Stigmatized

By Judy Lohman

Wrongly arrested, stigmatized for life

He had a calm and orderly life as a humble Friesian farmer in the nineteen fifties. A handful of cows, three young children, and a marriage of convenience he had learned to live with. Suddenly his life is turned upside down, when he is arrested and wrongly accused of sexual abuse of his six-year old neighbor girl. Once he has been picked up, the village community turns against him, and he becomes isolated. It is his word against the girl's. The net closes around him even more when additional evidence is found. In the end his wife discovers the real culprit. But by then the damage to their relationship, as well as to his reputation in the small village community is irreversible. Emigration to America under a new name seems to be the only way to save their future. The question is, can he escape the shame that has come over him? Or is he stigmatized for life? And will the rest of the family ever hear what actually happened? A breathtaking novel about the harshness of a false accusation, that covers half a century, from the nineteen fifties until the beginning of this century.

Stigmatized; Caught in the American Dream was first published in Dutch in 2009 under the title "Getekend" (Stigmatized).

Anita Witzier, Dutch TV-personality, about this novel:
"A mesmerizing book, that captivates from the first page, and reads like a roller coaster."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judy Lohman
• Release date: Jan 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463382110

Judy Lohman

Judy (Junte and Diety) Lohman is a writers couple from Holland, active since 2007. Like the British couple Nicci French, they write literary thrillers, but also novels and travel books. Moreover they write columns and articles for several magazines and newspapers. They publish their eBooks on www.amazon.com, and also Dutch sites like www.ebook.nl and www.bol.com . Diety Lohman was born and raised in Friesland, the northern part of the Netherlands. As a child she lived on a farm in this remote and sparsely populated area. She studied Economics (with honors) at the University of Amsterdam. After her studies she worked as a consultant at Ernst & Young and later on as a manager in the non-profit sector. Her motto? 'Writing together? We should have started much earlier.' Junte Lohman was born as the son of a painter, and grew up in a small forester's cottage, together with his elder brother. He studied sociology at the Erasmus University in Rotterdam and, as a Harkness Fellow, City Planning at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. In America he worked as a transportation planner. After returning to the Netherlands he became a partner at a Dutch management consulting firm and later on the director of a Charity Organization. His motto? 'Writing is like sculpting with words and reminds me of my father's work as a painter.' The couple spends six months a year travelling in a nine meter long converted truck, thus finding peace and quiet, and inspiration to write their books. Their first literary thriller "Project Eva", written in Dutch, was published by Archipel/Arbeiderspers in 2009. Since then they publish their books through Uitgeverij Logion

Book preview

Unexpected Visit

In the distance he hears a familiar rhythm. It is Lieuwe in his wooden shoes, tapping a jaunty beat that clatters like a hailstorm on the concrete floor. A shock of white hair is swaying back and forth on top of his head. Clippers, he thinks to himself, and adds it to his mental to-do list.

Dad! Cops!

‘What do you mean, my little lion?’

‘They are in the kitchen!’ Excitedly, Lieuwe points behind him where two policemen are waiting in the doorway of the scullery, beckoning impatiently. They point to their shiny shoes and then to the filthy barn floor. At the very same moment Baukje kicks down the bucket. Why does it always have to be Baukje? Damn, another ten liters of milk and a lot of hard work down the manure gutter. He stifles a curse between his teeth, puts his cap on the back of his head, and slowly walks up to the police officers with the empty bucket in his hand.

‘Farmer Jaagsma?’

‘My wife does not think much of that title "farmer", but Jaagsma is absolutely correct. And this is my son Lieuwe.’ He points proudly to the boy, who in turn nearly floats out of his wooden shoes at the sound of his name.

‘Would you mind stepping inside?’ The two policemen turn around, without waiting for an answer. He follows, kicking his wooden shoes off onto the rubber mat outside the kitchen door. His wife is standing at the sink, wringing her hands, her face a looming thunderstorm. Something is amiss with my father, he thinks in a panic. A heart attack; or an accident maybe? Before he can ask anything, the oldest police officer, a man on the wrong side of fifty, barks:

‘Surely you know why we are here.’

