Winter in Wartime

by Jan Terlouw

  Erica was afraid that the leg wasn’t healing properly. When the plaster came off, they saw a large bump in the spot where the leg had broken. Maybe that wasn’t unusual, but the leg also appeared to be slightly crooked. It still hurt when Jack tried to walk on it. Even so, he practised walking every day, and over time he began to improve—but he wouldn’t be winning the 100-metre sprint any time soon, that much was clear.

  The wound in his shoulder wasn’t healing as it should either. Thanks to Erica’s care, the infection had at least cleared up. She changed the bandage twice a week and kept the wound completely clean. But the wound wouldn’t close.

  “It’s no wonder, given the state of this hospital,” the trainee nurse grumbled. “Bed—a pile of dry leaves. Instruments—nail scissors and a kitchen knife.”

  “Properly sterilized, though,” said Jack.

  “Properly sterilized, yes,” she agreed, “but not much to work with. Bread—stale. Vegetables—old. Potatoes—cold.”

  “But cooked with love,” said Jack.

  “That’s true,” said Erica with a smile, stroking his bearded cheek.

  “And to drink—cold tea and buttermilk.”

  “I have to admit, I could do with a whisky,” Jack revealed, who spoke Dutch almost perfectly now, although he still had a strong accent.

  “Temperature—chilly and damp. Rehabilitation…”

  “What did you say?”

  “Rehabilitation. You need someone to help you walk again. And some space to practise. All you’ve got is two yards by two, minus the area taken up by the aforementioned pile of dry leaves, a rickety chair and a table. Doctor—none.”

  “Medical staff,” said Jack. “Only the very finest.”

  “How am I ever going to get you well again in these conditions?”

  “Oh,” said Jack, “just remind yourself that when I’m back in good health, I’ll have to do my utmost to get back to England. That’s what the rules of our air force say. Would you like that? I know I’m a burden to you, of course, but still…”

  “No, darling, of course not,” said Erica, and that put an end to her complaints about his slow recovery.

  In the meantime, Michiel was struggling with his guilt. The events surrounding the Koppel ferry and Baroness Weddik Wansfeld had shocked him deeply. He’d gone to her funeral, along with at least a thousand other people who’d had the same idea. It had been a demonstration of their admiration for the baroness, and a demonstration against the Germans too.

  The commander of the garrison had sent a wreath, as he also wanted to show his respect for the woman. Everyone had thought that very sporting of him.

  None of these people know that it was all my fault, Michiel had thought, as he stood there in the cemetery. Not the minister, who was brave enough to speak out against the Germans in his eulogy. Not the baroness’s daughter, who scattered flowers on her mother’s coffin. And not the unknown person who had sent a bouquet tied with an orange ribbon with “Long Live the Queen” written upon it.

  The worst thing was that Michiel himself didn’t know what he’d done wrong. He didn’t know last time, with Bertus, and he didn’t know this time either. What should he have done differently? If he had to take two Jewish men across to the other side of the IJssel again, would he be able to come up with a better way, a safer way? Everything he did went wrong. His actions had got all kinds of people into hot water, except for him. But he’d been so careful. Was he just a child, after all, too young for such responsibility? One of these days, they’d catch Jack as well, and that would be his fault too. That really would put the tin lid on it.

  He decided that in future he’d get involved with illegal activities as little as possible. After all, he didn’t seem to be very good at it. He visited Jack only once a week. Erica did the rest, and she did it surprisingly well. And he’d always thought he was so much better than his big sister! Ha, as if! He made a mess of everything. Should he leave Jack entirely to Erica? No, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. He was the one who had received the letter from Dirk, so he was the one who was responsible for Jack. He doubled up on his precautions, worried himself half to death about the mistakes he might make and how to avoid them, and went on visiting him once a week.

