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

by Suzanne Kelman

  “One morning, I was preparing for the exams and fretting about everything I needed to do, and I didn’t happen to notice how quiet Sarah was. When I look back now, I should have seen it, but I didn’t. Now when I think about it, she was probably in pain and keeping it from me because she knew my students had exams and how important the day was to me, but how I wish she would have told me.”

  Josef stood to his feet, for the next part of his story would be challenging to recall. He paced to the attic window to collect himself, then added, “I didn’t even remember kissing her goodbye that morning. It’s the small things like that that I have such regrets about. But when I left, there was a moment at the door when I saw something cross her face. Was it fear, anguish, or pain? It was there for just a second, then it was gone.”

  Josef’s voice started to quiver, and Michael got up and joined him at his side, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, knowing the importance of Josef telling this story.

  “I never took the time to ask her, and instead, I left, busy with the thoughts of my day and everything that I needed to achieve… So many regrets.”

  In a whisper, Michael answered him, “We all have those, Professor. I will never see my friend David again in this life. He gave his life to save me, to warn me. How can I ever come to terms with that?”

  The two men shared a look that reassured the other that they both understood this kind of pain. The pain of never being able to go back and right a wrong, a mistake that had cost somebody dear to them their life.

  Josef moved back to his chair and poured himself and Michael another glass of wine before continuing, the deep connection of understanding with Michael encouraging him to finish his story.

  “I was late arriving back that day, so much work to do. The exams had gone well, and I was ready to relax at home. But as soon as I walked into the house, I knew something was wrong. There were none of the cooking smells that usually greeted me at the door, and the house felt cold, even though it was sunny outside. I called out to Sarah, but she did not call back. I eventually found her in the kitchen, lying on the floor, her face reddened, and she was panting hard.

  “I rushed to her side and was shocked to see…” Josef stopped to gather his breath. Then in a whisper, “So much blood. I asked her how long she’d been like this and she just shook her head. I don’t think she even knew. I think she was just waiting for me to get home. Her hair was matted, stuck to her forehead, her clothes dripping with sweat. I knew I needed to get help, get a doctor, anyone, but the midwife who was meant to be taking care of Sarah lived right across town. And she begged me to stay with her. She was so afraid.

  “As I held her in my arms, it was obvious Sarah was about to deliver. But I knew something was very wrong. She was so ashen and felt clammy, and even though I knew nothing about delivering babies, I was sure there shouldn’t be that much blood. And I knew, I knew without a shadow of a doubt, that I was about to lose her.

  “All at once her body became limp, as if it was already moving away from me. I gripped hold of her, willing her to stay with me, willing her to stay alive. When the baby was finally born, he was tiny. A month early. Perfect, but not breathing.

  “I tried everything I could to resuscitate him. I willed Sarah to stay with me, but she too slipped away, and I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. Her eyes that had always danced with joy and laughter were suddenly lifeless and dark.”

  Josef stopped then as the tears caught in his throat. Michael nodded, and Josef took another gulp of his wine.

  Michael spoke barely above a whisper, “And the dream you said you had?”

  Josef took a breath. “In it she met me in a place special to us and told me that it wasn’t my fault. She said… that I had other things to do in this world. And I realized that I had been holding onto the pain, holding onto the loss, because I was afraid that if I let go, that somehow I would dishonor her memory and would lose even more of her. But now I realize after so many years of the grief and hurt, that the opposite is true and by holding onto the pain, I have not allowed any love back into my life. I have survived. But now I have to learn to live.”

  “Maybe we both do,” added Michael, thoughtfully.

  They sat in companionable silence as the weight of Josef’s story found its place between them. Josef’s head started to spin with the effects of the alcohol. He hadn’t touched the food and needed to eat something more substantial. Gathering the glasses and the empty bottle, he got to his feet.

  “I will try to find something more to eat,” he said, feeling emotionally drained. As he headed for the door, Michael called after him. Josef turned. Getting to his feet, he hugged Josef.

  “Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know how hard that was.”

  Josef nodded. “It was the right time.”

  Moving downstairs, Josef noted he actually felt somehow lighter.

  Chapter 47

  The day after the meeting at Henri’s house, Hannah was nervous as she prepared for her mission. After a restless night, she got up early and spent her morning going over the route in her head, oiling her bike chain, and packing and repacking the medical bag. She dropped off a parcel of food to Josef, but made her excuses when he’d offered her tea, rushing back home to continue her wait. When the fear gripped too tight in her, she would instead focus on thoughts of Eva, on her mother, on Josef. All of these people, the most unlikely of heroes, had somehow managed to find the courage within themselves to do the extraordinary, stand up for what was right, and hold onto their humanity in a world where human life was of such little value.

  The words of Henri, the Resistance leader, said to her a few years ago, stirred in her once again: “One doesn’t know how brave one is until the cost outweighs the fear.”

  So many people round her had been prepared to pay that cost, she would take comfort from their strength today.

