Free Hunger Journeys by Maggie De Vries

girls turned and ran.
    Margriet’s shoulders heaved as they pulled their bicycles off the fence where they had leaned them and wheeled back onto the road. Lena could tell that her sister was struggling with tears, but she herself felt dry inside. Yes, her belly ached, but she had never turned to tears as easily as her sister did.
    She mounted her bicycle and pedalled in pursuit of her sister, who seemed to have got herself under control. They rode in silence for a long time, hungrier and thirstier with every moment that passed. They were not alone on the roads. Now and again, they came upon local people journeying here or there, and more often, others like themselves. City girls and city women. And once in a while, a city boy or a city man.
    They passed several farms with people already lined up in the yards, waiting for handouts. No wonder the woman hadbeen so frustrated. Lena and Margriet probably hadn’t even been the first of the day. She was alone and desperate, and one after another, people arrived to take from her, but no one arrived to give. The ache travelled up Lena’s body and settled deep behind her eyes. Still, though, no tears.
    They rode a long way down a narrow road with a canal on the right. At last, on the other side of the canal, Lena saw a farmhouse that looked promising, smoke pouring enticingly from its chimney and no journeyers gathering outside. “Margriet,” she called, “let’s go there.” And she pointed.
    At the next crossroads they turned and crossed the canal on a narrow wooden bridge. They had not seen any cityfolk for a time, just one old man on foot pulling a cart and a girl on a distant road riding a bicycle. The rain had turned to drizzle a while ago, and now it had stopped, although the sky remained grey. Lena did not know what time it was, but the day was wearing on. They would not make it back to Amsterdam by nightfall. And if they did not get something to eat and drink soon, they would not be able to continue at all. She fought off surges of anger at her father, who had told Mother not to pack them food for the trip.
    “They’re going to the country to
get
food,” he had stated. “They don’t need to take food away with them.”
    The two girls rode down a long avenue lined by trees. The trees were tall and leafless, waving in the strong wind, majestic. Those trees were exactly the same as they would be without a war on. Lena wanted to stop and hug one, to ask its secrets. She tilted her head far back as she rode and almost came to grief in a big pothole. Then they were in the yard, which was bare but tidy. They leaned their bicycles against a fence and, this time, went straight round to the back of the house. Front doors, it turned out, were just for show in the country.
    The back door of this house was closed, as was the huge barn door nearby. They saw no chickens or cows or any other livestock. Margriet knocked, putting effort into it. And they waited. Silence stretched on, and then they heard footsteps and the door creaked open. A woman stood in front of them.
    The woman looked at them. “Ah,” she said. “For some reason, I don’t see many of you here. They’re calling them hunger journeys, aren’t they? This, what you’re doing.”
    Lena listened to the words, the kindness in them, and felt tears spring into her eyes. I will not cry, she willed, and felt a tear spill over.
    “Yes, mevrouw,” Margriet said, “and we have linen to trade for food … if you have any to spare, that is. We know it’s hard in the country too.”
    “Oh, not so hard as all that,” the woman said. “Come in, girls. Come in. I’m Vrouw Hoorn. Not mevrouw. No need for those city titles here. You come from Amsterdam, I think. Did you leave this morning?”
    Peering out from behind her sister, Lena nodded and another tear spilled from her eye.
    “You have come far,” the woman said.
    They passed through the spacious entryway, the area that joined house to barn, where Lena glimpsed