The Dutch Orphan, page 27
In the corner of the loft, I curled up on the hay, exhausted. I’d done it. I was no longer a prisoner. I raised an imaginary glass in a toast, congratulating myself for making it so far. But a long, difficult journey lay ahead. I still had to cross the border and traverse a battle zone. One challenge at a time.
* * *
Sleep was a fickle friend, slamming doors in the passages of my mind and leaving me more fatigued than before. Dawn came too soon. When the cows began to stir, I got up and slipped outside, certain the farmer would not be far behind.
It was a beautiful spring morning, but the roads were quiet. I passed a road sign that told me I was going the right way. Once, I saw two girls, twelve or thirteen, walking down the road and asked them for directions to the border. It was several days’ walk, they replied. One of them said their father was headed west toward the towns. The children were unlikely to give me away, but who knew about their father. Still, I had little choice. I followed them home and met the man, who was busy loading vats of milk onto a wagon.
As his daughters had, the milkman looked me up and down. “You’re not German,” he said. “I hear it in your Gs.”
I stumbled on my reply, aware that lying was bound to build defenses. “That’s right,” I admitted. “I’m trying to return home.”
The man seemed satisfied with this answer. He tugged on his beard and then offered me a crust of bread from his jacket pocket. “Here,” he said, “for the ride.”
The journey was bumpy, and the cold air nipped at my face more than it had while traveling by foot, but I was grateful to this stranger and his willingness to help someone he should have called an enemy. He kept to himself, but I got off at every stop and helped pour the milk into people’s tins and glass bottles. He accepted my help in begrudging silence.
When we reached the center of town, I tensed up, wary of the soldiers in the streets. The milkman turned onto a quiet side road and slowed the wagon to a stop. “Best get out here.” He gestured in the other direction. “That’s the road you’ll want.”
I thanked him and carried on, keeping my head down. At the edge of town, I skirted away from a group of soldiers who were stepping out of a house of ill repute, chortling like they were still half-drunk. Morning turned to afternoon. I walked through the ache in my feet, the persistent thirst. I caught another ride, this time with a peat farmer, who brought me a few kilometers farther. Asking for a ride was one thing, but it took hours of walking to work past the shame of begging for food. When my stomach couldn’t take it anymore, I approached a farmer who was dumping a pail of potato scraps into his pig pen and asked if I might have some of the peels. He looked like he was going to refuse before he turned back to the farmhouse and called to his wife, who brought out some bread with a thick slice of cheese.
By the time evening fell, I was more tired than I could ever remember. My joints ached. My jaw felt stiff from the constant teeth chattering. I couldn’t feel my toes. The damp air had permeated my clothes, settling into my skin. Lost in worry, I failed to notice the automobile parked up the road until it was too late. A man in an SS uniform knelt on the road as he jacked up the rear wheel of the vehicle. He glanced up at me. “It’s a cold evening to be out without a jacket.”
I flailed for an excuse. “I forgot it at my cousin’s. The weather was much milder when I left this morning.” I articulated every word, trying to shed any traces of my accent.
He wriggled the flat tire off the wheel. “Where are you headed?”
I named a German town near the border, hoping he wouldn’t push for details.
“That’s quite a walk. Not something for a woman on her own, especially not at night.” His words were clipped, but he kept his focus on the spare tire he was wriggling into place. “I’ll tell you what. I need ten minutes to finish up and then you can come home with me.” He saw me stiffen and smirked. “The widow I’m billeted with has a spare room.”
I knew I had no choice in the matter. I cleared my throat and gave what I hoped came across as a grateful nod. “Thank you, Officer.”
The officer kept working, humming as he switched the tire. I considered whether to offer my help, but that would mean more talking, more risk of being discovered. He picked up a wrench and said there was a blanket in the back seat if I wanted to warm up. I opened the door to retrieve it. A briefcase lay on the floor of the automobile, the glint of something metal poking out of the side. A spare Luger. I eyed it, wondering how quickly I could get it out. I saw a flash of Dirk, standing over me while the police pinned me down. Right as I extended my arm to reach for the Luger, the officer stood up.