  In the afternoon, she made herself a cup of tea and anxiously watched it turn cold in her hand as she waited to go. The orders from Henri had been to leave no earlier than 4 p.m., so she sat for a whole hour, waiting for the grandfather clock in the hall to strike its permission. As its deep, dulcet tones droned out the four o’clock hour, she jumped to her feet. A calm assurance descended upon her, filling her body in a glowing warmth. She suddenly sensed her mother’s presence in the room, nodding her encouragement from her chair by the fireside, and it filled her with hope.

  Hannah put on her coat and hat and moved rapidly out of the house to the workshop. Grabbing her bicycle, she knocked it against a shelf, and the deck of cards she had balanced up there toppled down, splaying out across the floor. Every one of the deck landed face down. Except one. The queen of hearts. She smiled. The forces of good around her were working together today to give her the strength she needed.

  As she gathered up the cards, she thought of Joe from Brooklyn, so out of place, a stranger in her world, yet he had been willing to sacrifice everything so she could be free. That emboldening thought was what she needed. She owed this to all of them, all the people sacrificing their lives and liberty for her. Her minor mission just a fragment, a tiny puzzle piece of a new-world picture that, through determination and sacrifice, they were creating together with the unwavering hope for a bright new tomorrow.

  She left her back garden, pedaling slowly down the back streets of Amsterdam, keeping her chin down to not draw attention to herself. Even as perilous as this mission was, she was surprised to feel a sensation she hadn’t in a long time: wild abandonment. She, like most Dutch children, had learned to ride bicycles at a young age, and it had become part of her identity throughout her life, part of what made all of them Dutch. She hadn’t ridden a bike openly in almost four years. As she pedaled through the cold afternoon, she reveled in the air rushing past her ears, freeing wisps of her hair from beneath her hat, and chilling her cheeks. And as she leaned into the experience, for the briefest amount of time she could actually taste that freedom that one day she believed they would
know again.

  Turning onto Damrak, she became cautious again. To get to the other side of town, there was no avoiding traveling this way. But she knew this would be the most likely place she might be stopped.

  As she became hyper-vigilant, she noticed with relief that the Allies’ victories were really starting to affect the Nazis’ presence on the streets. Recalled for more critical battles, as well as sickness from hunger or fatigue, had resulted in a thinning out of troops everywhere.

  Passing street after street, she started to feel confident that she would make it the whole way through Amsterdam without being stopped. Until, just before the outskirts, a German officer stepped out in front of her and raised his hand.

  “Halt.”

  She pulled on her brakes and braced herself.

  “Good evening, Fräulein,” he snapped sharply as he eyed her suspiciously. “Where are you going on this bicycle?”

  Meeting his steely gaze, she swallowed down her nerves before she answered him. “I am a nurse, and I’m on my way to visit a couple of patients on the outside of town. I want to make it back by the curfew, so I’m taking a bicycle.” Then she added, quickly, “I have approval to have one.”

  The soldier peered at her, apparently weighing her up before asking her for her papers.

  She fumbled in her case for the forged documents and, tensing her arm to stop it from shaking, handed them to the young soldier. While he read them, he looked back at her more than once, as if he was trying to look for cracks in her meticulously controlled calmness.

  “The curfew is soon. Do you think you’ll make it in time?” he snapped.

  “If I can get on with my journey,” she responded, trying to feign a little irritation.

  He ignored her and examined the bicycle. “What do you have in your bag?”

  “Just my medical equipment.” She managed to keep her voice level.

  “Open it for me.”

  Slowly, Hannah walked to the front of her bike and took it off the rack where she had it strapped and clicked it open.

  The soldier shuffled through it, picking up the stethoscope and some bandages before seeming satisfied with what he saw. He thrust her papers back at her.

  “You must return quickly,” he growled and waved her on. “Be back well before the curfew.”

  “Of course,” she answered, smiling sweetly and strapping the bag back on her bicycle. She rode away with her heart beating so hard she would have sworn he must have been able to hear it.

  As the city limits gave way to the countryside, she started to breathe easier and picked up her pace. On just the rims, it was a very uncomfortable ride. Visualizing the map in her head, she followed the route, exactly. As a tiny pink cottage came into view, she was relieved to see the house that Henri had described to her. Even from a distance, she could see the washing line with the laundry flapping in the wind—two pairs of socks, a pair of gray trousers, and one white handkerchief. The exact clothes Henri had informed her would be there as a sign of all-clear.

  Pulling to a stop outside the cottage, she opened the gate and wheeled her bicycle up the path. As she waited for her contact to answer, her heart thumped again in her chest and she glanced around to make sure no one had followed her.

  A rather thin man, dressed casually in turned up trousers and an open-necked shirt that displayed his grubby undershirt, opened the door to her. Only the briefest hint of surprise showed on his bony face, sporting more than a few days of stubble. He had not been at the Resistance meeting, and seemed to have expected a man, not this woman standing before him. They exchanged code words. Once she had passed his test, he opened the side door leading into his garage and encouraged her to wheel her bicycle inside, chatting in a friendly manner to her about his health. But as soon as the door was bolted with them inside, all of his carefree demeanor changed.

