A View Across the Rooftops: An epic, heart-wrenching and gripping World War Two historical novel

by Suzanne Kelman

  “Shh, now, Eva, don’t worry about everything all at once. You need to drink your tea and eat your biscuit. There are many things going on in the world that none of us understand, but you are safe here.”

  “But there is barbed wire and soldiers everywhere.”

  Clara nodded. “It is indeed a strange time that we are in, little one. Now, let us think of better things. Where were you in your knitting project?”

  Eva’s eyes lit up. “I just cast on the second row,” she said, remembering the fact with joy.

  “Well go and get the knitting basket and let’s get going,” said Clara. “We have much more important things to do. We have to fight with the Resistance. You and I will be the knitting resistance.” She raised her teacup to her young friend.

  Eva smiled a broad smile, revealing gaps in the side of her mouth where she was awaiting her adult teeth.

  “Okay,” she agreed, “I like that idea.” She fetched the knitting basket from the corner of the room and dragged it over to her older friend’s lap, pulling out both their knitting projects. From Clara’s lap, Eva watched as the old woman put the needles together in her gnarly fingers and started to slowly loop wool. She looped a couple of stitches and then handed it to the young girl.

  “Come on now, Eva, we have many hats to make. We have a lot of young boys whose heads need to be kept warm in this war,” she chuckled.

  Hannah poured tea as Eva nodded her agreement, took the needles, and started to knit.

  Chapter 14

  Moving through the trees, Elke tried desperately not to make any sound. The Germans usually guarded the streets, but occasionally they ventured out into the woods. It was late afternoon, and she had only about an hour until she needed to leave to make the curfew in time.

  As she walked, her heart ached. It had been three days of searching for Michael. Three days since she’d seen him disappear from the alleyway with David.

  And now she knew David was dead. She still couldn’t believe it. It had been too dangerous to visit the Jewish neighborhood for David’s funeral, so she had grieved for her boyfriend’s oldest friend alone at her sister’s home, her emotions only intensified by Michael’s absence.

  Then there had been the raids. Jewish people being forced into the ghetto, interrogated, deported. A claw-like vice of fear gripped her chest every time she thought of it. How could Michael have escaped that? And if he had, where was he? She’d put out tentative enquiries to all their friends. But there was no word of him.

  She was unable to return to her houseboat because Nazis were still patrolling all the canals vigorously, and it didn’t feel like a safe place to be a woman alone, especially one whose neighbors might know her to be a Jew-sympathiser. She hoped it would feel safe for her to go back home soon.

  Continuing her way over the sodden earth and through piles of decaying leaves, she turned down a dark pathway almost hidden from view by the undergrowth that had overwhelmed it. All at once, ahead of her, she heard a rustle in the bushes. Drawing her body close to a tree, she stopped and waited silently. After a few seconds, a badger lumbered across her path, unaware of the fear it was causing. Elke let go of a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and continued stealthily into the heart of the woods.

  She had known instantly what Michael had meant when he had said “their secret place.” There could only be one such place—safe, away from the town, away from prying eyes. The first place they’d ever made love.

  As she continued to creep through the bracken, she remembered that day the summer before and how she had not been impressed meeting him when he first turned up in her life. Lying out on the university lawns reading, she’d nibbled on an apple, cross-legged on a blanket, when someone stood between her and the sun, casting a long shadow across her page. Annoyed, she eventually looked up from her book and met Michael Blum.

  “You’re blocking my sunlight,” she said.

  “I’m struck by the beauty of something brighter than the sun,” he’d quipped back to her.

  Her inner voice had groaned at this flowery language. She had been about to reprimand him once more when he had stepped forward out of the light so she could see him clearly. It had stopped any harsh words from rolling off her tongue, as she was instantly hypnotized by his dark, curly hair, muscular build, and gorgeous brown eyes. She couldn’t recall having seen him on campus before, even though she had been at the university for a year.

  “What are you reading?” he asked, sitting himself down on her blanket before he had even been invited.

  “Did I ask you to join me?” she half-heartily asked, protesting his brazen manner.

  “You will when you get to know me,” he responded, stealing the apple from her hand and taking a large bite from it. She was irritated again, but also curious. There was an intensity about his spirit, a restless energy, a playful boldness. He was striking, like someone who knew he was destined to do great things with his life.

  Snatching back her apple, she stated, “I’m reading a book about art history.”

  “Ah, am I in there?”

  “Are you a famous artist?”

  “Absolutely. But maybe I wouldn’t be in this type of book,” he added, taking the book from her and scrutinizing it. “I’m more of a word artist than a paint artist.”

  Placing her open book on his chest, he stretched himself out on her blanket, tucked his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes, appearing to relish the sun on his face.

  “A word artist?” she echoed. “Please don’t tell me you’re a poet.”

  “Why not?” he enquired, cocking open one eye, then the other, squinting back and forth, apparently trying to bring her into focus under the glare of the harsh sunshine.

  “Because I detest poets. I’ve never met a poet that was sane.”

  “And wasn’t hungry,” he added, shifting up onto his elbows and taking her apple from her again.

