across no-man’s-land, fired in the general direction of the enemy. I wasn’t sure who this enemy was and as soon as the officer got a bullet through his head and fell dead next to me; I started crawling away. I got out of sight, stood up and ran. I ran all day until dusk. I was alone in France, no way to get home, but I wasn’t at the front anymore.

They found me the following morning, sleeping in a barn next to cows. The trial was quick, and the general had no problems passing the sentence. They let me rot away in a cell for a week, allowing me time to understand my fate.

‘Cigarette?’ the sergeant asks.

‘Please.’

He unties my hands, warns me not to run. I stand there, in the courtyard, smoking. Trying to make it last as long as possible. This cigarette is the timer, the clock, it shows how much time I have left. I look at the wooden pole, at the holes in the wall behind it. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.

He smiles sadly as I finish the cigarette, gives the soldiers the order to tie me to the pole. I want to see the sun, but it is behind a wall. I realise I will never see it again. Never see my girl, the rest. Nothing and nobody will come and save me at the last moment. A soldier puts a bag over my head. I try to refuse, but it is procedures.

I try to pray but can’t find any words. Don’t know what to ask for.

‘Ready!’ My heart is beating so loud I can hear it.

‘Aim!’ A dreadful feeling fills my body and mind. Not fear of death, but the thought of the people, my people, the ones I will never see again. My mom that will get a letter saying how sad they are I’d been lost in action. Or will they do that? Do they treat it differently with deserters? Traitors? Will they add shame to her sorrow? Or have I shamed her? My girl…

Or will I become nothing more than a statistic?

‘Fire!’

During the Great War of 1914-1918, almost a thousand soldiers were executed for desertion and other crimes. Around 600 French soldiers were shot at dawn, 306 British and Commonwealth, including 22 Irishmen, 23 Canadians and five New Zealanders. 18 German soldiers were executed. On average, five soldiers were executed every week. Many charges were flimsy and wouldn’t stand up in court. Some are also said to have been framed by officers or fellow soldiers as revenge. Many of the soldiers were as young as 16 or 17 years old. Many deserters suffered from mental breakdown and shell shock – known today as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – caused by constant bombardment and poor conditions. In many countries, still today, the executed soldiers are not given the same respect as others. They are still seen as traitors.

This story is the seventh installment in the Moments series.

Leaving the Door Ajar – a short story

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He stood there, staring at her name on the door, imagined their names next to each other. Unlocking the phone and dialling her number, he heard her voice for the first time in months.

It was just a few seconds, but it felt like days had passed when she opened the door. She smiled and invited him to come inside. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and the memories flooded his mind. He remembered her skin, knew again how it felt against his, her smell, the long nights, how she had been his. How they were one, were supposed to be one.

She showed him to the living room. Coffee? Thanks. She went to the kitchen, he followed her. His wife, his companion, soulmate, his everything. Imagined everything she should have been. And never would be.

She gestured and they sat down at the opposite sides of the table. Sipping the hot coffee, trying not to get burned. Shyly looking at each other, then away. Saying nothing. How could you be shy with a person you had been so intimate with? The late afternoon sun shone through the window, lighting up her face and making her look even more beautiful than he had remembered. His most beautiful memory had nothing on reality. This whole thing hadn’t been a problem before today. They had gone their separate ways, and he had been fine with it. He’d been able to live with it. The things in life, circumstances that made it impossible for them to be lovers. Nothing you could do about it. They’d made a decision that it was best to call it a day, that it would be easier to move one, find someone else. But here she was, flesh and blood, the most beautiful flesh and blood he could have imagined. There was nobody else. How could there be?

‘So, how are you doing,’ she asked?

‘Good. Busy.’

‘Good.’ She smiled.

‘Work is going well and I have a few projects going and it’s really going well.’

‘That’s nice. Keeping yourself busy?’

‘Very. Drowning myself in work, I guess.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ She looked out the window at the naked trees, shivering in the February cold. ‘I love this apartment.’

‘I can imagine. It’s great.’ He imagined what it would be like to share it with her. Share the world with her. But he wasn’t here for that. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Good. I’m taking care of myself. Good diet, eating healthy, working out, working a lot.’

