The Dutch Orphan, page 26
One day, after our walking circuit of the courtyard, I held back, hoping to snatch a moment with Frau Kraus. She saw me shuffle to the back of the line and came over.
“You’re going to be late for work duty,” she said.
“May I ask you something?”
She nodded and motioned for me to step off to the side.
“Will you stay on here once the war ends?” I asked.
She looked across the yard, toward the fence. “I don’t know. It pays well. It depends what I have to go home to.”
“Is your husband off fighting somewhere?”
“He died. Stalingrad.”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to think of something else to say, some deeper offering of sympathy, but I was caught by the image of this woman in mourning. How easy it is to forget that grief seldom takes sides.
“I’ve made peace with it. It’s the camps I’m more worried about.” She squinted into the afternoon sun. “You’ve heard what they say?”
“The gassings?”
“I have someone I hope will come back to me.” She gave me a sad, tender look, and I asked myself what she saw whenever she was watching me, if she saw something of that person—perhaps a woman—she was missing.
“Home has a way of calling us back.” I wanted to know more, but every second was valuable. Now or never. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
“With what?”
“I could use some warmer shoes. Please, a proper pair of shoes.”
“You know I can’t give you that,” she said. She looked down the hall, where another guard had appeared. “Go on, schnell.”
I nodded. Disappointed, I started down the hall.
Frau Kraus called after me. “No more requests!”
Even with her back turned, I caught the stifled smile in those words.
Forty-One
Liesbeth de Wit
January 22, 1945
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
What a cold, a terrible, unforgiving cold. Icy winds and frosty nights and snow that wouldn’t let up. It was the harshest January in Liesbeth’s memory. The newspapers called it a famine, a “hunger winter.”
For four winters, she had gotten by on the coattails of Maurits’s inner circle. But in 1945, everything had changed. Maurits had revoked his NSB membership and, with it, his privileges. So in the early mornings, Liesbeth joined the long, winding lines outside the shops, waiting hours for meager scraps from the greengrocer, tulip bulbs, and pulpy sugar beets and potatoes that let out a steady drip of water when squeezed. On the days the milkman had anything left to offer, she came home with half a bottle of milk so thin it looked blue.
At night, they huddled next to the stove for warmth. They spoke little to save their energy and went to bed early, to avoid the hunger pangs that came late in the evenings. They spent the holidays bundled up in bed, trying to stay warm as they made do on red cabbage instead of a Christmas roast. Maurits took Pervitin to keep the hunger at bay. At times, Liesbeth stood in the bathroom, running her finger over the edge of the tube, considering the relief it could bring, but she let it be.
Across their neighborhood, the trees and the wood from the tramlines started to disappear, pried away or chopped down in the cover of night by those who dared to steal it for fuel. Maurits began tearing apart furniture—the kitchen cupboards and the sitting-room table—anything for a little firewood.
For weeks, Maurits tried to play the optimist. They were still better off than most, he said. The elderly man two doors down had died of starvation, his five-year-old grandson, too. Willem had told her stories of the people who broke into the zoo at night to snatch a pig or goat from the petting zoo. Everyone knew someone who was barely managing. Maurits would rather starve than join the crowds outside the soup kitchen, but luckily, Liesbeth always found a morsel of something or other for the table, even if it meant paying a week’s salary on the black market for a loaf of bread or a handful of eggs. Willem and Aletta depended on her for food as well, but there wasn’t enough for all of them. Amsterdam had been stripped bare. Aletta was growing thinner instead of bigger, and Liesbeth couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed with a full stomach. One day, she found herself standing in front of the stove, dropping her fashion sketches into the fire and watching the ink sizzle and spark before curling up into cinders. One sketch at a time, to keep the stove going longer. Nothing was for certain anymore. Whether Maurits would admit it or not, they needed more food.