  “Hey! This is my lunch.”

  “This is your lunch?” he echoed back incredulously. “You obviously don’t know how to dine.”

  She grabbed the apple. “I’m on a very tight budget, I am paying for my courses myself,” she responded, trying to take a rather large bite before he stole it again.

  “What has that to do with anything? You don’t need money to eat in this town. Come with me.” He lifted her to her feet before she had time to react.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, feeling a little apprehensive. As gorgeous as he was, she’d only just met this man.

  “You need to learn a few things about Amsterdam. For example, eating only apples for lunch is ridiculous.”

  “I really need to stay here,” she protested. “I’ve got class in an hour.”

  “A whole hour? We could have feasted in that hour,” he declared, grabbing hold of her bike lying on the grass. He encouraged her again. “Come on, we have no time to lose.”

  She hesitated. But there was something about him that intrigued her. He seemed harmless but intense and impulsive. She watched as he bundled up her blanket and put it into her bicycle basket. “You can give me a lift. I don’t have a bike.”

  “You don’t have a bicycle? Who in Amsterdam doesn’t have a bicycle?”

  “Michael Blum doesn’t, that’s who.”

  “I take it that’s your name.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” He bowed deeply, taking hold of her hand and kissing it dramatically, introducing himself with a fake British accent, as if she was a duchess, “Michael Blum, at your service.” She shook her head as he continued, “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  He turned her hand over and let his lips brush her wrist with a light kiss, sending a chill down her spine.

  “My name is Elke.”

  “Elke,” he whispered back, his gaze intent on her face. “Elke what?”

  “I’m not sure I should give you my last name,” she said curtly. “You might find me again.”

  “Oh, there are many ways to find you without kno
wing your name.”

  “Let’s just start with Elke,” she answered playfully. “We will see if I like you enough to let you know anything more about me.”

  “Okay, ‘just Elke,’ let’s go.” With that, he picked up the bike, sat on the saddle, and tapped on his leg. “You can sit on my lap.”

  “Sit on your lap!” She balked, raising her eyebrows.

  Before she could say any more, he whipped his arm around her waist and hoisted her up onto his right hip and attempted to use his left leg to pedal and his left arm to steer.

  “You’re not going to get very far like that,” she laughed, shaking her head.

  “Okay then,” he said. He gathered her up in his arms and lifted both her legs across his lap, so that she was facing him. She screamed with surprise. He could get to both pedals then and started to move at great speed through the university gardens.

  “You’re crazy!” she shouted to him as they whooshed past startled students who jumped out of their way as they careened out into the streets of the city.

  “Aren’t all poets?” he hollered back, smirking. “Somebody told me that once, someone without a last name.”

  As she clung to his neck for safety, she was acutely aware of their proximity. Every nerve and sense in her body heightened to the attraction. She tried to appear aloof as she fought the feelings that swelled up and coursed through her whole being. His breath grazing her cheek, his thick hair brushing her bare shoulder, his powerful arms on either side of her body steering the bike. And he smelled wonderful.

  He cycled into the center of town and stopped in front of a very exclusive art gallery. It had a “closed” sign in the window and appeared to be hosting an opening.

  “This looks promising,” he told her, dropping her softly to the ground and parking the bicycle. “Let’s go and look at art.”

  Elke peered into the window. “I don’t really care for this kind of modern work. I much prefer the Romantics.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Oh, you’ll appreciate it a whole lot more after you’ve had something to eat.”

  At the entrance, a doorman stepped in front of them.

  “We’re here for the opening,” Michael announced. “We’ve been waiting for it all week. Haven’t we, darling?” He squeezed Elke’s hand, rendering her speechless.

  “Does Mrs. de Haan know you?” the doorman asked suspiciously.

  “Of course she knows us. Why would we be here if she didn’t know us?” Michael answered, feigning irritation, seeming totally comfortable in his lie.

  “Do you have your tickets?”

  “No, we didn’t bring our tickets,” answered Michael with disgust. “We don’t need tickets. We are very close friends of Mrs. de Haan.”

  The doorman seemed wary. “What are your names?”

  Michael responded without hesitation. “Mr. and Mrs. Jargen Smit.”

  The doorman furrowed his brows. “Wait here. I will need to check.” He walked away.

  “Come on,” said Michael, pulling Elke inside.

  As he dragged her into the room, she cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Mrs. Smit? That was a fast courtship. When I left the university, I wasn’t married.”

  “You weren’t married but you were hungry. Besides, you didn’t have a last name, so I decided to give you one,” he stated, his face alight with his adventure. “Now, you will be married and well fed.”

  He raced her to a side room in the gallery. Inside was a splendid buffet of hors d’oeuvres set out on silver platters. He grabbed a napkin, handing one to Elke, and began to heap up pieces of delectable food.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed, shocked as she watched the speed at which he could pile up food.

  “Feeding my new wife. Quickly, Mrs. Smit, before we get caught.”