  Whenever he saw Schafter, he made a big show of looking the other way. The traitor must realize by now that Michiel was aware who had reported the baroness to the Germans. Michiel wanted him to know what he thought about that, even if Schafter hadn’t given his name to the Germans. If he thought Michiel was grateful, then he was most mistaken.

  Michiel had his cross to bear during the war, and it was not a light one.

  As for little Jochem, he was constantly getting into scrapes. One day, when Erica and Michiel weren’t at home and Mother was busy in the kitchen, he decided to climb onto the roof. He started by making his way to his brother Michiel’s room up in the attic. That wasn’t allowed, but Jochem wasn’t in the mood for following rules.

  When he got to Michiel’s room, he forgot the reason for his visit for a moment, as his big brother had so many interesting things to pick up and look at. There was a collection of shells, for instance, and an old telephone and some cables and an atlas that was open at a map of France. Jochem touched just about everything, managed to crush two shells, picked up a pencil and drew a new border between France and Germany, as if he were General Eisenhower, the supreme commander of the Allied Forces, and then finally he had a telephone conversation with himself that ended with the declaration that he was about to climb out onto the roof. Then he opened the window.

  Great. From the bed, it was easy enough to climb out and soon he was sitting in the gutter. The gutter, full of green slime and dry leaves, was a bit slippery. Oh well, slippery or not, it was too nice up there not to go for a little walk. He could look down onto the neighbours’ roof—which would give him something to show off about to Joost, the boy next door. Feeling very pleased with himself, he made his way around the corner. That side of the house wasn’t that interesting. He found himself looking at the blank wall of the town hall, which was no fun. He quickly reached the next corner. Good, now he was on the side facing the street—that was much better. He saw the baker looking up and stopping his cart. And look, there was Miss Van de Ende rushing out of her house with her hands in the air. And more people, all of them shouting.

  What did they want? Was there something going on by the front door? He leant forward to look over the edge of the gutter. And finally he saw the dizzying drop yawning beneath him. If he fell, he’d be dead. Then he realized that the people were shouting up at him.

  Suddenly Jochem felt afraid. He knelt down and clung to the edge of the gutter. His bottom lip started trembling and two minutes later he was wailing.

  For once, Mrs Van Beusekom’s mind had not been on Jochem. Her head was so full of worries about Erica and Michiel. She could tell they were getting up to things she didn’t know about. As always, her thoughts then turned to her husband, who was dead and wouldn’t be able to help her bring up Jochem, who desperately needed his guidance. But where had Jochem got to? She walked to the front room, into the garden, looked in the shed, opened the cellar door.

  “Jochem!”

  No reply.

  She’d already placed her foot on the bottom step to go upstairs and look, when the doorbell rang. She quickly took off her apron and opened the door.

  “Mrs Van Beusekom, did you know your son’s up on the roof?”

  She dashed outside, where what must have been about twenty people had already gathered, and looked up. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Jochem, stay there. I’m coming!”

  Would she have to rescue him from the roof? She couldn’t even climb over the garden fence, and she felt dizzy when she stood on a chair.

  “That gutter is completely rotten,” said one of the men. “No work’s been done on it since the war began, and it was already looking a bit shaky back in 1940. You could kick a hole in it just like that, I
’m telling you.”

  “Mummy!” Jochem howled.

  “Maybe we could reach him over the top of the roof, across the tiles,” said another man. “Get a couple of men up on the ridge of the roof, and then lower someone down to the lad on a rope. But how would you get up there?”

  “There’s a window at the back,” said Mrs Van Beusekom quickly. “Do you have a rope?”

  “Yes, at home,” said the man. “I’ll go and fetch it.”

  “That’ll take too long,” someone suddenly said in German. “The boy can scarcely keep his balance. He’s going to fall at any moment. May I go through your house?”

  It was a German soldier who had spoken.

  “Of course,” Jochem’s mother whispered, feeling rather bewildered.

  The soldier leant his bicycle against the fence and ran into the house. He took the stairs two, three steps at a time and was soon wriggling out through the roof window. As he dropped down into the gutter, it bent beneath his feet.

