Winter in Wartime

by Jan Terlouw

  “Good,” growled Michiel. “I hope they hit their targets.”

  “Just think of all those poor, innocent women and chil…” his mother began. Then she remembered a conversation about the same subject, when his father was still alive. “They started it,” he had said. “It’s their own fault.” Did she feel that same need for revenge now, which made you harsh and indifferent to the suffering of women and children if those women and children were German? She wasn’t sure.

  “Hey, look over there,” Michiel suddenly exclaimed.

  They all went over to look out of the window. In the distance, half a mile or so away, the road was packed with people. It was like a procession of ants, marching closer and closer, making little incursions towards the garden gates. The gardens filled as the locals came out of the houses, wondering what was going on.

  The procession was getting closer. The Van Beusekoms went outside too. And they saw men, thousands of men, walking towards them in rows of five or six. They were carrying suitcases and bags. Large numbers of German soldiers, their guns on their shoulders, swarmed around, guarding them. But they couldn’t prevent the men from dashing to the garden gates and taking the food that the villagers were handing out.

  “Those men are starving,” said Mrs Van Beusekom. “Look at the way they’re snatching at everything. Do you see that man there on the right, behind that tall one with the green scarf? He just picked up a piece of bread out of the mud and sank his teeth straight into it.”

  “Why are those men so hungry, Mummy?” Jochem asked.

  “I don’t know, son. Come on, let’s bring out all the food we have in the house. We can go without eating for a day.”

  They ran into the kitchen, sliced all the bread in the bread bin, fetched apples from the loft, milk from the cellar, cut two large sausages into slices, as quickly as they could, and carried it all outside.

  The procession was already passing their house by this point. When they saw the food, the men immediately flocked around them. In a flash, everything was gone.

  “Where have you come from?” Michiel asked a boy who was no more than a year or two older than himself.

  “From Rotterdam. A raid. They picked up all the men they could find. We’re off to work in Germany, they say.”

  “Keep walking,” a German yelled, and the boy was swallowed up by the crowd.

  “How far do we have to go to the barracks?” asked an elderly man.

  “A couple of miles.”

  “Really? Such a long way.”

  “But… that’s not far, is it?”

  “We’ve come from Rotterdam. Four days’ walk, without any food. I can’t keep going. I’m not going to make it. Stomach ulcer. Can’t take another step.”

  But he did. Off he went, his wicker case in his hand. Some of the Rotterdammers escaped during that march through the village, darting behind trees, hiding behind the line of onlookers, diving into ditches.

  Mr Koster, a retired forester who had been living in De Vlank for a long time, almost turned it into a game, grabbing suitcases out of the hands of passing Rotterdammers and growling at them, “Stand next to me and put on your doziest expression.” The guards would then come up to him, as he was the one holding the suitcase.

  “What? I live here!” Mr Koster would bark at them in German. “We have suitcases too, you know.”

  They had no time to stop and investigate, so they didn’t pursue the matter. Mr Koster returned the suitcase to its owner and sent him into the house while he chose his next victim. Hmm, no, victim wasn’t the right word… He was like a guardian angel to them, managing to save five men with his trick. Quite an achievement.

  All those thousands of men and boys from Rotterdam, exhausted from the long march, passed through the village and disappeared into the barracks on the railway line to spend the night there.

  That night, Michiel woke up because he thought he heard something in the house. Was it his imagination? It was quiet again now. No, wait, wasn’t that someone quietly closing a door downstairs? Was someone up? It must be his mother or Erica, who had got out of bed for some reason. He turned onto his other side to go back to sleep. But he couldn’t drift off. He could tell that something was going on. Was it burglars?

  Purposefully, Michiel stepped onto the cold linoleum. Because that’s what you do when you’re the man of the house. Without making a sound, he hurried downstairs, missing out the third step from the bottom, because it creaked. He stopped and listened. Yes. There was a murmur of men’s voices coming from the front room. Well, well. His heart thumping, but with no hesitation, he threw open the door.

