Winter in Wartime

by Jan Terlouw

  Mr Kleerkoper peered at him over the metal frames of his spectacles.

  “Your son’s certainly a plucky one,” he said. “I’m sure you know the risk you’re taking. But does he know too?”

  Mrs Van Beusekom laid her hand on Michiel’s arm.

  “Until recently, Mr Kleerkoper,” she said, “I didn’t want my children to do anything that went against the occupiers’ orders. I believed it was too dangerous and I also thought it was pointless. I have to confess that, deep down, I’ve always doubted that Michiel was following my wishes. For almost a year now, I’ve not been exactly sure what he’s up to. Reluctantly, I resigned myself to it. But in times of war a boy of fifteen or sixteen is a man—don’t you agree, Mr Kleerkoper? And besides, not that long ago, my opinion changed. I told you that my husband is dead, didn’t I? Well, the fact is that the Germans shot him in a reprisal, without any form of trial.”

  Her voice didn’t shake as she spoke those words, and no tears of emotion welled up in her eyes, but a flush of outrage coloured her cheeks as she continued, “Michiel and I have never actually said as much to each other, but I know that, since that day, both of us, and my daughter, Erica, too, would do anything to help put an end to their violence and murder. And so, my son, I’ll gladly give you permission—no, in times like these a mother doesn’t give her sixteen-year-old son permission. But I do agree that you must do whatever you can to keep these people out of the claws of the vultures who want to turn Europe into one big graveyard.”

  “Amen,” said Mr Kleerkoper, bowing his head.

  8

  By the Koppel ferry, there was a large, white house. It belonged to Baroness Weddik Wansfeld, a lean and regal lady in her sixties. She lived in this house with her daughter and her son-in-law, her late husband’s brother, two unmarried nieces, a butler and two maids. Even though there were a few men in the house, there could be no doubt about who was in charge: the dowager Louise Adelheid Mathilde, Baroness Weddik Wansfeld. People sometimes called her “Lamb” because of her initials, but only when she was nowhere to be seen. No nickname could have been more inappropriate, however, as the baroness was nothing like as sweet and gentle as a lamb.

  The ferry was guarded, day and night, by five German soldiers, who were relieved every week. The commander of the garrison had ordered that these five men must be accommodated in the white house. The baroness had fiercely objected, throwing herself into the battle with all her might, and had even succeeded in making the commander come out to negotiate with her personally, but finally she’d had to surrender.

  “Fine,” she had said to the commander, in her impeccable German. “They can come, but they must follow the rules of the house.”

  “Of course, Baroness,” the commander had replied, with all the respect that German military men have for the nobility. “That goes without saying. Our soldiers are well disciplined and will behave most correctly. I will vouch for them myself.”

  And so the dowager had laid down her rules. For family and staff, there was just one rule: no one speaks to the soldiers except for the baroness. Even if it was merely about a broken cup, the baroness would deal with it herself.

  A long list of rules applied to the soldiers though. They were not written down, because then the commander might have a chance to inspect them. Every Monday morning, just after the guard changed, the new men were admitted to the baroness’s drawing room. She sat in a chair, her back as straight as a rod, while the soldiers stood politely at attention. Briskly and leaving no room for discussion, she listed the house rules. The sergeant would have a room in the house, while the privates would sleep in the coach houses. No noise after ten at night. All rubbish was to go in the bin in the pantry.

  “From three until half-past, tea is served in the conservatory. Three o’clock sharp. I do not have sufficient staff to work in shifts. So I must insist that you all come together at three. The conservatory is large enough.”

  And on she went, listing more rules. So great was her authority—and the German soldiers’ respect for that authority—that every new squad always fell for it. Tea from three until half-past. That was apparently the done thing. This meant that, from three until half-past every day, the ferry was not guarded. Only a few people knew about this fact. The news was passed on in whispers to trusted contacts. And every day Van Dijk the ferryman crossed the River IJssel between three and half-past with a boat full of people who would rather not be seen, who did not have valid papers, who wanted to smuggle something, and meanwhile Louise Adelheid Mathilde, Baroness Weddik Wansfeld sat in a straight-backed chair in the conservatory, conversing with the German Wehrmacht.

