“Let’s see how many V-1s the Americans can hit tonight!” shouted a spectator. “I heard the Americans are getting good at stopping these killing machines from reaching Antwerp and London. I like to see the action with my own eyes.”
Three dark objects ominously buzzed over the horizon, crossing the border, sounding like loud lumbering trucks.
“Look how many are going up to their target aiming at the slow lumbering V-1! How can they miss?” someone yelled, as people pointed to the sky, following the fiery balls of the anti-aircraft batteries. One of the shells hit the steering mechanism, causing the V-1 to turn 180 degrees, back to Germany. Shouting hoorays and locking arms, they danced as if they were celebrating the winning goal at a soccer game.
“Gooooo…al! I hope it kills Adolf in Germany!” someone yelled.
An hour later, the Americans downed a V-1, which crashed three hundred meters from the spectators. They approached the hot smoldering wreckage cautiously.
“What are these strange-looking handles on the outside of the V-1?” someone asked.
“I know what these are … they are the handles of water buckets,” another bystander proclaimed, running closer to the bomb and poking it with a stick.
“Because iron ore had become scarce, the Germans had to resort to the use of household buckets to manufacture their V-1 bombs. They knocked the bottom out of the water buckets and flattened the sides, not bothering to remove the handles. I bet it takes a hundred buckets to make one bomb … pity on the German housewife, doing her housekeeping without her water bucket.” They laughed.
By day or night, V-1 and V-2 rockets rained down on Antwerp. The civilian authorities ordered a general evacuation into the countryside, where no V-1s were falling. After packing a stroller and an old bicycle, the Habers set out on foot to make the trip into the Campina Region.
Danya was surprised to see Gerda waiting for them. At first, they did not speak to each other as Gerda followed Danya in the hope of becoming a courier.
“Are you ready to lay down your life for your brother?” Danya finally asked. “Remember that courage is resistance to fear. Your courage will demand that you go to dangerous enemy places.” Not sure that she could live up to Danya’s expectations, Gerda listened carefully to her words of encouragement, remaining silent.
It was winter, and a light coating of snow made the walking difficult. The refugees pushed and shoved in their desperate search for a place to stay overnight. Several of the elderly were too exhausted to continue walking and sat down on the cold, wet ground, staring into the distance, refugees in their homeland. They held their rosaries, silently reciting their Ave Marias. They had hoped the war would be over by now.
Suddenly a sharp sound over the horizon signaled a V-2 rocket.
“V-2 incoming! Down in the ditch!” someone yelled. Before anyone could find cover, the ballistic rocket landed, killing and injuring dozens of refugees. People wailed and trembled in fear. Danya set out to help the victims. She worked furiously, ripping strips of cloth from her dress to stop the bleeding. She ordered Gerda to do the same.
It was almost dark when Manus pointed at a chicken farm. Martha, the widow who lived there with her four sons, received them with open arms and a smile. A pot of chicken stew bubbled on the stove. The Habers had not eaten all day. They enjoyed their supper while Martha apologized for the simple meal. She showed them a newly built chicken house, a low-slung small structure, barely big enough for six people. She brought hay from the barn for bedding. It had a faint smell of chicken droppings.
On this windy evening, everyone worried that Hubert, Bertha’s little boy, had not come home before dark. Pa Habers suggested they start the evening prayer without Hubert. While they were reciting the rosary, Hubert rushed in, holding a little cat in his arms.
“Mommy, look what I found! Can I keep it?” He put the animal on the floor, where it fell, unable to stand. Danya inspected the animal.
“How did it survive? It only has three legs, and one ear and an eye are missing.” Pa Habers jumped in. “It must have been another victim of a landmine.” The family decided to share their food with the unfortunate creature. A week later, they were not only looking for the pussycat, but Gerda had also disappeared without a trace. Danya wondered where she had gone.
In the spring of 1945, the Allied successfully drove the Germans deeper into Holland. The battlefield stretched along the Rhine River into the Dutch Delta Waterway System. The Germans held onto this tract of land as a last resort, securing for themselves an escape route to the homeland. They put a high priority on the last major bridge over the Rhine River to keep the road open to Germany.
Danya and Manus left the family to enter Holland. Danya pondered whether to take up her position as a courier or to stay on with Manus for a while longer. On the other hand, Manus was just as anxious to return to Lindendale Castle to resume his sculpting on the Stations of the Cross. Plus, he was not letting Danya leave on her own into the embattled areas.
The old bicycle without rubber tires made for a bumpy ride. Danya had to hold on, sitting on the crossbar. Finally, after an absence of one year, they were heading home to their castle in Mill. Broken military equipment, jeeps, trucks, tanks, ammunition boxes, jerry cans still leaking gasoline lay strewn about, reminders of war waged in Holland. The white crosses along the road with handwritten names of the fallen soldiers left a deep impression on the couple. They continued along on their bicycle when Danya pointed at a metal object in the grass.
“I wonder what the little metal plate is doing in the pasture.” They stopped to investigate. It was a “dog tag” military issue inscribed with the name, “Mark McGuffey Pfc. – First Canadian Army.” Manus remembered the cross without a name a few hundred meters back.
