Winter in Wartime

by Jan Terlouw

  They set off and reached home without any hitches.

  “Visiting him every week? That’s out of the question,” said Michiel.

  “What did you say?” Erica replied vaguely.

  “You’re not going back there again.”

  “Why not? Didn’t I do a good job?”

  “Of course you did. But it’s already risky enough that I have to go there regularly.”

  “Fine. You’re the boss.”

  Michiel gave her a searching look.

  For once, she had a serious expression on her face. She knew she’d done something worthwhile, something important. And she’d been stunned to find out that her “little baby brother”, as she often teasingly called him, had been doing such dangerous things for some weeks. He really is a man now, she thought. Erica gave her brother’s hand a squeeze and went to her room.

  Sometimes having a sister isn’t so bad, thought Michiel.

  *

  Having his wound treated improved not only Jack’s physical condition, but also his state of mind. When Michiel went to see him two days later, he was unusually cheerful and declared that he felt as right as rain. There was only one thing still worrying him: his mum. You see, his mother lived in Nottingham and he was the only family she had left. Two sisters before him had died at birth, and it was all very sad. He’d only just made it himself, and could Michiel imagine how his mother had tried to protect him from every little gust of wind, as if he were some delicate little flower? That was why he’d volunteered for the air force—he’d had enough of being mollycoddled. Well, actually, there was another reason too.

  “What was that?” asked Michiel.

  Jack’s Dutch failed him. Resorting to English, he said, “My father died at Dunkirk, at the beginning of the war, in 1940. He sailed across the Channel in a tiny little boat to bring soldiers back to England from France. You know, when the Krauts were racing across France and tens of thousands of British soldiers were caught in a trap.”

  Michiel nodded.

  “Bomb hit the boat,” said Jack. “Bull’s eye. Never found a trace of it. I was devastated, but the grief almost destroyed my mother.”

  “And now she’s worried about you.”

  “Worried? I bet she won’t have slept a wink, she’ll be wasting away, her hair will be completely grey… She’ll be the most miserable wretch in all of England. They must have reported me as missing. That usually means you’ve bitten the dust, but sometimes a message comes to say that a missing person has been captured and is a prisoner of war.”

  “So your mother will be waiting on the doorstep of the post office every morning?”

  “Well, messages generally come via the Red Cross, so it’s their doorstep she’ll be sitting on. But I can’t bear to think of her worrying like that. Do you know of any way I could get a letter to her?”

  Michiel gave a deep sigh. Looking after a pilot wasn’t easy.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said. “How did you like my sister?”

  Jack clicked his tongue. “Jolly nice,” he said. “And my shoulder feels a lot better now. Such a shame I wasn’t allowed to speak to her.”

  “That’s life in an occupied country for you,” said Michiel philosophically. “Does His Majesty have any further requests?”

  “No, this is the finest hotel in the world. Just my mother, if there’s anything you can do…”

  “I’ll think about it,” repeated Michiel.

  Then he dropped down onto all fours and began the journey back through the trees.

  Good heavens, how on earth was he going to get a letter to England? Obviously, since the occupation there’d been no postal service with Germany’s enemies. He could try to contact the resistance, of course. He suspected that Dries Grotendorst had something to do with the underground, but he didn’t want to confide in him. “A good resistance fighter is lonely. He’s alone with his task and his secrets,” he kept repeating to himself. But he couldn’t get the image of Jack’s mother going to the Red Cross every day out of his mind. What could he do? He knew of one possibility, but was it a good idea? It was the first thought that had come to mind when Jack mentioned the letter to England: Uncle Ben. He knew all about escape routes—so he must be able to get a letter into England, mustn’t he? But still he wasn’t keen on the idea of telling yet another person about Jack.

  The pilot persisted, though, and eventually Michiel gave in and said, “Go on then. Write the letter. And make sure you don’t say anything that could be a clue to where you are.”

  “OK,” said Jack, and he wrote that he was alive and kicking and not in German hands and that he’d been slightly injured but not too badly, and that his mother had nothing to worry about, as “a fine young man” of sixteen was taking excellent care of him. Michiel was rather flattered by that last sentence, but it wasn’t essential, so it had to be scrapped. He told Jack that, no matter how alive and kicking he was (although he wouldn’t be doing much kicking with that plaster on his leg), all he could do for now was write out the letter again.

  Two days later, Uncle Ben turned up at the Van Beusekoms’ house, and Michiel asked him to go out for a walk with him. “You told me a while back about escape routes for British soldiers. So… would you be able to get a letter to England?”

  Uncle Ben gave Michiel a searching look.

  “What kind of letter?”

  “You know, words on paper.”

  Uncle Ben smiled. But not for long. His expression became serious as he gripped Michiel’s arm. “You’re not telling me you’re involved with the underground, are you?”

  “No. It’s just that there’s a friend of a brother of a friend of mine who wants to get the letter sent. Can you help or not?”

  “So who is this friend with a brother?”

  “Right. Then you can’t help,” said Michiel, who definitely didn’t want to be interrogated. “The weather’s getting chilly, don’t you think?”