  Early in the morning, at nine o’clock, Michiel was presented to the baroness. She received him graciously, offering her condolences on the death of his father and making no secret of her disgust for German methods.

  “And what can I do for you, young man?”

  “I’d like some information, please, Baroness. You live so close to the ferry. Could you tell me if it goes between three and half-past three? I’d like to take two farmers’ wives across to the other side at around that time.”

  “I see. Two farmers’ wives, eh?” the baroness echoed. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, ma’am.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “There’s no public transport to Zwolle now. And my bike’s in no condition to—”

  “I see. And so you’re running farmers’ wives around now. On the back of your bike?”

  “I’m hoping I’ll be able to borrow a horse and cart from Mr Coenen.”

  “And if not?”

  Michiel didn’t reply. What could he say?

  “So why don’t these farmers’ wives go over the bridge?”

  “Because… they prefer boats,” replied Michiel hesitantly. He didn’t want to give away any secrets, but neither did he want to be rude to the baroness.

  “And why must it be between three and half-past?”

  “I’ve heard that it’s teatime then. They’re hoping they might be able to have a cup on board.”

  “Who exactly are these women?”

  “Um… what was their name again? Bartels, I think, yes, Bartels, Mrs Bartels and her daughter Aartje.”

  “And why are you taking them?”

  “Someone has to. And besides, their surname begins with a B and so does mine. That… creates a sort of… bond, you know.”

  “Young man, I do hope you’re not making fun of me.”

  “But, Baroness… why would I do that?”

  A faint smile flashed across the baroness’s lean face.

  “Report to the cart shed at half-past one this afternoon. The carriage will be ready and waiting, with Caesar up front. I imagine you know how to handle a horse, don’t you? The ferry leaves at five past three. I expect the carriage—and, more importantly, Caesar—to be returned by seven at the latest.”

  “Baroness, this is so kind, I—”

  The tall woman had stood up, clearly considering the conversation to be over. With an aristocratic nod, she interrupted Michiel’s stammered words of thanks. He quickly left the room, filled with admiration for this remarkable woman.

  Jitzchak Kleerkoper and his son David shaved very carefully, and then used a little powder to conceal their grey stubble. The traditional Veluwe costumes were brought from the wardrobe of a local woman the Van Beusekoms knew well, and Erica and her mother made some quick alterations. The starched white caps helped to make the Kleerkopers look a little more like women. The two of them dressed up as farmers’ wives—it was a comical sight.

  “Catch,” called Mrs Van Beusekom, suddenly throwing Mr Kleerkoper an apple. Instinctively Mr Kleerkoper clamped his knees together, the way men in trousers do when they have to catch something and they’re sitting down.

  “Wrong,” said Mrs Van Beusekom with a smile. “A woman in a long, wide skirt automatically opens her knees outwards, like a net.”

  “Well, Father, looks like you�
��ve just had your first failure as a woman,” grinned David.

  “I’m a hopeless woman,” Mr Kleerkoper admitted guiltily. “Maybe you’ll be a better one, David.”

  He’d made a roll-up out of home-grown tobacco, which he flicked at David’s lap. David, forewarned, opened his knees and caught the cigarette neatly in his skirt.

  “Before you start looking around with that smug grin on your face,” his father said, “let’s see if you know how a woman strikes a match.”

  “I certainly do. A man strikes towards himself, with his middle finger just behind the head of the match—see, like this—but a woman holds the match higher and strikes away from herself.”

  He demonstrated how to light a cigarette in a most feminine manner, and then looked around triumphantly.

