And so it was that when we were herded into that room ten minutes later, we were not poor, but rich—rich in the care of Him who was God even of Ravensbruck.
Of course when I put on the flimsy prison dress, the Bible bulged beneath it. But that was His business, not mine. At the exit, guards were feeling every prisoner, front, back and sides. I prayed, “Oh, Lord, send your angels to surround us.” But then I remembered that angels are spirits and you can see through them. What I needed was an angel to shield me so the guards could not see me. “Lord,” I prayed again, “make your angels untransparent.” How unorthodox you can pray when you are in great need! But God did not mind. He did it.
The woman ahead of me was searched. Behind me, Betsie was searched. They did not touch or even look at me. It was as though I was blocked out of their sight.
Outside the building was a second ordeal, another line of guards examining each prisoner again. I slowed down as I reached them, but the captain shoved me roughly by the shoulder. “Move along! You’re holding up the line.”
So Betsie and I came to our barracks at Ravensbruck. Before long we were holding clandestine Bible study groups for an ever-growing group of believers, and Barracks 28 became known throughout the camp as “the crazy place, where they hope.”
Yes, hoped, in spite of all that human madness could do. We had learned that a stronger power had the final word, even here.
(Reprinted by permission from Guidepost Magazine, © 1972 by Guideposts Associates, Inc., Carmel, New York 10512.)
You shall be My witnesses both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and Samaria.
Acts 1:8, NEB
2
Witnesses unto Me
It was a week after Betsie had died in Ravensbruck that I took my place in the ranks of women prisoners standing together in the icy cold of the early morning.
“66730!”
“That is my number,” I said weakly as we took our places for roll call.
“Ten Boom, Cornelia.”
That is my name, I thought. How strange that they would call me by name when they always addressed us by number!
“Come forward.”
We were falling in line for the roll call. Ten in a line, every one hundredth woman, one step forward. My friends looked at me sadly.
What does it mean? I asked inwardly. Punishment … freedom … the gas chamber … sent to another concentration camp?
There was but one thought that comforted me. What a joy that Betsie is in heaven. No matter what terrible things now happen, she will not have to bear it.
The guard, a young German girl, shouted at me. “Number 66730!”
I stepped forward, stood at attention and repeated the necessary words. “Schutzhaftling ten Boom, Cornelia, meldet sich.”
“Stand on Number 1 on the roll call.”
I went to the place to the far right, where I could overlook the entire square of the bleak camp. Standing in the crowd, I could not feel the draft, but now, standing in the bitter cold, the wind whipped through my ragged prison dress. Another girl, young and frightened, was sent to stand beside me. Roll call took three hours, and we were almost frozen. She saw how cold I was and rubbed my spine when the guards were not looking.
“Why must I stand here?” I asked through chattering teeth.
Her answer was barely audible as it came from her blue lips. “Death sentence.”
I turned back to the Lord. Perhaps I’ll see you soon face to face, like Betsie does now, Lord. Let it not be too cruel a killing. Not gas, Lord, nor hanging. I prefer shooting. It is so quick. You see something, you hear something, and it is finished.
I looked back at the young girl beside me. Lord, this is perhaps the last chance I will have to bring someone to You before I arrive in heaven. Use me, Lord. Give me all the love and wisdom I need.
“What is your name?” I asked her softly, glancing always to see if the guards were looking.
“Tiny.”
“I am Corrie,” I whispered. “How long have you been here?”
“Two years.”
“Did you ever read the Bible?”
“No, I never did.”
“Do you believe God exists?”
“I do. I wish I knew more about Him. Do you know Him?”
“I do. Jesus, His Son, came to this world to carry our punishment. He died on the cross, but He rose from the dead and has promised to be with us always. My sister died here. She suffered so much. I too have suffered. But Jesus is always with us. He did a miracle in taking away all my hatred and bitterness for my enemies. Jesus is willing to bring into our hearts God’s love through His Holy Spirit.”
Tiny listened. For almost three hours we talked while the guards completed the roll call. It was a miracle, for I had a chance to explain many things about Jesus. The prisoners behind us listened too. I felt happy. Perhaps this was my last chance in life, but what joy!
I continued. “Jesus wants to live in your heart. ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock,’ He says. ‘If anyone opens the door, I’ll come in.’ Will you open the door of your heart and let Him come in and change you?”
“I will,” she said.
“Then talk to Him. Tell Him whatever you think. Now you have a Friend who never leaves you alone.”
The siren sounded and the guards shouted at the prisoners. “Get to work!”
Thousands of women prisoners were running to their places where they had to march to their work. Tiny disappeared from sight. Only I was left standing in my place where I had been ordered not to move. I still did not know what fate awaited me.
I did know, however, that the God who never slumbers nor sleeps was now with Tiny. And Tiny knew it too. Neither of us knew at that time how important that was going to be to her in the next few days. But above the din of the concentration camp, I thought I heard the singing of the angels.
Then I heard my name called. Was it death? Oh, thank God, no. It was life. I was being released. I later learned it was through an administrative blunder, but even then I knew it was not the end of an era—it was just the beginning. Ahead of me was the world.
