Marente de Moor

The Dutch Maiden

Translated from the Dutch by David Doherty

World Editions

Published in Great Britain in 2016 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Marente de Moor, 2010

English translation copyright © David Doherty, 2016

Cover design Multitude

Image credit © Millenium Images

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published as De Nederlandse maagd in the Netherlands in 2010 by Em. Querido, Amsterdam

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

isbn 978-94-6238-082-0

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may

be made of the information contained herein.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Dutch Foundation for Literature.

Distribution Europe (except the Netherlands and Belgium): Turnaround Publisher Services, London

Distribution the Netherlands and Belgium: cb, Culemborg, the Netherlands

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A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!

Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.

Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act iii Scene i

Part One

##

Maastricht, 10 September 1936

Dear Egon,

This letter requires no postage stamp and will surely not go unread, as I am entrusting it to my daughter, who will make sure you open it. I have long since given up expecting a reply from you but my heart rejoices at the thought that you will make the acquaintance of that which is most precious to me in this life: Janna, born in a period you dismissed as a failure. No doubt you will laugh, with the cynical snigger of someone who has forgotten what laughter is for, to hear that my daughter of all people has been possessed by the insane passion you call a life-enhancing art. Killing to enhance life: no one but you could dream up such a notion. My daughter has dealt me an unsettling blow. Could it be true that the ground where war has raged can only bring forth conflict? Janna was conceived at the site of the battle, an admission that leaves me somewhat shamefaced. Was this an act of desecration on my part? If so, it was not my intention. By then peace had returned to the land. The wounds had healed, the scars were gone, the grass had grown back thick and lush. The weather was mild and the air smelled fresh. The scent of life carrying on regardless.

The weather was not as warm as it had been then. In the wake of the battle, no one understood where that sudden heat had come from; was it the sun beating down or the fresh blood steaming from the soil? Perhaps I am mistaken and it was not the same field, but it was certainly a place ripe for planting new life in a warm-blooded woman—a woman who later, once the dust had settled, would withdraw into a fixed and deathly chill.

I went there with another purpose, of course. Do not think I have forgotten. Believe me, Egon, I searched high and low. I questioned farmers, blacksmiths, coachmen but none of them could tell me anything. I have explained all this to you, but you have never deemed my explanations worthy of an answer. I tried my best. I did not find your horse.

And now my daughter shares your passion for combat. I have tried to dissuade her. As you can imagine, I did not stand a chance. My own dear headstrong girl belongs to a breed you often see nowadays; she is a girl with no desire to become a woman. Do you understand that I am trying to make amends? First and foremost I am presenting you, the maître d’armes, with perhaps the best pupil you will ever have. Janna has real talent! Secondly, my friend, I offer you my doubts—the same doubts I kept from you when you had such need of them. Many men grow strong by feeding on the doubts of other men. Perhaps swordsmanship is the one essential art about which I understand nothing. These days, I am wise enough to admit that I cannot know anything with certainty.

But this is not all. Once you have finished gloating, it may please you to know that I have immersed myself in the art of swordsmanship. Not that I have ever held a weapon. A doctor does not need to contract the disease to make his diagnosis. Before I came across the enclosed engraving, I had no intention of sending Janna to you. But things can change. Please study it closely. It comes from a rare edition of Bredero’s Low German verses.

‘Oh new man of arms so able and refined / who Wise Art with strength in unity combines.’

This engraving is not simply a curiosity. This is lost learning with the power to save lives. If you are interested, there is more to be found on this subject, not least the method itself, beautifully illustrated. I sat in a deserted library in Amsterdam, turning pages with gloved hands, taking notes. It is a remarkable book. This is the science of swordsmanship. They call it a secret, the clandestine knowledge of inviolability, but let us leave those mysteries for what they are. You know my views on such matters. It is merely the science of not conceding a hit—probably far from simple, but a subject that can nonetheless be studied. Do so, Egon. Protect yourself, your country, the whole world for that matter, protect them from even more misery. The peace is no older than my daughter, no older than you were when you decided to enlist as a soldier. I hope, no, I believe beyond all doubt that ...