  Four candles lit the room. He saw two strangers, a young man and an older one. Michiel’s mother was sitting on the floor, bandaging the older man’s feet. Michiel could see at a glance that they were raw and bleeding. When the door opened, the men were clearly startled out of their wits. The younger man leapt to his feet and ran to the back door. The other man sat there frozen, unable to catch his breath.

  “There’s no need to panic, gentlemen,” said Michiel’s mother. “This is my son. He’s no friend of the Germans.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Michiel.

  “These gentlemen, Michiel, escaped from the camp at the barracks tonight. They made their way to the village and took the risk of tapping on our window.”

  “I’m sorry. We were desperate,” said the older man.

  “It’s fine,” she replied. “I’m glad you came to us for help.”

  “But we’re putting you in so much danger just by being here.”

  “Not really, I don’t think. You’re just forced labourers, aren’t you? Not political prisoners?”

  The men did not reply.

  “You escaped? That can’t have been easy,” said Michiel.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” said the young man. “There are too many prisoners and not enough guards. The camp isn’t surrounded by barbed wire, just a fence. But our German friends have other ways to make escape unappealing. At the end of the afternoon, when we’d only just got there, a man climbed over the fence and ran away along the railway line. He was unlucky. Walked straight into a patrol. Do you know what they did? They gave him a shovel.”

  “A shove? They gave him a shove?”

  “If only. No, I said ‘shovel’. You know, a spade. They made him dig a hole, in the verge, just outside the camp. When it was finished, they ordered him to lie down beside the hole. We saw everything, from start to finish. It was… barbaric. The SS officer, who’d just been standing there watching all that time, took out his gun and shot him in the back of the neck, casually, as if he were swatting a fly. Then he kicked him into the hole with his boot, and commanded two of us to fill it in. ‘This is what we do to people who do not appreciate our hospitality,’ he said. And he walked away, swishing his stick.”

  Mrs Van Beusekom wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “But you still decided to escape?” said Michiel.

  “Yes. When it got dark. It was easy enough to climb over the fence,” the younger man replied.

  “Even for, um… I’m sorry, is he your father?”

  “Yes, I am. Forgive us for not introducing ourselves. My name is…” He hesitated. “My name is De Groot, and this is my son, David.”

  “I’m Mrs Van Beusekom, and my son’s name is Michiel.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Mr De Groot.

  “No, climbing the fence wasn’t easy for my father,” said David, picking up the thread again. “But he managed.”

  “That was a big risk you took,” said Mrs Van Beusekom. “Was escaping so important to you that you were willing to put your lives on the line?”

  Michiel looked closely at the two men. Both of them were on the short side, the son was dark-haired, the father grey. He thought he could detect a trace of an accent in the older man’s voice.

  Mrs Van Beusekom cleared away her plasters and bandages. “There, that should make things a little easier.”

&nb
sp; Then she turned to look at him. “Mr De Groot, excuse me for asking, but… are you Jewish?” she said.

  Both men blushed. Michiel felt his cheeks turning red too. But yes, of course, she was right. That explained why they’d risked the dangerous escape. They had no choice. What would have happened to them if the Nazis had realized they were Jewish?

  The older man looked helplessly at Mrs Van Beusekom.

  “S-so you could tell?” he stammered.

  “It was more of a feeling,” she replied.

  He sighed. “Yes,” he said. “We’re Jewish. Our real name is Kleerkoper. Don’t worry, we’ll leave at once. We’re putting you in real danger. Come on, David.”

  Both men stood up and walked to the door.

  “And where exactly are you planning to go, Mr Kleerkoper?” Mrs Van Beusekom asked calmly.

  “To Overijssel. We know a family there, who really are called De Groot. We can go into hiding with them.”

  “And how do you think you’re going to get across the river? Every remaining bridge along the IJssel is closely guarded, and so are all the ferries.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr Kleerkoper. “But we’ll find a way somehow, David and I.”

