Winter in Wartime

by Jan Terlouw

  As he walked up the garden path, he thought he glimpsed his mother watching from the window. She clearly didn’t want him to know she was worried, though, because when he came in she was working in the kitchen and she calmly asked if everything had gone well.

  “Fine,” said Michiel. “But on the way back, I got chased by some of our friends, who wanted to take the horse. They even fired a couple of shots. Just in the air though,” he added quickly when he saw the fear in his mother’s eyes. “Escaping was no trouble at all. That Caesar is a magnificent horse.”

  “That’s good,” said his mother, making a heroic attempt to seem unconcerned. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

  But she couldn’t help giving him a quick kiss on the back of his head as she walked past.

  Just a couple of minutes before eight, Uncle Ben turned up. He hadn’t visited for a while and so he hadn’t heard about the death of Michiel’s father. He’d always liked the mayor, and the news hit him hard.

  “If only I’d been here,” he groaned. “Maybe I could have done something.”

  “Like what?” asked Michiel.

  “An attack on the barracks or… Oh, no, what am I saying? I’m sure there’s nothing I could have done to help. So have they found out who killed that German in the woods?”

  “No, of course not. That coward’s not going to show his face. He’d rather let five innocent civilians get shot dead.”

  Uncle Ben sighed. “How awful,” he said.

  To cheer up his uncle a little, Michiel told him about Mr Kleerkoper and his son and their successful escape, and how he’d taken them across the IJssel, and the chase with the German soldiers who were after the horse.

  Uncle Ben slapped Michiel on the shoulder, a little harder than was comfortable.

  “Good work, lad,” he said. “If the war goes on for another year or two, you’ll be able to join the underground too.”

  Michiel only just managed not to tell him that he was already up to his neck in secrets.

  In the middle of the night he was woken up by Rinus de Raat. The plane raced low over the house, two, three times. It was the kind of noise that made your heart stop for a moment and all your muscles tense up so that you could quickly sprint away.

  Rinus de Raat was the village cobbler’s son. Right at the beginning of the war, he’d run off to England. His father said he’d become a Spitfire pilot. So, of course, whenever a British plane flew over the village, people always chuckled and said, “Hey, look, it’s Rinus de Raat come to visit.”

  Michiel couldn’t get back to sleep. He was thinking about Schafter. What could he tell the man? Because he was sure the clever and curious Schafter wouldn’t rest until he’d got it all figured out, or at least thought he had. He didn’t fall asleep again until he’d come up with a plausible story.

  By then, “Rinus de Raat” had long since returned to an airfield in the south of the Netherlands, which had been in the liberators’ hands since that summer.

  9

  The next morning Michiel decided to go for a wander past Schafter’s house. Maybe he’d bump into him.

  On his way there, he saw Mr Postma, the teacher. His first instinct was to look away. He was sure Mr Postma was a member of the resistance group in De Vlank, and weren’t they responsible for five men being shot dead?

  Mr Postma noticed Michiel’s involuntary reaction and headed straight for him. He took hold of his arm and said, “I know I’m overstepping my bounds here, Michiel, but I just wanted to tell you this: the resistance in De Vlank knows nothing about that dead soldier in the woods. I’m absolutely certain of that.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, feeling rather ashamed.

  “Now, will you forget I told you that?”

  “I’ve already forgotten.”

  “Good.”

  They both went on their way. Michiel walked past Schafter’s house. He saw nothing. But then he walked on for a while and turned back to go past the house again, and he spotted Schafter working in the garden.

  “Morning, Schafter.”

  “Ah, hello, Michiel. Were you trying to avoid me yesterday?”

  “Avoid you? What do you mean?”

  “On the road to the ferry. You went racing past in Baroness Weddik Wansfeld’s carriage. That was the baroness’s carriage, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded a lift, but apparently you didn’t see me.”

  “Really? I’m sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I was going to Verheul’s. It’s not that far. Oh, by the way, those two women…”

  Schafter came a step closer and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

  “… those two women with you, who were they?”

  “The sisters of one of the baroness’s maids,” said Michiel. “They’re from Uddel. You know, over by Elspeet. They had a wedding in Zwolle today and the baroness said they could use her carriage. So Aaltje asked if I’d take them.”

  “I see,” said Schafter. “And didn’t Aaltje have to go with them to the wedding?”

  “Yes. She went as well.”

  “Then it’s strange that I saw her this morning on this side of the IJssel.”

  Michiel blushed. “Th-then she must have been unexpectedly called back for some reason,” he stuttered.

  Schafter looked up at the sky. “Those sisters of Aaltje’s. They weren’t by any chance a couple of men in disguise, were they?” he casually asked.

  “Of course not. Where did you get that idea from?” said Michiel, trying to sound indignant.

  “Oh, I was just wondering. One of them seemed to have a rather masculine face.”

  “I need to get going,” said Michiel.

  “Listen, Michiel,” said Schafter, “you can trust me, you know. I know people say I’m on the wrong side, but it’s not true. I need to get a couple of people across the river too. If you have any tips, then tell me. I swear to you I won’t abuse your trust.”

