Be sure Dirk and I will see you very soon, when we will bring freedom with us. Until then, dearest sister, whose life is more precious to me than my own, take good care of yourself before all else.
Your brother Henk.
I carry you in my heart. All my love, Dirk.
POSTCARD
A bridge too far.
Lt-Gen. F.A.M. Browning
I still have nightmares so violent
that my wife gets bruised in bed.
I am not bitter; I’ve had nearly
fifty more years than those poor devils
who lie in the Oosterbeek cemetery.
It seemed a good idea at the time.
It was a gamble;
some you win, some you lose.
We lost that one.
Staff Sergeant Joe Kitchener,
Glider Pilot Regiment, the Battle of Arnhem
SUNDAY 17 SEPTEMBER 1995.
08:00. Filtering through the haze of what will become a bright, warm, late-summer day free of the rain that showered the previous three days of his trip, the reflected light of the morning sun woke Jacob in the guest room of Geertrui’s apartment on the Oudezijds Kolk in Amsterdam.
On his way down to the bathroom he neither saw nor heard any sign of Daan, whom he assumed must still be asleep behind the Chinese screens beyond the kitchen. After a quick wash and use of the lavatory, he dressed in, at last, his own clothes. Black sweatshirt, clean blue-green jeans, red socks, light tan Ecco town boots. Feeling more himself than he had since arriving in Holland, he ate a quick breakfast of toast, honey and tea, prepared with as little clatter as he could contrive in a kitchen still strange to him so as not to disturb Daan, whose early-morning testiness he wished to avoid. Already there was too much occupying his mind for comfort. The feelings spun by Geertrui yesterday tangled with his anticipations about today.
After leaving Geertrui, Daan had taken him to the Van Riets’, where they collected Jacob’s belongings and ate a meal with Mr van Riet, during most of which Daan and his father discussed family business in Dutch, apologising for doing so, but which Jacob was glad of, being in no mood for polite chatter. The visit to Geertrui had disturbed him in ways he could not yet explain even to himself.
When they got back to Amsterdam Jacob took a long hot bath and spent the rest of the evening on his own, thankful that Daan had a date and would not be back till late. It was a relief after the constant company of strangers to be on his own, with the pleasures of the apartment to himself. He poked about among the books, played music on the super sound system, flicked through the numerous channels on television, and spied now and then from the front windows into the rooms in the hotel across the canal. (Surprising how many people left the curtains open, their rooms lit like little stages, while they performed private functions. Unpacking, undressing, sorting money, applying make-up, lying on the bed in their underwear. Daan had told him of seeing people having sex straight and gay, of a naked young woman dancing round her room and other similar entertainments. But, typical of his luck, Jacob thought, all he saw that was out of the ordinary was a middle-aged man of awkward obesity, dressed in singlet and boxer shorts, trying to cut his toenails, a project the man gave up after failing by various contortions to reach his toes with the clippers.)
But all the while and until he fell asleep sometime after twelve Jacob brooded on his hour with Geertrui, trying to reset his dislocated emotions. Now, this morning, the disturbance was just as aching.
After breakfast he padded his way from the kitchen, across the cool expanse of Spanish tiles, to the ship’s gangway that took him to the upper deck and to his room, where, in a plastic carrier bag with a logo and the word Bijenkorf printed on it [beehive: he’d looked it up last night], which he’d found in the kitchen, he packed his Olympia camera and a pvc jerkin Daan had loaned him in case of rain.
Ten minutes were left before Mrs van Riet would come for him. They would take the 09:32 to Utrecht, where, Daan’s meticulous accountant father had told him, they would arrive at 10:00 on platform 12a and leave six minutes later from platform 4b on a train that would get them to Oosterbeek at 10:47, allowing only just enough time to walk to the battle cemetery by 11:00, when the main ceremony was due to begin.
Sunday 17 September 1944, Southern England.
By 09:45 on a day that began misty but soon became fine and sunny, 332 RAF and 143 American aircraft, along with 320 gliders hooked up for towing to their LZs [Landing Zones] by the other aircraft, altogether carrying approximately 5,700 men and their equipment, including such items as jeeps and light artillery guns, were ready to take off from eight British and 14 American airfields dotted across England from Lincolnshire to Dorset in the largest paratrooper operation ever undertaken.
