In From The Cold

In From The Cold

Through the rain spattered window of the dimly lit coffee shop I watch a pair of bicycles pass. The riders draped in yellow oilcloth ponchos and sou-westerns are hunched over their handlebars while negotiating through standstill traffic. Inside, the air is thick and warm, the coffee strong. I am growing mellow on second-hand smoke. The neon sign reflects on the dregs in my cup. It’s time. Leaving a few guilders, I shrug back into my still wet coat.

Water splashes on the wet cobblestones. Light from nearby windows and lamp posts shimmer, their reflections fracture like crushed citrines. The whoosh of rubber tires over a nearby bridge. The water in the Prinsen Gracht is restless under the steady rain. I’ve traveled far, my thoughts teeter between here and then.

Long, frozen winters were without light. Enough to see the footsteps in the snow. Not enough to see a destination. Enough to see words freeze on cracked lips, not enough to hear the sound. Just enough to read a few lines, a paragraph or two on a clear day.

Warmth was even scarcer than light. Dreams of sun, of sitting near a fire. Of thick wool socks, a hug and being spooned. Of a fleeting touch from a hand, another’s breath.

Claustrophobic freezing darkness was alternated with agoraphobic near constant daylight where reality was cruelly evident all day, all night. Showing the unrelieved expanse of forgotten earth, from where escape was impossible.

Through it all, over it all the endless gnawing hunger. Dreaming of a full stomach, just one more stale slice of bread. Considering crawling on knees to beg for one moldy potato. Anything to hang on to this miserable existence. Anything to fan that fragile flame called hope.

After the interrogations, after the torture came the silence. The rarity of another’s voice, the lack of shared memories or laughter. The absence of music, the tweet of a finch, the caw of a crow. The humming of a melody, a whisper, or a sigh from a dry empty throat.

Day by day, year by year dreams would shrink. Dreaming of relief from hunger, mosquitos, fleas, sludge, mud and cold. Dreams of hope, a future life slipped away. Memories should not be trusted in hell.

Then suddenly, the miracle of coffee, hot and dark. Sugar tasting too sweet. The weight of new untattered clothes, the fragrance of soap, a haircut, new pinching shoes. Overwhelming sounds of voices, music, honking horns, laughter, squealing brakes.

Learning the truth, feeling the pain, the impotent rage when hearing of the ultimate betrayal. The silent promise of revenge. Then freedom, a disorienting boat ride home, a hero’s welcome, debriefing, food, and warmth.

A restless need to find her. A compulsion to redeem myself, fight for what was once mine.

Frigid water drips down the collar of my trench coat. Cold and rain soak through seams, chilling me to the bone. My barely broken-in shoes and socks are soaked. My feet slowly grow numb.

All I want is a glimpse. Maybe come in from the rain for a minute or two. Coffee, a chat would be lovely. Dry clothes would be a blessing. I’m not counting on any of that. I don’t dare hope for as little as the loan of an umbrella. Besides what good would an umbrella do? Even jumping into the canal would make me any wetter.

Three more blocks. Never mind I’ve been cold before.

I can’t help but wonder. Have I been gone too long? I unforgivably disappeared without a word, vanished. How long did she wonder, speculate? Did she mourn? Has she moved on, met someone else? Am I just a bittersweet memory or have I been forgotten?

Fourteen years is too long. I can’t, don’t expect anyone to wait. Wait without a word, without a promise, without hope. For fourteen years all I had were coldness, silence, hunger and her words, her thoughts, her humor, her hidden letters.

Two more blocks. I can’t feel my fingertips.

Twenty-two years ago, we stumbled across each other. We were so young then. I was charmed, bewitched by this imp, this woman-child. She was both shy and confident. Awkward and graceful, Smart, and innocent. I knew I only had that one evening, those few hours and tried to absorb, commit all of her to memory.

One last block. A bicycle, the rider hunched over the handlebars almost runs me over. “Hey, sorry meneer.” And the kid has passed me, going the way I came.

Should I follow him; turn around? Let her continue her life, Should I forget, give up? Can I? Haven’t I waited long enough? Don’t I deserve answers too? Not pity. Just to see her with my own eyes. Even if it is my last chance.