1

You might say von Bötticher was disfigured, but after a week I no longer noticed his scar. That is how quickly a person grows accustomed to outward flaws. Even the hideously deformed can be lucky in love if they find someone who, at first sight, cares nothing for symmetry. Yet most people have a peculiar tendency to fly in the face of nature and divide things into two halves, insisting one should mirror the other.

Egon von Bötticher was handsome. It was his scar that was ugly: a careless wound, inflicted by a blunt weapon in an unsteady hand. No one had warned me, so his first impression was of a startled girl. I was eighteen and dressed far too warmly when I stepped onto the platform at the end of my first journey to another country. A train trip from Maastricht to Aachen, blink and you’re halfway there. My father had waved me off at the station. I can still see him standing beneath the window of my carriage looking surprisingly small and thin, columns of steam rising behind him. He gave an odd little jump when the stationmaster signalled for the brakes to be released with two blows of the hammer. Alongside us, red wagons from the mines rolled past followed by trucks packed with lowing cattle, and in the midst of all this din my father shrank steadily into the distance, until he disappeared around the bend.

Up and leave, no questions asked. My departure was announced one evening after dinner, in a monologue that scarcely left room to breathe. The man was an old friend, had once been a good friend and was still a good maître. Bon. Besides, we had to face facts. We both knew I had to seize this opportunity to achieve something in sport, or would I rather go into domestic service? Well then, see it as a holiday, a few weeks of fencing in the beautiful Rhineland.

Forty kilometres separated the two railway stations, twenty years separated the two friends. On the platform at Aachen, von Bötticher was looking the other way. He knew I would come to him; that’s the kind of man he was. And sure enough, I understood that the suntanned giant sporting a cream-coloured homburg had to be him. Instead of a suit to match the hat, he wore a worsted polo shirt and what I took to be sailor’s trousers, the type with a wide waistband. The height of fashion. And there was I, the daughter, in a patched pinafore. He turned to face me and I backed away. The gnarled flesh of his torn cheek was still pink, though it had paled with the passing of the years. I think my shocked expression must have bored him, a reaction he had encountered all too often. His eyes drifted down to my breasts and I clasped my locket to cover what my pinafore was already doing an excellent job of concealing.

‘Is that all?’

He meant my luggage. He kneaded my fencing bag to feel how many weapons it contained. I was left to carry my own suitcase. The romantic image I had cherished before our meeting was fading fast.

It was an image conjured up by a blurred snapshot from our family album. Two men, one earnest, the other out of focus. Below the photograph was a date: January 1915.

‘That’s me,’ my father had said of the earnest man. Pointing at the other figure, little more than a smudge in an unbuttoned military overcoat and a fur hat, he said, ‘That is your maître.’

My friends thought the photograph was divine. Girls my age were all too eager to sketch in that blur of a face. He was sturdy and he was gallant, that was what mattered, and he had a country estate for me to swan around on. Surely this was a Hollywood ending waiting to happen? Yet all I saw was a worn-out man without a weapon. Instead of Gary Cooper or Clark Gable gazing down from my bedroom walls, I had the Nadi brothers staring at each other. A unique photograph, one I have never seen since: Olympic heroes Aldo and Nedo, both right-handed, saluting before a bout. It’s not a pose in which fencers are often photographed: facing one another in the same stance, exactly four metres apart, bodies staunchly upright, holding their blades in front of their unmasked faces. It looks as if they are sizing each other up along the steel of their weapons, but as a rule this pre-match ritual never lasts long. Not as long as it used to in the days when a duellist stared into his opponent’s eyes and took one last look at life.

It was War and Peace that first gave Herr Egon von Bötticher a face. I had pressed him between its pages as a bookmark. When I opened the book, his features evaded me just as he had tried to evade the camera’s lens, but as I read on they began to take shape. The haze of his blurred immortalization had robbed him of his pride. His fur hat was really a tricorne, golden epaulettes adorned his shoulders and a red-sheathed sabre hung at his left hip. I knew all this for certain. During my train journey I tried to read on quickly but I was distracted by a leering passenger who averted his eyes whenever I looked up. Every few sentences I would feel the heat of his gaze taking in my body through the compartment window and I read on even faster, skipping entire passages to arrive at the point where I wanted to be: the kiss between Bolkonsky and Natasha. My timing was perfect: I reached it just as we entered the tunnel. The passenger had vanished. I tucked the photograph away. I did not need a face, I would recognize my Bolkonsky among thousands. On that late summer’s day in 1936, he was the most distinguished of all the men at Aachen station. But on closer inspection he turned out to be a disfigured cad who let me heave my own suitcase into the car.

