Winter in Wartime

by Jan Terlouw

  “That wouldn’t be such a bad solution,” Dirk said darkly. “But I would rather like to have free hands. Let’s tie him up.”

  Five minutes later, Van Hierden’s hands were tied behind his back and a rope was knotted around his ankles and knees. Then Michiel went on with his story.

  “When he couldn’t find the letter, I imagine his reasoning went like this: let’s wait until the end of tomorrow to raid Bertus van Gelder’s place. Then we’ll find the letter with him. He assumed I’d deliver it straightaway. And I’m sure you want to know why I didn’t, don’t you?”

  Ben van Hierden didn’t reply.

  “I had all kinds of bad luck that day,” Michiel continued. “You know that Schafter cycled with me to Councillor Van Kleiweg’s, and then he saw me again later that day. But that didn’t mean he knew about Bertus. So it was pure coincidence, Dirk. You were right about that.”

  “But he showed the Germans the way to Driekusmanswegje, didn’t he?” objected Dirk.

  “Maybe they asked for directions. It’s no secret. No reason why he shouldn’t tell them. Anyway, he could still easily be a friend of the Germans. Everyone says he is. But there’s no way he could have betrayed Bertus. That man over there—he was the only one who knew. And then there was the question of the Koppel ferry. On the evening of the day when I took the Rotterdammers over the river, Van Hierden happened to come by. He hadn’t heard about my father’s death yet. And he seemed so upset that, to cheer him up, I told him about—”

  “But I was upset,” said Ben van Hierden. “I always liked your father.”

  “Then perhaps you should have let the Krauts know that. I’m sure it would have helped.”

  “That’s the thing, though,” muttered Ben van Hierden. “That’s why I was so shaken up. I’d neglected to tell the commander to keep his hands off the mayor.”

  “And what about the town clerk and the minister and the others? They didn’t matter, eh?” said Michiel furiously. “It was alright for them to die. The town clerk’s wife is in a psychiatric clinic now. Did you know that? She’s never going to get over it.”

  Ben van Hierden didn’t reply.

  “Anyway, to cheer him up, I threw caution to the wind and told him about how the baroness was putting one over on the Krauts. You all know what happened then. The next morning, the soldiers turned up and closed it all down. And I was such an idiot for suspecting Schafter.”

  For a while, they were all sunk in their own thoughts. Jack was thinking that this meant the end of his escape to the south. Ben van Hierden was frantically searching for a way out of the tricky situation. Dirk was trying to decide what they should do with the traitor. And Michiel was wondering how this man, a man he’d called Uncle his entire life, a man he’d always liked so much, had come to stoop so very low.

  “I made sure you were kept out of everything,” said Ben van Hierden.

  “That should have been a clue,” said Michiel. “A few times I was sure they’d come for me. So why didn’t you give them my name?”

  “Because I’ve always been so fond of you.”

  “Careful, Michiel,” said Dirk. “Don’t let him get to you.”

  “Why did you do it?” asked Michiel. “Were the Germans paying you?”

  “No,” replied Ben van Hierden, with a fanatical gleam in his eyes. “I did it because Hitler’s such a great man. He understands that some races were created to rule and others to serve. There’s a good reason why the Slavic people got that name—they’re only fit to be slaves. And the French and the Italians and the Spanish are weaklings too. The Jews are so inferior that they deserve to be wiped out entirely.”

  Michiel remembered Jitzchak Kleerkoper’s fine, intelligent face.

  “The English might be worth something if they weren’t so decadent,” Van Hierden continued.

  “Thanks very much,” said Jack with a grimace.

  “But the greatest nation, the master race—that’s the Germans. They’re tall and blond, they have the best engineers and scientists, they’ve produced the greatest composers. And they’re military men. No other army is as disciplined, as—”

  “Just shut up!” said Dirk suddenly. “I can’t listen to this claptrap any longer.”

  He rubbed the scar that ran from his left ear to his nose.

  “What are we going to do with him?” asked Jack.

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering too,” replied Dirk.

  “There really is only one option,” said Jack casually.

  Dirk nodded.

  “Michiel, you can’t allow them to do this,” growled Ben van Hierden.

  “To do what?”

  “To…”

  “Do the two of you want to shoot him?” Michiel asked quietly.

  Dirk shrugged.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Again, silence fell in the hideout.

  “You can do it,” Jack said to Dirk after a while. “You’re the one who’s suffered most because of him.”

  “Me? No, please, go ahead. You’re the soldier.”

  “No,” said Jack, “that wasn’t part of the training.”

  “Can’t we hand him over to the resistance?” suggested Michiel. “Mr Postma can decide what needs to be done.”

  Dirk had to think about that.

  “But how are we going to get him to the resistance? And how can we convince them that he’s a collaborator? Aren’t we running an unnecessary risk by involving others?”

  They couldn’t make up their minds. Jack thought they should ask Erica’s opinion too. Finally they decided to sleep on it. Van Hierden could stay tied up in the hideout, although the space was cramped for three people.

  “Oh well,” said Jack, “there’s not much room in a cockpit either. And where would I be now if Michiel couldn’t ride his bike quite so fast?”

  “See you tomorrow,” said Michiel. “I’ll tell Erica what’s going on.”

  He crawled through the trees, climbed onto his bike and cycled home. Even with all the bitterness he felt, he was relieved, because the uncertainty and the mysteries were over. He understood now how Ben van Hierden had been able to organize a letter from Jack’s mother so quickly. He’d obviously told the Germans not to get in the way of the Red Cross, so that Michiel would be impressed by his connections. And it was indeed that quick exchange of letters with Jack’s mother that had made him trust Uncle Ben all the more.