  “I’m impressed,” said Mr Kleerkoper, “although I have to admit I’ve never actually seen a farmer’s wife from the Veluwe smoking a cigarette.”

  Everyone laughed, David the loudest of all.

  “My father always has to have the last word,” he said.

  “Listen,” said Michiel. “You mustn’t say anything if there’s the slightest chance that other people might overhear. Not just because you have men’s voices but also because you don’t know the local dialect. I have to be back on this side of the IJssel by seven at the latest. So there’s enough time for me to take you farther than just across the river. Where do you need to go? Or would you rather not say?”

  “The De Groots live in Den Hulst,” said Mr Kleerkoper.

  “That’s about twelve miles past Zwolle,” Michiel said. “We won’t make it all the way there, but we should get a fair distance. Hmm. Let me think… if you have to walk the last four miles, you should be inside well before eight.”

  “We’d better leave right away, just to be on the safe side,” said David.

  “That won’t help. We’re getting the ferry at five past three.”

  “Isn’t there an earlier one?”

  “The crossing at five past three is the only one that’s safe. When the war’s over, I’ll explain.”

  “I trust you completely,” said Mr Kleerkoper.

  At exactly half-past one, Michiel was at the cart shed by the white house on the IJssel. The carriage was ready and waiting, with the fiery black Caesar impatiently stamping sparks from the cobbles. Michiel felt anxious, but once he had the reins in his hand, his nerves changed into high spirits. The horse took off at a brisk trot, responding beautifully to each signal from the reins and giving every impression of being able to win the national harness-racing championships without any further training.

  Michiel often worked with horses when he helped the farmers on their land. It was usually slow work because they had to pull heavy carts. But this was wonderful.

  Later, once his two fake farmers’ wives were in the carriage, he felt like a hero, a kind of Ben Hur. That feeling only grew stronger when, startled by the pace, Mr Kleerkoper anxiously clutched the seat and David remarked admiringly that Michiel clearly had a lot of experience with horses.

  Sadly, his pleasure was short-lived as, before long, they passed Schafter. The man was on foot and as the carriage raced past, he held out his hand for a ride. Michiel had no more than a couple of seconds to decide.

  Schafter up here with me, asking questions, no thanks, he thought.

  So he pretended not to see the man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Schafter looking at his passengers with a puzzled expression, probably wondering why he didn’t know who the two women were, even though he knew everyone for miles around. He was likely trying to work out where the mayor’s boy Michiel was taking the women to. To the ferry, of course, that was where the road led, and Schafter wasn’t born yesterday.

  Oh well, thought Michiel, he’ll never reach the ferry before five past three if he’s on foot. So it doesn’t really matter. I’ll just come up with some excuse to tell him later.

  Everything went smoothly. The crossing was uneventful. There was not a German to be seen. Michiel asked Van Dijk the ferryman if he could come back across at half-past six, and Van Dijk said yes.

  “That horse there… It’s the baroness’s, isn’t it?” said Van Dijk.

  Michiel nodded. He expected the man to ask for an explanation, but Van Dijk had clearly decided to keep his own counsel.

  They encountered no problems on the other side of the IJssel either, and drove for over an hour at a good pace. Then Michiel said, “I’d like to turn around here. I need to allow myself a bit of time, because you never know. And I think Caesar would like to go a little more slowly too. Will you be able find your way from here?”

  “Certainly,” said Mr Kleerkoper.

  He and David climbed down and both shook Michiel’s hand.

  “God will reward you,” said Mr Kleerkoper, using the same words as the old man with the broken wheel. What else was there to say?

  “Now that we’re going, it should make things a lot safer for you,” said David. “I hope we’ll meet again, Michiel. Farewell.”

  Michiel turned the carriage. He agreed with David, and thought that nothing much could go wrong on the return journey—but he was wrong about that.

