the doorbell rang. I was washing the lunch dishes in the kitchen, but I ran through the dining room and down the steps before the rest of the family could stir.
I flung open the alley door and there was Karel.
Beside him was a young woman.
She stood smiling at me. I took in the hat with its sweeping feather, the ermine collar, the white-gloved hand resting on his arm. Then a blur seemed to move over the scene, for Karel was saying, âCorrie, I want you to meet my fiancée.â
I must have said something. I must have led them up to Tante Jansâs front room that we used now as a parlor. I only recall how my family came to the rescue, talking, shaking hands, taking coats, finding chairs, so that I would not have to do or say anything. Mama broke even her own record for making coffee. Tante Anna passed cakes. Betsie engaged the young woman in a discussion of winter fashions and Father pinned Karel in a corner with questions of the most international and impersonal nature. What did he make of the news that President Wilson was sending American troops to France?
Somehow the half-hour passed. Somehow I managed to shake her hand, then Karelâs hand, and to wish them every happiness. Betsie took them down to the door. Before it clicked shut, I was fleeing up the stairs to my own room at the top of the house where the tears could come.
How long I lay on my bed sobbing for the one love of my life I do not know. Later, I heard Fatherâs footsteps coming up the stairs. For a moment I was a little girl again, waiting for him to tuck the blankets tight. But this was a hurt that no blanket could shut out, and suddenly I was afraid of what Father would say. Afraid he would say, âThereâll be someone else soon,â and that forever afterward this untruth would lie between us. For in some deep part of me I knew already that there would notâsoon or everâbe anyone else.
The sweet cigar-smell came into the room with Father. And of course he did not say the false, idle words.
âCorrie,â he began instead, âdo you know what hurts so very much? Itâs love. Love is the strongest force in the world, and when it is blocked that means pain.
âThere are two things we can do when this happens. We can kill the love so that it stops hurting. But then of course part of us dies, too. Or, Corrie, we can ask God to open up another route for that love to travel.
âGod loves Karelâeven more than you doâand if you ask Him, He will give you His love for this man, a love nothing can prevent, nothing destroy. Whenever we cannot love in the old, human way, Corrie, God can give us the perfect way.â
I did not know, as I listened to Fatherâs footsteps winding back down the stairs, that he had given me more than the key to this hard moment. I did not know that he had put into my hands the secret that would open far darker rooms than thisâplaces where there was not, on a human level, anything to love at all.
I was still in kindergarten in these matters of love. My task just then was to give up my feeling for Karel without giving up the joy and wonder that had grown with it. And so, that very hour, lying there on my bed, I whispered the enormous prayer:
Corrie ponders her future.
âLord, I give to You the way I feel about Karel, my thoughts about our futureâoh, You know! Everything! Give me Your way of seeing Karel instead. Help me to love him that way. That much.â
And even as I said the words I fell asleep.
4
The Watch Shop
I was standing on a chair washing the big window in the dining room, waving now and then to passersby in the alley, while in the kitchen Mama peeled potatoes for lunch. It was 1918; the dreadful war was finally over: even in the way people walked you could sense a new hope in the air.
It wasnât like Mama, I thought, to let the water keep running that way; she never wasted anything.
âCorrie.â
Her voice was low, almost