The remainder of the total of 11,920 men who were to fight in the battle were to be flown to the battle in a second wave the next day, Monday, to the DZs [Dropping Zones] in fields near the village of Wolfheze, three miles west of Oosterbeek and seven miles from their objective, the now famous ‘bridge too far’ that spanned the Lower Rhine in the centre of Arnhem 20 kms from the German border.
Private James Sims, aged 19, of ‘S’ Company, 2nd Battalion The Parachute Regiment, 1st British Airborne Division, Battle of Arnhem:
On the Saturday night most of us relaxed; some played football, others darts. Some read and some wrote letters. I went over to the canteen and sat on a chair with my feet up on the unlit stove. The cat crept on to my lap and purred contentedly as I scratched its ear. One of the ‘C’ Company men showed me a religious tract he had just received in a parcel from home. On it was a picture of a windmill and the words ‘Lost on the Zuider Zee’. He thought it was a bad omen; it was certainly a strange coincidence [because the coming operation was secret]. We eventually turned in and I slept surprisingly well.
Sunday started off just like any other day except for some butterflies in the stomach. ‘Have a good breakfast,’ they advised, ‘as you don’t know when you’ll get your next meal’ …
Young Geordie and myself were warned to get ready. As we had not been in the battalion long, we were designated as bomb carriers and were given the harness with six ten-pound [4.5 kgs] mortar bombs to cart into action. We were issued with Dutch occupation money, maps, escape saws, forty rounds of .303 rifle ammo, two .36 grenades, an anti-tank grenade, a phosphorus bomb, and a pick and shovel, as well as the rifles we already had. [Sims, pp 50–1]
Major Geoffrey Powell, officer commanding ‘C’ Company, 156 Parachute Battalion, 4th Parachute Brigade, went in the second wave:
Now came the familiar toil of struggling into jumping kit. Over my battle-dress and airborne smock, I was already wearing full equipment: the haversack containing maps, torch and other odds and ends; [gas-mask] respirator, waterbottle and compass; pistol holster and ammunition case; and on my chest the two pouches crammed with Sten [gun] magazines and hand grenades. Across my stomach I then tied my small pack, solid with two days’ concentrated rations, mess tin, spare socks, washing kit, pullover, a tin mug, all topped off with a Hawking anti-tank grenade. Slung around my neck were binoculars, while a large shell dressing, a morphia syringe and red beret were tucked into my smock pockets. Next I wrapped myself in a denim jumping jacket to hold the bits and pieces in place and prevent the parachute cords snagging on the many protuberances. Over everything went a Mae West life-jacket, with a camouflage net scarfed around my neck and the parachutist’s steel helmet, covered with scrim-decorated net, on my head. On my right leg I then tied a large bag, into which was packed a Sten gun, together with an oblong-shaped walkie-talkie radio, and a small entrenching tool: a quick release catch allowed this bag to be lowered in mid-air so that it would dangle below on a thin cord and hit the ground before I did. Next Private Harrison helped me into my parachute, and I did the same for him, after which we both tested each other’s quick release boxes to make certain that they were working properly … After much thought, I had decided to take two luxuries, a red beret
and an Oxford Book of English Verse. [Powell, pp 19–21]
Promptly at nine fifteen Mrs van Riet rang the bell at her mother’s apartment. Jacob picked up the Bijenkorf bag, clumped in his town boots down the steep gangway to the main floor, checked his appearance in a mirror on the wall by the door to the main stairs, and was on the way out when he heard Daan call from his bed behind the screens.
‘Have a good day.’ He parodied the American cliché so heavily Jacob wondered whether Daan wasn’t taking the piss. ‘Say hello to Mother,’ Daan added with no less slant.
To which a sleepy female voice unknown to Jacob tagged on, ‘Tot ziens, Engelsman.’
In automatic reflex Jacob called back, ‘See you.’ All the way down the three flights to the street Daan’s bedtime companion pricked his curiosity.
