Tales From the Secret Annex Part 8

CHAPTER 3.

The weeks pa.s.sed rather monotonously for Cady. A good many friends and acquaintances came to see her, but most of the time she was alone. Now she was well enough to sit up and read. She was given a bed table and her father brought her a diary; now she often sat writing her thoughts and feelings. Cady had never known that writing could give her so much pleasure.

Life in the hospital was very monotonous. Every day the same schedule, everything by the clock, never a mis- take. Besides, it was so quiet, and Cady, who had no more pain in her arm and leg, would have liked a little more life and commotion around her. But, in spite of it all, the time pa.s.sed rather quickly. Cady was never bored, and people gave her games that she could play all by herself with her right hand. And she didn't neglect her school books, but devoted a certain amount of time each day to them. She had been lying there for three months, but it would soon be over. Her fractures were not as serious as had been thought at first, and now that she was on the mend the doctors thought it advisable that she should go to a sanatorium to be fully cured.

So the following week Mrs. Van Altenhoven packed Cady's things and she and her mother rode in an ambulance for hours and finally reached the sanatorium. There her days were even lonelier. Visitors came once or twice a week, there was no Sister Ank, and everything was unfamiliar. Her only ray of light was that her health was improving.

When she was settled in at the sanatorium and the cast was removed from her arm, she had to learn to walk again. That was terrible! Leaning on two nurses, she moved one foot and then the other, and every day the exercise began again. But the more she walked the better it went and her legs soon got used to the movement.

It was a feast when she was well enough and had made sufficient progress in her walking to go out into the garden with a nurse and a cane. When the weather was fine, Cady and Sister Truus, who always went with her, would sit down on a bench in the big garden and talk or read something, if they had taken a book with them. One day they went into the woods outside the garden, and since Cady liked that much better, the nurse raised no objection. Of course Cady had to walk very slowly, and often an unexpected movement gave her pain, but every day she looked forward to this half hour out in the open, where she could imagine that she was well again.

CHAPTER 4.

Three weeks later, when she knew the path and every. side path by heart, the doctor asked if she thought it would be more fun to go walking by herself. Cady thought it would be wonderful: "Can I really do that?"

"Yes, indeed. Go right out, and don't let us see you again," the doctor joked.

So when Cady was ready, she took her cane and went out by herself. It was a strange feeling, she was so used to having Sister Truus with her, but that first day she wasn't allowed beyond the garden gate. When the half hour was over, the duty nurse saw her coming in with redder cheeks than usual and a cheerful face.

"I see you've enjoyed your walk."

From that day on she could be seen every day in the garden, and soon it went so well that they gave her permission to go a little way outside the gate. The country around the sanatorium was very quiet, there were hardly any houses nearby, except for the big villas that were ten minutes' walk from there and also ten minutes' walk from one another.

On one of the side paths Cady discovered a bench consisting of a felled tree trunk. She took blankets out with her to make herself comfortable. Every morning she went there and sat daydreaming or reading. When she took a book along, it often fell from her hands after she had read a few pages, and she thought to herself: Isn't it a lot nicer just to sit here and look around; isn't it a lot better to think about the world and what's in it than to read what hap- pens to this girl in the book? And then she looked around, looked at the birds and the flowers, watched an ant at her feet, who was racing along with a tiny little twig, and she was happy. Then she dreamed of the time when she'd be able to run and jump again and go wherever she pleased, and she came to the conclusion that her accident, which had brought her so much misery, also had its good sides. She suddenly realized that here in the woods, in the sanatorium and in the silent hours spent in the hospital, she had found out something new about herself, discov- ered that she was a human being with feelings, thoughts and opinions of her own, a being separate from all others, a person in her own right.

Why had she never thought of that before, why had it never occurred to her to think about the people around her, or even about her own parents?

What was it Sister Ank had said? "Maybe it's because she has suffered so much that she doesn't like to talk about the delicate things in life?" And what had she herself an- swered? "What does a daughter know about her parents' life?"

