I grew up in Holland in the sixties without central heating, when on early winter mornings frosty lacework would grace the single glazed windows. Me and my siblings had to entertain ourselves in the downstairs living room until my mother would wake up and light the coal fire.
On one such crisp cold morning, I left the younger ones playing their games and decided to make a collage. I loved making things. Wrapped in a thick terry cloth bathrobe and armed with scissors and a large pot of glue I attacked a pile of old magazines. Before long this eight-year-old girl becamemesmerized by the bare breasts she found in one of them. I still don’t really understand why my strictly protestant parents who had zero tolerance towards sex before marriage allowed such a magazine within reach of their kids, but I cut out any breast I could find and started organizing my nippled collection into a beautiful spiral.
So engrossed in my quest, I hadn’t heard my mum coming down… A red glow took hold of my cheeks when she asked “What are YOU doing…?” I sensed a mix of curiosity and disapproval in her voice. “SILLY girl….”. While she was rakingthe ashes from the fire, I slipped behind her, scrunching up the unfinished and suddenly so highly embarrassing piece of work with my cold fingers. I stuffed the crumpled remains deep down in the small bin next to the harmonium, safely hidden under the rubbish of previous days.
I didn’t dare look my mum in the eyes at breakfast that morning and prayed she wouldn’t tell my dad. I was relieved when the clock’s big arm reached quarter past eight, time to get my coat and escape to school. On my way out it was with sadness I noticed that the accumulating heat of the coal fire was melting away the last ‘ice flowers’ on the windows.
Anna Versteeg