by Jan Terlouw
Michiel walked over to him. He wasn’t in the mood for helping, but he was so used to it by now that his legs walked there almost by themselves.
“Wheel’s broken,” he diagnosed.
The old man nodded.
“Shall we get it repaired then?”
The man looked up in surprise. That option didn’t seem to have occurred to him.
“Is that… possible?” he asked hopefully.
“Maybe,” said Michiel. “Wait there a moment.”
He went to the shed to fetch some tools. Removing the broken wheel from the axle proved fairly easy.
“If you wait here, I’ll take it to the repair shop. Alright?”
The old man nodded again. He didn’t appear to be the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Michiel jumped onto his bike. The cartwright gave him a sympathetic smile when he walked into his workshop. As if there’d been a death in the family. He dropped all his other work to repair the wheel. Michiel thought it was almost creepy. The man was so obliging that it was as if Michiel had uttered a dying request.
Half an hour later, the wheel was ready. Michiel cycled back. Suddenly he realized he was riding across the village green. Seven large chestnut trees stood motionless in the drizzle. Enough thick branches to hang ten men from. But there was no way that could be allowed to happen. It was unthinkable that his father, his decent, clever, kind father would have a rope put around his neck and… It couldn’t happen. It mustn’t happen.
It could happen, Michiel knew. It had happened before—and for less.
He’d heard that they’d once hanged all the men in a French village from lampposts. And a story he’d been told by one of the people who’d stayed with them was still fresh in his mind. The SS had raided a house in Gouda, or in Woerden, somewhere in that part of the country. A father, mother and six children. They’d found some guns. So they took the whole family out into the garden and shot the father and the two eldest sons dead in front of the mother and the younger children.
Such things did happen, and more and more often as it became increasingly obvious that the Germans were going to lose the war. Michiel swallowed hard. Then he tore his eyes from the chestnut trees and went on his way.
He found the old man still sitting there on the post. A look of delight came onto his face when he saw that the wheel had been repaired.
“How on earth did you manage that?” he asked.
“With a few rivets and a new iron band.”
“Incredible. How much do I owe you?”
“Three guilders.”
“Here you go. And a couple of coins for your trouble.”
Michiel couldn’t help smiling at that. He’d earned a bit of money. Imagine if he started asking for payment for all the jobs he did for people. How much should he charge for looking after Jack? But he simply said thank you and put the money in his pocket.
“So, now you can be on your way again, sir.”
The old man laid one hand on Michiel’s arm.
“Those potatoes. They’re for my daughter and her two little ones,” he said. “I hope they’re still alive when I get home.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Haarlem.”
Walking to Haarlem, with a handcart full of potatoes. That must be about eighty miles!
“Excuse me, sir, but how old are you?”
“I’m seventy-eight. God will reward you, my boy.”
He took hold of the handle of his cart and trudged away. A ring of grey hair poked out from beneath his soaking-wet hat.
Michiel watched him go.
War is so cruel, he thought.
It can’t have been easy for the ten prisoners that night, or indeed for their wives and children. The Van Beusekoms had only four guests. Two distant cousins, both spinsters around thirty, a former mayor who had also studied with Mr Van Beusekom, and an actual aunt. The guests could tell that they were intruding, and they kept as quiet as mice. Michiel lit the lamp for them and then went to fetch milk. Suddenly he realized with a shock that he’d completely forgotten to visit Jack. And he hadn’t been the previous day either. Now it was too late. There was no way he could be back before eight and he didn’t want to make his mother even more anxious. Oh, how frustrating.
To share his misery with someone, he whispered to Erica, “I forgot to go and see Jack.”
“It’s alright,” said Erica quietly.
“What?”
“I went. I took him something to eat.”
Blast it all, that Erica. She just did whatever she felt like doing.
“Did you tell him about Father?”
“No. He already has enough on his mind. His wound’s playing up again. I tell you, Michiel, he’s not looking at all well. That hole’s too cold and damp for him to heal properly.”