How had she hit on that rather embittered answer, when she was positive that she had never before given the question a thought? And yet, wouldn't she have given the same answer at present? Wasn't her answer the truth? What does a child know about the lives of other people, her friends, her family, her teachers; what does she know about them except the externals? Had she ever spoken se- riously with one of them? Deep in her heart she felt ashamed of this, though she had no idea how to go about learning something about people, and so she concluded: What good does it do me to have their confidence if I can't help them in their difficulties? And though she knew she didn't know how to help, she also knew how comforting it is to take someone into your confidence; not so long I ago, she herself had been so unhappy about not having someone she could really talk to. Wasn't the crus.h.i.+ng lone- liness she herself sometimes felt just that? Wouldn't her loneliness go away if she had a friend whom she could tell everything? And Cady knew very well that she hadn't done enough, but also that others had never troubled their heads over her.

CHAPTER 5.

Cady was cheerful by nature, she liked to chat. But if she was lonely, it wasn't for lack of opportunity to chat. No, that wasn't it; her sense of being alone was something else.

Hey there, Cady said to herself, now you're thinking again. Better watch your step, you'll go crazy if you keep circling around the same point. Cady gave herself a mental slap and couldn't help laughing a little at the crazy thought that there was no one around to scold her, and she prob- ably missed it, and that was why she was always scolding herself.

Suddenly she looked up, she heard footsteps approach- ing and she'd never seen anyone on this out-of-the-way path. The steps came closer and closer and then out of the woods stepped a young man of about seventeen, who gave her a friendly good day and walked on.

"Who can that be?" she thought. "Could it be one of the villa people? Yes, that must be it, because n.o.body else lives around here." That disposed of the matter for Cady and she forgot all about the young man until he came by again the next morning and then for weeks after that, every morning at the same time.

One morning, when Cady was sitting on her bench and the boy came out of the woods, he stopped, held out his hand and said: "I'm Hans Donkert; we've known each other a long time now, why shouldn't we really get acquainted?"

"My name is Cady Van Altenhoven," said Cady. "And

I think it's nice of you to stop for a change."

"Well, you see, I didn't know if you'd think it was silly of me to keep going by without stopping or if it would be all right to speak to you, but in the end I was so curious that I took the chance."

"Do I look as if someone should be afraid to speak to me?" Cady asked in a mischievous tone.

"Now that I see you close up," said Hans, taking up her joke, "you don't. But tell me this. The fact is I just wanted to ask you if you live in one of the villas or if you're a patient at the sanatorium -- which seems most unlikely," he added quickly.

"Unlikely?" Cady couldn't help asking. "Why, of course I'm at the sanatorium. I broke my arm and my leg and crushed my foot, and it's taken me six months to get well."

"All that at once?"

"Yes, I was stupid enough to get myself run over. But don't get upset, it can't be as bad as all that if you yourself didn't take me for a patient." Hans was indeed rather up- set, but he thought it best to say no more on the subject. "I live at Dennegroen House, back there." He pointed with his index finger. "You probably wonder why I pa.s.s here so regularly; I'm on vacation, I'm home from school, but every morning I go and see a friend of mine, because otherwise I get bored."

Cady made a move to stand up and Hans, who saw what she was about, held out his hand, because it was still hard for her. But Cady was stubborn, she declined his help. "Don't be offended, but I must try to get up by Cady's Life 73 myself." Hans, who wanted to be helpful, took her book, and that gave him an excuse to escort the nice girl to the sanatorium. At the gate they said good-bye as though they'd known each other for ages, and Cady wasn't the least bit surprised when Hans arrived a little earlier than usual the next morning and sat down beside her on the tree trunk.

They spoke of many things but they never went very deep and Cady, who thought Hans was terribly nice, soon began to feel sorry that their conversation never touched on anything but the most everyday subjects. One morning they were sitting on the tree trunk not far from each other. For once the conversation just didn't flow. In the end, it dried up completely and they sat staring into s.p.a.ce. Suddenly Cady, who had been deep in thought, looked up. She had a feeling that someone was looking at her. And true enough, Hans had been looking into the little face beside him for some time. And then their eyes met, they looked at each other longer than they actually wanted to, until Cady finally noticed what was happening and quickly lowered her eyes.

"Cady," said his voice beside her. "Cady, couldn't you tell me something about what's going on inside you?"

Cady thought it over for a moment; then she answered: "It's so hard, you won't understand. You're sure to think it's childish." Cady's courage had suddenly failed her, and on the last words her voice faltered.

