Bitter Herbs by Marga Minco

Author:Marga Minco [Mingo, Marga]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473577015
Publisher: Ebury Publishing

Lepelstraat

As I turned onto Lepelstraat, I saw a police van approaching at the far end of the street. Men in helmets and green uniforms were sitting stiffly on two rows of benches. The van stopped and the men leaped out. I turned around to retrace my steps, but an identical van had already driven into the street behind me. The men inside it were likewise sitting perfectly still and erect, like tin soldiers in a toy car. They simultaneously leaped out of both sides of the van, strode over to the houses and pushed open the doors, most of which had been left ajar so they wouldn’t have to be broken down. One of the soldiers came up to me and ordered me to get into the van, which at this point was still empty.

‘I don’t live here,’ I said.

‘Get in anyway,’ said the man in the green uniform.

I didn’t move. ‘No,’ I repeated clearly. ‘I don’t live on Lepelstraat. Ask your commanding officer whether you’re also supposed to round up people who live on another street.’

He turned and walked over to the officer, who was standing a few feet away from the van, keeping an eye on his men. The soldier spoke to him briefly, pointing at me a couple of times as he did so. I didn’t move from where I was and saw a little boy suddenly emerge from a door near me. He was carrying a knapsack in one hand and a slice of bread with molasses in the other. There was a brown smear on his chin. From an open door I heard heavy steps on a staircase. The soldier came back and asked for my identity card, which he took over to the officer, who looked at it, muttered something and gave it back to the soldier. Holding the card in the same hand that was also clutching the gun, the soldier approached me again. He walked slower this time and stepped on a piece of paper that was being blown across the pavement. His helmet came down to his eyebrows, making his forehead look like it was made out of green steel. Meanwhile the little boy in the doorway had eaten his bread and tied his knapsack onto his back.

The soldier handed me my identity card and told me I could go. I walked past the van, where several women were now sitting on the benches. An old woman carrying a brown blanket was climbing in awkwardly, but the man behind her gave her a push. Somewhere a door was being pounded and a window was slammed shut.

When I reached Roetersstraat, I broke into a run and kept running until I was home.

‘That was fast!’ said my mother. ‘Didn’t you go to the butcher’s shop?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Was it closed?’ asked my mother.

‘No,’ I said, ‘Lepelstraat was blocked off.’

The next morning I walked through Lepelstraat again. Papers were scattered everywhere and doors were standing wide open. A grey cat was sitting on the steps of a dark stairwell.

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