Michiel thought Erica’s visits to the hideout were a huge risk. A girl going into the woods on a regular basis—people were sure to notice. But what could he do? It was his own fault. He was the one who had got her involved.
He couldn’t dwell on the Jack problem for too long though. His other worry occupied his thoughts entirely. He looked at the clock: ten to nine. His mother couldn’t sit still. She kept standing up to do some unimportant bit of housework—moving a vase or something else equally unnecessary. By quarter-past nine, all the guests were in bed. Erica, who had managed to be brave until then, began to cry quietly, her head on her mother’s shoulder. Mother stroked Erica’s hair; she didn’t know what to say. Michiel broke sticks of last resort into pieces, smaller and smaller, and he had no idea what to say either.
“What time is it?”
“Quarter to ten.”
Silence.
Erica got up and went to the kitchen to make another cup of ersatz coffee for everyone.
“I wish I was Jochem,” said Michiel.
His little brother had been sleeping peacefully for hours.
“I can’t imagine what your father must be going through,” whispered Mrs Van Beusekom.
“Father and the nine others.”
“Do you think he’ll be praying?” asked Erica, handing Michiel his coffee.
Mother nodded slowly.
“I think even the most confirmed atheist would be praying in these circumstances. I know it’s practically all I’m doing.”
“Me too,” said Erica.
Michiel said nothing. He hadn’t even thought about praying. His head was full of all kinds of wild and impossible plans for rescuing his father. He imagined disguising himself in a German uniform to get inside the barracks. He would go straight to the commander and, holding a gun to the man’s head, force him to telephone through the order for the prisoners’ immediate release. Yes, if only—hey presto!—he had a German uniform and a revolver. And even then… Oh, it was all nonsense. There was nothing he could do. He wished Uncle Ben were around. Maybe he could come up with a plan. Could he track down Uncle Ben? Before tomorrow morning? Not likely. Not when being outside after eight was forbidden and there were no telephone lines, unless you were German, of course, and when no one ever knew where to find Uncle Ben anyway. No chance.
Should he pray? No, he wanted to actually do something! Did praying count as doing something? He looked at his mother and at Erica. Both of them sat with their hands in their laps, staring into the fire. He tried to calm his mind, tried to concentrate on what he’d learnt at Sunday school when he was younger. Was God listening to what Erica was asking Him? The trees on the village green stood between him and God. How would they do it? Would his father have to climb up onto a box, which they’d pull from under his feet? That couldn’t happen. God couldn’t allow it to happen. Or could God allow it? So should he be praying?
Michiel got up and went to stand by the back door, gazing up at the sky, which had cleared by now. The stars looked down, cold and distant. Then one of them fell.
“I want my father safely back home,” Michiel said quickly. When a star fell, you were allowed to make a wish, weren’t you?
What if that soldier had been hit by a falling tree? Or struck by lightning? Maybe he’d had a heart attack. Oh no, his head was bashed in. But it could have been a falling tree. Would the commander have considered that possibility? Michiel ran to his room, as quickly as he could in the dark. He lit a candle and looked for a piece of paper. In his best German (which wasn’t very good), he wrote:
Dear Commander,
You have said that you will hang ten men tomorrow morning if it is not known by then who killed the German soldier. Could the soldier have been killed by a falling tree? I remember that there was a terrible thunderstorm about six weeks ago. Maybe the lightning hit a tree and the tree fell on the soldier.
Would you please consider giving us a little more time to investigate this possibility?
With the greatest respect,
Michiel van Beusekom
He put the letter in an envelope and slipped through the night to the Knoppers’ house. The living-room window was blacked out with paper. Quietly, he tapped on the glass. The front door opened a crack, and Mrs Knopper whispered nervously: “Dirk?”
“No, no, it’s me,” said Michiel.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said a disappointed voice. “For a moment I thought…”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, lad. I know you’re all terribly worried, just like us. What can I do for you?”
