On the Water

Grove Press

Chapter One

I last heard the planes half an hour ago. They crossed theriver diagonally at high altitude and then their deep roarfaded away to the east. Now it is quiet again, except for thenoises that go with a winter's night by the water's edge.Restless wind. Waves lapping the posts of the jetty. Nobirds. No sudden cries anywhere. There is, though, somewherebehind me on the quay, the occasional rattle of a windowthat isn't properly closed. I'm standing alone on thefurthest jetty, its wood black with moisture and slippery asglass, and am looking intently at the water. On the far bankof the river lies the city, windows blacked out, aimless tramrails, treeless streets. I am looking at the far bank but canscarcely see it any longer.

    For a moment I imagined what it would be like to fly eastin the planes, towards Germany. I pictured what it was likein the confined space of the cockpit, with men in leatherjackets doing their work silently. A single gesture is enoughfor them to understand each other. There is only the light ofa couple of monitor lamps, green and blue. An illuminateddial. Perhaps the glow of a cigarette. Then I thought of thevast space below the belly of the plane, the keel seeking itsway through the thin air, with nothing to hang on to, nosupport, and I began to feel dizzy. I thought of the distancebetween the men and their target and of what slid beneaththem meanwhile, small and invisible: the polders, theheath and the woods, the farms with their steep roofs,groups of houses huddling together against the cold in thevillages, the towns with their factories and around themthe grey streets where at this moment people everywhereare sitting together with the same black paper over the windows.I thought of the lakes, the canals large and small, theditches and the rivers. I thought especially of the waterbecause water, silvery, is the first to wake when day breaksand life begins anew.

    Across the river lies the city. I can't see it, but it's as if I canfeel how heavily and anxiously it is breathing. Like somegreat animal that has been hibernating for too long, andstinking, far too thin, wonders if it will ever wake up. I canscarcely see even the bridge from here, the bridge with itselegant lamps that links the suburbs and the stately houseson the embankment behind me. I shiver in my raincoat. I sitdown. I close my eyes. Sleet strikes my face.

But when I lean back and stretch out I suddenly feel thewood warm down my spine and against the backs of mylegs once more, as if the warmth had been waiting there forme all those years. And then it is summer again and aboveme I see an almost cloudless, brilliant blue sky, a dome ofair stretched tautly across the river, the city and the country.All day long the sun has warmed the planks of the jettyuntil they are cooked through, light grey, almost white, andred hot. In a second the sun also dries my sweaty face, leavingonly salt, which feels grainy on my skin.

    The jetty is actually a raft that is attached by metal ringsto a number of posts alongside the boathouse, so that it canmove up and down as the level of the river rises and falls. Itslowly sways in time with the afternoon waves, almostimperceptibly, except when, like me, you lie back languidlyand float away on your exhaustion and no longer knowwhere your body ends and where the wood, the water andthe sky begin. In the distance I hear David calling.

    I don't answer.

    I close my eyes.

    When I open them, he has come up behind me. I look upalong his legs, which are powerful and covered in darkhair; I see that he has taken his shirt off and put it over hisshoulders.

    `Done in?'

    I can't see his face properly, but I know the kind of lookhe's giving me. Sarcastic. Friendly and sarcastic. That'show he always looks. He has the face and body of someonewho at birth was given not just a life, but the whole worldin his lap. That's why he approaches us, the others, socalmly, with his friendly irony.

    `Shattered? Too much for you?'

    I say nothing and do not accept the hand that is offeredto help me up. I'm not an invalid, far from it. I roll on to myside and in a rapid, supple movement stand up beside him.When I'm standing I'm as tall as he is. Not as powerfullybuilt. Not as calm. But just as tall.

    Now I can see that he is tired too. Sweat is still streamingfrom under his black curls, along his nose, into his mouth.He grimaces and wipes it away with his rolled-up shirt. Forthe first time I dare to think that he is not just my partner, butmore than that, perhaps a friend. We have trained hard.Under the fierce sun, under the clear sky, we have rowed asfast as we could along the river. A little way down the pontoonis the empty boat, its brass gates flashing, the oarscrossed. We lift the boat out of the water. We wipe the cedar-woodshell with a cloth to dry it, take it inside and fetch theoars. And then, as we walk together to the shed, each of uscarrying an oar, David puts his hand on my shoulder for amoment. Not just friendly, but like a real friend. Not sarcastic,but serious. I'm so tired. I squeeze the hard wood of theoar and feel my muscles flex one last time. A wave of deephappiness sweeps through my hands, my arms, my shoulders,my chest and my legs. I am tired and happy.

    Happiness? You shouldn't talk about it. One word toomany and it becomes ridiculous. Two words and it's vanished,gone. And yet it doesn't feel fragile, the happiness ofthis summer. You can take hold of it and lay your head onit. I hold it in my hand for hours and it doesn't go away.

    And now too I am holding on to that summer, not just inmy thoughts, but with my whole body, from my numb fingersdown to my toes. That summer when the river wasours, and so was the boathouse, the city, the meadows andthe reeds at the water's edge. Happiness only exists whenyou can touch it and I held it, I'm still holding it, that summerof 1939, now, here, tonight. I hear the soft chatter of thewater and deep in my bones I can still feel the warmth ofthe planks of the pontoon.

My first memory of the river consists mainly of light andspace. I see myself and my father walking through thestreets of our neighbourhood, along Topaz Street, past thesquare with the public baths and then into the wide EmeraldStreet, which did not lead to another street but issuedon to the wide avenue along the river and hence into a seaof sunlight where trees rustled and flags flapped andcrowds of people were abroad and where noise did not fillthe space but fanned out in all directions, over the waterand up into the sky.

    I must have been about two or three, not much older,because I was sitting on my father's shoulders and myfather is small and delicate and not strong. I think there wasa regatta or some other form of water festivity to which hehad taken me, because in my memory the river is a carpetof silver wavelets with countless boats of all shapes andsizes.

    Since then I have been to many of those festive days andalthough they sometimes say the first impression is alwaysthe strongest, I am not aware that my joy at such river festivitieshas diminished. It was more like love at first sight,which then grew ever deeper and more intense. Later, Iloved it when on holidays the river filled...