  “Rotten,” the soldier muttered. “Old and rotten.”

  Leaning as close as he could to the tiles, he shuffled along the gutter, the same way Jochem had gone. When he reached the front of the house, the street below was packed with people. Mrs Van Beusekom had followed him at first, but then had returned to join the crowd, as she couldn’t see Jochem through the roof window anyway.

  When Jochem saw the man approaching, he stopped crying. Step by step, the soldier inched forward. Suddenly a cry of horror went through the crowd. The brave German’s left boot had shot through the decaying gutter. He was only able to save himself by quickly falling forward and lying full-length in the gutter.

  Jochem had been terrified when the stranger suddenly fell towards him, but now there was a strong hand around his left leg. It was such a good feeling.

  “Now we will crawl along together,” the German soldier said in broken Dutch.

  Gently, he pushed Jochem ahead of him. They went around the other side of the house. The soldier’s left knee was hanging above the drop and his foot was anchored in the gutter.

  “Any minute now the whole thing’s going to come tumbling down,” muttered the man down below, who had already expressed his doubts about the condition of the gutter.

  Mrs Van Beusekom stood with her hands clasped to her chest, barely able to breathe. “Save him, save him, save him,” she prayed to herself.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the two of them reached the back of the mayor’s house. The soldier stood up carefully, leaning against the roof tiles, and pushed Jochem up to the window. Before long, the little lad was inside, in the arms of his mother, who had come running upstairs. The soldier was soon out of harm’s way too. Mrs Van Beusekom took his hand.

  “I-I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

  The man smiled, gave Jochem’s cheek a friendly pinch and strode back downstairs.

  “Wait, wait,” cried Mrs Van Beusekom, but he was already outside and climbing onto his bike.

  People respectfully stepped aside to let him through.

  “Bravo,” someone said, but the praise drifted away on the breeze.

  The others were struck dumb. And then the soldier disappeared around the corner.

  “A German?” Michiel asked in absolute amazement. “One of the Krauts?”

  “Yes, a German soldier. One of Hitler’s henchmen. An enemy of our people.”

  Mrs Van Beusekom was still pale, after all that she had been through. Jochem was as cheerful as ever, though. He’d already more or less forgotten what had happened.

  Michiel went outside and looked up… He saw the broken gutter. He saw how high it was. Still shaking his head in surprise, he came back inside.

  “Mother, why did a German have to save him? What was everyone else doing? Were they just standing around watching? And what about you?”

  “There was no way I could save him. You know what a hero I am when it comes to heights. Everyone else was talking and trying to work out what to do. I don’t think they felt brave enough to go up there either. It was terrifying. Did you see the place where his foot went through the gutter?”

  “Was it really that dangerous?”

  “Yes. It’s a wonder he didn’t fall to his death.”

  Erica had come home by now and she wanted to hear the story too. Her first reaction was to go and give Jochem a cuddle. She wasn’t too surprised that it had been a German who had rescued him. But Michiel still couldn’t quite get over it.

  “But why, why did he do it?”

  “Well, I suppose he must simply have been a nice man,” said Erica.

  “A German? A nice man? So what’s he doing here?”

  “Michiel,” said Mrs Van Beusekom, “there are eighty million Germans. And whether you like it or not, some of them are good people, people who aren’t happy about this war either. We don’t like the Germans—you don’t and I don’t and Erica doesn’t—but, whichever way you look at it, we shall have to be grateful to this one particular German. I’m certainly grateful to him, in any case.”

  “He could have been one of the firing squad,” said Michiel stubbornly.

  “I don’t think so. And even if… No, I really don’t think he could have been.”

  “You don’t have to be part of a firing squad if you really don’t want to,” said Erica.

