The Dutch Orphan, page 28
Soon, the moon disappeared behind a mask of clouds. I watched the houses for lights. The last thing I needed was a frightened farmhand sounding the alarm. I pictured Aletta and Willem. Then I counted down from ten.
On one, I ran.
I ran as fast as I could, the wind whipping my cheeks, hammering in my ears. Home. Faster I ran, crouching low, keeping my eye on the ground. I hopped over roots, tore across a field, leaped over a ditch. Somewhere, a dog started barking, but I didn’t look back. I kept running as the parceled fields shifted direction, like the world was rotated beneath my feet. I kept running until I passed the farmhouses and hit another narrow thicket. I stopped to listen. The barking had ceased. The night was still. Once I’d caught my breath, I crept out of the thicket and rounded a bend. I straightened up, emerging onto the road only to come face-to-face with a bright beam of light.
Soldiers. Four of them, standing there with the flashlight trained on me. One held a cigarette pinched between two fingers; another had his hand on his gun.
“What are you doing?” the one with the flashlight asked. Allies. Canadians, judging by the armbands of their uniforms. I sighed in relief.
“I’m trying to make my way home,” I said in English, “to Amsterdam.”
“From Germany?”
“I was taken prisoner. I was in the Resistance.”
The men exchanged a glance and leaned in. The one with the cigarette tossed the butt on the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot. Then, he stepped forward to take a good look at me. He had a thick mustache and a strong nose, the type of man who could be kind or intimidating, depending on his mood.
“What a convenient story.”
“It’s true, I swear. I’ve been traveling for weeks.”
“You expect me to believe the Krauts let you just waltz back across the border?”
“I had a lot of luck.”
The soldier laughed. “You can come up with a better story than that.” He turned back to the others. “Whatd’ya think boys, is she telling the truth? Or did the Krauts send us one last Trojan Horse?”
My mouth went dry. Had I made it into safe territory, only to be recaptured as a spy? Couldn’t they see the Germans were on the retreat? What good would it do to send a spy all on her own to liberated towns?
The men spoke among themselves: “Too pretty to be a spy.”
“That’s exactly what they’d want us to think.”
“Give the lass a break, George, send her home.”
The soldier with the mustache held up a hand to silence them. “Search her.”
Before I could protest, hands shoved into my pockets, patting me down. They ordered me to turn around and remove my shoes. My sore feet glimmered white under the flashlight, and I began to shiver.
“I’m innocent. Please, you must believe me!”
“She’s clean.”
The mustachioed soldier looked me up and down, but I couldn’t read his mood. No malice, but no pity, either. “You two,” he said, pointing to the two who had searched me, “bring her to the captain. He’ll decide.” He gestured for the other soldier to follow him and they continued down the road. At the junction, he turned and hollered back, “Give her something to keep warm. She’s liable to catch pneumonia.”
The men threw a jacket over my shoulders and nudged me forward. If I was taken prisoner by the Allies, who knew how long it would take me to get back home. I had to find a way to change their minds.
* * *
The Canadians brought me to a countryside estate where they’d made camp. The sunroom on the side of the villa had been destroyed, its remnants a pile of glass and plaster. I thought back to the mansion where I’d given birth, the way the guests had congregated near the sunroom, the atmosphere of joy and relief, that temporary suspension of fear. It, too, felt like a lifetime ago.
The captain had set himself up in the former study. A burly redhead, he sat at a mahogany desk, with various maps and charts arranged in front of him. When the soldiers led me into the room, he frowned. “What now? Who is this?”
“Johanna Vos, sir,” I said. “The Nazis arrested me for my work in the Dutch Resistance. I crossed the border by foot.”
The captain stood up, his kilt swishing as he walked up to me. He said something, but his accent was so thick I couldn’t make it out.
“I beg your pardon?” A bout of dizziness hit me. How many hours had it been since my last meal?
“Get this woman a chair,” he ordered the soldiers, “and tell me someone has thought to give her something to eat. She looks like hell.”
A minute later, I had a biscuit in my hand and a cup of steaming tea. The captain waited until I’d taken a couple of bites before launching into his interrogation. I told him my story, from start to finish, removing my shoes to show him my blistered feet, evidence of many days on the run.
The captain called for a translator, someone who could probe deeper, possibly pick up the trace of an accent or some inconsistency in my story. While we waited, I looked the captain in the eyes. “I promise,” I said, “every word I’m telling you is true. Please, all I want is to go home.”
A flicker of compassion passed over his face. He nodded, like he was inclined to believe me but was trying to uphold his duties. I needed to give him no reason to doubt me. I leaned over and indicated one of the maps on his desk. “I passed a few German soldiers who were camped out close to the border. They were loud, drinking, an easy target. If your men can point out where they picked me up, I can show you where they were.”
The captain waved over one of the soldiers who had accompanied me. The soldier placed his finger on a spot, and from there I worked my way backward, offering my best guess as to where the rowdy lot had been. As the translator came in, the captain ordered the soldier to send out some men to investigate. Then the captain turned to me. “Tell this man what you told me and answer his questions. If he has any reason to suspect you’re lying, I’ll hear about it. Otherwise, he’ll find you a place to sleep and ensure you have a hot meal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I followed the translator out of the study, but the captain called after me. “Have some patience and you’ll find your way home. We’ve almost beaten them, almost.”
