The Dutch Orphan, page 24
Thirty-Seven
Liesbeth de Wit
March 20, 1944
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Liesbeth climbed into the rafters above the predator gallery at the zoo. “Hello, little butterfly,” she said, spotting Aletta’s beaming face between the hay-covered pallets, where several people sat reading and playing cards. Liesbeth greeted Willem and crouched down beside her niece. “What are you doing?” she asked, pointing to the bundle of unsharpened pencils at her side. “Are you having fun?”
Aletta shoved the pencils at Liesbeth, who clutched them to her chest. “For me? Why, thank you.”
Aletta sneezed, once and then again.
“All this dust up here can’t be good for her,” Liesbeth said to Willem. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped Aletta’s nose.
“You’d think that, with this many idle hands, we’d manage to keep the attic clean, but all the hay makes that impossible.”
The young Jewish couple lying on the nearest stacks of hay overheard this and grinned. Who would have thought they would have to trade in their canal-side house for a bed of animal feed?
Liesbeth perched on the edge of the makeshift mattress and unpacked the food she’d brought along. She’d tried to make it look appetizing, but most of the vegetables she could find were withered, the biscuits gritty and bland.
“Thank you,” Willem said, “your visits have made all the difference.”
Aletta tried to crawl across the mattress. She fell back onto her bottom and stretched out her arms. “Pa-pa,” she said.
Liesbeth looked up in astonishment. “She’s speaking!”
“For a couple of days now.” He picked Aletta up and she latched on to his arm. He sighed. “Her first word should have been mama.”
Liesbeth leaned over to squeeze Willem’s shoulder. “You’ve done everything you can in Jo’s absence. She will be forever grateful for that, both of them will.”
“That may be so, but I’d give anything to take her place in that camp. It’s been weeks since I’ve heard from her.”
“She’s strong. She’ll push through this; I know she will.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. A few weeks earlier, Jakob’s wife, Ida, had given birth to a baby boy, but the birth had left Ida weak and malnourished. Their experiences weighed on Willem, a stark reminder of everything he and Jo had endured.
“How are you managing?” she asked.
“Better now that the gray winter months are behind us,” he said. “Now we can bring Aletta outside more often. You should see how big her eyes get when she spots the giraffes.”
Fortunately, Willem could still work when there was no risk of encountering soldiers. Often, he tended to the animals after hours. Liesbeth dropped by to help whenever she could, but one could only visit the zoo so many times without arousing suspicion. The others hiding in the attic had been a blessing, caring for Aletta.
Liesbeth smiled, proud of Aletta’s inquisitive nature. She often worried about the impact these long months in hiding would have on her niece. What she wouldn’t give to be able to take Aletta out to the seaside together with Jo, to hear the squawking seagulls, to feel the salty wind against their cheeks, to watch the evening light dance across the shore while the sun dipped beneath the waves.
The Jewish couple on the next mattress put down the newspaper they had been reading. “Willem,” the woman said, “didn’t you say your wife was at Camp Vught? You’d better look at this.”
Willem gestured for Liesbeth to sit next to him so they could read the newspaper together. She moved over and looked over his shoulder. It was a recent edition of Trouw, one of the most reliable Resistance publications. She scanned the headlines.
“Second page,” the woman told them.
Liesbeth pointed to the article and began reading aloud. “‘While we are generally opposed to the dissemination of horror stories, we must make an exception for the account of events that occurred in Camp Vught on the fifteenth of January…’”
She looked at Willem, who had fear in his eyes. They read on, the horrible night in the Vught bunker unfolding on the page before them. Ten women were dead. Others, those who had licked the condensation off the cell walls in thirst, had chemical burns on their tongues and bodies from the fresh lime coating. Countless women were still weak and struggling to recover.
“My God,” Liesbeth said. A numb, tingling feeling spread across her chest as she envisioned those bodies, piled in the middle of the cell. She prayed her sister hadn’t been a part of this, but something in that spark of sisterhood that bound them told her that Jo had been there, cramped and frightened in the cell with all the others.