‘Has your father explained the purpose of your visit?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

Only he hadn’t. I had no idea what von Bötticher was talking about. My purpose was to become a better fencer, but my father knew the maître from a dim and distant past that would not remain so for long. He was German, an aristocrat with a country estate by the name of Raeren. At these words, my mother had begun to sob and shake her head. We had expected no better of her. The parish priest had warned her about the Nazis and their ill-treatment of Catholics. My father told her not to get herself into such a state. As for me, I barely gave these things a second thought. Nazis meant nothing to me. Von Bötticher, on the other hand, was inescapable. Without braking once, he drove me out of town over dirt roads and around hairpin bends. His knuckles slammed into my leg whenever he changed gear and his knee, sticking out to the right of the steering wheel, would have been nudging mine had I not inclined my legs toward the door of the cabriolet. He did not dress like a man his age, his sandals fastened around his ankles with a cord. My father, never one to shy away from a Gallicism, would have dubbed him a pigeon.

‘We’re here.’ It was the third sentence he had fired in my direction after a drive of at least an hour. Pulling up outside the walls of Raeren, he braked so abruptly that I shot out of my seat. He slammed the car door behind him and tore up to the gate, muttering as it groaned open, then jumped back in the car, screeched into the drive, and got out again to bang the gate behind us. It occurred to me that I would not be venturing outside these walls any time soon. Among the fading chestnut trees that lined the drive, my first glimpse of the place was the old roof turret, which was used as a pigeon loft. It would be a week before I was able to sleep through their cooing and the patter of their claws. And once that week had passed, I would be kept awake by matters far more disquieting.

Opposing mirrors reflect themselves in one other, a succession of images that become ever smaller and less distinct yet never cancel each other out. Certain memories exist in this state too, for ever bound to the first impression in which an older memory is contained. At the turn of the year, I had seen a film called The Old Dark House. I am tempted to say I recognized Raeren from the film, though it was only a passing resemblance. Even then I knew that I would always remember Raeren as the mansion where Boris Karloff had walked the floors. In my mind’s eye, its mirrors would always be cracked, its curtains flapping from open windows, the ivy around its front door stone-dead.

2

The front door looked like a coffin lid. I was being melodramatic, of course, but when von Bötticher left me standing there while he went back to fetch something from the car, the house seemed to radiate a loneliness that resonated with my own. Minutes passed. I stared at the black paint, the tarnished knocker and the silver nails. Then the door swung open and as if to complete the scene a deathly-pale little man appeared on the threshold. He said nothing, a daguerreotype from a time when people were still in awe of their photographic perpetuation: rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the horizon, face drained of colour.

‘Heinz! What kept you?’ von Bötticher shouted from a distance. ‘The gate needs oiling. Leave it any longer and I’ll never get it shut. Where is Leni?’

The little man braced himself, took the suitcase from my hands and cleared his throat. ‘In bed, sir. No need to worry. She’s promised to be up and about by lunchtime.’

‘This is Janna, the new pupil I told you about. Remember?’

‘I can make a pot of tea,’ said Heinz, without so much as a glance in my direction.

‘Take the girl upstairs. I do not wish to be disturbed today, for once.’ Then suddenly with a smile, ‘Except by you two!’

He was talking to the St Bernard and another smaller dog that had been waiting in the hall, bottoms quivering with excitement. This was something at least. Though I had never had a pet dog, there was still a reassuring familiarity about them. Lacking words, animals simply cannot be strangers. The St Bernard let me stroke it briefly before bounding into the garden to greet its master, stamping playfully on the ground with both front paws at once. I was left alone with Heinz, who had something to tell me. ‘We do not have a telephone.’ He thrust a pointed finger in the direction of the outside world. ‘The lines run north along the main road and don’t reach this side. There’s already a telephone pole on every corner of the village, but the master doesn’t see the use. We don’t have many visitors. That’s something you should know. Other than the butcher and the students, no one comes to call.’