On a cold January morning, Liesbeth got up early and packed up her best linens to barter for food. She wrapped strips of cloth around her hands to cover the holes in her gloves and put on two sweaters, each knit from scraps, old scarves she’d unraveled to combine into one colorful mess. In a note, she told Maurits what she was going to do. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
She set off on her bicycle in the rose-gray light of dawn. It didn’t take long for the icy air to seep through her layers. The rising sun drew more people into the streets. Without a way to warm the classrooms, the schools had closed, and parents sent their children out to scavenge what scraps they could. A group of scrawny boys rifled through the overflowing garbage bins. One of them scooped something yellow from the heap of mold and rot, licking the palm of his hand clean. When she cycled past, he looked up at her with big, glassy eyes. Liesbeth cringed, but her stomach still rumbled at the thought of what he might have found.
She turned onto the street that led out of the city and fell into a long line of other cyclists, all loaded with bags and baskets they hoped to turn into loaves and fishes. Hundreds of people. She chided herself for not leaving earlier. They cycled without speaking, wheels whooshing through the fresh snow. Her bike wobbled over the ice. The Germans had commandeered all the rubber, so she had to make do with wooden tires, which made a terrible racket. It was a miracle she still had the bicycle at all. At one point, a tabby cat darted across the road. Liesbeth braked, shuddering when she recalled the rumor of the people who caught pets to cook for dinner. She kept an eye on the cat until it was safely out of sight.
The ride out of Amsterdam dragged on. The icy roads glistened as the sun peeked over the horizon. Liesbeth turned her face toward those first rays, trying to eke out their warmth. Friends had warned her that it was useless to beg for food at the farms on the outskirts of the city. Tired of the endless pleas for help, the residents had long since locked their gates. She followed the long, winding train of people north.
The road grew very crowded as she caught up to everyone on foot who had set out in the middle of the night: a pair of sisters pulling a wagon, boys whose toes gaped through their shoes, mothers with babies in their arms. Everyone weary, trying to brace themselves against the wind. Once or twice, someone collapsed. In shock, Liesbeth stopped but she didn’t move, watching with shame as someone else rushed over to help the stranger to her feet.
Hours passed. Liesbeth worried about her aunt and uncle down south. They were staying with relatives in a small town with access to food, but she didn’t know for sure how they were faring. To keep herself distracted from worrying and from the cold, she tried to dream up their lives after the war. The gift of freedom, the image of her family all together, complete. A Christmas spent, not shivering in bed, but dining together in a house warmed with laughter. Only Gerrit wouldn’t be there. The reality came rushing back to her: her family would never be complete.
She tried to summon happy thoughts, imagining the beautiful clothes she would make once the war was over, once there was fabric again. Dresses for picnics, dresses for evening soirees. She thought of opening her own seamstress shop, how wonderful that would be. She thought back to the conversation she’d once had with Dirk. He had made her believe it was possible. But Maurits would never approve of the idea. She was, after all, a married woman. And what did that mean in terms of freedom?
Her legs felt leaden, her fingers numb from the cold. The sky began to rumble as the Tommies flew overhead, the broad wings of their planes casting shadows across the white fields. The children pointed in excitement, but when the planes ducked low, everyone scattered, jumping into ditches. Who knew what the Allies thought they saw from above: hungry civilians or a long convoy of German soldiers?
After the third such scare, Liesbeth paused to survey the horizon. Up ahead in the distance was a quiet-looking farmhouse. She cycled up the access road and rapped on the farmhouse door until a woman answered, a woman with a deep, healthy complexion.
Liesbeth hesitated. “Please, mevrouw,” she said at last, “can you spare any food? I’ve brought towels and good bedsheets to trade.”
“I’m sorry, we’ve given everything we can.”
“Please? A carrot or two?”
The woman opened the door farther, so Liesbeth could see inside. A group of ragged children crowded around the table, drinking warm milk. “You’re too late. These little ones got the last of it. You can try next week.”
Liesbeth nodded. By the looks of it, the children had traveled a very long way on their own. Who was she to ask for this woman’s generosity?