Mrs van Riet waited on the makeshift stoep, her cropped greying hair matched by the grey of a hooded half-coat worn loose over a calf-length linen dress in an abstract pattern of greys and dark blues, a much-used light tan leather handbag, the tone of Jacob’s town boots, hanging at her waist from a shoulder strap, sturdy dark brown walking shoes on her feet. She looked tired but smiled a welcome, putting on a good face in a way Jacob recognised from the times when his mother was ill before her operation. Getting through, Sarah called it. He instantly felt guilty and an impulse to do whatever he could to please her and make amends for being a chore.
They exchanged good-mornings with a hello handshake and a kind of semi-formality Jacob regarded as a touch old-fashioned but enjoyed nevertheless. He felt again, as he had each time he had met Mrs van Riet, that she was wary of him. Or, he decided now as they set off up the street, she was a shy person. Not, then, like her mother or her son, nor, come to that, her talkative husband. He warmed to her for that, as people are apt to do who find their own embarrassing weaknesses present in another.
‘My son,’ Mrs van Riet said, ‘I know is not one who will look after you as he should. I would prefer you stayed with me.’
Shy maybe, but direct enough.
‘I’m doing fine, thanks,’ Jacob said. ‘It’s a lovely flat.’
‘Yes, my mother’s apartment is, let’s say, unusual. But my son’s way of life—. Well, so long as you are not completely neglected. I suppose being young you understand more than I approve. I’m very conservative, my son tells me.’ And after a pause. ‘You are very welcome to stay with us in Haarlem at any time.’
‘Thanks, but really, I’m all right. Daan’s been very good to me. I like him very much.’
‘I feel responsibility for you to your family.’
‘I’m seventeen, nearly eighteen, Mrs van Riet, I can manage, honestly I can. But I’m grateful to you for being concerned.’
‘It would be easier for you to call me Tessel, if you would like.’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
They crossed Prins Hendrikkade at the junction into the station, too busy watching the lights and avoiding traffic, especially the higgledy-piggledy trams and buses and bicycles, as well as the streams of people, to hold any kind of conversation. The forecourt was even more crowded than yesterday. Blocking the middle, a thick circle surrounded a busking sextet dressed in national costume (Peruvians?) playing a jaunty tune on wooden Pan-pipes and podgy drums. Inside, the concourse was a scrimmage of Sunday trippers. Tessel led Jacob straight to their platform.
‘I bought your ticket on the way,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘You should have it in case we are separated.’ She glanced him a smile. ‘Beware of pickpockets!’ And at the thought clutched her handbag closer to her.
On the platform with a few minutes still to wait, Tessel said, ‘You heard about the old soldiers parachuting yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Several of the men who survived the battle. I read of it in the newspaper this morning. They parachuted yesterday on to the same fields where they landed in nineteen forty-four. Think of it! Most of them in their later seventies. They were going to do it last year for the fiftieth anniversary but the weather was too bad. So they did it yesterday instead. To be sure they were safe they were each attached to a young soldier.’
‘Amazing!’
‘I thought so too. I think it said that one of them was eighty.’ She laughed. ‘And one asked if he should take his false teeth out in case he swallowed them when he landed.’
Jacob laughed too. ‘And did they make it in one piece, false teeth and all?’
‘As far as I know. When I told Mother about it this morning on the telephone, she said she wished she had been there to see it.’
‘Maybe she’d have liked to jump as well.’
‘Oh yes. Already you understand my mother.’
‘She reminds me of Sarah. It’s what she would have said.’
‘My mother saw them coming down on the day the battle started. Did she tell you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m surprised.’
Their train arrived.
Settled into seats side by side in a full carriage, Tessel went on as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted.
‘She likes to tell the story. I’ve heard it so many times since I was a child.’
‘We didn’t really talk about the war.’
‘I thought you would. After you left, Geertrui said very little. Nothing about your visit.’
The remark was all but a question.
‘She—your mother—’
‘Geertrui.’
‘Well, Geertrui. Sorry, I’m not very good at pronouncing it.’
‘Like your Gertrude.’
‘Yes. Gertrude. Hamlet’s mother.’ He tried again and failed again, but failed better this time.