The clock in the hall had stopped. Later I would discover that Raeren was full of clocks that no longer ticked and cupboards that contained nothing at all. It was as if everything had been put there for appearances’ sake. The interior offered two contrasting moods: rustic and faded chic. Everyday life was confined to the smoky kitchen, where the beams were hung with game hooks, pots and kettles, all in frequent use, and where a rough-hewn dining table invited you to rest your elbows on its knotted surface. The grand section of the house was steeped in a silence that was amplified by the slightest movement. Even the hint of a footstep would trigger a salvo of creaks and groans from the wooden thresholds, floorboards and furniture, noises so unwelcome that these were rooms where dust hung in the air instead of smoke.

Von Bötticher strode into the hall, the dogs trailing in his wake. ‘Take the girl up to the attic room and bring these two and Gustav to my study.’

‘I can’t get hold of Gustav, sir.’

‘Try luring him with a biscuit. Kaninchen sind verrückt danach.’

‘Rabbits are mad about them.’ Was that really what he’d said? My knowledge of German came courtesy of the summers I had spent at my aunt’s in Kerkrade. There we spoke of Prussians, not Germans. My aunt ran a stall that sold coffee beans in a town where the border between the two countries ran down the middle of the street. Our side was Nieuwstraat and across the road was Neustrasse. Her customers stood with their feet in Germany while their hands counted out coins in the Netherlands. There were no language barriers to be crossed. Everyone spoke the dialect of the Ripuarian Franks, whose drawling caravan of words had left deep tracks across the Rhineland in the fifth century.

I was five years old and carrying a cured ham in my apron to deliver to a Prussian who had asked for a sjink. ‘Come straight back, you hear!’ I remember the bustle of the crowd, the ham growing heavier and heavier. Two drunken miners pointed at my apron and burst out laughing. ‘Bit young to have a bun in the oven ... ’ I lost my way. Three hours later, they found me in a back garden on the German side of the street, ham and all. The lady of the house saw me playing there with a serious expression on my face. What else is a five-year-old to do under the circumstances? She called to me and I ran into her arms. Though she was German, she spoke the same Kerkrade slang as my aunt, in the same seemingly indignant tone. ‘Hey, ma li’l angel ... and who might you be?’ Since that first foray across the border I returned home from every summer holiday with a Rhineland accent, much to the horror of my mother, who set about replacing all my Germanisms with the Gallicisms of Maastricht.

Kaninchen sind verrückt danach. I rolled the words around my mouth as I followed Heinz upstairs to the attic. The staircase bore our weight like an old beast of burden, groaning as it took us from landing to landing. On each one he halted, put down my suitcase for a moment and then took hold of the next banister before creaking on, step by step.

‘Have you been fencing long?’

‘Since the Olympiad.’

Heinz turned and frowned at me. The Berlin Olympics had ended only weeks before.

‘I mean since the 1928 Games. In Amsterdam.’

‘Ah, I see. You should have seen our Games. The Olympiad to beat them all. There was a torch relay for the Olympic flame. They had invented a new electronic system for the fencers to tell them when a point had been scored.’

I searched for daylight on every floor, but all I saw were hallways lined with closed doors. The higher we climbed, the more ominous the atmosphere became. Not a bad smell exactly, just the stale air of unused rooms. Once this house had been built in preparation for a life, enough life to fill ten rooms, a kitchen, and a ballroom. The staircase had borne the weight of a young master of the house as he carried his bride upstairs. Children had slid down the banister. But the decades wore on, bringing evenings when someone climbed the stairs never to come down alive. A room was kept dark, a hush descended on one floor and then the next, till silence reached the bottom stair. This house had been empty for a long time; I could feel it. Sometimes a house never recovers from such a blow, a fresh coat of paint can only give it the air of a jilted lover who feels all the more disconsolate for having dolled herself up. It’s better left as it is, with its cracks and smears, the greasy imprint of a hand that reached out in haste on the way from the dinner table to the ballroom, the loose handle of a slammed door. The wallpaper on the attic floor was in tatters. Had a cat been locked away up there? A child? The heat was stifling.

‘Has von Bötticher lived here all his life?’