  Michiel didn’t reply. It was so much easier to hate all Germans. And he had to admit to himself that this soldier had behaved a great deal more nobly than all their neighbours put together. He looked at his brother’s cheeky little face. A fall from that height onto the cobbles…

  “Alright then, just this one,” he growled. “The other seventy-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine are still murderers.”

  “I’m sure it’s not quite as many as all that,” said Mother. “But fine, if you’ve let one sheep over the ditch, others will surely follow. Come on, Jochem. It’s bedtime.”

  “I’m never going out onto the roof again,” said Jochem. “Only if that nice man comes with me.”

  11

  It was a Wednesday afternoon and Michiel was getting ready to visit Jack. He popped a rucksack into his bike bag, with a couple of sandwiches, two apples, a bottle of milk, a small pan of cold, cooked brown beans and a piece of ham inside it.

  Not a bad haul this time, he thought, as he cycled towards Dagdaler Wood. When he got there, he didn’t immediately take the path to the young spruce plantation though, as someone was cycling behind him. Instead of going left, he went right. After a few hundred yards, he stopped and went back. The road was deserted now, so he headed into the woods. As usual, he hid his bike among the bushes and continued on foot. He reached the north-eastern section without running into anyone, and then dropped onto all fours and began the usual crawl. Jack heard him coming, even though Michiel was pretty stealthy by now, and the pilot was standing in the entrance to the cave, waiting for him.

  “Don’t be startled,” he said. “But we have a visitor.”

  In spite of the warning, Michiel was still shocked. It couldn’t be Erica. She’d been at home when he left.

  “Who is it?”

  “Take a look for yourself.”

  He went into the hideout and saw someone lying on the makeshift bed. As his eyes became used to the darkness, he realized who it was.

  “Dirk!”

  “Hello, Michiel.”

  Dirk sat up. He looked terrible! His nose was crooked. One of his eyes was so swollen that you couldn’t even see it. There was a nasty graze on his left cheek. His mouth hung open—apparently he couldn’t shut it properly.

  “Dirk, what on earth have they done to you?”

  Dirk tried to smile. But it was more of a grimace.

  “Just as well I don’t have a mirror.”

  “Did you escape?”

  “Yes. Jumped off the train. The night before last. Hey, have you brought any food? I haven’t eaten for two days. Hid in a hedge all day yesterday. F
roze half to death. Walked here last night. Or rather, stumbled.”

  “More like tumbled,” said Jack. “I almost shot him dead. He came crashing through the trees like a one-man platoon.”

  “Because I was almost unconscious,” said Dirk.

  Michiel opened up his rucksack and started handing the food to Dirk.

  “Anything soft, please. Those beans, they’ll do nicely. And milk. Lovely. I’ve hardly got any teeth left in my mouth. Sorry, Jack, I’m afraid you’re going to miss out on most of the meal this time. Why don’t you have the apples? I can’t bite into them anyway.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Jack.

  “I’ll bring more,” said Michiel. “Maybe today, but if not, tomorrow.”

  “Do you think you could bring another blanket?” asked Jack.

  “I’ll try.”

  Dirk ate everything he could manage to chew.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I seem to be taking over,” he said when he’d finished. “I’m eating your food, I’m using your bed. I know I’m a nuisance.”

  “Well, it’s your place really,” said Jack.

  “Michiel’s taken good care of you, though?”

  “He has.”

  “And he’s even taught you Dutch.”

  “He did that by himself mostly, with the help of a book,” said Michiel modestly. “But I’m sure he picked up a thing or two from Erica as well.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yes, sorry about that. She’s practically moved in.”

  “I’m not sorry,” said Jack.

  “So, the leak—was that because of Erica?”

  “Leak? What do you mean?”

  “Well, someone gave us away.”

  “Not Erica. She didn’t get involved until after the raid on the rations office, anyway.”

  “But somebody must have told the Germans about the raid. It was all just one big leaky sieve. Why do you think they came for Bertus, for instance? Jack told me about that. Did you let anyone read that letter, Michiel?”