Before we parted that night, I asked if I could write to her. For eight years we shared our lives. At first she was a mixture of teen angst, leftover fairy tales and a surprisingly mature view of the world. We both grew up but never apart. I was ready to go meet her again when I was waylaid.

A taxi slowly crosses the bridge ahead, wondering if I’m a fare.

Is this her door? No, the next one. My heart pounds, my mouth is dry. I’ve known fear. Fear of dying. Fear of torture, fear of not dying and having to endure it again. Fear of never feeling warm or hearing a voice, laughter again. Fear of never seeing her again.

With numb trembling hands I press the bell.

“Wie is’et?” who’s there?

My throat closes up at hearing her voice. “Roland.” I croak.

I don’ hear anything, no request to repeat myself, no buzz to release the lock. “Katja?” I plead. My whisper barely audible over the sound of rain. Is that it? Do I give up, turn back the way I came? Leave without a fight?

The door is yanked open. Hazel eyes stare at me, a gasp, hands grab and drag me inside, wrap me in a hug.

“I’ll smack the living day light out of you later.” She promises and pulls me up the stairs. Inside the door of her third-floor apartment, she kisses me, long and hard.

“Take off everything that’s wet, then come through to the shower.”

She leaves me. I watch her straight dancer’s back, her long strong legs, the fluid elegance of her hands.

“Hurry now, You are shaking like a leaf.”

Following orders, I can do that. Stripped, I pad to the bathroom. Steam is filling the small space. Thick towels are piled on the sink.

“Take your time” She calls from the other room. Her voice seems choked.

I step into the small enclosure and let the hot water burn my frozen skin until the hot runs out. Wrapped in a large thick towel I peek into the adjacent room. A single lamp next to a low bed. On the wall, a life-sized photo of her, mid-flight, all grace, and shadows. A thick down duvet, heavy curtains blocking tall windows.

At the foot end of the bed sits Katja. Motionless, hands clenched together, pressed between her thighs, head bowed, her long almost black hair covers her face.

“You want to slap me now?” I mumble. A feeble joke to cover awkwardness.

She lifts her head and looks at me. Her eyes are red, her cheeks wet. Rubbing her nose, she shakes her head. A watery smile.

“Here.” She hands me a thick robe and wool socks. “You look hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

I shake my head. Can’t remember, yesterday? This morning?

She leads the way to a miniscule kitchen. From a cabinet she pulls a bottle of vodka. A shot in a glass, a second shot in the coffee. As soon as she assembles bread, ham and cheese, a black cat appears, loudly announcing its presence.

She chuckles. “One of you will need a new name.”

When the vodka laced coffee and half the sandwich do their job, I start talking.

“I shouldn’t tell you the ugly, but I owe you the truth. You need to know so you can decide.” I hold up my hand, too tired to argue. “I disappeared in ’76. I had written to you that I was ready to resign and planning to come here. Then I was called into the CO’s office. Four big shots, one from each branch, were there. In the end, I didn’t have a choice. I was recruited for spy missions in the arctic, way up on an island that doesn’t have a name. No contact with the outside world. Keeping an eye on both Russian and American movements. Two of us lived with a small pack of dogs. Supposedly monitoring the weather.

My partner, Sven, let me belief that he couldn’t take the dark, the monotony, loneliness, the radio silence. I had your letters, all of them. Read some of them every night. Sven disappeared. His diary told me that he was walking away, ending his life. I broke protocol and sent a message to headquarters to let them know.

My message was intercepted by the Russians. They came for me. We didn’t really have any information. All the data and equipment we had was weather related, we saw nothing but the occasional caribou. But they held me in a gulag till a little over a month ago. Then I learned that Sven had defected and handed me over to them ...”

My voice trails off, fatigue, warmth, vodka are taking over.

“I know. Or at least I knew some of it. Went looking for you, found a few answers. Have been hoping for this.” Katja waves her hand, including me in her apartment, smiling through her tears.

Then takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. Pulls the duvet back and tucks me in. She turned off the light and minutes later she spoons me.

“Welkom thuis, Welterusten.” She whispers.

Grateful for the contact, even if it will be just for tonight, I grab her small hands in mine as I fall asleep. For the first time in more than a decade I sleep through the night.

I’m humbled to have this second chance and embrace it gratefully.