  She grabbed a few bites of food and wrapped them in the napkin, then he hustled her back out the door before the doorman returned. He stuffed their bounty into his pockets, grabbed hold of Elke’s bike, and threw her across his lap again. They sped off, laughing uncontrollably, riding like the wind away from the scene of their crime. Breathless and windswept, they stopped close to a canal and sat down on a peeling wooden bench before unwrapping the stolen goods.

  “You should see what I can do for dessert,” he mused. “But this will do for starters.” Appearing pleased with his haul, he inspected a rather large hunk of cheese and offered her a golden slice of peach.

  She shook her head, instead picking up a delicious sliver of smoked salmon and devouring it in awe—not just of the swashbuckling food adventure, but also in awe of this human being.

  Their meeting had a strange déjà vu quality to it. It wasn’t like meeting someone new, but more like finding someone she had lost. Someone who had always been near, circling her, just not in human form until today. She didn’t know why, but as she licked cream cheese from her fingers, she knew in some subconscious way she had been waiting for him, and it was shocking and comforting all at once. She sat peacefully by his side, eating their stolen bounty, watching the life along the canal banks, and she heard her soul whisper to her, “He is the one.”

  From that day, their lives had been passionately entwined. There had been no talk of a second or even a first date; it just felt wrong to be away from each other. Her heart felt strained when they were apart, and it sighed with satisfaction whenever they were together. Even though she wasn’t Jewish and she knew how controversial it was to be in love and sleeping with a Jew in peacetime, never mind occupied Holland, with both of their parents gone there didn’t seem to be anyone to object. So they’d been inseparable, until now.

  She shivered. It was growing cold in the woods. Her thoughts returned to the last time she had been with Michael, the last time he’d kissed her in that cold dark alley, his chilled lips on hers, and that memory stung all over again.

  Waiting in their meeting place, she trembled as the weight of the realization gnawed at her: He wasn’t coming. She would be able to sense him if he was. She could always sense him.

  She huddled under their tree, her feet frozen into two blocks of ice. She stamped them to warm herself and ran her hand across the knobby trunk, finding where Michael had carved a crude heart into the bark with his pocket knife. Her fingers, moving like a braille reader, touched his words: “Mr. and Mrs. Smit.” She felt a warm connection with him. This was her daily touchstone, the reminder that he was real, and he was out there somewhere.

  She decided to wait for another thirty minutes, right up until the very last moment before she had to run for the curfew, as she had last night. She would wait here every night until he came for her. She wasn’t going to believe that he’d been taken. She couldn’t. She had to believe with all her heart that he was still in Amsterdam. And that he was still alive.

  Part II

  Chapter 15

  Spring 1943

  As the war kept its chokehold on Europe, its ravaging fingers crept into all elements of civilian life. In Holland, where the Nazis had hoped to befriend an ally, relations continued to deteriorate. It seemed to Professor Josef Held that after three years of occupation, it was finally becoming evident to the invading forces that the Netherlands was a stubborn mule, unwilling to give in and bow to the Führer’s bidding. In Amsterdam, on the street, Josef noticed his fellow Dutch covertly wearing orange flowers and ribbons to signify their united resistance against their foe. The Underground, too, was alive and well, with Resistance members creating printed papers on secret presses that were disbursed to the population, and Wireless Orange, the Dutch Resistance broadcast, was transmitted daily, to those who had retained wirelesses. Held had heard that even Queen Wilhelmina would send messages of encouragement from her haven in the British Isles.

  But in Professor Held’s world, everything and nothing had changed.

  The lines for the bakery, the butchers, and the greengrocers had grown longer, while food supplies became shorter. Yet amidst it all, he had walked back and forth to the university daily, marking e
ndless math papers, placing hundreds of math equations on his blackboard. Everything remained the same except for at home, where he still sheltered his secret—that Michael Blum slept night after night in his attic.

  With Michael’s days being long and endless, he had contemplated leaving, and both he and Held had discussed it, but there was never a moment that felt safe. Instead he had made his home in the attic the best he could and the two of them had survived together.

  One day seemed to melt into another, and before they knew it, Michael’s view was across snowy rooftops once more. Sometimes the two men went days without really speaking, sometimes they’d make idle chatter about the weather, or the university. One time Josef found Michael crying, and just closed the door without disturbing him.

  At the start Michael would ask, “Is it any better?” and Josef would shake his head and respond, “Worse.” Until finally, Michael stopped asking. As the months had worn on, it had become clear that there was nothing else that could be done. The treatment of the Jewish people had only grown harsher, and many had now left or been transported, leaving only a hollow echo of their many voices behind them. Josef felt anger when he thought of the injustice of this. He had become fond of Michael in their time together and treasured their conversations that often stretched late into the night. He envied the young man’s passion for his poetry and felt a sense of pride as Michael’s work became deep and enriched by the harsh seasoning of an unjust war.

  One spring afternoon, like many others before, Josef picked up groceries before walking home. He was grateful for what he got. Food had become scarce, but still they managed to survive, though Josef had stopped trying too hard to keep kosher for Michael, who insisted he didn’t mind what he ate. Three years of the Nazi regime had made life harder, and the people wearier as a sad acceptance crept in. An unspoken, collective need to preserve their energy for the long haul as the war dragged on with no end in sight.