“Find it?” He gave me a strange look, as though he’d remembered the weapon.
“Yes, thank you.” I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, leaning into its warmth.
“All done here. Come on, get in.”
We drove in silence, down a picturesque, winding road. Several horses were being led from the pasture, their manes tousled in the breeze. I watched their clopping hooves, wishing I could leap from the car and ride away into the night. Instead, I was stuck with this brute, who was one step away from asking for my identity papers, from realizing I was on the run. I tried to conceive a way out, something heavy to hit him with over the head. But when I looked over, he seemed oblivious, pleasantly tired from a day’s work.
He turned right, onto a long driveway toward a farmhouse with white gables.
“You like sausage?” he asked.
I looked straight ahead and bit my tongue.
“Currywurst,” he added. “Frau Fischer makes it better than anyone I know, although she’ll be cross that I didn’t warn her of the extra mouth.”
My stomach grumbled at the prospect of a proper meal, which I hadn’t had for over a year. The officer went on about the accommodation, how the widow’s husband and son had died in France, how she devoted all her spare time to baking for the German soldiers in town, how her apple strudel created lineups around the block. “The Führer couldn’t ask for a more loyal citizen,” he said with pride.
A light appeared as we pulled up to the farmhouse. I braced for more questions; things could take a turn at any moment. The woman who greeted us was a petite brunette, who only spoke when spoken to, but the officer talked enough for the both of them.
Frau Fischer showed me to the spare room, and I had to hide my excitement. A real bed, with clean sheets, already made up for me.
“I’ll heat some water for you to wash with,” Frau Fischer said.
“That’s very kind.”
The woman cocked her head. “You’re not from here.”
“I’m not.”
The two of us stared, sizing up one another. I spoke first. “Thank you for your hospitality. And my condolences for your losses.”
Frau Fischer pursed her lips. She left the room and didn’t say anything more when she returned with a hand towel and a jug of steaming water. I rinsed the grime from my neck and face and removed my boots to examine my damp, bluish toes. I wrapped them in the bedsheets to warm them. While waiting to be summoned for dinner, I tried to put myself in the woman’s shoes: having an SS officer billeted at your house, having to share your precious food with him and an unwashed stranger with a Dutch accent. Had it been me, would I have kept my mouth shut or would I have revealed the truth? One less mouth to feed.
Frau Fischer didn’t say anything that evening, but it felt like an understanding had settled between us over the serving of potatoes and sausage when she split her own portion into two. Two women on opposite sides, both trying to survive, whatever that may take. For much of the meal we sat listening to the scrape of utensils on the porcelain, the smacking of lips. The officer remarked on the high water levels in the rivers and asked about my home, if I was married. My answers were terse but polite. “Yes, married, to a veterinarian” and “one daughter, of almost two years.” I regretted sharing this, worried it might come back to hurt me. But he reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out a paper sachet. He shook the contents onto the table. Out fell a photograph and a flower, a pressed violet.
He held up the photograph, a shot of a young girl on a swing set. Her eyes twinkled, her mouth opened midlaugh. “This is Anna.”
I admired the photo, recalling back to the British pilot on the beach, the snapshot he carried. I wondered if his family had received word of his death. “She’s beautiful,” I said. He smiled and tucked the photo away without any mention of the girl’s mother.
After dinner, I helped Frau Fischer clear the plates. We washed up in uncomfortable silence. Afterward, she bid me good-night and retired to her own quarters. I intended to do the same, but when I passed the sitting room, I heard a velvety voice coming from a gramophone. I paused outside the doorway to listen. It had been so long since I’d heard music.
“You know her?” the officer called out.
I stepped out into the room, berating myself for not slipping off to bed while I’d had the chance. “Lale Andersen,” I said.