‘Good.’ It showed. She looked stunning. Should he tell her? Tell her that she was ripping his heart out, that she looked more beautiful than ever? No, that’s not what he was here to do. This was a curtesy visit. Just a casual meeting to catch up, to see each other. It was over. Had been over for months. He would not comment on her looks, do anything that might tip the balance. They could not afford to do something stupid. It would only make things harder to deal with.

The last rays of the sun were illuminating the face he longed to touch. Pulling out all the textures he knew so well, giving her skin a golden colour. She was glowing like an angel. There had been so much he’d wanted to say. He had rambled on in the car, had a long and intelligent conversation. He’d known exactly what he was going to say, but he couldn’t think of anything now.

Maybe it didn’t matter. The silence was clear. The glances. They had talked for hours, disappear into their own world. Their minds and bodies in perfect harmony. Soul mates. From the very beginning, they had never had a moment of awkward silence. Until now. He looked around. The pictures on the wall he knew so well, her little things and objects that had been so fascinating when they met and so familiar as they became lovers. The world that had almost been his so long ago. The world he had so desperately wanted to be a part of. He wanted to break the silence, but he was afraid that it would speed up their goodbye. He was close to her now, and he never wanted that to end. Opening his mouth would break the stalemate. But then, he would not keep her like this all day. It was time to face the inevitable. It was over and he would have to let her go.

They started talking at the same time, but stopped and smiled.

‘You go first,’ he said.

‘I should show you the apartment. It’s not big.’

‘Yeah.’ They both stood up, hesitated, and looked at each other. ‘You first.’

She walked into the hall, the hair falling over her shoulders, begging him to touch. ‘Here is a small spare room. I’m thinking of using it as an office, but it’s full of boxes now. I work from home quite a bit now, so that would be good.’ He looked past her, but before he could enter, she was off, opening another door. ‘The bathroom.’

‘Nice,’ he said and looked over her shoulder again, breathing slowly, taking in the smell of her hair.

‘And here, the bedroom.’ She entered, and he followed. ‘That’s all. It’s a small apartment.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ He looked at the glamorous black and white photo of Marlene Dietrich on the wall. ‘You moved old Marlene with you.’

‘Yeah, I try to make it homely. She belongs above my bed.’ He felt the electricity in the air, the unbearable tension, looked into her eyes and she looked into his. They sat down on the edge of the bed and he moved his hand closer to her, without touching. She moved closer, he felt her breath on his lips. He put his hand on her knee, his cheek gently touching hers. Her heavy breathing so warm on his neck. They almost kissed. ‘I need to change. Going out with the girls tonight.’ She almost whispered, then looked out the window, away from him.

‘I know. You told me.’

‘Sorry. Would have been nice to have more time.’ She looked into his eyes again.

‘It’s fine.’ He slowly stood up, went into the living room and picked up his jacket from the sofa. She followed him to the door. He turned and faced her. For a second, time stood still. This was really it. Their last goodbye. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but they were in each other’s arms. The smell, the way she felt. So familiar, so out of reach. They were locked in each other’s arms, they were one. Alone in the universe. He was going to let loose, but she held on. They hugged like two people that never want to be parted. She was so warm, so soft. So perfect. He kissed her on the cheek and she returned it. They kissed, they held each other. They were one. The world, once again, was irrelevant. It was just them. Like it had always been.

But the moment passed, and he was outside again. The frozen leaves covering the path like a loosely woven carpet made a crushing sound under his feet. He walked away from the house, down the street. The look in her eyes still fresh in his mind. He looked up at her window, but she wasn’t there. She would never be there again. Last time, they had left the door ajar, now it was shut.

A single leaf fell down from a tree in front of him. The world was falling asleep, winter was taking over.

This story is the sixth installment in the Moments series.

I’ll See You in My Dreams – a short story

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He knew it as she put the coffee mug in front of him. She pierced deep into his eyes and stirred a little too slowly. He smiled, trying to look as innocent as possible. How could she know? She couldn’t. It was impossible. The authentication system was fully biometric. There was no way anyone could look into his account and see what he’d been up to. Not even his wife.

‘How was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Who is who?’

‘Where did you go with her?’

Images of a faraway sandy beach flashed before his eyes. The warm breeze, the gentle waves crashing against their feet and the soft sand between their toes. The blood red sunrise, the gentle warmth as the rays hit their naked bodies. Running hand in hand, falling into the cool surf and making love. It happened in his dream and there was no way she could know.