Before he can answer Botje interrupts: ‘No, of course my husband doesn’t know. Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on? You can’t barge in and threaten us like this! Do you have a search warrant?’ His wife’s voice climbs an octave with every word. A bright flush reddens her face and her slanted blue eyes - like those in a Picasso portrait, her trademark blue eyes which render her an unexpected oriental beauty - disappear in a veil of anger.

Taede raises his hand and asks quietly: ‘What is this all about?’

Now the other officer is speaking, a slightly younger version of his partner, but smug. His words slice through the room. ‘You can stop this chicanery right now. You know very well what you are guilty of, you pervert. You must come with us.’

To his dismay, the policeman pulls out handcuffs and orders him to extend his hands. He is still holding the empty milk bucket in his hand and puts it down on the ground. The metal makes a hollow sound on the scrubbed tiles. Then he discovers that he still has his milking stool strapped to his waist; the protruding tripod makes him look like a porcupine. Dismayed, he unbuckles the belt, causing the stool - just before he can grab it - to fall on the ground with an ominous sound. For one moment there is complete silence. Botje is the first to speak:

‘You cannot just take my husband with you. He is busy milking the cows.’

‘Well, madam, you’ll have to start doing that yourself. Your husband is coming with us, and I would not count on seeing him again any time soon.’

Quickly, she puts herself between her husband and the policeman. She towers over the intruder. His wife is impressive in her wrath, even more so than on their wedding night. He almost feels sorry for the cop. However, the man pushes her aside and yanks Teade’s hands roughly behind his back.

‘Hey, that hurts,’ he exclaims, filled with indignation. Disregarding the protest, the officer gives him a knee, pushing him out of the kitchen into the hallway. There, he comes across his son Jelle, who is pressed against the damp overcoats, afraid and crying softly. In a flash he looks his eldest son in the eyes. Jelle quickly hides behind a coat, that of his mother.

The police car hurries over the meandering country roads. Teade has some idea where they are taking him but asks anyway: ‘Are we going to Leeuwarden?’ He does not get an answer. The handcuffs are beginning to pinch his back and force him to lean forward, making it seem as though he is eavesdropping on the policemen in the front seat of the car.

‘What am I being accused of? What is this all about?’ he shouts above the noise of the siren. The officer beside the driver turns around and pushes him back without an answer.

‘Ouch,’ he cries out. "What the hell is that for?’

‘Perverts like you deserve no respect,’ the policeman grumbles, turning around again.

‘Pervert? What are you talking about. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

The man persists in his silence, even when Teade asks once more. Sadly he watches the villages in the flat landscape glide past. If only he could think of what they want from him. He a pervert? It has to be a misunderstanding.

2. Why me?

Speechlessly she looks on while her husband is shoved into a small police car and the door is slammed shut. Filled with indignation Lieuwe beats with his fists on the window. Teade appears to say something to him, but she cannot hear it. Then abruptly - in spite of everything - the car speeds off. The wheels skid on the farmyard, splattering Lieuwe with mud. The car continues on the dirt road, bouncing up and down with a speed that announces that the Leeuwarden police force has apprehended a notorious criminal singlehandedly. Her little son chases the car as it is dashing away. No! To add to her aggravation and anxiety they turn on their siren. What will the neighbors think? Her anger gives way to concern. What is going on here? That word - pervert - annoyingly clings to the edge of her thoughts. Pervert? Her husband? Teade? She cannot imagine what they could mean. A feeling of panic wells up from her stomach. She swallows, as if this can erase the nightmare. Her husband is supposed to have done something filthy? Something that cannot bear the light of day? Her husband? She shakes her head, but the thoughts keep raging. A feeling of nausea takes possession of her. She swallows again. Suddenly her apron is being tugged at. It is her son Jelle. Her heart softens.

‘Where did they take daddy?’

‘I am afraid to the police station in Leeuwarden. They want to ask him a few questions.’

‘About what?’ His voice squeaks, and he looks away from her, first to the ground, then shyly toward the road.

‘I have no idea. Let’s go to the neighbors. We are going to ask for help.’