“There’s several farms down the road,” the woman added, “but skip the next house. That grouch is more liable to set a trip wire for any trespassers than dole out his crops.”
Liesbeth thanked her before turning back down the road. She tried farm after farm, but everyone told her she was too late. Too healthy, she assumed, based on the judgment in their eyes. Her gnawing hunger was nothing compared to what so many of these strangers had fared. Her thoughts returned to Aletta, who was almost two. If only Liesbeth could return home with enough food to soothe her cries for a little while.
The sun was high above her now. She had to hurry if she was going to make it back before curfew. Many people would find refuge in barns overnight, sleeping together in one room amid the stacks of hay. Yet word had spread of the odd farmer who demanded sexual favours in return for the hot soup and a place to sleep. No, staying the night wasn’t an option. She pressed onward. One, two more houses, with long, snaking lines to the door. She left both empty-handed. And then a third. Several people were leaving the farm with bulking bags, their wagons piled high. She slipped into the lineup.
At the front gate, she sighed in dismay. Someone had scribbled a message on a sign that was fixed to the latch. “No more linens.”
“No linens?” Liesbeth asked, turning to the women behind her.
The older of the two held up a pair of candlesticks. “They’ll take silver.”
Liesbeth lowered her head. After all this, would she return home empty-handed? She thought of Aletta, her protruding ribs, her tiny arms that should have been chubby with baby fat. The way Aletta played peek-a-boo and tried to spit out “tante Liesbeth” in a slobbery mess of consonants. Had she ever learned to say “Ma”?
“Mevrouw?”
The farmer’s wife was at the door, several crates of potatoes and carrots stacked beside her. Liesbeth shuffled forward, sheepishly pulling out her towels and bedding. “It’s good cotton. I’m sorry, it’s all I have.”
The woman’s wrinkled face folded into a frown. “I have enough sheets to sleep Moses and the Israelites, and their donkeys. So unless you have something of value, you’ll have to step aside.”
Liesbeth patted her pockets, trying to wish something into existence. A few guilders were all she had on her. She owned a coral necklace that would have been worth something, but that was at home. Why hadn’t she thought to bring more?
She stuttered. “Perhaps I could give you some money and come back tomorrow with something else.”
The woman scowled. “We don’t work on charity.” She looked over Liesbeth’s shoulder. “Next!”
“Wait.” Liesbeth tugged off her glove. “You can take my wedding ring.”
The woman reached out to examine it. The second Liesbeth passed it over, she second-guessed herself. Maurits would be appalled.
“This will do.” The woman pocketed the ring without so little as a smile. She began to weigh out the potatoes and carrots. Liesbeth considered asking for the ring back, getting back on her bicycle and returning with an excuse instead of food. But the sight of those potatoes, the bright orange of the carrots, made her stomach growl, and she thought of Aletta crying in her crib. Her niece’s well-being was worth a lot more than whatever was left of her marriage. The vegetables tumbled into her open bags, and she left the farm with a renewed energy, happy and light-headed with relief.
Forty-Two
Johanna Vos
March 24, 1945
Western Germany
Once I had a better pair of shoes, I didn’t have to wait much longer. In late March, we were filing out to start our workday when a loud wail broke through the morning.
“Downstairs, ladies,” Frau Kraus called. Before she could repeat the order, a plane engine tore low overhead. What followed was a terrible roar, a sound like the earth was splitting open. The bricks in the walls seemed to quake.
Frau Kraus glanced at the other guards, searching for direction. The noise became deafening.
“Look!” a guard shouted. The men’s compound across the way had caught fire. Flames ruddied the sky.
Another explosion followed and then another, these ones closer. We threw ourselves to the floor in panic. One of the guards screamed and took off down the corridor.
I could barely feel my legs. My heart was hammering. I ran back to my cell to snatch my sweater from its spot on the mattress. Then I found Frau Kraus, who stood rigidly in the middle of everything. I tugged on her sleeve. “Please, do something. We can’t stay here!”