‘Was it a colleague? An actual person or an avatar? I can understand an avatar, but if she’s a genuine person, if you went there with somebody else… Was it somebody real?’

‘I’ve been here all along. I work from home, I was in bed with you, sleeping. What are you talking about?’

‘How do you explain this?’ She projected a receipt onto the kitchen wall.

In Your Dreams, it said. It was a rental service, much like the old movie streaming services they used to have. They marketed it as a sleeping aid. You could rent dreams before going to bed and be guaranteed a good sleep. Their holiday sceneries were popular. You fell asleep and found yourself on a beach or in a forest, on a mountain top or on a boat, sailing the oceans. Every week, they added new scenes. ‘It’s a receipt from In Your Dreams. You use it as well.’

‘This.’ She pointed at a subitem. Away Together. ‘Who were you with?’

He hadn’t thought of it showing up on the receipt. It was innocent enough; you rented a dream and invited others to join. ‘I thought it would be a good idea if we went away for a night. I bought it for you.’

‘You woke me up. You were moaning and groaning and you were fully aroused. You weren’t counting pigeons on a square in Rome. You were with someone and you had sex.’

What could he say? They’d been married over 20 years. He had never cheated on her. He wasn’t even sure if this qualified as cheating. Surely, dreaming with somebody wasn’t a crime? Yes, he had invited a young female colleague to join his dream, and yes, they had run together in the sand and made love on the beach. They’d been all alone, because that’s how it works in those dreams. Nobody saw them, nobody knew, they hadn’t met in reality. ‘I don’t know what I look like when I sleep, but I was asleep in my own bed. How can I be cheating on you?’

It didn’t help. She stormed out, shouting something about staying with her mother and that she wanted a divorce. She’d been threatening with it for a while now, and it looked like she meant it this time. It was a dream, goddamn it, he thought to himself. A dream. Nothing more.

As the front door slammed shut, he poured himself another cup of coffee and looked out onto the street. It was quiet. It was always quiet. Nobody went outside these days. Life happened in a virtual reality, in a chair with a headset on. You sat down, put that thing on your head and were instantly at work, in the supermarket or wherever you wanted to be. The supermarket was especially convenient. There were no other people, and the products you normally bought were lined up at the front. You just touched them and they were in your basket, then delivered to your house within ten minutes. The gym was good too; they put you in a beautiful location and the algorithm fooled your brain into burning calories as you virtually ran, swam or climbed. The latest addition, sharing your experiences was great, as you could invite people to come along. What was the harm in that?

He finished his coffee and sat down in his work chair, leaned backwards and put on the headset and goggles. He was in his office and so was she. She looked at him and smiled. ‘Thanks for last night.’ She kissed him passionately, and he felt her body push against his. She looked into his eyes. ‘I have this report you need to look at. You know where to find me.’ She smiled and left the office.

This story is the fifth installment in the Moments series

1953 – een kort verhaal

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De exacte datum van de begrafenis kan ik mij niet meer herinneren. Ik was net acht jaar oud en begreep niet goed wat er gebeurd was. Ik hield mijn vader’s hand vast. Tranen zag ik nooit, maar ik denk dat ze wel stroomde ’s nachts, als ik hem niet zag. Voor mij probeerde hij altijd sterk te zijn.

Drie kisten lagen voor ons, naast de graven. De ene was groot genoeg voor mijn moeder, twee kleinere, voor mijn tweelingzus en voor lieve Tessa. Afgelopen november vierden we haar vijfde verjaardag. Mijn vader had mijn hand vast, net zoals hij die van Tessa vast had die nacht. Alleen, toen, was hij zijn greep verloren. Jaren later, als oude man op zijn sterfbed, zag ik zijn tranen. Zijn laatste woorden, ‘ik had haar vast moeten houden, ik had sterker moeten zijn’. Dat waren zijn laatste gedachten voordat hij deze aarde verliet. Hij heeft dit leven verlaten met tranen in zijn ogen.

Zaterdag 31 januari 1953 was een gewone dag. Storm werd verwacht, maar dat was niets bijzonders voor de tijd van het jaar. De donkere wolken zagen er stoer uit en we lachten erom. Beter niet buiten zijn als het gaat regenen, word je zeiknat. Onze buurman, oude Jan, was vrolijk en lachte toen hij de aardappelzak aan mij gaf. Kan je dit dragen, schat? Is best zwaar voor een klein meisje.