He nodded, gesturing for me to join him. I took a seat at the opposite end of the room and declined his offer for a nightcap. His Luger rested on the table, and the insignia on his uniform glinted in the lamplight. Maybe he expected me to sidle over to him, to kiss him or please him. Was that the price to guarantee my safety, to deliver me home to my family? The possibility made me flinch. I thought about all the times I’d passed Dutch girls flirting with German soldiers and had scorned them. Perhaps they, too, had secrets to protect.
The song came to an end, and the officer lifted the needle on the gramophone. I looked from the gun to the strong slope of his jaw. But in that second of indecision, the needle landed back on the record with a scratch. He had skipped tracks. I recognized the new song, “Lili Marleen.”
The officer stared absently out the window. Here I was, listening to a song about love and a homesick soldier with a man who had every possibility of killing me, but instead he was caught in his own daydreams. Did he know Goebbels had called the song “unpatriotic,” that the singer, Lale Andersen, was rumored to be enamored with a Jew? If he did, he didn’t appear to care. The song held him, transporting him somewhere I could only speculate.
I hummed along and then, softly, began to sing. He turned to me. “It’s all over, isn’t it?”
“Maybe this chapter. But who knows what comes next.”
“The journey home,” he said. “Facing what you left behind.” He took a drink of his schnapps and tilted his glass to examine it, like he was searching for answers in the crystal. Then, he looked at me, the light revealing the rings of sleepless nights under his eyes. “Where was it you said you lived?”
“Meppen.”
“Right. We’ll go down to the train station in the morning and get you a ticket.”
“Thank you,” I said, although I knew this was impossible. A ticket might require identification papers, something I couldn’t provide. No, my journey would have to continue on foot. “I hope I’m not being rude,” I added, “but I’d like to turn in for the night.”
“Yes, get some rest.” He bid me good-night. As I got up and left, the gramophone crackled as he returned the needle once more to the beginning of the song.
I returned to my bedroom, shaken. If the officer had picked up on my accent, he hadn’t let on. He seemed done with the war, done with the orders and cold-blooded killings. But I wouldn’t be around in the morning to find out for sure.
A nightgown was waiting out on the bed for me, but I didn’t change into it. I splashed some water on my face to keep the sleep at bay, and I sat up in bed, fully dressed. In the other room, the music played on and on. The record ended and then started again from the beginning, followed by the soft clink of glass. My breath fluttered while I strained to listen, eager for a chance to slip away. I tried to think of what I would say if he were to have a change of heart, barge into my room, try to force me to repay the favor of his hospitality. I pictured his heavy hands pinning me down and shuddered. I looked at the clock. Two hours had passed, and I hadn’t heard a sign of movement for over fifteen minutes.
I peered out of the doorway. The only way to get to the back door was to pass by the sitting room. As I inched my way down the hallway, a floorboard creaked under my weight. I froze, biting my lip as I listened for some reaction, but heard only Lale Andersen’s deep, soothing voice from the gramophone. I carried on down the hall, peeking around the corner into the sitting room. The officer lay passed out on the sofa, his hand sprawled to the side like he was reaching for his drink. When I was certain he was asleep, I tiptoed by, the music muffling my steps. Slowly, I turned the handle of the back door and slipped outside, into the cover of night.
Forty-Three
Liesbeth de Wit
March 26, 1945
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
As soon as Liesbeth climbed up into the rafters of the predator gallery, she knew Willem was preoccupied. He sat cross-legged at the edge of one of the stacks of hay, with Aletta on his lap, but he ignored her attempts to play with the collar of his shirt, to bury her face into his knit vest.
“Lies.” He pushed up the brim of his glasses with his middle finger. “It’s so good to see you.”
She waved to the others in the rafters and seated herself across from him. Aletta slid off his lap and came over for a warm, sticky-kissed hello. The Hunger Winter had taken its toll on her. She moved slowly and her thin limbs stuck out at rigid angles. Liesbeth squeezed her, wishing she could transfer some of her own strength into Aletta’s frail body. She unpacked a tin of cabbage soup and handed it to Willem.