  “Well, well,” said Uncle Ben, “you’ve certainly got what it takes, haven’t you? Hand over the letter.”

  Michiel took it from his pocket.

  “There you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  Not another word was spoken about the transaction.

  “The letter is on its way,” Michiel said to Jack. Then he gasped. “Your bandage has been changed!”

  Jack nodded meekly.

  “Erica?”

  “Yes.”

  “The rotten liar. How did she manage to find you?”

  “No idea,” said Jack. “Probably she did not close her eyes last time. She thought I need new bandage but you not too happy. And so she come here on her… on her…”

  “Own initiative,” growled Michiel. “So you spoke to each other too?”

  Jack gave him a guilty look.

  “And she knows you’re a pilot?”

  “Sorry. She guesses. She’s not silly, you know. My Dutch very good, but is possible that she hears a little accent…”

  “Ah, just stop it. Every other word you say is as English as Queen Victoria. How on earth am I supposed to keep you safe like this? They’ll be coming for you any day now. And they’ll put Erica and me up against the wall—and probably our father too. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three–nil.”

  “Erica does not say nothing.”

  “No, she won’t say anything. But she isn’t careful. She doesn’t make sure that no one sees her. She makes noise. She leaves tracks. If someone like Schafter spots her going into the woods, he’ll immediately be suspicious.”

  “Who is Schafter?”

  “Oh, never mind. A fan of the Germans. One of the many. Well, I’m going to give Erica a piece of my mind. Maybe we’ll be lucky, and we’ll get away with it.”

  “You say the letter is gone?”

  “It’s gone. Safely, I think. Right, I’m off. See you.”

  “Ta-ta.”

  *

  Michiel did indeed give Erica a piece of his mind. In fact, he called her every name under the
sun, but all in whispers, as their mother was in the room next door. You try shouting at someone when you’re whispering. It’s a bit like slamming the door in a fury, and then having to go back because you’ve forgotten your gloves—you end up looking just a little bit foolish. So Michiel’s words didn’t have much of an effect on his sister. She stared guiltily at the third button on her cardigan and swore—perhaps a little too easily—that she’d never do it again. And when Michiel paused for breath, she said the wound looked better and that was good, wasn’t it? And, well, that was the end of the whispering.

  Michiel just reminded her once again not to say anything to anyone, not even their own father, and that was that.

  Another week or so went by without much happening, just the normal everyday events. And then Uncle Ben turned up again. This time he took Michiel for a walk and he said, “Do you ever see that friend of a brother of a friend of yours?”

  Michiel was immediately on his guard.

  “No,” he said brusquely.

  “Ah, that’s a pity,” said Uncle Ben. “I have a letter for him from his mother. So it can’t be delivered then. What should I do with it? Do you know what, I’ll just put it under this loose strip of bark. And then I’ll be shot of it.”

  He walked over to a tree and slipped something under the bark. Then he turned around and walked back to the house without saying another word.

  Flabbergasted, Michiel took the white envelope. There was nothing written on it. What on earth…? Was it really a letter for Jack? Well, of course it was possible… Yes, there was a chance that his uncle had written a return address on Jack’s letter and this was the reply. He decided to go and visit Jack.

  Taking even more care than usual, Michiel made his way to the hideout. What if there was just a blank piece of paper in the envelope and all of this was a trick to make him lead the way to Jack’s hiding place? Was Uncle Ben trying to follow him right now? Ah, he was so suspicious. Uncle Ben was one of the good guys.

  Yes, he certainly was. When Jack opened the envelope, his face lit up. There was a delighted letter from Jack’s mother inside, saying that she’d imagined him dead a hundred times, and a snapshot of her standing at the garden gate. Michiel mentally doffed his cap to Uncle Ben, who had made it all happen—and so quickly too.

  6

  One November morning in 1944. A deathly hush filled the village. No planes would venture out into those dense, low clouds. There were barely any cars left. It had been gently raining all night long. Now it was almost dry, but water was still dripping from the soaking trees. Not a breath of wind blew. It was grey and gloomy, all around. The roads were gleaming and wet. A black cat ran shivering across the road and disappeared into a shed.

  The village was in the grip of fear. Anyone who didn’t absolutely have to leave the house stayed indoors. A lone woman in clogs dashed out to fetch a few forgotten, sodden pieces of clothing from the washing line. She looked around timidly before scurrying back inside as fast as her legs would carry her. No one knew where it had come from, but a rumour had stolen its way into the village that morning. Yesterday evening, maybe last night, a patrol in the woods had found the decaying body of a German soldier. They said he must have been dead around six weeks. The Germans had thought he’d deserted, or so rumour had it, but now they knew he’d been murdered.

  What was going to happen? How would the Germans take revenge? There were terrible stories about retribution following attacks on German soldiers. But how true were they? What could the villagers do to defend themselves? Nothing. Everyone was keeping quiet. No one wanted to draw attention to themselves. Black clouds hung over the village, low and threatening. Fear crept all around, nestling into the streets, the gardens, the houses. The village waited, motionless, for what was to come.

  At ten o’clock that morning, a truck had gone racing through De Vlank.

  Yes, now they’re brave enough to come out, thought many of the villagers, now that the clouds are protecting them from the British Spitfires.