Ik ben niet klein, had ik duidelijk gemaakt, en hij gaf mij een knuffel. Groetjes aan je vader, zei hij.

De zak was wel zwaar en ik had moeite met fietsen over de dijk in de stevige wind, maar ik was het gewend. De zee was erg hoog en de golven kwamen tot bovenaan de dijk, en soms proefde ik zout in mijn mond. Vader was duidelijk geweest, snel terug naar huis komen. Het wordt een zware storm.

Mijn zusjes speelden rondom het huis toen ik thuis kwam. Ik gooide mijn fiets neer en ging achter hen aan. Moeder keek me aan, hoe vaak had ze nu gezegd dat ik netter met mijn fiets moest omgaan? Ik had daar geen tijd voor, Tessa rende gillend weg en verstopte zich bij de stallen. Ik vond haar en riep ‘boe!’ en ze lachte. Je kan me niet pakken, riep ze en rende weer weg. Ons pakken vond ze ook fantastisch en soms lieten we haar winnen.

De aardappelen waren gekookt en moeder stampte ze samen met de boerenkool in een grote pan. De geur van de worstjes ontsnapte naar buiten en we gingen naar binnen. Aan tafel waren we stil, alleen het geluid van de radio en het gezeur van de storm.

“Boven het noordelijke en westelijke deel van de Noordzee woedt een zware storm tussen noordwest en noord. Het stormveld breidt zich verder over de noordelijke en oostelijke Noordzee uit. Verwacht mag worden dat de storm de hele nacht zal voortduren. Daarom werden vanmiddag om half zes Rotterdam, Willemstad en Bergen op Zoom gewaarschuwd voor gevaarlijk hoogwater.”

Mijn vader leek bezorgd en moeder wilde ons zo snel mogelijk in bed stoppen. Rond acht uur lagen we er allemaal in.

Ik kon niet goed slapen. Het was pikkedonker toen de herrie me wakker maakte. De storm trok aan ons huis en ik maakte me zorgen over het dak. Ik probeerde weer te gaan slapen, maar buiten klapperde een deur. Waarschijnlijk bij de stallen. De koeien kunnen niet slapen met die herrie, dacht ik.

Ik ging mijn bed uit, vond de kerosine lamp van mijn vader en een lucifer. In de oranje gloed van de lamp zag ik hoe de regen als watervallen langs de ramen stroomde. Ik trok mijn laarzen aan en deed de voordeur open. De storm trok deze gelijk uit mijn handen. Ik zette de eerste stap naar buiten en de regen sloeg in mijn gezicht, alsof het ijskogels waren. De lamp werd gedoofd en ik stond weer in het donker.

Vechtend door de storm kwam ik bij de stallen. Ik kon bijna niks zien maar ik hoorde de koeien trekken aan de kettingen. Ze waren doodsbang. Ik ging naar binnen en aaide ze eventjes, probeerde ze tot rust te brengen. ‘Wat doe jij hier, schat?’ Mijn vader stond achter mij. ‘Ga naar binnen, probeer te slapen.’ Hij aaide over mijn natte hoofd en gaf me een kus op de kin. ‘Morgen is dit allemaal voorbij.’

Hij had gelijk. Ik moest naar bed. Ik ben naar buiten gegaan en liep richting het huis, maar ik was erg nieuwsgierig hoe de storm op de dijk eruit zag. Vader wordt boos, dacht ik, maar hij had de lamp aangekregen en was met de koeien bezig. Hij kon mij niet zien en als ik snel terug was en in bed, zou hij er niks van weten. Ik klom tegen de stijle zijwand van de dijk, achter ons huis op, en kwam bij het fietspad. Het was bijna onmogelijk om te staan. Ik spreidde mijn handen uit en schreeuwde tegen de wind. Dit was geweldig!

Een windvlaag gooide me tegen de grond en toen ik weer probeerde op te staan, kreeg ik een zware golf over me heen. Ik was zeiknat, zout in mijn mond en mijn ogen deden pijn. Ik probeerde weer op te staan, maar kon niet. Nog een golf spoelde over me heen en ik voelde de grond zakken. De dijk die ons en alle onze bezittingen beschermde, voelde als zand onder mijn lijf. In paniek probeerde ik weg te kruipen, richting de vuurtoren die in de verte nog wat licht straalde. De aarde zakte weg en de zee stroomde over me heen. Ik moest weg.