‘No.’ Heinz put my suitcase down in front of a small door and sorted through his bunch of keys. ‘He hails from Köningsberg. After the war he moved to Frankfurt, and then he came here. But these are matters that do not concern you.’

The room was more pleasant than I had expected, sunny with a small balcony. Olive-green wallpaper, a high three-quarter bed, a small paraffin heater, and a desk with an inkpot. The sound of birds cooing was very close. Heinz opened the doors to the balcony and two pigeons made a U-turn in mid-air.

‘I have other things to attend to,’ he said, backing out of the room. ‘There is nothing more I can do for you at present. My wife will bring you something to eat later. You’ll find water at the end of the hall if you wish to freshen up.’

He clattered down the stairs, leaving me behind with the birds. I started to unpack my suitcase. The linen cupboard was lined with dust and I sacrificed a sock to clean it out. I had to fill this room with my sorry caseful of possessions and fast, or things here would never turn out for the best. I flicked away a dried-up fly that had strayed witlessly onto the bedside table and perished there. War and Peace took its place. I put my fencing bag in the corner, hung my coat on the hook. The letter was at the bottom of my case, sealed in a large envelope made of stiff cardboard. Nothing but the name of the addressee on the front: Herr Egon von Bötticher, a name like a clip around the ear. I stepped into the sunlight, but the cardboard was giving nothing away.

I considered it, of course I did. If I had read the letter that day, perhaps things might have been different. But I knew from experience that the discovery is never worth all the trouble. The speculative excitement buzzing around your brain as you steam open an envelope soon fizzles out when you clap eyes on its contents. A handful of statements about someone else’s humdrum existence, what good are they to anyone? And then there’s the ordeal of resealing the envelope, the problem of torn edges, the anxiety and the shame. I laid the letter aside.

Muffled expletives drifted up from the garden. The shadow of a man edged across the lawn with what looked to be a ball on a leash, a ball that was refusing to roll. This turned out to be Heinz, with the biggest rabbit I had ever seen. I took a closer look—yes, it really was a rabbit. Its ears were enormous, as were its feet. It seemed incapable of steady progress and settled for the odd jump, backward or sideways. Heinz’s patience was clearly wearing thin and after taking a good look around, he gave the creature an almighty kick. Just as I was beginning to wonder whether anything in this house was normal, amenable or even remotely friendly, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and we both got a shock, the woman in the hall and I. No, it wasn’t her—her nose was wider than my aunt’s and her eyes were blue. But if she hadn’t been carrying a tray laden with food, I would have happily fallen into her arms. No matter what kind of woman she would turn out to be, at that moment I decided I liked her.

‘Hello dear, I’m Leni.’

She kicked the door shut behind her and put the tray down on the desk. I saw sausage rolls and dumplings sprinkled with icing sugar, but I didn’t dare touch anything. Leni took a chair and sat down at the window, leaning on her sturdy knees. She heaved a deep sigh.

‘So, here you are stuffed away in the attic like an old rag.’

‘It’s a nice room.’

‘Come now, it reeks of pigeon shit. The air up here’s enough to make you ill.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Well, you’d better tuck in before you do.’

Her whole body shook when she laughed—cheeks, breasts, belly, the flesh on her forearms exposed by her rolled-up sleeves. If she hadn’t been sitting on them, her buttocks would likely have laughed along too. I started to eat.

‘The master’s an odd ’un, all right,’ she said bluntly. ‘No need to look at me like that. Like you haven’t already twigged. We’d been out of work for six seasons when he bought Raeren. We’d always worked at Lambertz, the biscuit factory. When we were laid off, we hoped Philips would open a factory in these parts. Rumours had been doing the rounds for five years but Heinz said there was no point in waiting any longer. Since then we’ve been in service with von Bötticher. An odd ’un, and no mistake.’

She stood up and began to whisper. ‘Have you seen his cheek? Taken knocks from all sides, he has. That scar is from two wounds, you know. One from the war and the other from them goings on he’s involved in. Take a good look next time you see him, he’s in a sorry state. Not to mention that leg of his!’

I burst out laughing and she looked at me as if she had been served a meal she hadn’t ordered. ‘You must admit, he’s not a pretty sight.’