Mooing sounds echo from the backhouse. Lieuwe saunters along unwillingly, always looking back. His eyes are wild and uncomprehending. With long strides Botje crosses the farmyard, then walks up the dirt road to the intersection. Half a mile away is the main road, to the left the access road to the neighbors, also a gravel path, but without potholes. Next to her lingers Lieuwe. The corners of his mouth are trembling, and he keeps glimpsing back, hoping for a miracle. Jelle shuffles behind them, his head bowed. Only once he glances back hopefully as Lieuwe shouts heatedly: "Look over there, daddy is coming back." Even though she knows better she glances over her shoulder, too. Indeed it is the same kind of Beetle, but one that is crawling over the road in silence.

Unlike their own, the neighbors’ yard is tidy, like the pictures in calendars. A neatly cropped lawn, bordered by flowerbeds with colorful crocuses and daffodils that have already been kissed awake by the spring sunshine. The daffodils welcome her cheerfully with their waving yellow heads. The neighbors have the same type of farm as theirs, a head-rump farm, a kop-romp boerderij. Without a neck, just like Teade. A head which has been glued carelessly, almost stingily to the trunk. Oh, what a silly thought, she thinks, shaking her head. But anything better than giving in to the feelings of panic which overwhelm her. She casts an envious glance at the washed windows and freshly painted shutters; the red hourglasses sharply outlined against their white background, framed by a dark green rim. On the window sills are boxes with cheerful pansies. Botje cannot understand where Sjoukje finds the time to do anything more than the absolute necessities. Botje halts for a moment and looks around, as though she is seeing her neighbor’s yard for the first time. Come on, she says to herself, get on with it. Yet she hesitates. How will they respond? And how should she deliver the message? She can’t possibly repeat the words of that cop in front of her children. And she cannot bear to think of the entire village hearing about the accusation. The knuckles of her fist drum on the door. Just when she starts to knock again, hurried footsteps approach. It is Sjoukje. She opens the door a crack. Her blonde hair, which is normally neatly pinned up, now tousled. She stares at Botje suspiciously. Without asking a question she says: ‘Not now, it does not suit us right now.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, but we are in a terrible fix. Do you think The Mole could help out? We’ll pay him of course.’

‘No, he’s way too busy.’

‘Please just this once? We have nowhere to turn.’

How she hates having to beg. She, who is so attached to her independence and always proudly manages her own affairs, must now beg for help with two children at her skirts.

‘No, it’s really not possible. We cannot do without The Mole.’

‘Oh, that is most unfortunate.’

Her mind works feverishly to find a solution. What if she has to do the milking? It’s virtually impossible to do it all by herself. But what if she really does have to do it? Who else could she ask for help? My God, her father’s farmhands are still milking his herd, and moreover her father lives eighteen kilometers away. She can already hear his disdain. Maybe her father-in-law? No, he also lives a grueling distance away by bicycle and has to milk his own cows, too, of course. She wipes her sleeve across her forehead and says:

‘Could the kids just stay with you for a little while? Two hours or so?’ She cringes at the sound of her own meek voice. That’s not asking too much, is it? How often has she taken care of their little Famke… Behind her back she hears a muffled "No" from her oldest son, who anxiously tugs at her apron. Not only does Jelle object, but also Sjoukje.

‘No, that would not be a good idea. You know why.’ Sjoukje says these words in a calm and toneless voice. Before Botje can ask another question, her neighbor shuts the door.

Dumbfounded she stares at the glossy paint. She cannot believe what just happened to her. What is wrong with Sjoukje? "You know why." What is she talking about? Why does she behave in this unfriendly way? They walk together with their children over the dirt road every afternoon during milking time. Chatting about life, about all kinds of things. What could be wrong? No matter how much she puzzles, she cannot think of anything. Surely, Sjoukje has no problems with her husband Sikke? Or maybe there is something wrong with the kids, or the parents? That’s probably it, problems in the family. Jelle tugs impatiently at her apron, and Lieuwe is already on his way home. She watches him come to a halt at the intersection. Like a general he is peering over the road along which they kidnapped his father. A frown has affixed itself to his forehead. Only now she discovers that he is not wearing his wooden shoes. She takes Jelle by the hand, which feels like a damp little claw.

