I try to get to my feet, but the soldier suddenly uses force. We have become opponents, doughty and fierce. ‘Come on.’ He holds me firmly in his grip, his voice curt and impatient, squeezing my fingers more firmly around the knob and throwing his leg across me, the painful pressure of his knee pinning me to the rocks.
‘Let go of me!’ I shout the words out in a panic, and days later I can still hear their shaming sound. I know he can’t understand me, but the weight of his body grows less and his grip weakens. My arms are trembling.
‘Sorry, baby.’ He relaxes but goes on moving my hand up and down. What does he want, why does he make me do this, this horrible clutching?
I had heard stories about men who kill children; perhaps that’s how it happens, just like this. The thrusting inside my hand grows fiercer, he again bends over me and I turn my head away. On the rock beside me lies the stub of his burning cigarette; the smoke climbs up in a straight line and then tangles and disappears. When voices can suddenly be heard, clearly and close by, I pull my hand away like lightning, paralysed with fear. The soldier has already stood up, trying hastily to hide the awkward shape in his pants. Two unsteady steps and he is standing in the water. He falls forward and swims a few side strokes.
Two soldiers have climbed onto the sea wall, one of them whistling shrilly through his fingers and shouting. Walt turns round and stands up in the waves on strong, tensed legs, the sun casting luminous patches over his wet skin. The water barely reaches his knees. ‘Cold,’ he calls out.
He lets himself drop over backwards and swims off, sending up fountains of splashing water. One of the soldiers strips and wades in after him, the other one sits down a little to one side of me and lifts up his hand to me indifferently; he has bright blond hair and broad, round shoulders which he fingers constantly with obvious satisfaction.
I squeeze against the sea wall and hope that Walt will swim far out so that I can slip away unnoticed, but the two swimmers clamber onto the rocks nearby and then walk into the grass.
The blond soldier points to the small pile of Walt’s clothes, waits for me to pick it all up and then runs ahead, leaping from rock to rock. Close to the dyke we put the clothes down in the grass. Walt has slung a shirt over his shoulders and shakes himself dry. The blond soldier disappears behind the dyke and comes back with a crate of small bottles in a folded piece of oilcloth. He puts the crate down in the grass and whips the tops off a few of the bottles with a knife.
‘Coke?’ Walt passes me a bottle. The contents have a strong smell and at the first gulp a charge of bubbles fly up my nose.
With tears in my eyes, I hand the bottle back and shake my head: I am convinced I have been drinking beer.
In Amsterdam I once saw drunken Germans, with beer bottles in their hands.
‘Swine,’ my mother had said, ‘what a nation…’ and walking quickly had dragged me away.
The soldiers lie chatting on the opened-out oilcloth, smoking and rapidly emptying the bottles. Now and then Walt turns around and calls something out to me. Then he sings the song he hummed earlier and the two soldiers whistle along shrilly.
‘Jerome, sing. Come on.’ He walks across to me, pulls me up and does a few dance steps making me stumble over his feet. The others laugh. ‘Sing!’ He gives me an almost pleading look.
What am I to sing? Every song I ever knew has been wiped instantly clean from my memory. Walt holds my shoulders tight and seems to be trying to force it out of me.
‘Come,’ he says and squeezes me against his hard body,’sing.’
Confused, I look at the soldiers, what must they be thinking? One of them puts a finger to his lips and gives me a conspiratorial look. He steals closer and pours the contents of one of the bottles down Walt’s back.
Then, shouting, the two of them chase each other up and down the dyke. I don’t know if it’s in earnest but whenever they catch each other you can hear resounding slaps. I go and sit a bit higher up on the dyke to watch the fight from a safe distance.
Walt comes running back out of breath and both of them fall into the grass, fighting and dealing out blows to each other, yelling like schoolboys. Then both the soldiers grab Walt’s arms and pull the wet shirt off him. Walt struggles to break free and kicks out with his legs. Yet he is laughing. I can feel myself losing my temper: what are those two doing, are they hurting him? Why don’t they get back into their car and leave us alone? I am scared that I may be forced to join in the fighting, to take sides and defend myself. Will I be able to help Walt? Suddenly, the scuffle is over and there is an ominous silence. Walt is lying on his back on the oilcloth, the other two sitting next to him, talking in subdued tones and looking around. Are they expecting somebody? The blond soldier gets up, walks past me, goes up the dyke and stands there. Walt leans back on his elbows, tilts his head, and looks at me.
‘Jerome, come here,’ he says. His voice is soft and coaxing.
What is it now, what do they want from me? I.don’t stir, and they seem to forget all about me once more. The land smells of earth and manure, insects buzz low over the grass and the air near the Red Cliff is shimmering. I narrow my eyes to small slits. Below me I hear mumbling and a short laugh. The mysterious goings-on worry me; I feel left out. The soldier sitting beside Walt has bent down low over him, as if to take a close look between Walt’s raised knees. Walt has spread his arms and keeps turning his head to and fro. I look on with half-shut, smarting eyes: the soldier’s head is still bent greedily over Walt. I get up. I’d like to run over to them and kick the other soldier furiously out of the way; I feel ungovernable hatred welling up inside me. But with a stiff smile on my lips I work myself backwards up the dyke instead, my eyes fixed on the two men. The soldier is pummelling Walt’s stomach with quick short thrusts, grimly and silently at work as if giving him artificial respiration.
I know exactly what is happening, I know it from my suspicions and vague fantasies. And yet these baffling and ominous goings-on make me ill at ease: why does Walt let him do it, has he forgotten that I am here?
I race up to the car parked on the other side of the dyke and look inside. My coloured pencils are still on the seat, fallen half under the back. The blond soldier has run up after me; he reaches into the car and hands me the box. ‘Here.’ When I try to go back up the dyke, he grabs hold of me, giving me a look that is both kind and aloof. ‘No,’ he says firmly and points to the road. ‘Not now. Go. I want to see Walt. I want to know what is happening to him. Why can’t I go to him? The soldier pushes me down the slope and disappears behind the dyke. A moment later the other one comes up, looking right and left as he buttons up his shirt and stuffs it into his pants. Then he sits down in the grass and starts to whistle.
Why hasn’t Walt come yet, should I wait for him?
All is quiet, nothing moves. The sun bakes the road and fills the stillness with unbearable oppression. I turn on my heels and run home. When I reach our fence I hear the car horn in the distance. I look back: more hooting. For me?
Laboriously the car turns around on the narrow road, but I am already over the fence. Mem is standing on the grass beside the house, her hand shielding her eyes as she watches the vehicle slowly approaching.
‘The Americans,’ she says, ‘did you see them? Were they at the harbour?’
When she realises that I have been running fast, she adds, disparagement in the tone of her voice, ‘What’s the matter with you? Surely you’re not afraid of them? Do you think they’re going to hurt us?’