Tramp for the Lord

by Corrie ten Boom

  “Must we live with them in Germany?” I whispered.

  “For a while,” Betsie answered. “Then we will travel the whole world bringing the gospel to all—our friends as well as our enemies.”

  “To all the world? But that will take much money.”

  “Yes, but God will provide,” Betsie said. “We must do nothing else but bring the gospel, and He will take care of us. After all, He owns the cattle on a thousand hills. If we need money, we will just ask the Father to sell a few cows.”

  I was beginning to catch the vision. “What a privilege,” I said softly, “to travel the world and be used by the Lord Jesus.”

  But Betsie did not answer. She had fallen asleep. Three days later she was dead.

  Going to bed the night after Betsie died was one of the most difficult tasks of my life. The one electric light bulb was screwed into the ceiling toward the front of the room. Only a feeble ray reached my narrow cot. I lay in the semidarkness—thinking, remembering, trying to reconstruct Betsie’s vision.

  There was a shuffle of feet near my bed, and I looked up. A Russian woman, thin and gaunt, was shuffling down the aisle between the beds looking for a place to sleep. The Russians were not received kindly, and everyone turned away. As she neared me, I saw the hunted look in her eyes. How awful to be in prison and not have even a place to sleep!

  Betsie’s place beside me was vacant. I motioned to the woman and threw back the blanket for her. She crept in, gratefully, and stretched out beside me. We were sharing the same pillow and with our faces so close I wanted to speak. But I did not know her language.

  “Jesoes Christoes?” I asked softly.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. Quickly making the sign of the cross, she threw her arms about me and kissed me.

  She who had been my sister for fifty-two years, with whom I had shared so much of weal and woe, had left me. A Russian woman now claimed my love. And there would be others too who would be my sisters and brothers in Christ all across the world.

  I was awakened by a gentle hand shaking my shoulder. It was after midnight, and I realized I had fallen asleep in the midst of my suitcases, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall of the hallway.

  “Come,” my new friend said softly as she opened the door, “the floor is no place for a child of the King.” I rose from my cramped, huddled position and entered her apartment. I was her guest for the next five weeks.

  As the weeks passed, however, I realized I was running out of money. Jan ten Have (the publisher of my little book in Holland) was visiting New York. He helped me as much as he could, and I spent most of my time looking up addresses given me in Holland. The Americans were polite, and some of them were interested, but none wanted me to come to speak. They were all busy with their own things. Some even said I should have stayed in Holland.

  As the weeks slipped by, I found more and more resistance to my ministry. No one was interested in a middle-aged spinster woman from Holland who wanted to preach. “Why did you come to America?” people began to ask.

  “God directed me. All I could do was obey.”

  “That’s nonsense,” they answered. “There is no such thing as direct guidance from God. Experience proves we must use our common sense. If you are here and out of money, then it is your fault, not God’s.”

  I tried to argue back in God’s defense. “But God’s guidance is even more important than common sense. I am certain He told me to bring His message to America. I can declare that the deepest darkness is outshone by the light of Jesus.”

  “We have ministers to tell us such things,” was the reply.

  “Certainly, but I can tell from my experience in a concentration camp that what such ministers say is true.”

  “It would have been better for you to have remained in Holland. We don’t need any more preachers. Too many Europeans come to America. They should be stopped.”

  I was growing discouraged. Perhaps the Americans were right. Perhaps I should return to Holland and go back to my job as a watchmaker. My money was gone, and all that remained was the second check given me by the American businessman. Yet I was hesitant to cash it without his approval. I found his address and arrived in an imposing business office in Manhattan. Only this time his face was not as friendly as it had been in Holland.

  “Do you mind if I cash your second check?” I asked.

  “How do I know if you can return the money?” he asked. “You’ve been in America five weeks and have found there is no work. I think it would be better if you simply returned the check.”

  Mustering all my courage I said, “I am sure God has work for me here. I am in His will, and will somehow return all your money.”

  He snorted, tore up the check and then wrote out another—for a much smaller amount.

  I was embarrassed and humbled. I had money in Holland—a balance left from my first book and a small income from the business I had sold. But these funds could not be brought to America. I returned to my room and closed the door. It was time for a long consultation with my heavenly Father.

  Kneeling beside the bed, I prayed, “Father, You must help me out. If I must borrow money to return to Holland, people will say, ‘There, you see, the promises of the Bible are not real. Direct guidance does not exist.’ Father, for Your honor’s sake, You must help me out.”

  I fell weeping across the bed. Then, slowly, like a deep realization that dawns in a person’s heart, the answer came: “Do not worry about My honor. I will take care of that. In days to come, you will give thanks for these days in New York.”

  A great ocean separated me from my homeland. I had no money. Nobody wanted to hear my lectures. All I had was an inner word from God that He was guiding me. Was it enough? All I could do was press on—and on, and on—for His name’s sake.

  Before going to sleep I opened my Bible, my constant companion. My eyes fell on a verse from the Psalms, “The Lord taketh pleasure … in those that hope in his mercy” (147:11). It was a thin web—a tiny filament—stretching from heaven to my little room on 190th Street in New York. I fell asleep holding on to it with all my strength.