“I have a letter for the camp commander. You still have officers billeted here, don’t you? Could you ask one of them if he’ll deliver the letter for me?”
“I don’t know,” hesitated Mrs Knopper. “When does the commander need to have the letter?”
“Before tomorrow morning. Before they…”
“Give it here. I’ll try. Wait here a moment.”
She disappeared upstairs. Michiel heard voices in the distance and then she came back down.
“He’ll do it. He’s going to the barracks tomorrow at six.”
“Thank you, Mrs Knopper. You’ve heard nothing from Dirk then?”
“Not a word.”
“I’m sorry. Goodnight.”
“Try to get some sleep if you can, Michiel.”
“Where have you been?” Mrs Van Beusekom asked. Michiel told her what he’d done. His mother stroked his short hair.
“Let’s hope it helps. Come on, we need to sleep.”
“Sleep? As if,” said Erica.
“Let’s go and lie down for a bit anyway. If we don’t sleep, then at least we’ll get some rest.” They went to their rooms. Half an hour later, all three of them were still lying awake in their beds, staring into the darkness with wide-open eyes.
The rumour must have come from Farmer Zwanenburg, whose house was right next to the barracks. He’d told the milkman, and the milkman had told a dozen other farmers on his round as he collected the milk churns from the farms. Before long the whole village knew. At half-past six that morning, shots had been heard at the barracks. A lot of shots, all at once, like an execution squad firing.
Michiel and his mother and Erica wandered anxiously around the house, their faces pale from the tension and the sleepless night. They’d heard the rumours too.
“I’m going back to the barracks,” said Mrs Van Beusekom. “We need to know for sure.”
That turned out not to be necessary.
At eight o’clock, before she set off, some soldiers posted a notice on the church wall. It said that four of the ten prisoners had been shot dead that morning. If the name of the soldier’s murderer was not known by the following morning, the remaining six would be next. The four unfortunate men were the town clerk, the vet, the headmaster and a man from the city, who had come to live in De Vlank after he retired. Their wives received a letter at home, covered in official stamps. It confirmed their husbands’ deaths in the correct and formal manner. The German army’s administration was flawless. And that was not all. That afternoon the men’s bodies were returned home in coffins.
It was as if a menacing growl could be heard throughout the village, a stifled scream of fury that might erupt at any moment. No Germans dared to walk the streets alone that day, and the collaborators and traitors didn’t show their faces. Fear had paralysed the families of the six remaining hostages. They were so tired they could no longer think straight.
Every day passes—including that one, 23rd November 1944. Another sleepless night, with occasional brief periods of a kind of unconsciousness, brought about by exhaustion.
Michiel was up at half-past six. He raised the blackout blinds. It was barely light, but he could see the street. As he lit the stove, he occasionally glanced outside. What was that? A group of men was walking by, dark silhouettes in the dim light. The one at the front, walking with a stoop, wasn’t that Schiltman, one of the ten prisoners?
Michiel raced outside. It was Schiltman and the solicitor and the tax inspector and, and… where was his father?
“Where’s my father?” he yelled, grabbing Schiltman by the arm.
“Oh, you gave me a fright, lad. Who are you again?”
“That’s Michiel, the mayor’s son,” Van de Hoeven, the solicitor, said hesitantly.
“The mayor’s son?”
Why did Schiltman say it so quietly?
“Why isn’t my father with you?” asked Michiel, his voice trembling.
“They shot him dead, not an hour ago. They let the five of us go home, but the murderers shot him dead.”
Michiel let go of Schiltman’s arm. Silently, he turned around and walked home. His mother and Erica had heard him shouting and came out to meet him, their eyes wide with fear.