"Have you so little confidence in me? Do you think I have no thoughts and feelings that I wouldn't confide in just anybody?" "Of course I have confidence in you, that's not what I meant. But it's so hard. I myself don't know what I want to tell you." They both looked at the ground and their faces were grave. Cady noticed that Hans was terribly disappointed, and since she felt sorry, she said suddenly: "Do you too sometimes feel so alone, even when you have friends near you? So alone inside, I mean."

"I believe that everyone who is young feels alone at times, some more, some less. I do too, and up until now I've never been able to talk to anyone about it. Boys don't confide in their friends as easily as girls do. They're much more afraid of not being understood and of being laughed at."

He fell silent and Cady looked at him for a moment. Then she said: "I've often wondered why people have so little confidence in one another, why they're so reluctant to pour out their hearts. Sometimes a few words can clear up terrible difficulties and misunderstandings."

Again neither of them spoke for some time. Then Cady suddenly seemed to take a decision. "Hans," she asked, "do you believe in G.o.d?"

"Yes, I believe in Him with all my heart."

"I've thought about G.o.d a good deal lately, but never talked about Him. At home I learned when I was very little to pray to G.o.d every night before I went to bed. It was a habit, just like brus.h.i.+ng my teeth. I didn't really stay with G.o.d, I don't think He was in my thoughts at all, because people could give me all I needed at that time. Now that I've had this accident and I'm alone so much, I have plenty of time to think about these things. On one of my first evenings here, I got stuck in my prayer, and then I noticed that I was thinking about something entirely different. So I made a change, I began to think about the deeper meaning of the words, and then I made a discov- ery that there's a frightful lot more than I'd ever imagined in this seemingly simple child's prayer. From then on I prayed for different things, things I myself thought beautiful, and not just a general prayer. But one evening a few weeks later I got stuck in my prayer again, and like light- ning the thought flashed through my mind: 'Seeing that I never gave G.o.d a thought when I had it good, why should He help me now in my hour of need?' That question has stayed with me, because I know it would be only right and just for G.o.d not to think of me now."

"I can't quite agree with you on that last point. In the past, when you were leading a happy life, you prayed mechanically, your prayers had no content, you hardly gave G.o.d a thought. But now that you're looking for Him because you're in pain and fear, now that you're really trying to be as you think you should, I'm sure G.o.d won't leave you in "the lurch. Trust Him, Cady, He has helped so many people."

Thoughtfully, Cady looked up at the trees. "But, Hans, how do we know that G.o.d exists? Who and what is G.o.d; no one has ever seen Him, after all; sometimes I have the feeling that praying to Him is praying to the air." "When you ask me who and what G.o.d is, I can only say: No one can tell you who G.o.d is and what He looks like, because no one knows. But if you ask: What is G.o.d, I can say: Look around you at the flowers, the trees, the beasts, and at human beings, and then you will know what G.o.d is. This wonderful thing that lives and dies, that reproduces and that we call nature--that is G.o.d. He has made all this; you don't need to have any other idea of Him. G.o.d is men's name for this great miracle; they could just as well call it something else. Don't you agree with me, Cady?"

"Yes, I understand all that, I've thought about it my- self. Sometimes, when the doctor in the hospital said to me: 'You're making good progress, I'm almost sure you'll get well,' I was so grateful, and-leaving out the doctor and the nurses, whom was I to be grateful to but G.o.d? But on the other hand, when I was in great pain, I thought that what I called G.o.d was Fate. So I kept going around in circles, and never came to any final conclusion. But when I asked myself, what do you actually believe, I was sure I believed in G.o.d. I often ask G.o.d for advice, so to speak, and when I do, I'm sure I get the one right answer. But, Hans, ,shouldn't that answer somehow come out of myself?"

As I've told you, Cady, G.o.d created people and all living things just as they are. Our soul and our sense of justice come from Him. The answer you get to your ques- tions comes from yourself, but also from G.o.d, because He made you as you are."

"So you think G.o.d speaks to me through myself?"

"Yes, I do. And in speaking of these things, Cady, we have shown great confidence. Give me your hand as a sign that we shall always trust each other, and when one of us is in difficulty and would like to talk to someone about it, then both of us will know where to turn."

Cady gave him her hand, and so they sat for a long while, hand in hand, and a wonderful feeling of peace grew up inside them.