  The next day I attended a Dutch service in a New York church. Dr. Barkay Wolf was the speaker, and many Hollanders were present, meeting afterward for coffee in the vestry. The Reverend Burggraaff, who had baptized our Canadian-born princess, was presented to me.

  “Ten Boom,” he mused when he heard my name. “I often tell the story of a nurse by that name. She experienced a miracle in a concentration camp with a bottle of vitamins that never ran out. I tell it to prove that God still performs miracles today, as in Bible times. Do you happen to know that nurse? Is she related to you?”

  I felt joy springing in my heart. “She is not a nurse,” I replied. “She is a watchmaker. And you are looking at her. It was I who had that experience in 1944.”

  “Then you must come with me to Staten Island and tell your story to my congregation,” he exclaimed.

  I spent the next five days in this pleasant parsonage with Rev. and Mrs. Burggraaff. What a joy to eat good Dutch food again. I had been trying to find out how long one could exist on Nedick’s ten-cent breakfast, which consisted of a cup of coffee, a doughnut and a small glass of orange juice, eaten while standing at a counter. Now God was resupplying me, not only with food, but with new hope. I could see that the Lord does take pleasure in those that hope in His mercy!

  A week later I returned to Manhattan. Walking down the street, I saw a church with a notice on the door. Drawing closer, I saw it was an invitation to attend the Lord’s Supper next Sunday morning, Easter.

  Following the service, the minister gave me the address of Irving Harris, the editor of a Christian magazine called The Evangel. He encouraged me to go by and see him.

  I did. In fact, the very next morning I went up to his office and talked to him. “I know I am walking in the way God has led me,” I told him, “but so many declare there is no such thing as direct guidance.”

  “Pay no
attention to them,” Mr. Harris advised. “The Bible contains many promises that God will lead those who obey Him. Have you ever heard of a good shepherd who does not lead his sheep?”

  Mr. Harris asked if I had any material which he might use in his magazine. I gave him a copy of one of my lectures and told him to use as much as he could.

  “There is one drawback,” he explained. “We cannot pay. This paper exists only to spread the gospel, not for financial profit.”

  “Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I am in the presence of an American who sees money in its proper perspective.”

  Mr. Harris gave me a name and address in Washington DC. He strongly urged me to make an appointment and go down to see Mr. Abraham Vereide. I knew nothing of Mr. Vereide at the time, although I have since discovered he was one of the great Christian leaders of America. I was suspicious, afraid I was being shrugged off again. But I felt I could trust Mr. Harris and followed through, taking a chance and making a phone call to Washington.

  Mr. Vereide received me graciously, inviting me to Washington as his guest. At dinner three other guests were present, all professors who plied me with questions throughout the evening. I felt like a schoolgirl who had been invited out by her headmistress. My English was crude, and my mistakes seemed more glaring than ever before. How could I compete with such learned men?

  The next afternoon, however, I was asked to address a group of women. They asked specifically that I share my prison experiences with them. This time I felt at home. Certainly I could tell them what the Lord had done in my life.

  They received me warmly—enthusiastically, in fact. “Corrie,” one of the ladies said afterward, “this is your message. Share it wherever you go.” She then handed me a check that enabled me to return all the money I had borrowed in New York.

  Suddenly the tables were turned. Instead of no work, I had to guard against overwork. Abraham Vereide’s recommendation brought in calls from every place, asking me to come and share my testimony. The calls came from villages and towns, as well as from the big cities. I spoke in churches, prisons, universities, schools and clubs. For almost ten months I traveled in America, telling everywhere the story that Jesus Christ is reality, even in darkest days. I told them that He is the answer to all the problems in the hearts of men and nations. I knew it was so because of what He had done for me.

  As the year drew to a close, I began to sense God wanted me to return to Europe. I was homesick for Holland, but this time I felt Him leading me in another direction—Germany. The one land I dreaded.

  When I left the German concentration camp, I said, “I’ll go anywhere God sends me, but I hope never to Germany.” Now I understand that was a statement of disobedience. F. B. Meyer said, “God does not fill with His Holy Spirit those who believe in the fullness of the Spirit, or those who desire Him, but those who obey Him.” More than anything, I desired to be filled with God’s Spirit. I knew I had no choice but to go to Germany.

  I will sing of the mercies of the LORD for ever: with my mouth will I make known thy faithfulness to all generations.

  Psalm 89:1

  6

  Music from Broken Chords

  The Germans had lost face in defeat. Their homes had been destroyed, and when they heard the enormity of Hitler’s crimes (which many Germans knew nothing about), they were filled with despair. As they returned to their Fatherland, they felt they had nothing to live for.

  Friends in Darmstadt helped me rent a former concentration camp to use as a home for displaced persons. It was not big, but there was room for about one hundred sixty refugees. Soon it was full, with a long waiting list. I worked closely with the refugee program of the Lutheran Church (das Evangelische Hilfswerk) in the Darmstadt camp. Barbed wire disappeared. Flowers, light-colored paint and God’s love in the hearts of the people changed a cruel camp into a refuge where people would find the way back to life again.

