The Frisian

Friesland, Netherlands, 1942

Famke did not look at Luuk in church. She did not like the way his eyes rested on her as she moved quickly to an open pew, her child trailing the skirt of her dress. Luuk was tall and thick across the chest, with auburn curls that were far too long for a man, Famke thought. His body and clothes still smelled of the earth he toiled day and night with his father, harvesting potatoes and beets. She knew he had travelled a good two miles to attend the service, and though he had started out clean, the early morning sun had covered him with sweat and dirt from the road. He was a good, Christian man, but Famke could not find a charitable bone in her body for him. She licked her hand and smoothed her son’s hair to his skull.

No, Famke did not need distractions of this kind. She was there for God. She was a young widow, only twenty-four, and in her mind she was now and had always been devoted to the Saviour. She did not mourn the loss of her husband; one ill-tempered man was plenty enough. His sudden death afforded her a quiet she hadn’t known in the five years her husband was alive. She missed his income, but she managed to feed herself and her son by washing clothes in her kitchen and in the stream that ran behind her home. The soap made her hands burn and her skin was red and veined,...