Part 2: The moment supreme

THE MOMENT SUPREME
Written by Bert Plomp

As the day progressed towards eight o’clock, the tension at home steadily increased. Without disturbing the reverent silence of the day, the first furtive glances were cast from the living room towards the street outside. The flow of traffic was closely observed, with particular attention paid to the behaviour of passers-by. Was there already a hint of nervousness among them? Were pedestrians beginning to quicken their pace? Were cyclists pushing a little harder to make sure they would be home in time?
An hour before the bell tolled on the Waalsdorpervlakte, my mother, with a solemn expression, would draw the curtains halfway closed. In our country, curtains that are fully or partially closed often suggest a sombre state of mind, unless they are meant to keep out bright sunlight, or the late hour requires it. Be that as it may, my parents intended to signal that mourning was taking place behind those drapes. The real reason, however, was that they could now take up position behind the curtains and watch the street unseen, keeping an eye on which neighbours were not taking the Remembrance quite seriously.
On the fourth of May, once the day’s work was done, everyone hurried home. People wanted to be indoors in good time, not to be caught outside once the minute of silence had begun. It was considered a grave offence to be moving about in the street during the commemoration. My parents were particularly strict about this. Seated in their observation post, they awaited developments in the street with mounting anticipation.
Then at last, the moment arrived. It had much in common with the national countdown on New Year’s Eve. On television, the mournful tolling of the bell on the Waalsdorpervlakte could be heard. The official minute of silence had begun. My parents would now lean forward as far as possible, peering from behind the curtains to determine who still dared to venture outside. Inevitably, there were always a few individuals to be seen in the street. If they were not standing still or had not dismounted from their bicycles to show respect for the fallen, my parents would mercilessly condemn them as scoundrels, traitors, and worse. The scrutiny of passers-by, however, demanded so much of their attention that their own act of remembrance was often neglected.
There was always high praise for the driver of bus number 4. Year after year, at exactly eight o’clock, he would bring his bus to a firm halt in the middle of the road. He would then jump out and, hand to cap, stand to attention in front of his vehicle. I always found it rather theatrical. Barely a hundred metres before the spot where he braked so decisively was the terminus of line 4. There, in a small shelter provided for them, drivers were required to take a ten-minute break at the end of each route. Why not simply wait there until the commemoration had passed? Why take up such a demonstrative position between two blocks of flats, standing to attention in full view of all the living rooms? Presumably because the driver suspected that many residents would be watching him, spectators concealed behind their curtains, observing his every move.
Even now, each year here in Ireland, I follow the Remembrance on Dutch television. And when the bell tolls once more, I always feel a certain urge rise within me, the urge to check whether anyone is still moving along the little coastal road in front of the house. Even though there are no curtains in the conservatory here. Even though, at the moment supreme, it is only seven o’clock.