Kruipend voelde ik de grond wegspoelen achter me. Het lukte om op te staan en half struikelend rende ik zo snel als ik kon richting de vuurtoren. Ik draaide me om en zag hoe de dijk wegspoelde, hoe de zee het land op stroomde, hoe het huis onder water stond. Ik zag mijn vader rennen met de lamp, zag hem net op tijd binnen gaan, zag de ramen kapot gaan en water naar binnen stromen, zag de lamp op de bovenverdieping en het water hem inhalen, zag het licht richting zolder gaan en brokken huis weg spoelen.

Ik riep ‘papa!’, maar hij kon mij niet horen. Ik zag het licht doven, hoopte dat ze allemaal veilig op zolder zaten, dat de dijk mij zou beschermen. Door de storm heen kon ik de stem van mijn vader horen. Hij riep ons, alledrie de zusters, mijn moeder riep terug. Ik wilde niets liever dan terug naar het huis maar een oceaan stormde tussen mij en mijn familie.

De dijk zakte weer in en ik kroop verder weg, totdat ik hun stemmen niet meer kon horen.

Met grote dank aan Marcel Cornelissen. Hij zorgde ervoor dan mijn Nederlands leesbaar bleef.

De watersnood van 1953, meestal aangeduid als de Watersnoodramp, voltrok zich in de nacht van zaterdag 31 januari op zondag 1 februari 1953. De ramp werd veroorzaakt door een stormvloed in combinatie met springtij, waarbij het water in de trechtervormige zuidelijke Noordzee tot extreme hoogte steeg.

Het aantal doden bedroeg 1836 in Nederland, 307 in het Verenigd Koninkrijk, 224 op zee, waaronder 133 bij het vergaan van een Engelse veerboot en 28 in België. De ramp was aanleiding voor de ontwikkeling van een sterk verbeterde kustverdediging met zware stormvloedkeringen. Het meest ingrijpend zijn de Deltawerken in Nederland, terwijl in Engeland onder meer de Thames Barrier en een stormvloedkering in de rivier Hull zijn gebouwd.

Dit verhaal is niet gebaseerd op echte mensen, maar het is een verhaal dat had kunnen gebeuren en in vele vormen gebeurd is. Dit verhaal is een eerbetoon aan de mensen die zijn omgekomen en die familie en vrienden verloren hebben door de ramp.

1953 – a short story

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The exact date of the funeral escapes me. I was barely eight years old and couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. I held my father’s hand. He didn’t cry, or he didn’t cry when I could see him. I am sure he did at night, after the lights were out. When I couldn’t see him.

Three coffins lay there, ready to be lowered into the ground. One the size of my mom, two smaller, one for my twin sister and finally, a smaller one for little Tessa. She turned five last November. My father held my hand and wouldn’t let go. Like he had held Tessa’s that night, only to lose the grip. Many years later, as he lay dying, he cried. Cried because he thought he should have been stronger that night. Cried because he should have done a bit more to save her.

Saturday 31st of January 1953 had been like any other. A storm was brewing, not unusual for this time of year. The dark clouds in the sky looked impressive, and we laughed about getting soaked if the rain came. Old Jan, our neighbour, was cheerful as he handed me the sack of potatoes my father had asked for. It was heavy and my bike was unstable in the wind as I rode across the dike, but it was nothing I wasn’t used to. The waves were crashing against the dike, and sometimes I could taste salt. Father had told me to be home quickly. The storm was getting worse.

My sisters were playing by the house as I arrived, and I immediately joined them. Tessa loved hide and seek, and especially if we shouted “boo” and ran away when she found us. She would do her best to catch us, and sometimes we let her.

The potatoes cooked, and our mom stamped them with kale. The smell of sausages escaped the house and as they called us, we went inside. We ate in silence, with the radio turned on.

“A heavy storm is raging above the northern and western part of the North Sea and is spreading eastwards. The storm is expected to last all night. Rotterdam, Willemstad and Bergen op Zoom have been warned of an unusually high tide.”

My father seemed worried, and my mother was eager to get us to bed as soon as possible. We we were all in bed by eight that night.