  Shivers ran down Michiel’s spine. The man was so brazen!

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about any tips. It was two women from Uddel—and that’s all. And I don’t understand why it’s any of your business either. Goodbye, Schafter.”

  Michiel strode off. He always made such a mess of everything. Absolutely everything. What was he going to do now?

  That same afternoon, Van Dijk the ferryman was taken prisoner.

  A stranger took his place. The baroness was placed under house arrest. Until her role in the clandestine crossings had been investigated, she was not allowed to leave her home. No one knew what punishment the German soldiers received. The baroness had outwitted so many of them over the months. The last squad leader lost his sergeant’s stripes though—that news did get through to the villagers.

  Once again, Michiel, who felt terribly guilty, expected that he would be taken in and questioned. They would surely want to know where he’d taken the two women. Once again, he approached the house cautiously when he returned home. Once again, he was so nervous that he could hardly eat and had to keep visiting the toilet every ten minutes. And once again, nothing happened. No one asked about him. No one was interested in him. Had Schafter not revealed his name? Did he feel sorry for Michiel and want to spare him? But it wasn’t as if he’d been at all pleasant to Schafter. Michiel had no idea what was going on. More than ever, he wished that the Allies would hurry up and liberate them.

  A fortnight later, the preliminary investigation was finished. The baroness’s role had been established, and a sergeant, with two privates, went to arrest her.

  They found the door locked and the shutters closed. The sergeant tugged on the bell repeatedly.

  A window on the first floor opened and the baroness called down: “Clear off!”

  “I order you to open this door. I am here to arrest you,” said the sergeant solemnly.

  “Away with you. No one arrests a Weddik Wansfeld.”

  The se
rgeant didn’t quite know what to do. So he tried a different approach.

  “Baroness, would you mind accompanying me to the command post? The commander of the garrison would like to speak to you.”

  “That’s considerably better,” said the baroness. “But the answer is no. If the commander wishes to speak to me, he will have to come here.”

  “Please, Baroness,” the sergeant begged her.

  The only answer was the window closing. All the sergeant could do was go back and make a report.

  In the afternoon, an officer appeared, this time with five men and a battering ram. The events of the morning were repeated. Again the bell was rung, and again the baroness appeared at the upstairs window.

  “If you do not open this door immediately, I will have my men ram it open,” bellowed the officer, who was a large man.

  “Do what you must,” said the baroness.

  The men lined up, brought the ram into position, and pounded it into the heavy, metal-studded front door. Then there was the sound of a shot and a scream from one of the soldiers. He’d been hit in the arm.

  “Donnerwetter!” cursed the officer. He had glimpsed the baroness behind the balustrade of the balcony—and she had a gun. “This will cost you your life,” he shouted up at her.

  “It was a warning shot in an arm,” the baroness called back. “The next time I’ll aim for a head. Yours.”

  “The woman is insane,” grumbled the officer. It seemed safer to seek the protection of the trees across the road. Was he really going to have to storm the house with his five men? Lives might be lost. Besides, the commander had told him to treat the baroness with courtesy. The commander, the son of an estate manager, had deep respect for the gentry. This was madness though. You couldn’t sacrifice a few men just to arrest an old woman! Should he throw a couple of hand grenades through the windows? What would the commander think about that? He decided to go back and make a report as well. He had no better ideas and he was really rather tired of the whole business.

  Nothing else happened that day, but the next morning at half-past ten the commander of the garrison came along in person. He politely rang the bell and—this was starting to become a habit—the baroness appeared at the upstairs window.

  “Baroness,” said the commander, “would you do me the favour of inviting me inside?”

  “Certainly,” the baroness replied. “If you remove your pistol.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  The commander took off his belt and holster. Soon he heard the sound of bolts sliding and the rattle of a chain. The door opened. He stepped inside to find that the baroness, impeccably dressed in a long morning gown, was aiming a large military pistol at him. She indicated that he should move along the corridor, and then slid the bolts on the door. She even put the heavy chain back on the hook.

  “That’s a nice pistol you have there,” said the commander, more calmly than he felt. He didn’t like the casual way the baroness was playing with the trigger.

  “My husband was in the hussars,” she explained. “I also have an army rifle and a double-barrelled shotgun. And sufficient ammunition.”

  “Do you know that the possession of weapons carries the death penalty?” asked the commander.

  “I am aware of that. Please, sit down. Unfortunately I’m unable to offer you anything, as my staff are in the music room.”

  “In the music room?”

  “Indeed. Along with the other residents. They’re a bunch of cowards. So I sent them into the music room and locked the door.”

  She really has gone insane, thought the commander. There she sat, aiming the gun precisely at his heart. He had no doubt she would pull the trigger if he made the slightest attempt to disarm her.

  “Madam, we are at war. I must ask you to accompany me.”

  “Where to?”

  “The barracks.”