‘I have a letter for him, from my father. Could you make sure he gets it?’

She frowned as she took hold of the envelope. ‘Quite a size. What’s it say?’

I shrugged. She placed the envelope back on the desk.

‘Wait a bit, that’s my advice. The letter your father sent a while back fairly upset him. He wasn’t himself for a time. One minute he was strutting around all pleased with himself, the next he was flying into a rage over nothing. Then came the telegram announcing your arrival, and that left him in a bit of a tizz, too. I don’t need to know the details. His bad temper’s his own business, even if Heinzi and I are the ones who bear the brunt of it. If you want to get off on the right foot, I’d keep this to yourself for now.’

Her voice changed key in these final sentences, took a dive from high to low, and I realized it was more than just her appearance that made me feel at home with this woman. She spoke the indignant Frankish border dialect I knew so well. If anything were to happen to me at Raeren, I knew I would cling to her like a lost child. Together we stared at the strokes of my father’s pen, the careless hand in which a doctor scrawls his suspicions on a letter of referral, as if illegibility might soften the blow.

3

My father loved to jot things down. He always had a pencil or two concealed about his person to scribble notes in the margins of the day. Nothing but twin primes?! on the bill from the baker. Argumentum ad misericordiam in the newspaper. Flushing half a tank will suffice on the lavatory cistern. ‘Just a sec’ was a pet phrase of his, often uttered as he leaped to his feet and his mood brightened. Many of my father’s discoveries were preceded by the words ‘Just a sec’. He would set about repairing the radio and end up reinventing the ear trumpet. Or he would find a new Bryozoa fossil on Mount Saint Peter, one that on closer inspection turned out to be half of a fossil he knew well. A practitioner of non-monotonic logic, his corrections were primarily directed at himself, cacographic messages that steadily filled the house. An addendum was scribbled on the cistern: i.e. approx. two seconds. After all, from the outside it was impossible to tell when half a tank had been flushed. This was not nitpicking or penny-pinching. He had simply discovered that the cistern was too large for its purpose. He would spend entire evenings writing and crossing out in chaotic piles of thin exercise books. He didn’t even miss them when they suddenly vanished. ‘Another set of problems laid to rest,’ my mother would say as the pages lay smouldering in the hearth. One opinion on any given subject was enough to last her a lifetime. She formed them instantly, an advantage true believers have over scientists. What had those two ever seen in each another? My mother apparently took to piety after I was born. For an entire week she lay wide awake in the bed where she had given birth to me, insisting she would never have to sleep again because she was already dead. She felt no urge to suckle me and when they brought me to her she would fly into a panic, convinced her cadaverous state was contagious. Expressing her milk made her gag. ‘Can’t you smell it?’ she would yell at the astounded maternity nurse. ‘That milk has long since curdled!’ Eventually my aunt sent for the priest and he prayed my mother to sleep. ‘From that moment on,’ said my father, ‘I woke up next to a complete stranger who happened to be your mother.’

They had a dreadful marriage. Housemaids came and went, their departure always ushered in by my mother’s sobbing fits. As soon as I heard her lashing out, I knew another maid was on her way. Father was no stranger to histrionics either. On more than one occasion the neighbourhood was treated to the spectacle of him marching out of the house with a huge suitcase, swinging it so demonstratively through the air that anyone could see it was empty. It was all about the grand gesture: ‘Your mother and I are getting a divorce.’ In the end, my father packed me off to Aachen with the very same suitcase, but the first time he stood on the doorstep with it we took a walk together and he told me about the war.

In 1914, he had interrupted his studies at the Municipal University in Amsterdam and travelled south to serve with the Red Cross in the city of his birth. He made no claims to heroism. Taking care of the wounded provided him with a unique opportunity to gain practical experience and exempted him from mobilization. But before long the front had advanced so far south that the staff of the emergency hospitals in Maastricht soon found themselves bored to tears. Six months later my father was on the train back to Amsterdam. He resumed his studies and became a medical doctor, the highest possible achievement for a young man from his non-academic background. He would have liked nothing better than to study for his PhD, even though it involved sitting an extra state exam. But then I came along and a doctor’s house became available in the Wyck neighbourhood of Maastricht. The Spanish flu came and went, and after that traffic accidents provided him with most of his patients. In a city without traffic lights, the number of motor vehicles was doubling annually and everyone was making up the rules as they went along. Competition with trams and rival bus companies was fierce, and bus drivers resorted to recklessness to give them the edge. The horrific injuries he saw reminded my father of his wartime experiences. As a GP his sole responsibility was the patient’s long-term recovery. Mr Bonhomme came to grief under the wheels of a Studebaker owned by the Kerckhoffs brothers and drank away his phantom pain in the public house. My father went down to collect him when the landlord complained of the stink.