Then he turned my sorrow into joy!
He took away my clothes of mourning.
Psalm 30:11, LB
3
Release!
When you are dying—when you stand at the gate of eternity—you see things from a different perspective than when you think you may live for a long time. I had been standing at that gate for many months, living in Barracks 28 in the shadow of the crematorium. Every time I saw the smoke pouring from the hideous smokestacks, I knew it was the last remains of some poor woman who had been with me in Ravensbruck. Often I asked myself, “When will it be my time to be killed or die?”
But I was not afraid. Following Betsie’s death, God’s Presence was even more real. Even though I was looking into the valley of the shadow of death, I was not afraid. It is here that Jesus comes the closest, taking our hand and leading us through.
One week before the order came to kill all the women of my age, I was free. I still do not understand all the details of my release from Ravensbruck. All I know is, it was a miracle of God.
I stood in the prison yard—waiting the final order. Beyond the walls with their strands of barbed wire stood the silent trees of the German forest, looking so much like the gray-green sets at the back of one of our theater stages in Holland.
Mimi, one of the fellow prisoners, came within whispering distance. “Tiny died this morning,” she said without looking at me. “And Marie also.”
Tiny! “Oh, Lord, thank You for letting me point her to Jesus who has now ushered her safely into Your Presence.” And Marie. I knew her well. She lived in my barracks and had attended my Bible talks. Like Tiny, Marie had also accepted Jesus as her Lord. I looked back at the long rows of barracks. “Lord, if it was only for Tiny and Marie—that they might come to know you before they died—then it was all worthwhile.”
A guard spoke harshly, telling Mimi to le
ave the yard. Then he said to me, “Face the gate. Do not turn around.”
The gate swung open and I glimpsed the lake in front of the camp. I could smell freedom.
“Follow me,” a young girl in an officer’s uniform said to me.
I walked slowly through the gate, never looking back. Behind me I heard the hinges squeak as the gate swung shut. I was free, and flooding through my mind were the words of Jesus to the church at Philadelphia:
Behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it. (Rev. 8:8)
First that door directed me back to Holland. The train ride took three days. Another prisoner, Claire Prins, had been released with me. Her leg was alarmingly swollen and of course both of us were mere skin and bones. But we were free!
Arriving in Groningen, we made our way to a Christian hospital called the Deaconess House, where I asked to speak to the superintendent. Perhaps they would help us until I could return to Haarlem, I thought.
“Sister Tavenier cannot come at the moment,” the attendant said. “She is helping conduct a Christian service in one of the wards. I’m afraid you will have to wait.”
“Would you mind,” I said, looking at the attendant, “if I attended the service also?”
She looked at me tenderly, sensing, perhaps, some of my suffering. “Why, of course. You may rest in the waiting room until it starts. I’ll come after you.”
“Nurse … ,” I hesitated to ask, “have you anything for me to drink?”
Again, the look of compassion crossed her face. “I’ll bring you some tea,” she said gently.
A few minutes later she placed it before me, saying, “I have not put butter on the toast for I see you are sick. The dry toast and tea will be good for you.”
I was deeply touched by this tiny show of consideration. A moment later I was lying in a comfortable chair with my legs outstretched on a bench. A wonderful feeling of rest descended on me. I was in the Netherlands, among good people. My suffering was over.
A nurse came for me, to take me to the ward where the service was to be held. Chairs had been arranged in a semicircle between the beds, facing a table. An elderly minister walked in and a hymnal was handed me. I could see the nurses and patients glancing stealthily at me. My clothes were ragged and filthy, hanging from my gaunt body like rags on a scarecrow. Yet I was so thankful to be free I cared not.
The minister spoke in a well-modulated voice. Then we joined in singing. I could not help but make comparisons—the dirty prison dormitory, infection-ridden and filthy, the beds full of lice; and now this: clean sheets and pillow cases and a spotless floor. The hoarse voices of the slave drivers and the mature, melodious voice of the minister. Only the singing was the same, for we had sung at Ravensbruck. Singing was one of the ways we kept up our courage.
Following the service the nurse took me to the superintendent’s office. “Miss Prins has been taken care of,” she said, “and is already in a fresh bed. You both must have had a horrible experience. But now, what must be done with you?”
I sat in a chair across from her desk. For more than a year I had not been allowed to make a decision. All I could do was follow orders. It was difficult even to think. “I don’t know, Sister,” I said. It was enough just to be surrounded by people who were not angry with me.
“I know what,” she said, as she touched a bell. “First we’ll give you a warm dinner.”
A young nurse appeared and took my arm, guiding me down a hall toward the dining room. “I understand you have just been released from Ravensbruck,” she said. “Where are you going? Where is your home?”
“I am going to Haarlem,” I replied.
“Oh, Haarlem,” she said with excitement. “Do you know Corrie ten Boom who lives there?”
I looked at her. She was one of the YWCA leaders I had worked with before the war. “Truus Benes!” I exclaimed in delight.
“Why, yes, that is my name,” she said, bewildered. “But I don’t believe I know you.”
“I am Corrie ten Boom.”