Lieuwe runs ahead of them and dashes into the kitchen, attracted by an insistent roar. Her heart skips a beat when she sees what has happened. Oh, no, as if she hasn’t got enough problems already. Hielke has worked his head between the bars of the playpen. Brusquely he attempts to retract his head. However, his ears remain stuck behind the bars like the barbed end of a harpoon. Apparently, they went through the opening without resistance, but not so in reverse. His flaming scarlet scalp, barely covered with a hint of flaxen brown fuzz, is under extreme tension, and his soft spots are pulsating. Lieuwe clumsily caresses the hot little head. Jelle watches the scene with a contorted face, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Botje cannot bring herself to reassure Hielke, but instead urges him to be quiet, her anger bottled-up. She fires each word at him like a bullet. ‘Hielke - shut - up. You -drive - me - crazy.’ Quickly she grabs a bottle of oil from the kitchen cabinet, unscrews the cap, pours the oil over her hands above the sink, and greases her son’s head with it. Then she tries to shove it back through the opening, as if she were pushing her child back into the womb. Hielke’s protests sound like fingernails on a blackboard. Botje feels a flaming headache setting in. She must restrain herself from putting a hand to his mouth. Her strong, unrelenting hands are kneading Hielke’s head as if molding it into a smaller size. Finally his head comes loose. Hielke tumbles backwards; his fall is broken by his diaper, and his chubby legs wobble uncontrollably through the air. His accusatory wail is more than she can bear right now. She orders Jelle to look after his two little brothers and turns towards the door, picking up her husband’s milking stool from the ground.

‘Me?’ Jelle asks timidly.

‘Yes, you. Put Hielke back on his feet and change his diaper. Lieuwe needs dry socks.’ With those words she closes the kitchen door behind her. For a minute she leans against the door jamb, her eyes closed. Hielke’s muffled screams gradually fade away. Three children in four years. She wished she could rewind the clock and had chosen for Gooitse. Restless sounds can be heard from the cows. With a sigh she braces herself and walks into the warm cow house. How many cows would Teade already have milked?

The thought of her husband makes her shiver. She cannot put the memory of Teade being pushed forcefully into the police car out of her mind. Her heart starts beating frantically, and her temperature rises. Should she have done something differently? Should she have gone with him and have forced herself into that small police car, too? But what about the children? Of course it’s all a misunderstanding. She must catch herself from crying. The panic settles. Come on, get busy, start milking the cows, nothing can be done about it now.

Every now and then bending down to examine the udders, she finally stops at Baukje. The long-legged black and white cow looks back curiously. Botje steps over the manure gutter and pushes away Baukje’s neighbor Bertha III with difficulty. The bulky body reluctantly takes two lazy steps aside, thus making only the tiniest bit of room for her. Baukje looks back again and snorts inquiringly. What was it that Teade had said about this beast? She sits down and feels for the udder. Half full. She has not even touched the udder yet when she gets kicked mercilessly. The bucket topples over and rolls underneath the cow. Startled she stands up and feels for her leg. Her stocking is in shreds; red bloody scratches appear on her leg. Carefully she tries to stand on it. Marking out her territory explicitly, Baukje strikes out a few more times, in the air this time. Shit beast, she thinks grimly. She is going to leave the bucket for what it is. Looking for kicking straps, she limps through the cow house. Over there, next to the door to the farm hall she sees the kicking straps hanging from the wall. Hmm, what a weird place, she would never have put them there. She would have stored everything in the broom closet. That reminds her she still needs a broom. She finds it around the corner in the farm hall, standing in a puddle, its hog’s bristles warped by the water. Armed with broom and kicking straps she returns to the cow house, ready to do battle with Baukje.

However, this time she notices that the cows are very restless indeed. Usually they meditate like monks while chewing their cuds, their slowly swishing tails being the only things that move. Now they are pulling at their chains, creating a cacophony like an orchestra eagerly tuning their instruments. Would they grasp that Teade is gone? Would they be goading each other into making things as difficult as possible for her? For they are still Teade’s girls of course.

