Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! (13 page)

O
nce we were outside, Noelle suggested we walk to the market square about a block from the Ten Boom house. I followed as if in a trance.

Noelle stopped at the first café she came to. The menu was posted under glass by the restaurant’s front door.

While Noelle skimmed the menu, I stood fixated on the massive, Gothic-style church in the far corner of the square. I never had seen such a large cathedral. It had to be several hundred years old and was majestic in its girth and structure.

“No.” Noelle stepped away from the posted menu. “This is not what we want.”

The sun had broken through the thin clouds, and dozens of bicyclists pedaled across the uneven, wide-open square. Several tables covered with bright yellow umbrellas lined up on one side of the church.

“What about over there?” I liked the idea of sitting down and reconnecting with my center of gravity, which had been thrown off balance.

“Sure, we can eat outside. The weather might even cooperate and not sprinkle on us.”

We trekked across the open market square. In an effort to introduce a topic far from the thoughts that had taken me hostage, I said, “I wonder if Corrie and her family went to this church.”

“It’s not likely. Do you remember the guide saying they belonged to the Dutch Reformed denomination? This is Saint Bavo. It’s a Catholic cathedral. If I remember correctly, this is one of the few in the region that escaped the iconoclastic riots. It might have been converted into a Protestant church. I don’t remember the history.”

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. I had no idea what an “iconoclastic riot” was.

“Have you been inside?”

“Yes, a long time ago. We came for an organ concert. Do you want to see if we can go inside? It’s quite an organ, if you’re familiar with church organs.”

I wasn’t. But it seemed like a good idea now that Noelle had suggested it. I hoped that walking and focusing on whatever we saw inside would release the cramping of feelings in my gut.

We entered the massive church, and the chill of the vast open space had a clarifying effect on me.

As our eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior, Noelle raised her chin up toward the sweepingly tall stained-glass windows. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

I nodded but didn’t have the right words to respond. The interior was decorated ornately, yet it was the light exploding from
the magnificent stained-glass windows that dominated the space. The high ceilings seemed a dizzying contrast to the compact, narrow hallways and rooms we had just been in at the Ten Boom house.

The organ, gilded with ornate carvings and intricate details, reigned over an entire section of the interior. Two larger-than-life statues were mounted atop protruding pillars on the face of the organ. I never had seen anything so grand. It looked like the front of a crown that would have fit on the head of a giant the size of a mountain. I couldn’t quite grasp how extraordinary this instrument was. It was a work of art.

Noelle whispered to me, “That is the world’s most famous organ facade. Mozart performed here, as did Haydn and Liszt, if I remember correctly. Impressive, isn’t it?”

I nodded, feeling hushed and humbled by the sheer size of this place of worship.

“You should hear the music that comes out of that organ. It really is like nothing you’ve ever heard.”

“You were saying something about riots. Was that during the war also?”

“No, the iconoclastic riots were five hundred years ago.”

I tried to wrap my mind around this building being constructed more than half a millennium ago. It proved to be a challenging concept in light of how “old” everything had seemed at Corrie’s house.

“I’ve never heard of these riots. What happened?”

Noelle directed me away from the pews where several people
were seated in quiet contemplation. We regrouped to the side of the church under one of the magnificent stained-glass windows. The early afternoon light was coming in through the windows and leaving pale stains of color on the floor and dark pews, bringing splashes of color, hope, and cheer into the church.

“This is what I know about the iconoclasts, but don’t quote me on the accuracy of my facts. During the Reformation many—I guess you could say religious—people were focused on the importance of relics and icons.”

“Such as crosses? Is that what you mean by an icon?”

“Yes and no. Some icons were paintings of Christ or the Nativity. Relics were bits of souvenirs brought back from the Crusades. Any sort of religious art might fall into the category of an icon, depending on your opinion of what were acceptable and unacceptable artistic expressions of worship. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, even though all this was new to me, and I wasn’t completely up to speed.

“A movement rose up in Holland to destroy all the icons to purify the church. At the time, these items were symbols of Christianity, but some considered that the value placed on the pieces of art fell into the category of idol worship. Have you heard this before?”

“No, never. Keep going.”

“Well-meaning, devoted believers came to cathedrals like this one and destroyed countless paintings, stained-glass windows, and especially carvings such as ornate wooden crosses or images of saints.”

“That’s why you were saying this church was spared.”

“Right. I’m sure the whole story is included in the brochure they have at the entrance. We’ll pick one up before we leave. Do you want to stay longer? We can walk around some more, if you like.”

“No, I feel better. I mean, I’m ready to go. I could use something to eat, though.”

“Me too.”

I took a last look at the opulent beauty that surrounded me before we exited. The sunlight continued to press its soft rays through the colorful bits of glass in the windows. It would take hours, maybe days, to absorb all the details in the architecture and interior design of this spacious place. What a sharp contrast to the cramped quarters of the Hiding Place.

Five hundred years ago well-meaning purists rioted, and untold numbers of priceless pieces of art, carvings, and stained-glass windows were destroyed. But not these windows.

A generation ago a zealous dictator entered this same city on a much more serious “purification” rampage. We had heard on the Hiding Place tour that the Dutch lost around ten thousand soldiers and a hundred and ninety thousand civilians during World War II. However, due to the Ten Boom family not only hiding people but also being a distribution center for travel documents, an estimated eight hundred people were spared.

I felt a shiver of hope for the human race. God always seems to keep a certain remnant for Himself—from Noah’s ark until the present. I wondered if I dared to reach for a shiver of hope for myself.

