Le Vase Brisé
If memory serves me well, it was Prudhomme who
penned the poignant poem, Le Vase Brisé, The Broken Vase.
He compares people who have endured profound suffering and whose hearts have been broken to a cracked vase. The vase is still standing, but as he concludes, “N’y touchez pas, il est brisé”—don’t touch it; it is broken.
Widow Drent’s sorrow was understandable. Her husband had died
many years earlier, and she continued to live in her home with her son and
daughter. Then, tragically, her son succumbed to hunger and cold in the Winter
of Hunger (1944-45) in the Netherlands.
He and a companion had ventured out to rural Gelderland in an
attempt to procure some food since the German blockade was starving the western
cities. After four days, a note, relayed by another hunger-trekker, brought encouraging
news: “We are on our way back and hope to be home very early Saturday morning.”
He wasn’t cheerful when he had departed. It was not a time to
be cheerful. The long war and the bitter cold turned joy into gray solemnity,
and any remaining hope into dogged perseverance. He had departed one morning
with the promise of returning as soon as he could. Yet, he did not return.
Not far from home, Johan Drent succumbed to the cold and the
misery of it all. On an icy afternoon, some men brought him home on a sled, and,
as the snow fell, he was buried. The grave had to be cut open with a pick-axe
because of how solid and unforgiving the frozen earth was.
Was it a surprise that Mother Drent, not yet sixty, aged
perceptibly within a few days? Was it a wonder that she was seen weeping and
sighing, sitting quietly in church, head bowed, tears staining her songbook?
Everyone understood.
She was a woman of faith who had entrusted her heart and
suffering to God’s care. This was evident from my pastoral visits and from conversations
she had with her daughter. Yet gradually she changed. She seldom cried, and
then not at all. She fell silent and would not even return her daughter’s
gentle and loving smile.
I visited her one evening, and she sat in her chair, quiet,
withdrawn, and without tears. My every word, my every expression of concern, and sympathy, and my prayers fell into an unfathomable void. Her hands lay open in her lap.
She could no longer fold them when I prayed.
“Mother is so quiet,” said the daughter. “Yes, she sleeps
well, but she rises early each morning, dresses herself, and sits by the
window. I believe that Mother thinks Johan is still coming home, and that she
must wait for him.”
How do you comfort someone burdened by such immeasurable
suffering? Words of solace, comfort, and encouragement seem futile. She
remained beyond reach, her head bowing farther with every well-meaning word.
Early one morning, I passed by her home. I glanced up and saw
her seated by the window, curtains drawn aside. She reminded me of a painting by
one of the old masters. There she sat, her face like it had been carved out of ivory,
motionless, eyes devoid of light, focused on the entrance to the street,
awaiting Johan with food from Gelderland.
There is a God in heaven who calls himself the widow’s
husband. And there is a Saviour who long ago prepared a place in the Father’s
house for weary children. People, however, cannot help her or mend her broken
heart. Perhaps, it is better not even to try.
The vase is cracked, it is still standing, but be careful,
very careful. “N’y touchez-pas, il est brisé.”
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From
Peper en Zout; tr. George van Popta, 2024