  Brakes screeching, the vehicle came to a stop in front of the town hall. Eight soldiers jumped out. With their big boots, they kicked open the door and went inside. It didn’t take long. It was not eight men who came back out, but ten. Between the soldiers walked the mayor and the town clerk, their heads held high. The villagers saw them for just a moment. Then they were bundled into the truck and the doors closed behind them. And on it drove. To the vet. To the solicitor. To Schiltman, the wealthy farmer. To the headmaster. To the minister. Ten men were taken from their houses and transported to the barracks on the road to Zwolle. They were not permitted to take anything with them. Not a word was spoken about what awaited them. Their wives, who tried to protest, were roughly pushed aside. How long did the operation take? An hour? At most. The truck left and the silence of the village gave way to an anxious buzz of people talking, crying, speculating, consoling, encouraging, wandering in and out of one another’s houses, hysterical and helpless, knowing there was nothing they could do.

  The Germans had taken them hostage as an act of retaliation. Soon after the men were taken prisoner, the German commander of the local barracks announced that he would hang all ten of them the next morning from the trees on the village green, unless the perpetrator or perpetrators of the soldier’s murder made themselves known before that time.

  Erica was sick. She was literally heaving with fear. Mrs Van Beusekom had dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones seemed more prominent than usual and the right side of her mouth kept twitching nervously. But she didn’t cry. She cleaned up Erica with a wet flannel and a towel. She gave Jochem, who had no idea what was going on, a fresh white sheet of pre-war paper and a pencil so that he could draw. Then she came to stand beside Michiel, who was sitting in a chair, staring silently into space.

  “I’m going to go there,” she said.

  “Where? The barracks?”

  “Yes. To see the commander. I’ve met him twice. He seems like a fairly reasonable man. I’ll beg him not to commit this senseless murder.”

  “Shall I go?” asked Michiel.

  “No, I think it’s better if I do it.”

  Michiel knew she was right. Obviously his mother, as the mayor’s wife, would make more of an impression than a young man of sixteen.

  Mrs Van Beusekom put on her dark-blue suit. She powdered her face to conceal the circles under her eyes as well as she could, and then she left for the barracks. Full of admiration, Michiel watched her go. But what could he do to help? He had to think, think calmly. Who could have killed that soldier? Yes, how could he go about finding that out? It could have been someone from another village, poachers maybe, who had been taken by surprise and had panicked. Or someone from the resistance… But no, that was unthinkable. They weren’t that foolish. Everyone knew that killing a German would only provoke retaliation from the Wehrmacht. There was a chance, though, that the underground knew something about it. But Michiel didn’t know anyone who was in the resistance, except for Dirk and Bertus, and they were behind bars. But who else might be in the resistance? Michiel considered the men of the village, one by one. He was almost certain that Dries Grotendorst was a member. But Dries had always been a little reckless… Ah, Mr Postma the teacher! Yes, definitely. Michiel remembered the fourth year of primary school, when Mr Postma had spoken so passionately and patriotically about the Eighty Years’ War and the Dutch longing for freedom. His father had once or twice jokingly remarked that the Dutch weren’t the only ones with a need for freedom, but still… Mr Postma was sure to be in the resistance.

  Michiel put on his ragged old coat and headed over there. Oh, he was such an idiot. Mr Postma was at school, of course. Then he would have to wait until lunchtime. When twelve o’clock came, Michiel met the teacher at his garden gate.

  “Hello, sir,” said Michiel sadly.

  “Hello, Michiel.”

  His greeting didn’t sound much happier than Michiel’s. They both knew exactly what was on each other’s mind: the mayo
r and the headmaster and the other eight men.

  “You don’t happen to know who killed that German, do you?” asked Michiel.

  Mr Postma shook his head.

  “And I don’t suppose you know who’s the head of the resistance in De Vlank?”

  Again, Mr Postma shook his head, a little more slowly this time. Michiel gave him a hard stare.

  “Well, if you should happen to meet him, will you pass on this message from me?”

  Mr Postma didn’t reply.

  “Will you tell him that the perpetrator must hand himself in to the Germans today?”

  Mr Postma gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  “I wish you and your mother strength in this difficult time,” he said. “And now I really need to get going,” he continued with a very small smile, which, with a healthy dose of imagination, could have been seen as conspiratorial. “Bye, Michiel.”

  “Bye, sir.”

  With a spark of hope the size of a glow-worm, Michiel walked home, where he found his mother sitting on a chair in the kitchen, doing nothing. The commander had refused to see her.

  The day crept by. The weather remained miserable. The stream of people passing through was smaller than usual. Had word got around? Were people avoiding the village? Or was it the weather? Even so, hundreds still walked through the village that day. One old man was pulling a trolley, a sort of handcart on four wooden wheels, big enough for transporting a couple of toddlers. It wasn’t carrying children now though, but a sack of potatoes. Right in front of the mayor’s house, one of the wheels cracked in two. The old man was at a complete loss. He stood there, tugging at the cart, as if that might somehow repair the wheel. Finally he sat down on a post and gazed miserably into the distance.