  “Why don’t you just sit back down? Four heads are better than two. But first, why don’t you tell us how you came to be caught out on the streets? This is the fifth year of the war. Are there any Jews still walking around on the streets? I thought everyone who was Jewish was either in a concentration camp by now or hiding somewhere in a cellar or an attic.”

  “Well, it was an unfortunate combination of circumstances,” said Mr Kleerkoper. “If you’re interested, I’d be happy to tell you how it happened.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” replied Mrs Van Beusekom. “The night’s still young—it’s only half-past three. And I’m all ears.”

  So Mr Kleerkoper sat down and told them the following sad tale.

  The Story of the Kleerkoper Family

  Jitzchak Kleerkoper was born in Germany in 1890. His name back then was Rosenthal, and he was a German citizen. He felt like a German too. Yes, it was true that he was Jewish, but that didn’t feel like anything remarkable. There were Catholics and Protestants of various different persuasions, and he just so happened to be a Jew. In the First World War, from 1914 to 1918, he fought in the German army. One day, he found himself in a tight spot, but he bravely stood his ground and even saved a young officer’s life. He was awarded the Iron Cross, Germany’s most important military decoration.

  Soon after the war ended, he met a Dutch girl. Lotte Kleerkoper was her name, and she came from a Jewish family too. They got married and, although they lived in Germany, she taught him how to speak Dutch. They had two children, David and Rosemarie.

  In the 1930s, after Hitler came to power, the Jews in Germany were subjected to more and more insults and humiliation. The newspapers said that everything that went wrong was the fault of the Jews and that death was too good for them. Jitzchak became increasingly worried and bewildered as he saw all of this taking place.

  Then, in 1938, Kristallnacht happened. That was a night when, all throughout Germany, Jewish people had their windows smashed, their property destroyed and their synagogues burnt to the ground. The Rosenthals had a furniture shop, and it wasn’t spared: the windows were smashed, the upholstery slashed, the tabletops destroyed.

  This event made Jitzchak decide to leave Germany for good—not because of the damage, not because it had happened, but because the German people, their neighbours and friends, did not protest. Because no one spoke out against it. “And that means there’s no future for us in Germany,” Jitzchak said, and he took his family to the Netherlands. He was so despondent about his fatherland that he gave up his German name and took his wife’s Dutch name instead: Kleerkoper.

  But then, on 10th May 1940, the Germans invaded the Netherlands too and immediately began tormenting and harassing Dutch people who happened to be Jewish. First they were not allowed to use public transport or to go to the cinema, and they had to wear a yellow star on their coats with the word “Jew” written on it. Later they were arrested and put in concentration camps—and finally they were murdered without mercy. Just slaughtered, like cattle in a slaughterhouse. In their thousands. In their millions. It’s something you dare to speak of only in a whisper. Why were all those people killed? Because they were Jewish. That was the only reason. It’s beyond comprehension.

  Of course, many Jews tried to escape from the Germans by going into hiding. Jitzchak realized his family was in grave danger and he had made an arrangement with Mr Voerman, a good friend of the family’s: they would all go and live in his attic. But it was too late. One Monday evening, when he and David had gone to the Voermans’ place to go over the plan one last time, the Germans raided the house and took Lotte and Rosemarie. Jitzchak was under no illusion—the chances of ever seeing them again were almost non-existent. So it was only Jitzchak and David who ended up moving into Mr Voerman’s attic. Jitzchak’s hair had turned grey by then, as grey as ash.

  About a week ago, the Voermans’ house had been searched. The Germans had the cunning habit of arriving without warning at night, banging away at the door and then searching the house. Jitzchak Kleerkoper heard the thud of soldiers’ boots below. He heard the familiar German snarls and the shaky voice of his friend, saying he had nothing to hide. He knew they would be found—there was no doubt about that. So he did something very daring. Putting on a dressing gown and some slippers, he stomped downstairs, yelling as he went. In perfect German. He’d fought as a German in the German army in the 1914–1918 war, so he knew all the military jargon.