Willem said nothing. He slumped forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The two of them sat there, at a loss for words. Between them, Aletta cooed and called out for Papa. Liesbeth reached for her and then put a comforting arm around Willem. “She’s alive,” she said, “I know she is.”
Willem leaned into her embrace, shuddering with tears. She repeated this, promising him Jo was safe, and she held him and Aletta close while she summoned Jo’s strength, trying to be strong and supportive, like they needed her to be.
* * *
The fifth of September should have been a Tuesday like any other: Maurits had a busy day at the pharmacy, and Liesbeth had a doctor’s appointment, after which she planned to sneak in a visit to the zoo. But when they woke up that morning, she could tell something was wrong. A strange buzz filled the city streets, the hum of rumors passed balcony to balcony, from butcher to baker.
Maurits turned on the radio, but the German stations were broadcasting mundane stories about the weather, vague updates about the Wehrmacht strongholds on both fronts. When the family on the fourth floor across the street opened their window to fasten orange streamers—the color of the Dutch royals—to the balcony railings, Liesbeth told Maurits to change the station. “Put on Radio Oranje. They’ll set the record straight.”
He looked like she’d asked him to play football across the rooftops. “Why take a gamble? The Germans are jamming the receivers anyway.”
Liesbeth got up and played with the dial, adjusting it to the frequency of the BBC, ignoring Maurits’s protests. It picked up static, no matter how much she tried to play with the antenna. Another noise came from outside, the sound of cheering. Maurits let out an exasperated huff. He went into the bedroom, returning with a moffen sieve to filter out the German interference.
“Oh?” she said. “This is a surprise, coming from you.”
Maurits fiddled with the wooden contraption until Radio Oranje came through. “Listen,” he said. “It’s Gerbrandy.”
She leaned forward in her chair to hear the Dutch prime minister’s announcement.
“Now that the Allied armies have penetrated the Dutch borders, I am convinced you will give them a warm and dignified reception, which they deserve as liberators of our country and for destroying the tyrants. The hour of liberation has struck.”
“It can’t be,” Maurits said. He combed his fingers through his hair and got up to look outside, like he expected to see the liberators marching toward them, Union Jacks awaving.
The broadcast continued. Gerbrandy reported that the Allied troops had pushed through Antwerp and had crossed the Dutch border, arriving in Breda in the south.
“It may only be a matter of days, hours even,” Liesbeth said. She joined him at the window. Somewhere, people were banging pots and pans, making a jolly ruckus.
“Look.” She pointed farther down the street. Soldiers on bicycles were speeding past, heading out toward the edge of Amsterdam. A family spilled from their house, arms piled high with luggage. Liesbeth recognized the woman, the chair of the National Socialist Women’s Organization. The couple loaded the suitcases into the carrier of a cargo bicycle, and with the children perched on top, they cycled off.
Maurits went very pale. “We need to evacuate,” he said.
“Are you mad?”
He walked from the window to the armchair and back, playing with the clasp on his cigarette case. “Germany will be safer. We’ll adapt. It’s what we’re best at, isn’t it?”
Surely, he had to be joking. Those NSBers on the street were traitors on the run. Fleeing meant admitting guilt and no chance to return, not ever.
“Why run, Maurits? What do you have to hide?”
He hesitated but then his face grew steely. “Don’t use that tone with me. If I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving.” He went to the bedroom and began throwing clothes into an empty suitcase. “I need to collect some things from the pharmacy, but we can stop there on the way to the station. Come, get packed.”
Liesbeth thought of Amsterdam, the sight of Dutch flags hoisted back onto the flagpoles. She thought of Zierikzee, the beach stripped clean of bunkers and concrete dragon’s teeth. Of her sister and Willem and Aletta, all of them free. She tightened the sash on her dressing gown and went to pour herself another cup of coffee.