The nurse stopped abruptly in the hall, staring at me. “Oh, no, that is impossible. I know Corrie ten Boom very well. I have been in girls’ camps with her several times. She is much younger than you.”
“But, really, I am Corrie ten Boom,” I argued. Then I thought of how I must have looked. My face was thin and pale, my mouth wide, like skin stretched across a skull. My hair fell queerly about my face. My eyes were hollow. My coat was dirty, for I had at times slept on the floor of the train as we traveled out of Germany. The belt of my dress sagged, for I had not had the energy to fasten it.
The nurse reached out tenderly and touched my chapped hand. “Yes … yes … it is you. It is! ” And then we both broke into laughter.
In the dining room we sat opposite each other at a small table, and I asked about our mutual acquaintances. Was Mary Barger still living? Jeanne Blooker and …? It was ridiculous to ask such questions, but I wanted to know everything. The world, for me, had stopped while I had been in the concentration camp.
Now it was beginning to turn again, and I had so much catching up to do.
Then I was eating. Potatoes, Brussels sprouts, meat and gravy, and for dessert, pudding with currant juice and an apple!
“I have never seen anyone eat so intensely,” one of the nurses from a nearby table commented. I cared not. With every mouthful of food I could feel new life streaming into my body. I had once said to Betsie in camp, “When we get home we shall have to eat carefully, taking only small amounts at a time until our stomachs are ready.”
“No,” Betsie had said, “God will see to it that we shall be able to retain all sorts of food right from the start.”
She was right. How wonderfully good that food did taste. I shall remember that meal as long as I live.
Then came a warm bath. They could hardly get me out of it. My poor sick skin, damaged by lice, seemed to grow softer the moment I slipped into that warm tub.
Afterwards they dressed me. Several of the ex-leaders of the Netherlands Girls’ Clubs were among the nurses—girls that I had known before the war. They dressed me up as if I were a doll. One of them had lingerie, another shoes, another a dress and pins for my hair. I felt so happy that I laughed for sheer joy. How sweet they were to me.
These young women had been trained in kindness. How opposite from the concentration camp where men had been trained in cruelty.
I was then taken to a cozy bedroom so I could rest. How lovely was the combination of colors. I was starved for color. In the concentration camp everything was gray. But here in Holland the colors were vivid again. My eyes could not seem to get enough to satisfy them.
And the bed! Delightfully soft and clean with thick woolen blankets. One of the little nurses brought an extra pillow and tucked it under my swollen feet. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
On a shelf was a row of books. Outside I heard the whistle of a boat on a canal and the merry sound of little children calling to one another as they skipped down the street. Far in the distance I heard the sound of a choir singing and then, oh, joy, the chimes of a carillon. I closed my eyes and tears wet my pillow. Only to those who have been in prison does freedom have such great meaning.
Later that afternoon one of the nurses took me up to her room where for the first time in many months I heard the sound of a radio. Gunther Ramin was playing a Bach trio. The organ tones flowed about and enveloped me. I sat on the floor beside a chair and sobbed unashamedly. It was too much joy.
I had rarely cried during all those months of suffering. Now I could not control myself. My life had been given back as a gift. Harmony, beauty, colors and music. Only those who have suffered as I, and have returned, can fully understand what I mean.
I knew my life had been given back for a purpose. I was no longer my own. This time I had been ransomed and released. I knew that God would soon be sending me out as a tramp for the Lord. But right now, He was letting me enjoy the luxury of thanksgiving. I was d
rinking from a fountain I knew would never run dry—the fountain of praise.
One of the first places I visited, after my release from the concentration camp, was the Grote Kerk in Haarlem. Since it was so close to where I had grown up in the Beje, I counted it as much of an old friend as I did the watchmaker’s shop.
“May I show you through?” the old usher said as he met me at the door.
“If it is all right,” I said. “I would like to be alone.”
He nodded, understandingly, and disappeared into the shadows of the sanctuary. I walked over the gravestones that formed the floor of the ancient building. My shoes made a strange, scraping sound that gave forth a hollow echo in the empty cathedral. I remembered the many times I had played here as a child.
My cousin Dot was my closest friend. She was the youngest daughter of my Uncle Arnold who was the previous usher—the caretaker—of the Grote Kerk.
Dot and I did everything together, but our favorite pastime was to play hide-and-seek in the big church. There were many wonderful places to hide: pews, old doors giving entrance to spiral staircases, and many closets. There was a world-famous pipe organ in the cathedral; and sometimes when there was a concert, Uncle Arnold would allow members of his family to come into the church, sit on a wooden bench without a back and lean against the cold, moist stone wall to hear the magnificent music.
The cathedral was a symphony in gray tones during the day, both inside and outside. In the evening, when the gas lamps were lit on the side transepts, we could see the pillars and ceilings pointing upwards, as the shadows danced about in a mysterious glow.
Only one place was absolutely “off limits” as we played hide-and-seek. That was the old pulpit. We never went there, but for the rest—what a playground that old church was! When we shouted, the echo would ring from transept to transept, and our laughter never, never seemed to be sacrilegious.
Tramp for the Lord Page 2