She looked from me to the ring of keys at her waist and then headed toward the exit that opened up onto the main prison grounds. “Everyone,” she said, “find cover!” She struggled, the key sticking in the lock, until I threw my weight against the door. It opened into thick smoke. Frau Kraus coughed, and I waved a hand to clear the air in front of me. The heat of the flames engulfed us. Frau Kraus motioned to the women.
“Come on,” I yelled. “It’s safer out here.”
I followed Frau Kraus’s line of sight to the manned watchtowers at the edge of the grounds. But I saw no weapons, no pointed guns. Only panic. Frau Kraus tore into the center of the field, waving her arms at the planes, trying to alert them to our presence.
I took off running. I listened for someone behind me, but everything blended into the noise of the planes, turning back for another pass. I ran to the edge of the complex, making a break for the fence. Nobody came. Nobody shot at me.
The fence towered high overhead. I looked back at the watchtowers. With all my strength, I hoisted myself up, scaling the posts, faltering at the top, my arms shaking. Someone fired a shot, but I threw myself over to the other side. My feet hit the dirt hard. Shouting. Another shot fired. I didn’t look back. I ran and ran, until the tree line rose to meet me, and I slipped into the protection of the woods.
I kept going until the prison complex behind me disappeared in a tangle of branches. I collapsed against a tree trunk, tugging at the collar of my sweater, gasping.
The sound of the planes faded into the distance. I stopped and listened. Then I let out a laugh. Finally, freedom!
My elation abated when shouts began to fill the void left by the plane engines. It was only a matter of time before the guards recovered and came searching for me. And while Frau Kraus had chosen to unlock that door, I had no idea whether she would stall the manhunt or if she’d feel mad and betrayed. I took a deep breath and started running into the unknown.
* * *
The coiled tendrils of Aletta’s hair, which grew darker by the day, the tinkle of her laughter, like bottled joy—my memories seemed so clear now, all the details that had slipped away during my imprisonment. I ran on, across the railway lines, dodging patrols and farmers on wagons, toward home, toward my little girl.
I headed what I hoped was westward. Twice, I reached a village but stayed far out of sight, too far to catch any place markers that would set me on course. My legs began to ache, my knee threatening to give out. I was very thirsty. I slowed to a pace that wouldn’t cast suspicion. Then, I began my hunt for water.
At the edge of a farm, I found an old well. A dirty bucket dangled from a chain on the side. It was probably meant for livestock, but I hoisted up some water and drank until my throat tingled from the cold. Then, something came charging across the field. A German shepherd, barking loudly. I took off, pain shooting across my kneecap, slowing me down. The dog growled and snapped its teeth. It was closing in. I reached a small stream. An easy jump for a dog. I leaped over it, waiting for the dog’s paws to hit my back. Suddenly, it halted behind me. In the distance, the keen piercing of a whistle. The dog hesitated, and I ran on until it gave up its pursuit and bounded back toward the farmhouse.
As sundown approached, the path westward grew clearer. I kept going as far as I dared, but I needed to find shelter. I cut off toward a side road, hoping it would lead to a farm. Dusk set in, and I saw a barn silhouetted against the purple-gray sky. I stood behind a tree at the edge of the property, waiting, watching. When I was sure I was alone, I crept through the shadows toward the barn.
The iron latch clanged as I tugged open the barn door. It took a minute to adjust to the dark, but the sounds of heavy breathing and rustling straw warned me I wasn’t alone. It smelled like manure. Cattle.
I paused, wary of disturbing the animals. Once the shadows had taken form, I edged forward and placed a hand on one of the cows’ snouts. “Here,” I whispered, “you can trust me.”
The cow jerked back. I whispered again, until it stepped forward to nuzzle my fingers, its nose hot and wet. I turned to survey the barn. Several bales of hay were piled up in a sort of loft. A storage cupboard stood beside the ladder that led to the loft. I opened it to find several jars of sauerkraut and a crate of onions. My stomach complained noisily. I bundled the food into the fabric of my skirt and climbed up the ladder.
