DEN HAAG, NEDERLANDS, 1961
“Elder, I think we should concentrate on tracting out Scheveningen this week.”
Elder Hilliard sliced a glance toward his companion, his mouth tight. “I think not, Elder,” he murmured in Dutch, a sharp reminder for his new companion to watch his language.
Elder Christensen snorted and rolled his eyes, which Elder Hilliard had expected, but the greenie said nothing more, which warranted a quick prayer of gratitude. Accounting to the mission president what foolishness would have possessed him to take a newly transferred missionary to Scheveningen did not comprise part of Elder Hilliard’s idea of concentrating on the work.
His mouth quirked when it occurred to him to take Elder Christensen to Scheveningen along around November, when the beaches would be empty of its summertime population of European and American topless women.
It seemed, however, that Elder Hilliard’s reputation had preceded him and while he did resent it a bit, it served its purpose. He spent very little time busting his irresponsible junior companions’ heads open now and more time concentrating on the work of preaching the gospel.
“Man, this place is a dump,” Elder Christensen muttered, turning to unpack his bags. Elder Hilliard knew he hadn’t been meant to hear that, but he couldn’t disagree. Fortunately, the missionaries didn’t spend too much time in their kosthaus. The work was too important.
“I brought the latest shipment of bats and gloves. Balls, too.”
Elder Hilliard curled his lip. American baseball and its accoutrements as a recruitment tool. It disgusted him, really, and because he had long since determined not to use such tactics, he simply gave the sporting goods to the neighborhood kids gratis with no commitment from them or their parents to take the discussions or to come to church.
“I heard you’re from Missouri. Independence. Zion.”
Elder Hilliard’s mouth quirked a bit; it gave him a little cachet amongst the membership that knew why Independence, Missouri was significant to church history.
“Kansas City,” he corrected gently. “Independence is a suburb.”
“I’m from Utah.”
Elder Hilliard nearly laughed; as if he couldn’t tell simply by the boy’s name. Instead, he said, “That’s nice.”
“When are you going home?”
“A year.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two years.”
“I just came from Vlaams.”
He knew that already. “Ah. So why aren’t you speaking Dutch? Flemish would be all right, too.”
Elder Christensen flushed just a bit at the second reproof. “I get tired of not hearing or speaking English,” he returned resentfully.
“And how much longer do you have to go?” Not that Elder Hilliard needed to be told.
Elder Christensen hesitated, then admitted, “Two and a half years.”
“You need the practice.”
Elder Hilliard went back to studying his scriptures while Elder Christensen began to unpack his belongings. Dinner would be served soon (Indonesian, by the smell of it) and tomorrow would be a long day.
“Say,” Elder Christensen asked after a while, “what’s your first name?”
He didn’t answer that; he didn’t think it was appropriate and it certainly was not necessary for his companion to know inconsequential details. When the moment stretched and it became clear he wasn’t going to answer, Elder Christensen’s mouth tightened and he turned back to his unpacking without a word.
This would set the precedent, then, that senior companion and trainer Elder Hilliard always wanted to set: just enough detachment to allow them to work together, not enough to alienate the junior companion. He would make sure to chastise the boy just enough to gain his respect and coddle him enough to earn his trust.
“James,” he finally said, to commence coddling. “But I go by Fen.”