“I’m not coming,” she said.
“What do you mean? We don’t have time to play games, Liesbeth.”
“I’m not. If you want to run, that’s your choice but my home is here.” The confidence in her words came as a surprise; it felt good to say this, powerful.
He reddened but before he could make his retort, a plane roared overhead. They went to the window and angled their heads to look up at the sky. British planes were swooping low over the city. The fleeing German soldiers on the ground below didn’t bother to glance up.
Maurits went back to packing with renewed haste. Now and then he called out to her. “I’m packing a bag for you. Come on, be reasonable!” She ignored him.
Left alone, Liesbeth was faced with the gravity of what was unfolding. Liberation, the chance for a fresh start. A day she’d waited on for four long years. A day, she now realized, her husband had dreaded. She considered what an Allied win would mean for her marriage, for her future. And what was the cost of this victory? How many innocent young men had shed blood to make it this far; how many had stumbled on the road to Breda, only to never get up? She thought of the RAF pilot dead on the beach, the sodden photo of his sweetheart in his breast pocket. How much love had been lost for her freedom?
The noise outside grew louder. Liesbeth opened her sewing box and lifted the tray of thread to retrieve something from the compartment in the bottom: a strand of orange ribbon. She tied this into her hair and got up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Maurits asked. He stuffed his watch and a wad of bills into his briefcase. She didn’t have to ask where the cash had come from.
“I’m not going to hide inside all day,” she said. “Goodbye, darling.” She gave him a kiss, which felt cold and lifeless, a reminder of everything the two of them had thrown away.
He called after her. “As soon as the madness settles down, I’ll send for you. I’ll find us a beautiful home, you’ll see.”
Outside, Liesbeth found her way to a small square where she could blend in and no one would recognize her as the wife of “that NSB pharmacist.” The square had taken on new life: women and children gathered in the center, wearing bright colors, singing and dancing to folk songs. Liesbeth joined in the circle, letting strangers spin her around and around until she became dizzy with laughter.
Several schoolboys paraded around with the German traffic signs they’d dislodged, waving them above their heads like lassos.
A constant stream of traffic blew past: soldiers with horses and wagons piled high with cabinets and boxes; NSBers with baby carriages filled with odds and ends—a mass exodus to the train stations. Liesbeth watched the wives who were following their husbands out of the city—their panicked movements, the cowardice in their eyes—and knew she’d made the right choice. She didn’t want a life on the run, hiding from her family for a cause she didn’t support. It wasn’t clear what awaited her, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.
* * *
At eight that evening, the remaining soldiers passed through the streets, ordering everyone to return home. At nine, Liesbeth was eating a slice of bread when the key scratched in the lock. She opened the door to find her husband standing in the hall with his suitcases, his wrist bandaged in a sling.
“What happened?” she asked. He looked like he’d aged five years over the course of the afternoon.
He collapsed onto a kitchen chair. “They fired at the train. Allied Spitfires. I saw women and children among the dead.” His voice was thick, and his free arm hung heavily at his side. “A passenger train, they shot at a fucking passenger train!”
“Good heavens.” She took Maurits’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “I’m grateful you’re safe,” she said, which she mostly meant.
“The Resistance is laying nails on the roads out of the city. I don’t see any way out, at least not tonight.” He cradled his head in his hands. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier, but everything is spiraling out of control. I can’t tell you how many officers have come by the pharmacy recently asking for cyanide capsules.” He looked at her wearily. “If the Tommies come marching in, our world won’t ever be the way it was before. You understand that, don’t you?”
After she heated up some leftover soup, they sat there at the table for a very long time. Maurits stroked her wrist and told her he was sorry, that he would never leave her. His apologies went right through her. She thought of Dirk and wondered if he’d been one of the many who had taken off. She thought of the children she’d seen earlier, perched high on a stack of luggage while their parents tried to flee, and prayed they had made it out unscathed. She thought of herself and the children she hoped would one day grace her future—and she was determined to build a life they would never need to escape.