Girls? How much Teade would have liked a daughter instead of another boy. She is aware that she has failed by giving birth to Hielke. Without a daughter, Teade must have thought, I’ll just give my love to my Baukjes.

In any case, the beasts are terribly vocal right now. Might they be hungry? Should they get food at this hour? Of course, how stupid of her, Teade always feeds them after the milking is done, at about this time. In the farm hall she looks around. Where would Teade have left the wheelbarrow? In a dimly lit corner, Teade’s corner, she sees an empty milk churn in front of Lieuwe’s rabbits. On the floor is a dirty pile of cigarette butts, and, as she expected, also the wheelbarrow still filled with hay. After having been fed the cows turn quiet.

Even Baukje has lied down. From under her bulky body a piece of zinc is protruding. She decides on the spot to leave Baukje alone. In the farm hall she finds another zinc bucket, a smaller one, but still, a bucket. Bertha III is not a kicker. To her relief her hands find the nipples automatically and she kneads out the milk like a pro. At least something that is going well. Whenever the bucket is full she takes it to the farm hall and pours the milk into one of the milk churns. These have to be taken to the roadside early tomorrow morning. Teade will surely be back by then, she hopes. How long has he gone now? She casts a quick glance at her watch. Almost three hours have passed and outside it has been dark a long time. The children? She can only hope that Jelle is able to entertain his brothers. Ten cows to go; then clean the gutter; feed the boys and put them to bed; and finally wash those dirty overalls. She is already dead-beat by the prospect alone.

With each cow she worries about whatever the reason may be that the police have apprehended Teade. He won’t have done anything foolish, will he? Pervert? That could mean sex. But with whom. He has nothing to complain about with her, has he? Well, maybe a little. If it is up to him they would do it every day. She wouldn’t have three but six children by now for sure. According to him she is way too stingy with her favors. All of a sudden she wished she had never gotten into this marriage and had listened to her father. He had been right, that first time when he saw Teade:

‘Another cocky ass, just like that Gooitse. Is he a true farmer? Does he really have a farm?’

She does remember her own doubts all too well, when Teade took her aside that Saturday night. Her heart was and is with her fiancé. Funny, that she is still calling Gooitse her fiancé, even though it was she who broke the engagement. Gooitse, she tastes the name on her tongue. How poetically could he describe her lithe body and her Spanish looks. She melts whenever she thinks of him, even after all those years. They had been a couple for the entire duration of the war and a few years after. A handsome couple, even if she says so herself. He tall - a head taller than she was - slender and with modest, sophisticated manners. Well-read, too. Something her father, as a former grammar school student, did appreciate. During the war marriage was out of the question. Of course after the war things looked very different indeed. Gooitse had painted a bright future for them. But after several years she became impatient when he kept telling her no when she asked him when he would acquire a farm. His father had three sons, and he was number two. Therefore Gooitse had to find himself a farmer’s daughter who would inherit a farm herself. And that wasn’t going to happen to her. So all she could do was to break off the engagement and start looking for a farm herself. Naturally, in combination with a farmer’s son. Gooitse had been inconsolable. ‘Come to America with me,’ he begged. ‘We’ll just leave and start a new life over there, just like your younger brother Meindert. I have enough cash for the crossing. And in the States it is quite easy to borrow money. Come on, let’s do it, go with me.’ Does she regret now that she did not dare at the time? Brave and pretty Botje with her sharp tongue? Had she been too cowardly to take the plunge? She remembers well how she cut Gooitse out of all her photographs. Out of her life. But she did not succeed in erasing him from her heart. When she closes her eyes, the contours of his face appear as sharp as a razor, night after night. She shakes her head in order to clear the memory of Gooitse and is painfully reminded of her headache. The here and now is what counts. If Teade hasn’t returned by tomorrow morning, she will take her bike and go to Leeuwarden after the milking and demand an explanation. They can’t put someone in jail without explanation. However, it’s twenty-four kilometers away. Hopefully, she can leave the children with Sjoukje.