‘Daddy?’

‘Mmmm ... ’

‘When will Mr Bonhomme’s leg grow back?’

‘It won’t. In fact, there’s every chance his other one will drop off.’

‘Jacques, please! Keep a civil tongue in your head.’

Without my mother around, I could well have become a very strange child indeed. She preserved the peace and quiet of the domestic routine. Not a day went by without my father dreaming up some new adventure. Off to the summer fair in Beek, making our own pottery in the Preekherengang, shutting Grandma’s goat up in her box-bed, scaring the wits out of unsuspecting citizens by jumping from behind the Helpoort and shouting ‘Boo!’ For Christmas he gave me a little monk that peed apple juice when you pressed his head.

Sport did not interest him in the slightest. To this day I have no idea why he took me along to the Amsterdam Olympics. We stayed with an aunt—or at least I called her ‘Auntie’—who looked like Clara Bow. When we went out together, she slapped a cap on her mop of black hair and slotted one cigarette after another between her painted lips. My father was the picture of contentment as he strolled down the street with a lady on either arm. At a stall he treated us to Coca-Cola, tasting it first with a sceptical frown. What was it made of? Was it suitable for the ladies? Auntie Clara Bow insisted we go to see the fencing. My father thought this a very bad idea. The matches were not even held in the stadium but in a hall out front, where later all hell would break loose when a fight erupted between the spectators after a boxing match. The mood at the fencing was boisterous, too. See, said my father, combat sports are contagious. The spectators are infected by the aggression on display, proving this is not sport at all, simply an excuse for a common scrap. Auntie Clara Bow gave him a kiss and that was enough to bundle him through the entrance. She knew a remarkable athlete would be fencing that day: Helene Mayer, die blonde Hee as the Germans liked to call her. She had the allure of a film star, not unlike Auntie Clara Bow herself.

When I saw Helene Mayer for the first time, I was filled with the kind of adoration that can make a young girl queasy. I was ten, she was seventeen. Helene was a demigoddess, an untamed creature on the brink of womanhood who drove every full-grown woman from the fencing piste. This was only the second time women had competed at the Olympics. Who else was I supposed to model myself on? One of those biddies in bloomers who collapsed in an exhausted heap after running all of eight hundred metres? My father was a reluctant spectator, not only of the duel but of the fever taking possession of his daughter. He tried to talk sense into me, but to no avail. Whichever way you looked at it, surely these ladies would have been better off devoting their agility to a feminine pursuit—ballet, figure-skating or gymnastics? With their beautiful faces locked in those cage-like masks they screamed like animals when they were hit. Not cries of pain, those ridiculous outfits put paid to that, but cries of fear. Remember the day when Pontius the rooster escaped and Granny had to grab him by the legs? He screeched at the top of his little lungs, thinking his hour had come, and hadn’t we all felt so sorry for him? Well, that’s what it means to fear for your life. Pain doesn’t enter into it. It’s not a game. Perched on the very edge of my seat, I wasn’t listening to a word he said. The rules of the sport were a mystery to me. For the uninitiated, fencing matches are almost impossible to follow. Even the trained eye of the president falls short and he often has to rely on his judges to spot a hit. My gaze homed in on Helene Mayer, the victor. My father, as usual, only had eyes for the victim. He rambled on about the scaffold and vengeful mobs, but Helene had already drowned him out. Later she would loom large in the mesh of my mask as I prepared to lunge. No one could lunge like Helene. Every sinew, from her Achilles tendon to the tip of her weapon, conspired to conjure a lunge of at least three metres from a frame of 1 metre 78 and a blade of no more than 90 centimetres.

