Truus.
[Staring into the fire.] And—and—the Magnet with my first husband, didn’t I say I’d been married a year? The Magnet stayed out seven weeks—with provisions for six—and each time the children shouted: “The ball is up, Truus! The ball is up, Truus!” Then I ran like mad to the tower. No one looked at me. They all knew why I ran, and when the lookout came down I could have torn the words out of his mouth. But I would say: “Have you tidings—tidings of the Magnet?” Then he’d say: “No, it’s the Maria,” or the Alert, or the Concordia, and then I’d drag myself away slowly, so slowly, crying and thinking of my husband. My husband! And each day, when the children shouted, I got a shock through my brain, and each day I stood by the tower, praying that God—but the Magnet did not come—did not come. At the last I didn’t dare to go to the tower any more when the ball was hoisted. No longer dared to stand at the door waiting, if perhaps the lookout himself would bring the message. That lasted two months—two months—and then—well, then I believed it. [Toneless voice.] The fish are dearly paid for.
Clementine.
[After a silence.] And Ari?—What happened to him?
Truus.
Ari?
Jo.
Now, that’s so short a time since.
Truus.
[Calmly.] Ach, child, I’d love to talk about it to every one, all day long. When you’ve been left with six children—a good man—never gave me a harsh word—never. In two hours he was gone. A blow from the capstan Bar. He never spoke again. Had it happened six days later they would have brought him in. We would have buried him here. The sharks already swam about the ship. They smell when there’s a corpse aboard.