They smiled at each other over his incompetence with the Dutch gargled gee and the moo of rui.
The train started off.
When they were out of the station, Jacob said, ‘She asked me why I live with my grandmother. I think I said too much about it. Used up too much time. I was a bit nervous of her, to be honest.’
‘Mother has that effect on many people. Me too sometimes, I should confess. The nurses even. They like her, but they are a little afraid of her also.’
‘She asked me to go and see her tomorrow. She might tell me about the battle then.’
He felt Tessel stiffen beside him. Sitting packed together side by side, it was difficult to turn and check reactions on her face without seeming rude.
‘This is a very difficult time for us,’ she said. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Geertrui is a very determined person.’
‘Yes.’
‘As I told you, she invited you here without consulting any of us. Me or my husband anyhow. Daan, I don’t know. They are very close with each other. She only told me a few days before you arrived.’
Now Jacob did turn to face her.
‘I feel very embarrassed about it.’
‘No no. It isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned it again. I only meant to say that Mother has always been a little full of secrets. And determined … stubborn, I should say, in her personality. Now it’s even worse because the drugs they give to help her endure pain make her confused.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s just how she is.’
Jacob looked beyond the passenger in front of him, a young woman whose knees he was having trouble not touching with his own, away down the carriage, but with unseeing eyes. He remembered Tessel meeting him at the airport, as arranged in a phone call with Sarah. She had seemed tense and brusque, even impatient with him. He had wondered if this was a typical Dutch way of going on or just the way she was. She had been nervous too, dropping the car keys, taking a wrong turning on the motorway, apologising for her poor English (which in fact struck him at the time as very good, especially as he hadn’t bothered to learn a word of Dutch)—that kind of thing. In the house, she had shown him ‘his’ room (still teenaged Daan’s to judge by the posters and clothes and other stuff that occupied it, everything as neat as a museum), had given him a fe
w minutes to settle in, and then had sat him down with a cup of strong Dutch coffee and explained in a rather flustered manner that she would not be able to do much to entertain him during his stay. She would take him to Oosterbeek on Sunday. But until then he would have to occupy himself. Of course, Jacob had said, yes yes, that would be quite okay. And then the story about Geertrui and her invitation came tumbling out, as if she could keep it to herself no longer. By which time Jacob’s insides were squirming, he felt he was an encumbrance, and wished he had not come.
It was Mr van Riet who suggested he should go on his own next day to visit the Anne Frank house and who then spent an hour and a half, first of all explaining the train system, then instructing him in the map of central Amsterdam, showing him where the Anne Frank house was located and how to get there by tram, which in turn led to a discourse on the city’s trams, and the listing of various places Mr van Riet thought Jacob might like to visit—the Rijksmuseum to view the Rembrandts and Vermeers, the Historical Museum, where there was, he said, a fascinating exhibition showing the growth of Amsterdam over the centuries along with a model revealing how the old Amsterdam houses were built of stout wooden frames standing on platforms of logs sunk into the waterlogged sand which was and still is all there was to build on, thus proving, he said, laughing, the Bible is wrong when it says that a house built on sand cannot last. In Amsterdam whole streets of houses built on sand three hundred years ago are still standing and are as elegant and beautiful now as they were when they were new. In order to see these houses in a short time and from a good perspective, Mr van Riet advised, Jacob should take one of the tourist boats that cruise the canals. He marked on the map the places where the boats could be boarded and indicated how much the trip would cost. This reminded Mr van Riet to make sure Jacob understood Dutch money, including a ten-minute account of the meaning of the pictures and engravings on the notes and coins, which was, naturally, followed by a comparison with the British currency and its relative value. There was a sidetrack at this point on the importance of a common European currency coming into force as soon as possible, with one regret that the proposed designs were not at all as attractive or tasteful, in Mr van Riet’s opinion, as the present Dutch money. But the trading and politico-economic advantages were more important than mere appearance. We must all remember what brought Hitler to power: economic instability and a weak currency. Well, yes, bigotry and racial prejudice. But economic stability and strong trade were the essential factors for a healthy nation.
Postcards from No Man's Land (The Dance Sequence) Page 16