I didn’t sleep well. It was pitch dark as I woke up to the noise. The storm was tearing at our house and I feared the roof would come off. I tried to go back to sleep. A door was slamming outside, probably the stables. The cows couldn’t sleep if it wasn’t secured, I thought to myself. 

I got out of bed and went downstairs, found my father’s kerosene lamp and lit it. The orange glow revealed the rain as it streamed like waterfalls down the windows. I put on my boots and opened the front door. The wind immediately pulled it out of my hand. I stepped out into the storm, the rain like icy bullets on my face. The wind blew the lamp out and I was in darkness again.

Struggling through the storm, I got to the stables. It was so dark I couldn’t see much, but I heard the cows pulling at their chains. They were scared. I went inside and stroked them for a while. I think it calmed them a bit. ‘What are you doing here,’ my father said? I turned and saw him standing in the doorway. ‘Go inside, try to get some sleep.’ He stroked my head and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Tomorrow, this will all be over.’

He was right. I should go to bed. I went outside and closed the door behind me. I should try to sleep, I thought, but I really wanted to see what the storm looked like up on the dike. I looked back at the stables and saw my father through the window. He was attending the cow and couldn’t see me through the window, so I climbed the steep slope behind our house. As I came up to the top of the dike and onto the path I’d biked, I could hardly stand. A gust swept me off my feet and a wave washed over me. I was soaking wet, the taste of salt in my mouth and my eyes hurt. I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t. Another wave washed over me and I felt the ground under me crumble. The dike that protected us, everything we owned, seemed to turn into sand. I frantically crawled away and towards a distant light. The only thing that allowed me to see anything, the lighthouse we sometimes biked to. It was far away and I wouldn’t be able to reach it, but I had to get away as the ground crumbled beneath me. The wind tore at me and the waves crashed over the dike.

As I crawled, the ground gave way behind me. I got up on my feet and ran along the dike, hunched, or the wind would have taken me away. The sea rushed down into the yard and engulfed the house. In the near darkness, I saw my father run, windows break and the water reach the upper floor. I cried for papa, but he couldn’t hear me. There were screams. A light came on, but an instant later, everything was dark. I heard their voices through the storm, heard my father calling our names, Tessa’s, mine, my twin sister’s. I heard my mom calling our names. I wanted to go to the house, but there was a streaming ocean between us. The ground became soft under me and I frantically crawled further. Until I couldn’t hear their voices anymore.

The 1953 North Sea flood was the worst natural disaster in the Netherlands in the 20th century. The storm surge struck the Netherlands, north-west Belgium, England and Scotland in the night of 31 January and 1 February 1953.

In the Netherlands, 1,836 people lost their life, 307 in England, 28 in Belgium and 19 in Scotland. 230 people drowned at sea as boats, shipping vessels and ferries sank.

This story is fiction and not based on specific people, but it is typical for what would have happened and did happen that night. I dedicate it to all that lost their lives and their loved ones that survived and had to rebuild their lives after this disaster.

This story is the fourth installment in the Moments series.

The Girl from Nowhere – a short story

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Something isn’t right about this. I was minding my own business, if you can call it that. Business has been slow lately. It’s like nobody has affairs anymore or murders their spouse, loses their dog or gets bribed and needs a discreet way of getting rid of the kidnapper.

It’s been two weeks since my last assignment, and that wasn’t much. A lonely wife asked me to follow her husband because he was apparently cheating on her. Turned out, he was working late. Really working. The assistant he was supposed to be banging was a married man that left the office on time. By the look of things, she was the dangerous one. She offered me a payment of sorts, but I told her I needed money. She paid, while accidentally revealing too much through her silky bathrobe.

So, I was sitting here in my office smoking cigarettes and drinking whisky. As you do. It was late and I should have been in bed but there is no set bedtime when nobody tells you to get up in the morning. The greatest problem I was facing was the bottom of the bottle. I had about a glass left, then it was empty. I knew I needed money, if only to buy more whisky.

The phone rang, and I picked it up a little too eagerly. A female voice on the other end asked if I was Frank Tuna, which I admitted to. They always ask who’s asking in the movies, but I figured it was another lady looking for her dog.

She asked to meet me at the docks. I have an office, I replied, but she said we needed to be discreet. I asked what she needed and she said time. She needed time. Pretty vague.