Forty-Five
Liesbeth de Wit
May 8, 1945
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
At last—freedom! Free on paper at least, the capitulation signed and dated. But while much of the country was soaking in the first days of freedom, Liesbeth had yet to see any sign of their liberators. Rumors trickled through the street: the Canadians were in nearby Utrecht, their arms laden with delicacies nobody had seen in months; the Canadians were greeting the farmers on the outskirts of Amsterdam; the Canadians were grinning and handsome, leaving a path of blushing young women in their wake. The anticipation was intoxicating. Liesbeth wanted to be in the thick of it all, sucking everything in, catching the stories, spinning her own fantasies of what it would be like to walk worry free through the city, to sink her teeth into a cream-filled pastry made with real flour. To find her sister.
That hint of doubt creeped in when she thought back to Mad Tuesday, how the disappointment had settled over the city for months. “I’ll believe in this liberation once I see it,” she said to Maurits, to keep her hope in check, and in part because she was afraid of tarnishing his mood.
In those final days, Maurits spent hours at his desk, poring over newspapers and pharmaceutical journals, snapping at Liesbeth if the imitation coffee wasn’t how he liked it. Other times, he would slip into a frenzy, sweeping her up into his arms, spinning her around as he announced his grand plans for after the war: the places they would see—Paris, Milan, Budapest—the shows he would take her to in the ritziest theaters and catwalks of Europe.
The newspapers declared the eighth of May V-E Day, marking victory across Europe. And this time, the rumors could be verified. The Canadians had been sighted, driving in from the southeast. Liesbeth was up early. She and Willem planned to watch the procession of soldiers filing into the city. It was his and Aletta’s first full day out of hiding, back in their own home, and she didn’t want them to celebrate alone. From the looks of it, the entire city was spilling out onto the streets. Everyone except Maurits. Liesbeth tried to rouse his spirits, but he would have none of it.
“After what happened yesterday,” he said, “the last thing I want to do is get tangled up in a massive crowd.”
He had a point: the day before, a handful of German marines had opened fire on a celebratory crowd in Dam Square. Some people speculated that the Resistance had tried to strip the marines of their weapons, sparking the chaos. Others believed one of the marines had spotted a Resistance fighter flirting with his girlfriend and fired a shot in a jealous rage. Whatever the truth of the matter, it had been a bloodbath. Dozens dead and even more wounded.
Although the news had frightened Liesbeth, she assured Maurits she would be fine, that the Germans would no longer be a threat once the Canadians arrived. But he insisted on spending the afternoon at home with the latest pharmaceutical periodical. “We can celebrate in our own way tonight,” he said. “Go have fun. But be careful.”
Liesbeth was fully set on doing both. She pulled out her orange ribbon and a crepe paper flower for her dress. When she left the house, she got swept up in the joyful shouts of the children running by, the flags hanging from balconies, the long-hidden red, white, and blue.
Willem and Aletta were waiting for her at the end of the block, and together they made their way toward the Amstellaan. Willem carried Aletta on his shoulders, and, after months cooped up in the zoo, Aletta acted like she’d stepped into a new world, enraptured by the sights and smells around her.
“How does it feel to be out on the streets, in the thick of everything?” Liesbeth asked.
“It won’t be easy to move past these nightmares. But one day at a time, life will return to normal.”
Liesbeth knew what he was thinking, the same thought that had been lingering in her mind for weeks: that the letters from Johanna had stopped, that she should be freed. Yet, they’d heard nothing. Where was she?
“She’ll find her way home,” Liesbeth said quietly, “or we’ll find her.”
At the head of the Amstellaan, the throng grew so thick that trying to push through it became next to impossible. They squeezed into a space near the curb, managing to get a good view of the bridge ahead and the road leading out of Amsterdam. Liesbeth took Aletta in her arms and pointed out all the people, how nice everyone looked. Women with their hair in ribbons and braids, bobby socks, and skirts they’d saved from tired wear with the hope that this day would come. The men had shaved and polished their shoes. If it weren’t for how skinny and gaunt everyone looked after that cruel winter, you might have thought it was a regular day, a festival like the ones they’d had before the war. Before it all.
Up ahead, someone cried out in excitement. One by one, jeeps and armored vehicles crested the bridge. And for the first time in five years, it wasn’t the cold field gray of the Germans’ uniforms coming toward them, but a brigade of khaki. Canadians. Liesbeth waved, dumbfounded, as the streets erupted into cheers. Everyone began to clap and sing and dance.
“They’re here,” she said, “they’re really here.” She and Willem fell into an embrace, holding Aletta between them, raising her little arms into the air. Aletta giggled and gaped at it all.
They stood there for over an hour. Within the first few minutes, people began to flock over the road, swarming the incoming troops. Men tossed their caps in the air. Children in paper crowns waved flags. And the girls tossed handkerchiefs and bouquets of flowers, blowing kisses to the soldiers, who invited them to scramble up into their jeeps and ride along with them, arm in arm. People lifted the Canadians up onto their shoulders and decked the tanks in streamers. Lipstick dotted the cheeks of the soldiers, who grinned ear to ear beneath their berets and mustaches, overwhelmed by their reception. Liesbeth felt giddy, exhilarated. This was it—freedom.