From the kolk, the concrete floor above the slurry-pit outside, she fetches the low dung-cart and a wide wooden shovel. Having quickly swept the straw flakes and accumulated dirt from the floor into the manure gutter she starts emptying it. As soon as the cart is full she pushes it outside into the cold, clutching her hands around the wooden handles, which have become smooth and slippery from many years of wear. She has to push the cart onto a narrow board which has been placed over the dung-hill, all the way to the end. Once there she must push the handles upwards, until the cart empties its contents. To keep it from toppling she has to make sure that she pushes it up straight, risking the loss of her balance, thus being forced to step onto the treacherous dung-hill. Countless times she has warned her children not to come anywhere near the dung-hill. It is like quicksand. She cannot understand why Teade has put such a ridiculously narrow board over it. Each time she rushes the cart onto the board she feels like a tightrope walker. Then just what she has feared happens. Just when she thinks that she is ready, she slips. With a restrained scream she is forced to step aside. There she goes with her left leg, right into the dung-hill. Falling on her other knee, she slowly pulls her smeared leg out of the muck. It makes a soft gurgling sound, like a sink draining too quickly. Her wooden shoe is gone; the dunghill has sucked it off like an oyster.

Disgusted she stumbles to the outside tap, leaving the cart behind. After filling a bucket she bites her lip when the cold water hits her. Then she fills another bucket, and a third one. Gradually she begins to cry. The tears she has held back these last few hours, now flow down her cheeks. Not just out of helplessness and humiliation, but above all because of that vague sense of panic that refuses to go away. A feeling that has been cooped up inside her for hours. Never before has she felt so alone and vulnerable. She sobs feebly. Out of sight from her neighbors and the outside world she leans against the outside wall, as if it can provide her with the support she needs. Suddenly she crumbles and violently throws her other wooden shoe away into the dark night and calls to the stars:

‘Why me, why does it have to be me? I didn’t ask for this!’

Dead tired she switches off the lights half an hour later. She’s finished, though she knows that Teade always spreads a layer of fresh straw bedding under his cows to provide them more comfort, but there are limits. Suddenly she panics. The children have never been alone this long. She begins to run the last few meters to the kitchen. Even before opening the kitchen door she knows something is seriously wrong. A rivulet is running across the doorstep. A dike-burst in Friesland. Losing her temper she shouts: ‘Who-has-done-this?’

Jelle is sitting at the kitchen table. He is making a drawing, his knees on the chair. Petrified he gazes at his mother, who is standing in the doorway in her torn smelly clothes, straight from the dung pit. His pencil halts in the air just above his drawing pad.

‘Where are the others?’ she asks curtly, turning off the still pouring cold water tap. The countertop - which she had used to prepare the sandwiches for the six o’clock meal - has turned into a large expanse of water, which overflows onto the floor.

‘Well, where are they? And why didn’t you close the tap?’

Still Jelle does not say anything. He crumples the drawing and stuffs it in his pocket, running past his mother into the hall and up the stairs, like a hunted deer escaping across a stream. The water splashes lightly under his feet. Botje goes after him. On the stairs she is met by a cascade. Wave after wave of water pours down the steps. Jelle is already upstairs. She can hear his desperate voice shouting something to Lieuwe. She can guess what. Against the flow she climbs up the stairs as quickly as possible. She does not dare to think of the damage the water will cause. When she looks behind her quickly, she discovers that the water is seeking the lowest point, the cellar. On the cellar floor they have stored a couple of potato sacks as well as dried hams and sausages. Oh, she remembers, one more thing: the large pan of meat she prepared this morning for the whole week. Her heart skips a beat when she imagines the flooded contents of her cellar.

Upstairs, in the children’s bedrooms, the chaos is even greater than downstairs. All taps have been turned on. Quickly she turns them off one by one. The water continues to gush over her feet, seemingly not understanding that the party is over. From her bedroom she hears excited high-pitched voices. In two strides she is with them. Standing on a stool, Lieuwe is trying to turn off the unruly faucet of her sink. Naughtily he looks back. Across Jelle’s forehead the word Guilty is engraved. Shyly, he looks away from her eyes while he holds onto Hielke’s hand , who in turn tries to hide behind his back. The two are soaking wet and look pale and tired. Botje eyes Lieuwe with a searching look and asks in a tone which is void of any patience: ‘What-are-you-doing?’