I wasn’t doing anything, so we agreed to meet fifteen minutes later outside a house by the docks. I put on my coat, grabbed my hat and embraced the foggy night.

It was chilly and she made me wait. I stood there, prepared to admit I’d been made a fool of. I’ll give her five minutes, I thought to myself as I lit a cigarette. The smoke seemed to make the fog even thicker. As I took the last drag and threw the but in the gutter, headlights lit up the mist. A car slowed down and stopped. I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel and I decided not to approach. Something felt off. The person could get out if they wanted.

The car just stood there, engine running. After a moment had passed, the driver’s window came down, far enough to point a gun at me if that’s what they were planning, not far enough for me to reach into the car if needed. It started moving, ever so slowly. I decided this was bad news and walked off. The car followed. I took a turn into a side street but they kept following. I didn’t like this at all. If they wanted to talk to me, they would have got out instead of intimidating me like this. I started running, but the car matched my pace.

As I came to an alley, I ran down to the docks below. The car made a roaring noise as the driver stepped on the accelerator. I ran onto a pier, but there was no way out of there except swimming, and as I’m not a strong swimmer and don’t love freezing water, I turned. I needed to get away from here. I suppose I could have hidden in a boat or something, but that would have made me stuck at a dead end if this person really wanted to find me. I decided to run for it. The fog would protect me.

As I came back onto the dock, the car approached. They’d found a way to drive down here. I stood there, like a deer in the headlights. My heart was beating, but I didn’t run. I tried to make out the driver, but the fog and headlights blinded me.

I decided not to run. If this was going to be the end, so be it. I felt the cold gun in my pocket and found the trigger. Held it in my hand, just in case. I would not go down without a fight.

The car door opened and someone got out. I was blinded, so couldn’t see who or what it was. I looked down at the cobblestones and saw slim ankles and high heels. It was a woman. As she approached, I saw her slender figure in a white dress. She was overdressed for the occasion and underdressed for the freezing night. As she cleared the headlights, I recognised her. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

‘Lauren?’ I said astonished and let go of the gun in my pocket. She just stood there, looking at me. ‘Lauren, is that you?’ I asked. I took a few steps forward to see her better. It was impossible, this couldn’t be her. ‘How long has it been? Twenty years? You haven’t changed at all.’ She said nothing, just stood there, no emotions on her face. She casually lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air, looking up to see how it merged with the fog. Then she looked at me, piercing my soul with her gaze. ‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘How can you look exactly the same after twenty years? Are you a ghost? Are you dead?’

’No honey, I’m not dead.’ She blew smoke again and smiled. That voice caused an avalanche of memories, it broke my heart to hear it again.

‘I’ve always kicked myself for leaving you like that, but I didn’t want to wake you up.’ She just stood there, as if she couldn’t hear me. ‘It was nothing personal. It was just that one night. A bit of fun after a few drinks. Happens all the time. I never thought there was anything more to it.’

‘Happens all the time?’

Oh, I felt stupid. Bad choice of words. ‘Yeah. I mean… you go home with someone and it doesn’t mean anything.’ I felt I’d found myself in a hole and couldn’t stop digging. Words weren’t going to get me out of this, so I took a few steps forward. I was standing right in front of her, saw her every feature and it reminded me of that summer, so long ago. I raised my hand and touched her face. ’Such soft skin. You haven’t aged at all.’ I ran my fingers down her face, touched her lips like I used to, let my fingers touch her flawless neck and down to her dress. I gently touched her breast. I never realised I’d missed her so much. A life that could have been, flashed before my eyes. ‘You’re wearing the same dress.’

She looked into my eyes and I saw twenty years of lost opportunities. She smiled slightly as she took another drag. I moved my face closer to hers, put my hand on her head, felt the warmth through her hair, closed my eyes, waited for our lips to touch, waited for eternity.

But she pushed me gently away. I opened my eyes and saw her looking at me as she threw the cigarette on the ground and squashed it with her foot. She then ran her hands down her dress, straightening it. ‘It was my mother’s.’

She touched my face with her soft hand and turned. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t make a sound. As she stood by the car, she turned and smiled. ‘Bye dad,’ she said and got in. The engine roared and she disappeared around the corner.

This story is the third installment in the Moments series.