“There is a chance that this name tag belongs to the soldier in the unnamed grave. Let’s go back and leave it on his cross.” They paused at the gravesite and Danya swept away a tear.
The demarcation lines between the retreating German Armies and the advances of the Allied Forces were often blurred. Traveling along the rural roads made it difficult to know whether they were in German or Allied territory. In the distance, they saw a sign with a couple of bullet holes: “The Netherlands.” Manus noticed it first.
“At last, we are back in Holland.” Danya gave him a quizzical look as if this was a significant event. Finding a place to spend the night was more on her mind.
The moon was out and in the windows of the faraway farmhouses, candlelight flickered. The first town across the border in Holland was Reusel. In the dark, they spotted a structure that resembled an old abbey. Manus looked at Danya.
“Let’s find out if the Friars have room for us.” Friar Dominique opened the gate.
“How can we help?”
“We are on our way home to Mill and have not slept for several nights. May we call on your hospitality?” Friar Dominique waved them in.
“You must be hungry. We have food left from the evening dinner.” When bedtime came, Dominique announced the convent rule: “Separate sleeping quarters for males and females.” Manus looked at Danya. He asked if they would consider an exception to their rule.
“We arrived here together and would like to stay together.” After a brief consult with the father abbot, Dominique returned with a smile.
“Good news! You can stay together.” Two days later, Manus was back on his rickety bicycle. The chain repeatedly derailed and needed grease to keep it from jumping off the track again. In his travel bag was the sandwich with butter and cheese that Dominique had provided for the road. He smeared the butter on the chain, which made the clickety sound disappear. They ate the other half of the sandwich, less the butter. By evening, Manus walked up a hill and raised his arms, pointing at a familiar sight.
“Our first windmill! We are close to home!” he announced hopefully. After a long day on the road, Manus spread
their blanket on the grass and fell asleep with Danya in his arms. Danya woke during the night when she heard Manus murmuring in his dream.
“Oh, Dulcinea! Dear Dulcinea!” He cried out in a soft voice that gave away how much he was in love with Don Quixote’s girl; sweetheart of the “Man of La Mancha.” Danya wondered whether Manus was dreaming about their aimless wanderings during the war years. Did he see himself as the “Errant Knight” of La Mancha in search of his imaginary love? Had he read Don Quixote’s story?
“O Dulcinea, my princess!
Sovereign of this captive heart!
Grievous wrong hast thou done me by dismissing me
And by cruelly forbidding me by decree to appear in thy beauteous presence
I pray thee, sweet lady, to remember this poor enslaved heart,
Which for love of thee suffers so many pangs.”
Danya wept for a while. She looked deep into her soul and was not sure whether she had betrayed Manus. During their time together, she had never given her full love to him. For sure, he was her faithful protector, just like Don Quixote. Then she remembered the words spoken by her mother to “wait until you meet your prince for life.” She looked into her handbag and pulled out the box with the fragrance bottle. With this heirloom came the promise to her mother not to open it until her prince embraced her.
When Manus awoke, he was in a joyful mood, looking forward to the trip to the castle. Manus mounted his bicycle and waited for Danya to get on.
“Up you go, Rozinante.” Rozinante was the old hack of a horse mounted by Don Quixote. The Errant Knight shepherded his love into the realm of imaginary chivalry.
Chapter 20
A Sculptor’s Dream in Ruins
At last, they were on their way to the castle they had not seen in over a year when they had fled for their lives. Holland was in the midst of the Hunger Winter instituted by the Nazis in retaliation for the Dutch Resistance.
So far, they saw no signs of German forces lingering to defend their lost cause.
Danya walked along, feeling restless, knowing she had to tell Manus soon that she must make her move to the frontlines of the war. Reflecting on Manus’ “Dulcinea Dream,” Danya realized she was merely a figment of his imagination. She must find time to be on her own.
Manus and Danya decided to spend their last night on the road in an abandoned windmill. In the bright light of the full moon, they saw two of the four blades were no longer there. Chaff left over from the last grain threshing was piled up in the corner. It would make for good bedding. Danya could not put aside her restlessness and find the peace to fall asleep. Clutching her fragrance box, she went outside into the night. The light of the moon struck the image of Satanaya on the flask as if to seduce Danya with the fragrance of enchantment.
She vividly remembered Satanaya’s words: “Trust me. I will stand by your side, giving you strength and courage. Have no fear; you will overcome your obstacles. In the end, you will toss your tulips in the Rhine River, which will run red with blood. On that day, you will cherish your victory; the liberating troops will honor you for your heroic deeds. Go forth on your mission. I bless you as a child of the Nation of Circassia.”
When she replaced the flask inside the wooden box, she discovered a tiny silk scroll bound with an orange ribbon. In the bluish light of the moon, she could barely make out the words written in black ink:
“My Dear Danya:
I see the stars twinkle in the beauty of your eyes, amber in color with a gold fleck.