  Michiel had been driving for around twenty minutes when he spotted another horse and cart approaching along a track to the right. It was an ordinary flat cart, which the farmers used to carry hay and rye, but what was unusual about this one was that a couple of armed German soldiers were sitting up front—and there were four horses tied to the back. Michiel knew what that meant: these teams were sent out to round up and confiscate any horses they could find. About fifty yards behind Michiel, the German cart turned onto the road. By then, Michiel had already cracked his whip. Luckily, Caesar still had some energy left and he raced onwards.

  “Halt! Stop at once!” Michiel heard them yelling.

  What should he do? He looked back and saw that the German driver was also using the whip. Should he stop? That meant the baroness would lose her horse. If she was lucky, she’d receive a note saying that the German Reich owed her a horse. That wasn’t much good to anyone. Besides, they might well question him. Ask him what he was doing in the area. He could feel the nerves in his stomach, but at the same time a look of anger and determination flashed across his face, a look that had appeared for the first time when he was standing by his father’s grave.

  “Faster, Caesar!”

  Again, he heard shouting from behind. The Germans realized they were losing him. Their chestnut mare couldn’t compete with that fiery black horse. But that was all the more reason for them to want it. One of the soldiers picked up his gun and fired into the air, startling Michiel. He wasn’t far enough ahead to be out of the range of their bullets. Then he noticed a side road coming up on the left. At full tilt, he steered Caesar that way, so quickly that the carriage almost overturned. It was a track through the trees, clearly used by lots of horses and carts. Left and then right. Would he be able to shake off his pursuers? Ah, he could see now why so many carts had passed this way. The villagers had been felling trees and using the carts to transport the wood back home. He could still hear the furious cries of the soldiers behind him, but he could no longer see them. To the left, and left again… To his horror, he realized it was a dead end, and turning around was impossible.

  “Whoa, Caesar.”

  Michiel jumped down. He tied the horse to a tree and fled into the undergrowth. If they caught him now, he didn’t think much of his chances. He followed a narrow path. Was that voices he could hear? Yes, there must be people nearby. He decided to take a look. If they seemed trustworthy, maybe he could ask them if they knew of somewhere he could hide. But he had to be careful—you could never tell for certain if someone was to be trusted. Dropping to his knees, he crawled closer. His caution was wise. The voices belonged to his pursuers, who were talking to two woodcutters. Typical Saxon country folk, with blue caps on their heads and wads of tobacco in their mouths. Slowly chewing away, they took their time to answer the
soldiers’ questions, spitting out jets of tobacco juice, scratching their heads, gazing up at the sky wearing their doziest expressions; in short, they gave the angry Germans the impression that they were barely more intelligent than the average pig.

  “So did you see him or not?” one of the Germans shouted.

  “Well, there was a black horse that just went by, eh, Driekus?” said one of the men.

  “It was a black horse, to be sure,” said the other.

  “And the cart, a carriage you meant, was it?”

  “Probably,” said the German, clearly irritated. “Just tell me which way the cart went.”

  “Oh, is that what you were wanting to know? Well… He went over that way, to the right.” He pointed convincingly in the opposite direction to the one Michiel had taken.

  The Germans gave him a suspicious look. Was the man telling the truth?

  He smiled with the innocence of a little boy.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Driekus slowly. “That way.”

  “Thank you,” shouted the German. “Forward, men.”

  They disappeared in the direction he had pointed. Michiel dashed to the horse, led him backwards down the path, jumped up front and quickly drove back the way he’d come. When he came to the two woodcutters, he stopped for a moment.

  “So you sent them the wrong way?” he called.

  The men grinned. One of them, the one who was not called Driekus, jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction Michiel’s pursuers had taken.

  “Yep. Following a black horse,” he said.

  “Thanks. So long.”

  “Bye.”

  A few minutes later, Michiel was back on the main road and on his way to the ferry again. He made it there just before half-past six. Van Dijk took him across and he returned the horse and the carriage to the white house. He would have liked to thank the baroness, but there was no sign of her. Then he cycled quickly home.