She wished Gerrit and Jo were here to see this. “It feels like some crazy dream,” she said.
Willem smiled, his eyes alight. “No, we’re waking up from one.”
She embraced him again, turned to greet strangers and joined in renditions of “Het Wilhelmus” until her voice grew hoarse. The power of the words surprised her, how moving it felt to be able to sing the national anthem without fear of retribution.
Soldiers in berets began handing out chocolate and tins of preserves. Children ran up to them, begging in their best English, “Have you some food for us?” They followed behind the jeeps, dancing and bending down to collect the cigarette butts that fell on the ground, for their parents to smoke later.
While the procession paused, slowed by congestion, Aletta caught the attention of a Canadian officer on a motorbike by waving a floppy hand at him. He chuckled and slowed to a halt beside them.
“Why, hello, little miss.” He pulled a banana out of his bag, which he peeled and held out to Aletta. She stared back at him.
“She’s never seen a banana before,” Liesbeth said. She took the fruit and offered a small piece to Aletta, who chewed once, twice, before spitting it out. The banana slid down her chin, making the officer laugh again.
“Ba-na-na,” he said, sounding it out for her. “Plenty of time to get your little monkey hooked on these.” He glanced back at the procession, which had started rolling, and passed Liesbeth two tins of braised beef. “You take good care of her, won’t you?”
Liesbeth thanked him and promised she would. She handed the tins to Willem, and they looked at one another, Johanna’s absence heavy between them.
Aletta’s babbling broke through their thoughts. “He go bye-bye?”
Willem nodded and took her, pressing her close to his chest and stroking her curls. They moved to a quieter spot farther back, where they could sit on the grass and rest their feet. Willem tried to feed Aletta the rest of the banana, singing as he clapped her hands. She puckered her mouth and pushed it away.
“Well,” Willem said, “if she prefers to grow up on a diet of tulip bulbs and turnips, my wallet will be happy.”
Liesbeth laughed. “She’s tired. And after all this excitement, she’s not the only one who could use a nap.”
“It’s a lot to take in, for all of us.” Willem started getting Aletta to her feet. “And I’m sure you’ll want to check on Maurits.” He raised his voice at the end in question, but Liesbeth didn’t know how to answer. It had been blissful, these few hours in which she’d managed to forget about all the problems at home. Her husband, the man she was meant to love. Her affair. The lies and betrayal that masked it all.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose he’ll be wanting some lunch.”
She gathered her things, adjusted the orange corsage that had come loose from her dress, and followed Willem while he wove a pathway back through the crowd. There would be more celebrations in the days to come, so she knew it was time to leave, but the idea of returning to the storm cloud at home dulled her energy.
Suddenly, someone bellowed her name. “Liesbeth, Liesbeth!” A male voice, a Canadian. She turned, confused, searching for the source of it.
“Liesbeth!” A handsome young soldier was waving at her from a jeep. He grinned and pointed to the woman beside him. A woman with hair cropped short and a sallow complexion. It took Liesbeth a second to register the face, the woman calling and waving and hopping off the moving truck, rushing toward her. But there she was, her sister.
Part Five
Rebuilding
May 1945–May 1946
Forty-Six
Johanna Vos
May 8, 1945
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
“Jo!”
The moment I locked eyes with Lies, everything changed. All those months I’d spent wondering, anticipating what it would be like to find my sister, and there she was. I jumped down from the jeep that had brought me into the city. We found each other in the middle of the crowd, Liesbeth wrapping me in the tightest of hugs. She pulled back to look at me. She looked thin and tired but still full of color. “Jo,” she said, “it’s really you!” She kissed me on the cheek and hugged me again, but then she stopped and scanned the sea of people around us, reaching out an arm for someone. “She’s here!”
I felt my breath cinch and turned my head, searching. I saw Willem first. My darling, strong, capable Wim. But then there was a child, pudgy cheeked with wild, dark curls. For a moment, I was confused. Although I’d known it would happen, Aletta had changed, transformed from a baby to a little girl. A sharp pain wedged itself into my chest as I tried to grasp everything I’d missed, all those milestones I should have been there for, holding my daughter’s hand.
“Sweetheart!” Willem’s arms encircled me now, holding me, comforting me. I reached out for Aletta, lifted her up, surprised by the weight of her. Those round little cheeks, that cascade of curls, smelling like imitation soap. Big, searching eyes. Sticky, fruit-stained hands.
“Aletta,” Wim said. “This is Mama.”
I became aware of the stares of onlookers. Curious celebrators awaiting their own reunions. They watched Aletta turn her head away from me and scrunch up her nose, reaching out in the other direction, reaching out for Liesbeth. My daughter was here, in front of me. Ready to be loved, to be cared for. But she no longer needed me.
“Give her some time,” Wim said.
Didn’t he understand that this moment was all I’d been counting on for all those months in prison? The one thought that had kept me going.