Thirty-Eight
Johanna Vos
September 6, 1944
Western Germany
The air in the cattle car grew hotter by the hour, until we felt like roasts left to burn in the oven. I huddled on the floor, sandwiched between so many women that I could no longer tell whose limbs were whose. We stank of each other’s sweat and filth, but I took the hands of the women next to me in the dark and tried to pretend we were somewhere else, anywhere other than on our way to Germany, running away from our Allied liberators.
“We’re going on holiday,” I said, “the picnic basket is packed and I’ve put on my favorite sundress, the one my sister sewed for my birthday, with bright blue polka dots.” I squeezed Nelly’s hand. “Tell me what you’ve packed, my dear.”
A long pause followed. Around us, groans and whimpering in the sweltering, sauna-like heat. Stomachs rumbling, so loud they were like a choir. It was all too familiar. We hadn’t been fed a scrap of food since they’d loaded us up—all the remaining women at Vught—and crammed us into these cattle cars. Countless hours ago, maybe days now.
“Come on, Nel,” I said, “what’s in your suitcase?”
“Sunglasses. A white pair with green lenses, like the Hollywood starlets wear.”
A voice spoke up to my right. “Nobody wears those anymore.”
Another woman started to cough, cutting her off. “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.”
“Spoilsport? While I’m stuck here, my nose next to this damn bucket of shit? Trade me places and then try saying that.”
“Ladies, ladies.” I clapped my hands together. “Where were we? On a train, on plush seats with a lovely view of the countryside. Headed to the sun. Where?”
“Italy.”
“Biarritz.”
“Monaco.”
“You couldn’t find that on a map.”
“Oh, shut your trap.”
“Enough!” I said. “We’ve made it through so much already. Don’t let them destroy us now.”
The women went silent, but I knew what they were picturing. Their homes, their families, their loved ones. Everyone and everything they’d fought for, fought through to get to this. I closed my eyes and tried to see my Wim, Aletta. But then the cattle car rattled and jolted over a bend, pitching me sideways. For a second, I was back there in that tiny cell. Smothered. Gasping, my lungs tingling. Fumbling in the blackness.
Breathe, I told myself. In and out, in and out. Deep, into the diaphragm, like you would in your vocal warm-ups. In: one, two, three, four—and out.
I tried to anchor myself there, with Jakob and his bandmates, rehearsing for one of their shows. I hummed my scales, but the sound got lost under the rumbling of the tracks.
Nelly nudged me. “Sing something for us,” she said, “something happy.”
Normally, my head was full of music, but I felt empty, punctured. The notes took a long time to come to me. I started to sing, and the women around me began to laugh as they recognized the tune, a song about making the most of the hard things in life. One by one, they joined in. By the time we reached the chorus, the song had caught on on all sides, booming through the cattle car. Louder and louder, until we were belting it out at the top of our lungs.
* * *
Ravensbrück. A name that had meant nothing before the war, nothing until I’d arrived at Vught, where the rumors began to spread. Every week, new names reached our ears. Ravensbrück. Majdanek. Bergen-Belsen. Auschwitz. German names that tasted like poison on the tongue. Names synonymous with fear.
I arrived at Ravensbrück weary and brittle from the six-day journey, covered in my own filth. I knew whatever waited for me inside the women’s camp would be cruel and spiteful, designed to break. When I settled in on my wooden bunk, squished between strangers—Dutch women, Polish, French, and German—my tired limbs trembled in the cold. But I forced myself to stop and take stock. After all, I had survived so far. And the trickle of strength left in my body told me I still had Wim and Aletta, too. I had to count on that to be true.
* * *
Within a few days, I was put to work in the sewing department. It sounded simple—after all, Liesbeth made it look so easy—but I soon learned how wrong I was.