  Marienschwestern, the Lutheran Sisterhood of Mary, whose members had dedicated their lives to serving the Lord and spiritually hungry people, assisted with the children’s and women’s work. Pastors and members of different churches helped by building homes. I was traveling and helping raise money for the work.

  The camp was crowded. Some rooms were jammed with several families. Noise and bedlam were everywhere as families, many without men because they had been killed in the war, tried to carry on the most basic forms of living. Often I would walk through the camp talking with the lonely, defeated people and trying to bring them hope and cheer.

  One afternoon I spotted an elderly woman huddled in the corner of a big room. She was obviously new to the camp. She had been put in the big room along with three other families and told she could set up housekeeping in the corner. There she crouched, like a whipped child, her faded, worn dress pulled tightly around her frail, wasted body. I could sense she was distressed by the bedlam of all the crying children, but most of all defeated by life itself.

  I went to her, sat beside her on the floor and asked who she was. I learned she had been a professor of music at the Dresden Conservatory before the war. Now she had nothing.

  I asked her to tell me about her life, knowing that sometimes it helps just to have someone willing to listen. She told me that a minister in a nearby town had given her permission to play his piano. She had also learned of several farmers’ children nearby who wanted to receive music lessons. But the minister’s home was miles away, and the only way to get there was on foot. It all seemed so hopeless.

  “You were a professor of piano?” I asked excitedly. “I am a great lover of Germany’s master musician, Johann Sebastian Bach.”

  For an instant her eyes lighted up. “Would you care to accompany me to the minister’s home?” she asked with great dignity. “I would be most happy to play for you.”

  It was a great privilege, and even though we had to walk many miles, I sensed God was doing something special.

  She seated herself at the battered piano. I looked at the instrument. Even though it had been saved from the bombing, it had not been protected from the rain. The strings were exposed through the warped frame, and I could see they were rusted. Some were broken and curled around the others. The pedals had long been broken off, and the keyboard was almost entirely without ivory. If any of the notes played, it would be a miracle.

  Looking up, the old woman said, “What would you like me to play?”

  Silently I prayed, knowing that failure at this moment could crush her forever. Then, to my own amazement, I heard myself saying, “Would you please play the Chromatic Fantasy of Bach?”

  I was aghast. Why had I picked one of the most difficult of all piano pieces for this old woman to play on such a ruined instrument? Yet the moment I said it, I saw a light flicker behind her eyes and a slight, knowing smile played across her tired face. She nodded and with great finesse, put her fingers on the broken keyboard.

  I could hardly believe my ears. From that damp, battered old piano flowed the beautiful music of Bach as her skilled fingers raced up and down the broken, chipped keys. Tears came to my eyes and ran down my cheeks as I thought of wounded Germany, left with only the remnants of the past, still able to play beautiful music. Such a nation will survive to create again, I thought.

  As the notes of Bach faded from the air, the words of an old gospel song, written by the blind composer Fanny J. Crosby, came to mind:

  Down in the human heart, crush’d by the tempter,

  Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;

  Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness

  Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.

  As we walked back to the former concentration camp, my companion had a new spring in her step. “It has been many years since I played the Chromatic Fantasy,” she said. “Once I was a concert pianist, and many of my pupils are now outstanding musicians. I had a beautiful home in Dresden that was destroyed by the bombs. I had to flee and was not able to take one thing with me.”

  “
Oh, no, you are wrong,” I said. “You took with you your most prized possession.”

  “And what is that?” she asked, shocked.

  “Your music. For that which is in your heart can never be taken from you.”

  Then I told her of what I had learned in Ravensbruck, of Betsie’s vision, and that God’s love still stands when all else has fallen. “In the concentration camp they took all we had, even made us stand naked for hours at a time without rest, but they could not take Jesus from my heart. Ask Jesus to come into your life. He will give you riches no man can take away from you.”

  We returned to the camp in silence, but I knew the Holy Spirit was pricking her heart, reminding her of the things that man cannot snatch from us.

  Soon it was time for me to leave the camp and move on to other fields. The day I left she was sitting in that same corner of the room. A boy was playing his mouth organ, a baby was crying, there were the sounds of shouts and the pounding of a hammer against a wooden crate. The room was full of discord and disharmonic noises. But her eyes were closed, and there was a faint smile on her face. I knew God had given her something that no one could take from her ever again.

  After the war Germany was filled with wounds and scars—not all of them on the surface. In one tiny cubicle in the camp at Darmstadt, I found a German lawyer. He was sitting miserably in a wheelchair, the stumps of his legs poking out from under a lap blanket. He was filled with bitterness, hatred and self-pity. He told me he had once been an active member of his Lutheran church and as a boy had rung the church bell in the village where he lived. Now the horrible injustice of war had taken his legs, and he was bitter against God and man.

  I felt attracted to him since some of his experiences were similar to mine. One morning I made a special trip to his room to tell him something of my life.

  I found him sitting in his wheelchair, staring at a blank wall. His face was gray, his eyes lifeless. I never was one for introductions, so I got right to the point of my visit.