The Germans must have thought that if they shot all six, the villagers might rebel. They’d seen the fury on people’s faces the day before. So they sent five of the men home, to keep people calm. And to save face, they shot the mayor. They didn’t trust him anyway. Then they could bring in a new mayor who was more to their liking. So the mayor happened to have a family, including a six-year-old son who would have to get by without a father now—but what did that matter? It was a war, after all.
7
It was about a week after the funeral. Michiel’s eyes seemed a little more deeply set than before. Had he become thinner, or was he just clenching his jaw more tightly? There was a look of determination on his face. He felt a bit like the head of the family now, even though his mother was still alive and Erica was older than him. It was strange, but he was less afraid of the Germans than before. He’d resolved to do everything in his power to make sure this terrible war ended in a German defeat, as long as that didn’t involve putting any lives at risk.
That meant no direct attacks on soldiers or on German property. That much was clear. But he would support anyone who was hunted and persecuted by the enemy. And so he was even more determined that Jack would survive the war—at least he would if Michiel had anything to do with it.
Anyway, it was about a week after his father’s funeral and Michiel was visiting the hideout. As carefully as ever, he crept closer. But when the entrance came into sight, he didn’t see the British pilot there as usual, looking keenly around, his pistol in his left hand. It was strange, but Jack always heard him coming, no matter how quiet he was.
“Psst,” he said.
No answer. What was going on? Had Jack been caught? Was he heading into a trap? Carefully he peered inside. To his relief—and irritation—he saw Jack and Erica, blissfully unaware of the existence of the rest of the world, exchanging kisses.
“What’s wrong, Erica?” Jack asked tenderly. “You look so pale and sad lately.”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Erica. “There’s really nothing for you to worry about.” And then she added, “But it’s so sweet of you to ask.”
The cuddling began again.
“Hm!” coughed Michiel. “Am I disturbing you?”
The two lovebirds leapt to their feet.
“Vigilance before romance,” said Michiel, like a hardened veteran of war.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said with a
grin. “I’ve, um, grown rather fond of your sister.”
“So it would seem,” said Michiel. “You know, I think bringing Erica here was probably the most foolish thing I’ve done in this entire war.”
“Why? Why shouldn’t we spend time together? What have you got against him?”
“I don’t have anything against him, you dope. I have something against you and him and me ending up the same way as Father.”
“Your father?” asked Jack.
“He was shot last week in a reprisal,” said Michiel.
Jack gasped. “Shot? Dead? Last week? What a nightmare. My poor love. That’s why you’re so sad.” He hugged Erica against his uninjured left side.
Michiel was annoyed at the situation, but he’d seen enough couples in love to know that it would be easier to separate the Magdeburg hemispheres than to stop Erica coming to visit Jack.
“Fine then,” he said. “But the very least you can do is bring Jack’s food for him now and then.”
Erica wasn’t going to take that lying down.
“You little brat,” she said. “You’re talking to your big sister! You don’t get to tell me what to do. It’s the other way round, and don’t you forget it.”
“Looking after him is my responsibility,” said Michiel calmly.
“It’s true, sweetheart, as long as Dirk is in prison, your brother’s in charge of this operation.”
“OK,” said Michiel, “you can visit twice a week and I’ll come once, if you promise that you’ll be really careful—no, if you do exactly as I say. Always take a different route into the woods, and always at a different time of day.”
“I think you’re being over-cautious, but fine, I’ll do as you say.”
“That’s my girl,” said Jack.
Then Jack and Erica looked at Michiel as if they were wondering if he had somewhere else to be, and Michiel didn’t enjoy feeling like a gooseberry, so he dropped to the ground and began his crawl back through the undergrowth.
*
It was Sunday. The flow of people passing through De Vlank had come to a stop. Michiel sat in the bay window, looking out at the empty road. There hadn’t been much talking in their home since that Thursday morning. No one was in the mood for conversation. Only Jochem was still chattering away. If you listened carefully, you could hear a low hum that was gradually growing louder. Here they came again, the bombers, on their way to drop their load of death and terror onto the German cities.