  “What happened to Aart?” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “He was picked up three days ago,” Hannah responded in a whisper. “Henri sent me instead.”

  Ernst looked at her with amusement and a little apprehension. “A woman? You do know what you need to do?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “It is dangerous, you know.”

  “I am aware of that,” responded Hannah, more than a little frustrated at his tone.

  Ernst shrugged and made his way through the garage toward a door that led into the house, whispering over his shoulder to her, “Bring the bag!”

  Hannah unbuckled it and followed him through the cottage to the back of the house and into a bedroom. Against one wall was a sizable, shabby wardrobe. He opened the creaking doors and removed two panels to reveal a false back. Tucked neatly inside was a mass of explosives.

  Quickly opening the doctor’s bag, he removed its false bottom, then gently and slowly took the explosives from the back of the wardrobe, wrapped them in an old cloth, and carefully replaced the bottom and the medical equipment on top.

  Once everything was tucked away, his attention turned back to Hannah. “You know where you have to go, right?”

  “Yes, Erik’s house, half a mile down the road, with three pairs of trousers and two white handkerchiefs on the line.”

  He nodded at her and carefully picked up the bag. “Please be careful with the explosive, they are sensitive. We need to wait for ten minutes,” he informed her as they made their way back to the kitchen, “just in case anybody is watching the house. We don’t want you to leave too soon.”

  She nodded, and they waited in an awkward silence. A dripping tap and a perky little yellow kitchen clock attempted to break the tension between them, both working rhythmically against one another in a race to have command over the silence.

  As she waited, she glanced around the chilly room. She was sure this man lived alone. Dirty water formed a ring around the sink, and clothes were heaped across all the chairs. The windows needed washing, and a strong smell of mildew emanated from the dripping sills.

  After ten minutes, he nodded to her. “If you are asked, you took my temperature and listened to my chest, advising me to continue with my medication.”

  She nodded and followed him back through the shed, where she strapped the bag on the bicycle and wheeled it back outside.

  “Thank you, nurse,” he shouted to her. “I’ll see you again in a month’s time.”

  “Remember to take your medication,” she responded, playing her part.

  “I will, I will,” he said, laughing and shutting the door.

  Hannah mounted her bike and set off down the road, her pounding heart now reverberating all the way to her throat as she obsessively watched the bag in front of her. Somehow, in all of the planning of this, it had not entered her mind that she would actually be riding down the street with dangerous explosives rattling in a bag in front of her. All of her previous fear had been directed at being stopped or captured by Nazis, but now, as she slowly made her way on her clattering rims, her focus was concentrated in one direction, with one thought only: how to ensure the smoothest ride possible.

  As she crept her way haltingly along the road, beads of sweat gathered around the brim of her hat and across her forehead, trickling down behind her ears. The half a mile she had to travel to Erik’s house felt like an eternity.

  About halfway there, her fear was compounded as two Nazi trucks loaded with soldiers sped by her on a seemingly urgent mission somewhere. They barely gave her a second glance as they barreled past her, but the shock of seeing them, coupled with the slipstream they created behind them, forced her to grip even tighter to the handlebars as her unstable bicycle threatened to wobble itself into a ditch.

  Righting herself, she stopped for a second to catch her breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

  She moved off again. As she rounded a bend, she was grateful to see another house come into view. And there was washing on the line; though from this distance it was hard to make out what it was. She was nearly there, but as she drew nearer, she was horrified to see tha
t the two trucks of soldiers were parked outside. Unconsciously, she gripped the handlebars even tighter, causing her to lose feeling in her hands. Her beating heart, coupled with a sense of nausea and overwhelming lightheadedness, threatened to cause her to faint.

  What should she do? Return to Ernst? Henri had only mentioned in passing any change to the plans, and that was if the washing was not on the line. But undoubtedly a Nazi raid trumped that. She made up her mind. She would keep her head down and cycle right past the house. If anyone stopped her, she would say her patient was farther up the road and pray they didn’t ask her who or where. If she was to turn her bicycle around, she was sure that would bring more attention.

  As she got closer to the house, she prayed under her breath, willing herself to keep moving forward, forcing herself not to stare at her bag. Instead, she fixed her sights on a spot on the horizon and continued to pedal mechanically toward the enemy.

  As she reached the farmhouse, she heard a woman scream and raised voices inside, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Outside the gate, two soldiers stood guard, and she could feel their eyes boring into her as she continued on her path. Speeding up just a little, she forced herself not to meet their gaze or even acknowledge them. She pedaled past them before either of them had a chance to stop her.

  Somehow her plan worked and, once out of view, she picked up her pace to put as much distance between herself and Erik’s house as possible. How had the Nazis known? Had it been just a wild coincidence, or had someone tipped them off?