  “What is the meaning of all this commotion in the middle of the night?” he screamed. Didn’t they know Colonel Von Brandenburg had a room in this house? That he’d been billeted here? Well, could they get it into their thick skulls that this was Colonel Von Brandenburg himself who was now standing in front of them?

  By that time, he was in the front room and the officer who was in charge of the soldiers tried to say something. But the little man gave him no opportunity.

  “Why did you not tell these people at once that I live here?” he barked at Mr Voerman.

  “I’m so sorry, Herr Kolonel,” the man replied in a weak voice. “I was confused. I’d only just got to sleep and these gentlemen woke me by ringing away at the doorbell and I—”

  “This is a disgrace!” bellowed Jitzchak. “What is your name?”

  The sergeant clicked his heels and said crisply, “Oberfeldwebel Maier, 3rd battalion.”

  “You have not heard the last of this, Herr Maier,” growled Jitzchak Kleerkoper. “For now you are dismissed. Heil Hitler.”

  Oberfeldwebel Maier clicked his heels again: “Jawohl, Herr Kolonel. Heil Hitler.”

  He left with his men. Jitzchak Kleerkoper and Mr Voerman shook hands and said nothing for a while. They had narrowly avoided the concentration camp. The danger was over. For now.

  “A magnificent performance, Jitzchak.”

  “Now you’ll have to go into hiding too,” said Jitzchak. “I’m so sorry. We’ll need to leave first thing tomorrow morning, you and your wife and David and I. That Oberfeldwebel is sure to inquire about who exactly that unpleasant Colonel Von Brandenburg is. But how are we going to find new hiding places?”

  Mr Voerman had contacts who were soon able to provide new addresses for them. He and his wife went to stay with the De Groot family in Overijssel. The journey would be too dangerous for the Kleerkopers though. “But if you happen to find yourself in that part of the country, then you must join us,” said Mr Voerman. “They’re farming folk with hearts of gold. I’m sure they’ll find a place for you too.”

  Mr Kleerkoper and David were given an address in Kralingen, another neighbourhood in Rotterdam. Walking there was a risk too, but there was little chance of being stopped within such a short distance.

  “Well, my friends, make sure you survive the war. I’m sorry you have to
move on again. Farewell, until we meet again,” said Mr Voerman when they parted company.

  “Thank you for everything,” said Jitzchak. “And as for moving on, I’d rather be a wandering Jew than a heelclicking German. Good luck.”

  They went their separate ways. Jitzchak and his son walked straight into the middle of the raid. Luckily, the soldiers didn’t ask for papers. They just picked up everyone they saw. The men were allowed to return home under escort to fetch a suitcase full of clothes. Jitzchak and David had no need. They were already carrying their belongings.

  Then they’d been forced to march to De Vlank. They’d had no chance to run off along the way, as one of the guards kept a constant eye on them. Maybe he suspected something. So they hadn’t been able to make an escape attempt until they were in the camp. Now they were free. But for how much longer?

  “Until the end of the war, I hope,” said Michiel’s mother. “We’ll have to come up with a watertight plan to get you across the IJssel.”

  “What if we disguise them? How about dressing them as farmers’ wives from the Veluwe?” suggested Michiel. “They could wear the traditional costume. Put a white lace cap on them, big skirts, a bodice. That should do the trick.”

  “But that won’t work at the IJssel. They check everyone’s papers there.”

  “No, the disguise would just be for travelling along the roads,” said Michiel. “We’ll have to come up with something else for the IJssel. Wait a moment, I’ve just remembered something. The Koppel ferry…”

  “What about it?”

  “I recently heard an interesting story about it. And if it’s true, we can get both gentlemen across to the other side with no problem. I’ll investigate first thing tomorrow.”