Your angelic face draped with black curl bespeaks of mystic charms not yet revealed
You are a wonderland of Circassian magic, the enchantment of love
As I engage in battle and encounter my enemy, your magical powers will save me from mortality
To embrace you under Satanaya’s veil of magic, wait for me, my darling.”
It was signed, “Schorseneel,” Arie’s nom de guerre. She remembered that moment when he told her to keep it in the wooden box, not to read the scroll until the time had arrived.
“It’s Arie’s poem!” she exclaimed. Danya knew that he had practiced the art of poetry. In the early days of the Dutch resistance, verses were the language used for encrypting messages, a cryptographic method developed by the Special Operations Executive in London. This unusual method of exchanging messages in poetry aided the local resistance movement in communicating with agents in Nazi-occupied Europe. In London, at their secret intelligence meeting, they had expressed the belief that the enemy did not have it in their Germanic nature to suspect the use of poetry in cryptology. Poem coding was safely used during the war years and was easy to decipher.
Danya wondered if Arie was practicing poetry writing in his role as a double agent or whether he was creating a love story for her. She remembered that glint in his eyes during that first encounter in the castle, the look of determination. But was it just a short strand of love by a man she did not know? Tormented by her feelings for Manus, who had stood by her during the long periods of hiding from the enemy, she had to decide whether she would abandon Manus.
At last, they reached the village of Mill. They were now close to the castle. It was late spring, and the rosewoods showed their early blossoms. With the sun setting, Manus hurried on his bicycle with Danya, avoiding another night sleeping under the stars. A few cows mooed as if welcoming them home.
The last rays of the sun cast a unique glow on Danya, highlighting her features as a Circassian beauty. What made her so special were her eyes, her raven black hair, and her regal look; she was a true descendant of Queen Satanaya.
His pipe in his mouth dipped up and down with every pedal push on his bike; not a single puff of smoke had come from the old pipe; for months he had run out of tobacco. With his French beret askance on his head and his long hair flowing in the breeze, he was in full sculptor regalia, ready to arrive at his domain.
They arrived on Castle Lane when Manus started to have difficulty keeping his bicycle between the deep tracks left by the tanks. The tall trees still lined the dirt road, giving the entrance to the castle its aura of aristocracy. One more sharp turn to the left and then they should see the castle. Finally, there it was. They could make out the outline of the old structure against the starlit sky, but they saw that something was missing. Manus fell to his knees and raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Merciful Lord, is this the castle I left a year ago? Where is the water in the moat? Did the swans become war victims?” As he walked through the gate entering the courtyard, he was shocked by the devastation. He hurried through the opening where the oak doors had been. The Hall of the Knights was lit by the moon, casting an eerie glow of death over the interior. He raised his eyes and looked up into the sky with its million stars. A gaping hole replaced the roof over the Hall. Manus had to steady himself before asking the question he feared the most.
What had happened to the Stations of the Cross? He saw broken pieces of carved granite, lit by the bluish moonlight as a ghostly field of ruin. In vain, he tried to remember which part belonged to what station. The old paintings on the walls depicting the ancestors were strewn about, dislodged from their ornamental frames, like ghostlike figures staring to the heavens. The further he stumbled through the debris, the more dejected he became.
The crater in the middle of the hall told the story of this massive destruction, an errant V-1 rocket had slammed into the castle through the roof and demolished the entire back wall. After the long day travel and surveying the disastrous situation, they fell asleep in the old kitchen, amidst utensils, dishes, and broken chairs.
The next day, amongst the rubble in the Grand Hall, Danya found a metal cigar box bearing the name “Schimmelpennincks.” She opened the box and showed it to Manus.
“Look what I found,” she said. “A picture of Anna Maria Petrovsky, a common Circassian name. Do you know who she is?” He hesitated for a m
oment. To the best of his knowledge, no picture existed of Anna Maria. He never thought to find a picture of his grandmother. His father told him that no photographs existed of his mother. He reached into the box where he found a letter. They seated themselves on a block of granite and Danya studied the picture as Manus read.
“It’s a love letter from Professor von Ewers, my grandfather!
‘To Anna Maria, my Darling,
Whom I silently visit wherever you are
Your eyes radiating with wonder, joy, and longing
With heaving bosom, you kissed me with passion
You gave yourself to me and took me in your arms
Striving to find the words - Sheer bliss remembered forever.”
Manus removed his pipe without taking his eyes from the poem. The photograph of Anna Maria captivated Danya, who was thrilled to find the image of a Circassian woman. She turned to Manus.
“If her last name is ‘Petrovsky,’ it is one of the most recognized names in Sochi, capital of Circassia. You should feel honored having her as your grandmother,” she told him. Danya’s words left a deep impression on Manus. He felt a sense of pride and had never felt so close to Danya. His memory transported him back to the day he had visited Clara at Lindendale Castle when she revealed that Anna Maria was his grandmother. Back then, his heritage did not mean much to him. At that time, he could only focus on his art. Since that time, he had learned much from Danya about the origin of the Circassian people, their traditions, and culture. He never saw the connection with his family as true Circassian descendants from an aristocratic lineage. He now realized that he would be the end of the family pedigree if he had no offspring.
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