Noelle and I squinted as we stepped into the sunlight. We
settled into the chairs at one of the tables with the yellow umbrellas. Our lunch order was for two salads and a cup each of what Noelle translated as potato soup.

Noelle sat back. “This was a good choice to come here. Especially now that the weather is turning. The sun feels wonderful, doesn’t it?”

I agreed and said I felt as if I could sit there for the rest of the day in silence and still barely process all that had happened since we left her house that morning.

“This has been quite a day, hasn’t it? You know, I’m surprised I’ve lived here so long and yet never heard of the Ten Boom Museum. I’m going to tell everyone I know to visit the house. Everyone is aware of the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam. It’s a fantastic museum, and the tour is thought provoking and moving. But of all the times I’ve gone there, I’ve never come away with a sense of hope riding on top of all the devastating emotions. I don’t know if that is coming out the way I mean it. I felt something very deep at the Ten Boom house that went beyond the horrors of the Holocaust. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, definitely.”

Catching a hint of sadness or perhaps a brush of pain in Noelle’s expression, I looked at her more closely. “What did you feel?”

“Too much.”

I waited for her to elaborate.

“The part about forgiveness…about asking God to give you the strength to forgive someone…”

Her expression made it clear that something important yet delicate lay hidden in her life. I leaned forward, inviting her to tell me what it was.

Instead of opening up, she reached into her purse and put on a pair of sunglasses. All the heart messages that had been evident in her eyes were silenced. She had pulled down a shade, blocking my view. In a steady voice Noelle said, “I feel as if I need to just sit in the middle of all these thoughts and impressions for a while. I don’t have conclusions yet.”

“We can sit. Sitting is good.”

Each of us drew in a slow breath, nearly in unison, and leaned back. I thought of all the years Noelle and I had experienced long stretches of silence. Sometimes she and I would go ten or more months without a single letter passing between us.

It didn’t alter our friendship. We both seemed to know that when we sailed into a smooth-enough place in life, we could sit down and spill out our hearts’ contents again. We were good at picking up wherever we had left off and taking our friendship on from there.

That deep-rooted history of security in the silences allowed us to sit across from each other in the sunshine and quietly dip our spoons into the thick potato soup without exchanging any words.

I missed Wayne. He was a truth teller. He would know what to say to Noelle right now. He would know how to nudge her to open up about whatever was causing her pain. Even I knew that it wasn’t good to hold things inside for a long time. Truth always surfaces anyhow.

You’re one to talk about opening up and speaking truth!

I brushed away the accusation. It was true, though. I was holding something delicate inside as well. Who was I to counsel Noelle to open up when I wasn’t willing to do the same?

I thought of how Wayne had been okay with my leaving for this trip in a state of denial. If he knew what I was feeling about the possible cancer diagnosis, he would encourage me to express my thoughts to Noelle instead of holding them in.

I knew I could tell Noelle anything. She had been so accepting when I initially e-mailed her and said I was coming to see her. The only reason I gave her for this trip was that I had the time and needed to add a little spice to my flattened life since the kids had moved out. If she had suspected a deeper reason, she hadn’t alluded to it in our conversations so far.

As I let a small bite of goat cheese from the salad linger on my tongue, I considered how I would bring up the topic of the biopsy. If I opened up to Noelle, perhaps she would feel free to open up to me.

But I didn’t say anything.

I don’t know why. Maybe because the day already seemed so intense. Or perhaps I was afraid that the lightness of our shared moments together would turn into a heaviness that would be difficult to get out from under once my dominating topic was in the open. Everything had been sailing along so smoothly. I didn’t want to alter that.

We took our time over lunch. I decided I could take my time too with disclosing what was going on inside me. I could offer
that same freedom to Noelle. We would take our time and see where our conversations naturally led. For now it was good just being “us” on this maiden voyage of the face-to-face season of our friendship.

To complete our sunny afternoon, Noelle and I walked to one of the main canals that connected Haarlem to Amsterdam. A variety of sailboats, motorboats, and even a few rowboats dotted the wide canal. On the other side of the water was an old house that had a windmill on top.

“This is so quaint. This is how I envisioned the Netherlands. It’s like a picture book.”

“You’re definitely going to appreciate Amsterdam then. You know, we could still go there today, if you like. It’s not far.”

I hesitated.

“Or we could get a fresh start in the morning and spend all day there.”

“I like that idea better.”

Continuing at our leisurely pace, I took pictures of the boats, the canal, and the windmill while Noelle explained how Haarlem was a port city on the North Sea. The low, flat barges on the canals had been the main transportation source for many years until the arrival of the train.

“How far is the North Sea from here?”

“Close.”

“Is it close enough that we could walk there?”

“Yes, we could do that. Would you like to go to the beach to see the North Sea?”

She said later that my eyes lit up like a child’s when she asked if I wanted to go to the beach.

I told Noelle I wanted to put my toes into the North Sea. “I don’t know why. It just seems like an exotic thing to be able to say that I did. ‘I touched the North Sea.’”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Noelle responded with a clever grin, as if she felt quite pleased with her on-the-spot pun.

I would have offered a courtesy grin back, but she already had taken off at her usual fast clip, and I was too busy breathing and trying to keep up with her to grin or utter a clever line in response.

Our direct route took us through some not-so-quaint parts of town and was a longer hike than I had expected. Walking seemed to invigorate Noelle and also seemed like a normal part of each day for her.