Before Father and I returned to Maastricht, Auntie Clara Bow braided my hair in the style of Helene. A middle parting and two pretzels over my ears, held in place by a bandeau. This kept your hair out of your face while allowing you to slip a fencing mask over your head. During her match against Olga Oelkers, Helene’s braids unravelled and her hair had fallen in golden strands over her shoulders. How could such a Teutonic force of nature lose? I was slender and a head shorter than she was—not exactly advantages for a fencer—and I was a brunette into the bargain. From that moment I resolved never to wear my hair any other way. My friends, obsessed with trimming each other’s pixie cuts on a monthly basis, thought I was being absurdly old-fashioned.

After my Olympic initiation, it was only a matter of time before my father gave into my moods. My reproaches were anything but loud, not a tear was shed, but for the best part of a year my anger was inescapable. I hid under the blankets with Dumas and self-baked biscuits for company. Every evening I disappeared upstairs with a baking tray, my books and my body increasing in size, the books growing fatter as the crumbs piled up between the pages. When my father finally summoned me for a chat, a small fencing jacket lay on his lap. ‘For my angry little musketeer.’ How typical of my doctorly father to put protective measures first and launch my fencing career with a jacket the colour of a plaster cast. He had heard of a small fencing school in the city, run by a young man called Louis. The fees were modest and beginners were allowed to hire their equipment. The maître had no official qualifications—to this day I have no idea how he came by his title—and he was having a fling with the cashier at the Palace Cinema.

I was allowed to borrow a rusty child’s foil. Everyone in Louis’s class fenced with rusty equipment, a good incentive: avoid being hit or end up with a reddish-brown mark on your pristine jacket, one that will never wash out. It wasn’t until my sixteenth birthday that I received my first adult foil. After class, when everyone else had gone home, Louis called me in and with a flourish produced a bewitching weapon. This was the real thing! The blade looked new to me, gleaming and flexible. Louis opened his fingers to reveal a ridged leather grip.

‘Take it.’

I took the foil from his grasp. My hand barely fitted around the grip, the end of which rested against the wildly pulsing artery in my wrist.

‘Not too big?’

‘No, it’s wonderful,’ I whispered.

‘It will mould itself to your palm before long. The steel is still very stiff, let me bend it for you a little.’

I looked on anxiously as he drew the weapon under the sole of his shoe to curve the blade.

‘That’s more like it. This foil is yours if your father will do something for me. It is important that you ask him immediately. It has to be done soon and requires complete discretion. From you too, so mum’s the word.’

My father frowned when I passed on the message. Of course, I immediately asked whether there was an abortion in the offing. Perhaps my maître’s bit of skirt down at the Palace had a little problem that needed attending to? My father was as dismissive as he was indignant. Who on earth had been planting notions like that in my head! And whatever Louis wanted in return, there was no call to assume that I was about to become the owner of a brand-new weapon. Such decisions were not Louis’s to take. Father had wanted to give me something else for my birthday, not a weapon for heaven’s sake. That was when I looked at my father, the pacifist and professional healer of wounds, and explained all. I told him a foil is not made to kill. It is a weapon to practise with, a sporting invention, never once used on the battlefield. The blade bends on impact to prevent fatal stab wounds and could never be used to sever limbs; besides, the rules of foil-fencing only permit hits to the trunk of the body. I told him it used to be called the fleuret, its point protected by a small leather cap that was said to resemble the bud of a flower. It was the first time my father took note of anything I had to say. With this weapon, my own dear foil, I became a grown-up.

My father idolized me, his only child, but my only idol was Helene Mayer. For years I dreamed of fencing against her. On the Olympic podium in Berlin the ‘strapping lass from the Rhineland’ had stood solemn as a statue in her high-necked fencing jacket and white flannel trousers, the swastika like a brooch below her left shoulder and her right arm extended in front of her. One step higher stood a Hungarian, gold medal around her neck and a little potted oak in her hands. By all accounts, making do with silver did not trouble Mayer much, but oh how she wept over that tree. She had so badly wanted a memento from German soil to take back to her new home: America. Only later did I discover that she was leaving Germany as I arrived. As if we had just missed each other. Perhaps it was for the best. Von Bötticher insisted that to be a good fencer you needed only one idol: yourself.