“Great timing,” he said, “I wasn’t sure I could stomach another meal of the bread they’re baking with the zoo’s remaining grain stores. Yesterday it was dotted with rat droppings.” He smirked, but the worry lines on his forehead didn’t soften.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I have some news, but I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.”
“Jo?” she asked, feeling like a bag of marbles had dropped into the bottom of her stomach. But no, Willem was too calm for that. His mouth twitched as he looked at her, perhaps trying to think of how to word it.
“Dirk is dead.”
“Oh.” She looked down at Aletta, at the worn straps on her niece’s leather shoes. The straps had little white flowers on them, but the shoes didn’t belong to Willem. They were hand-me-downs, passed on from someone else in hiding, a Jew whose daughter had been sent away to a farm, where she would be safer, where her life might be spared because of the light color of her hair, the fact that she could pass as someone she was not. She looked at those white flowers and it all returned to her, everything she’d believed about Dirk, about the way he’d made her feel. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Lies?”
She set Aletta aside and scrambled to get up, looking for something, anywhere, a spot of privacy. A bucket stood at the opposite end of the attic, meant for washing. Liesbeth bent down and splashed her face with water, trying to clear her head, trying to wash away those thoughts of his card tricks, his charming smile. How she’d fallen for it all.
Willem called after her. “Can I get you something?”
She shook her head and waited until the nausea settled down. She’d tried so hard not to think about him those past months, but he had never fully left her thoughts. And now he was gone.
She walked back to Willem and Aletta, trying to ignore the others’ curious expressions. “Tell me how it happened,” she said.
“There’s no delicate way to put it. We got him. Piet did, one of our Resistance leaders.”
“How?”
“You sure you want to know?”
She nodded.
“Piet shot him. He was sitting on his boat, moored to the side of the canal. He was shot in the back, wouldn’t have seen it coming.”
For a second, she pictured a dartboard, a dart flying and marking a bull’s-eye. But then that image disappeared and she saw him again, slumped over the engine of his boat, blood seeping through the fabric of his tweed jacket.
“I see.” She blinked, surprised at how calm she now felt. The anxiety and prickling feelings had settled down, leaving her with nothing but the facts. “Well,” she said, turning to Willem, “I suppose he got exactly what he deserved.”
Forty-Four
Johanna Vos
March 27, 1945
Western Germany
The encounter with the SS officer stayed with me like the sharpness of ginger, imprinting itself on my senses. I couldn’t forget his forlorn stare, the way I’d prepared myself to hate him but ultimately failed. While I continued on my way, I recounted every minute of our encounter, trying to hit upon some hint of his depravity. But maybe he was another homesick person. The thought crossed my mind that not everyone was free to make the conscious choice of fighting for his or her beliefs, of what side he or she was on. Sometimes, you had to act simply to survive.
Two nights later, I came back to this thought while hiding in a thicket by the Dutch-German border. The moon shone overhead but clouds gathered on the horizon. For three hours, I crouched there, pinching myself to stay awake until the clouds obscured the moonlight. I hadn’t eaten all day. Somewhere along the way I’d shed the last of my dignity and knocked on farmers’ doors, begging for bread and a place to sleep in exchange for help with chores. Mostly, they’d obliged without too many questions, but that afternoon, I’d been turned away.
The wind picked up from the west, and the gust of cold wind made me shiver, but it was Dutch wind, a sign that home was near. I hunched my shoulders and rocked back and forth to stay warm. For two days, I’d moved up and down this strip of border, trying to gauge my chances. From what I’d gathered, the Allies had reached Coevorden and Emmen, two towns across the border, but the Wehrmacht troops were still putting up a fight in places. I refused to fall back into their hands. Farther along the road was an armed border stop, and I’d passed some rowdy soldiers who were camped out for the night, but here, between the farmers’ fields, there was only the occasional passing patrol.