‘Vacation. The Sneeker Lake.’ She can almost hear him chuckle.

3. Accused

Half an hour later they arrive in Leeuwarden. He does not know the city well, except for thecattle market, of course. The car stops in front of the police station. The cops get out, and when they pull him out of the back seat a wind as cold as the sea greets him. In front of the entrance of the station are a few puddles, a welcome from the foul weather.

‘Hey, be careful, I am not wearing my wooden shoes,’ he warns them.

‘We don’t want you to dry up,’ they laugh scornfully, pulling him right through a puddle into the police station. Inside, one of the policemen stops, one hand on his baton, the other threateningly on the hand cuffs. What a show, he thinks indignantly. Do they expect me to run away in my socks through the streets of Leeuwarden, handcuffed and all? I wouldn’t even know where to go, and I don’t have any money with me anyhow. The older cop walks to the reception desk and returns with a form. With a shove they tell him to move onward. His wet feet leave damp footprints on the floor. In a corner of the reception hall the cop holds the form in front of him - pen at the ready - and commands: ‘Belt.’

‘Okay, but could you first free my hands?’ he asks quietly. His colleague tinkers with the hand cuffs behind Teade’s back and then takes them off. Teade’s hands fall down helplessly. It takes a while - according to the policemen too long - before control of his tingling hands has returned. After pulling off the weathered leather belt, his old trousers begin to fall to his knees.

‘Do you have a piece of rope or something to hold my pants up?’

‘Don’t you understand why you have to surrender your belt?’

‘You don’t think I’m going to hang myself, do you?’

‘Who knows?’ The officer gives another order, his pen hovering above the second checkbox on the form. ‘Wedding band.’

This new demand fills him with rage, but he realizes that he is not in a position to negotiate. Unsuccessfully, he tries to remove the gold wedding band; a ring he has acquired the hard way, he remembers all too well.

As was to be expected it had been his mother who had broached the subject.

‘Listen Teade, your uncle’s farm becomes available soon. Weren’t you dating a girl? How is that coming along?’

Was he going to tell her the truth? The courtship had gone to pieces, evaporated; his girlfriend did not consider him intelligent or serious enough. Mockingly, she had even called him a buffoon. He had made a joke about it, predicting that she would never get bored with him. And brains? Didn’t she have plenty of them? It had been to no avail. However, he could not confess this to his mother and answered with such unconcealed pride that he almost believed it himself: ‘Botje Wiegersma, you might know her family, has been going out with me for some time now.’

‘Wiegersma? Don’t they live near Sneek? How many cows do they have?’

‘I would think about a hundred.’ He wasn’t really sure, but counting all the calves and yearlings he came to eighty, perhaps even ninety animals. And didn’t they also have a sty full of pigs somewhere? Well, anyway, one hundred was a nice round number.

His mother Hielkje had yet another criterion that weighed heavily. For her even more so than the number of cows. ‘Right or wrong during the war?’

‘They were in the resistance.’

His mother nodded thoughtfully, as if she was ticking off a mental checklist. Then she came up with the most decisive factor: ‘They don’t happen to be Roman Catholics, do they? You must know, two faiths on one pillow, is like...’

‘No, don’t worry, she is a Protestant.’

‘All right. Of course we don’t know the girl, but you’d better get on with it, because you’re closing in on thirty, and it’s about time to leave home.’

That last remark of course stung. When he saw Botje at the next dance, she waved at him as if he was nothing but air. Involuntarily his stomach contracted. He could still turn back. But no, before he knew it he had exclaimed: ‘Hey Botje, I need to discuss something with you.’

‘What do you mean? We have nothing to discuss anymore,’ she shouted above the music. Peggy Lee overrode any conversation, especially a marriage proposal.

He gave Botje a questioning look, pointed to his ears and shouted like a cattle driver: ‘Come on, let’s go outside.’

With visible reluctance she led the way. A head taller too, he wearily thought. With her hands on her hips she stood before him, impatiently tapping her foot on the pavement, the muffled sound of Peggy Lee behind the closed doors and windows of the ballroom.