  “So that you can condemn me and execute me,” said the baroness. “You just informed me that I could receive the death penalty for the possession of weapons. I have resisted arrest and shot one of your men in the arm. You also think I have something to do with the Koppel ferry. No, my dear commander, I have decided that I will not allow myself to be arrested, not even by the master race.”

  The commander, in spite of all his admiration for the aristocracy, was beginning to lose his temper.

  “Give me the pistol, Baroness.”

  She responded by cocking the gun.

  “I will have you removed from this house by force.”

  “So why didn’t you do that yesterday?”

  “That is my concern.”

  The baroness stood up. She considered the conversation to be over.

  Furiously, the commander strode back down the hallway to the front door. When she slides back the bolts, I’ll knock the pistol from her hand, he thought. But he didn’t get the chance. The baroness indicated with a nod of her head that he should undo the bolts himself and remove the chain from the hook.

  “You are making a big mistake, Baroness,” he said by way of farewell.

  “Compared to the actions of the German Reich, any other mistake is trivial,” replied the baroness.

  With those words, she closed the door behind him.

  The next morning, a tank drove up to the white house on the IJssel. The commander of the garrison had spent all night pondering the problem and believed that he had found a solution that was worthy of a baroness, particularly this one.

  “Baroness,” he called, sticking the top half of his body out of the gun turret.

  The baroness appeared at the upstairs window.

  “Are you prepared to surrender?”

  “Just a moment,” she said.

  Then a small door at the back of the house opened and all the residents filed out. All of them, except for the baroness. Her maids, her butler, her nieces, her brother-in-law, her son-in-law and, finally, her daughter.

  “Mother, come with us,” she pleaded.

  “So that I can be shot dead by those criminals at six a.m. tomorrow in some barracks yard? No, thank you. I’m too old to be a prisoner. And too proud.”

  Sobbing, the daughter followed the others. The baroness carefully bolted the door. She went to the balcony, a gun in her hand.

  “Commander!”

  “I am listening, Baroness.”

  “Will you note that my family and staff have nothing to do with this affair? None of them has ever spoken a word to any of your men. I am responsible—and I alone.”

  “Noted,” said the commander. “Now surrender, Baroness.”

  The baroness aimed the gun and fired a bullet, which narrowly missed his head. The commander ducked down into the tank and closed the hatch. The baroness calmly returned inside and headed to the dining room, which was lined with paintings of her ancestors.

  “Fire,” said the commander.

  The tank began to fire. Twenty shells hit the white house. It was soon burning like a torch and the walls began to collapse.

  When it was inconceivable that any living creature could possibly be found in the ruins, the commander finally gave the signal to retreat. As soon as the tank was gone, the baroness’s family and all the locals who had been watching in horror came running and frantically tried to extinguish the fire.

  After an hour’s work, they dared to venture among the scorched and crumbling walls. They searched—and they found. The dowager Louise Adelheid Mathilde, Baroness Weddik Wansfeld, barely touched by the fire, lay beneath a pile of fallen bricks. She was wearing an orange sash. If the commander had taken the trouble to come and look, he would have seen from the defiant expression on her face that Germany was bound to lose the war.

  10

  The weeks went by. They became months. The shortest day, the 21st of December, came and went. Christmas 1944. A pitch-black Christmas. New Year’s Eve. Would the new year bring peace? How many people asked themselves that question on that New Year’s Eve? January, a long, cold month, with no fuel, barely any foo
d. The famine in the big cities assumed alarming proportions. Many people had swollen stomachs as a result of severe malnutrition; some of them died. Those who had any strength left headed eastwards and northwards, to try to find food and bring it home for the little children and the elderly. The sad stream of food-seekers grew larger but moved more and more slowly. Everyone was exhausted.

  The Germans were becoming more nervous, which also made them more cruel. The war was going badly on all fronts. They suffered losses on the eastern front, where the Russian armies were advancing. They had already had to surrender their positions in the south. In the west, the Allies had liberated France, Belgium and the southern Netherlands, and now they were pushing in an easterly direction, towards the Heimat, the homeland, Germany itself. Hitler was going to lose the war. No one in their right mind could doubt it now.

  And then? Would the Allies treat the Germans’ homeland the same way the Germans had treated the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Norway, Denmark, Czechoslovakia, the Balkans, North Africa, the Middle East, and Poland and Russia in particular? What would be in store for them when the concentration camps were discovered, the death camps where millions of innocent people had been eradicated as if they were vermin?

  What remained of that proud country with its superior armies and its invincible Führer, Adolf Hitler? Oh yes, Hitler was certainly still talking about the ultimate, total triumph, about the secret weapon he had up his sleeve, about the invincibility of the Germanic race. But who still believed it? Bitterness filled the hearts of the German soldiers and, wherever they still held power, the shots of the execution squads rang out night and day.

  Meanwhile, Erica had finally plucked up the courage to remove the plaster cast from Jack’s leg. She would much rather have fetched the doctor who had treated Jack after his injury, but no matter how hard they thought, how Jack struggled to remember a name, they had no idea who it could have been. Dirk was the only one who knew and he was in prison in Amersfoort; his parents had received a brief notification.