  There was only one question still buzzing around inside his head. It was about the Green Cross building. How had Schafter known that Michiel had written that letter? He shook his head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t work it out.

  15

  The next day, they all met up at the hiding place, including Erica, who had been deeply shocked to hear that Uncle Ben was a collaborator. She could still hardly believe it. Now that they were in the hideout together, she avoided looking at him.

  Dirk had thought long and hard. He shared his conclusions with the others.

  “Yes, I think we should give him to Mr Postma,” he said. “He could have information that might be important for the resistance. Mr Postma will just have to get it out of him. Hopefully the war will be over soon, and then they can hand him over to the authorities. The judge can decide what his punishment should be. But I’ll be only too happy to testify against him.”

  Michiel thought that Dirk had maybe chosen that course of action because he couldn’t carry out the sentence himself. The same probably went for Jack. Dirk clearly hadn’t even considered asking Erica or Michiel.

  “OK?” said Dirk.

  He looked around. Everyone nodded.

  “How are we going to get him out of here?” asked Michiel.

  “I suggest you take a letter from me to Mr Postma,” said Dirk. “With any luck, Postma will know of a place where he can hide Van Hierden. You’ll have to ask him if he’s willing to come to the edge of Dagdaler Wood to fetch the prisoner. And, with the help of the pistol, I’ll take him from here to the meet
ing point.”

  “That’ll never work,” said Jack. “Your hands are still shaking far too much to hold onto the pistol. I’ll do it.”

  But Dirk shook his head.

  “It’s not a good idea for Postma to meet you. One of us will have to do it. I’d rather he didn’t know exactly where our hiding place is either. I trust him, but the fewer people who know, the better.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Michiel.

  “You sure you’re up to it?”

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Good, then that’s agreed.”

  “But if the Germans stop me and find the letter, we’ve had it,” said Michiel. “So wouldn’t it be better for me to pass on a message to Mr Postma rather than taking a letter?”

  “He might not believe you. I’ll try to write the letter in such a way that it won’t mean anything to anyone except him.”

  They all agreed on the plan. All Dirk wrote in his note was:

  M. v. B. is completely trustworthy, signed White Leghorn.

  Which, as Mr Postma would know, actually meant “signed Dirk Knopper”.

  Michiel found Mr Postma at home. He read the note, and then gave Michiel a searching look.

  “Do you know who White Leghorn is?”

  Michiel nodded.

  “Is he in prison?”

  “He escaped.”

  “Thank God,” said Mr Postma. “Where is he now?”

  Michiel looked his old teacher straight in the eyes, without saying a word.

  “Fine. So what can I do for you, Michiel?”

  The young resistance fighter told him about the collaborator and what he’d done. “And now we’d like to hand him over to you,” he said, finishing his story.

  After some thought, Mr Postma agreed to take the prisoner. He’d come and fetch him at half-past seven the following evening, at the agreed meeting point.

  “How? On foot?” asked Michiel.

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you worried he’ll escape in the village, with all those people passing through?”

  “It’s already getting dark by then. There won’t be many people about. Besides, I don’t need to use the main road. The busiest part of the route will be the old station road. It should be pretty quiet, but there’s still a risk. Would you come along? Then we can make him walk between us.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then.”

  Ben van Hierden had scented his chance to escape. In the short stretch from the hideout to the edge of the woods, he’d be alone with Michiel. He’d surely find some way to do it then.

  Jack crawled with them to the path, where he handed Michiel the pistol.

  “If he tries to make a run for it, don’t hesitate to shoot,” he said.

  Michiel nodded, as calmly as he could. Would he really be able to do it? To shoot the man he’d loved like an uncle for so long?

  Holding the pistol under his jacket, Michiel made Van Hierden walk a few steps ahead. They were barely out of Jack’s sight when the man turned around.

  “Michiel, do we really have to walk through the woods like this?” he asked with a sigh. “Have you forgotten all the pleasant walks we’ve had together?”

  “Keep going,” growled Michiel.

  But Ben van Hierden did not keep going. He sat down on a fallen tree. Michiel took out the pistol and aimed it at the man’s head.

  “I’ll shoot,” he said, but he didn’t sound too sure.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Van Hierden. “You can’t shoot me. We’ve been friends for too long. Come and sit beside me for a moment and let’s talk.”

  “I told you to get up and keep walking,” said Michiel, with a tremble in his voice.

  “Listen, Michiel, please try to understand me. I believe that the German system of national socialism is the best thing for our country and for the world. That is possible, isn’t it? You don’t have to agree with me, but someone can honestly have that opinion, can’t they? Right? Well, that’s how I feel. And doesn’t that make it my duty to do whatever I can to help the Germans spread their system all over the world? Isn’t it a question of honour and conscience?”

  “No,” said Michiel, “no one’s honour and conscience should force them to betray their land and their fellow countrymen. Or to get Willem Stomp shot and Dirk Knopper’s toes smashed.”

  A feeling of triumph shot through Van Hierden. He had got the boy to talk—and to see him as a human being once again. Now there was no way Michiel would be able to bring himself to shoot him.

  “Terrible things happen in every war,” he continued. “I don’t like it either, but they still happen all the same. Do you really think the Russians and the Americans are such angels?”

  “They’re fighting for a just cause,” said Michiel. “But I’m not interested in talking to you. Get up and start walking.”

  “What do you think those people from the resistance will do to me? Exactly the same as what happened to Dirk. They’ll torture me until they think I’ve told them everything that’s worth knowing. Then they’ll shoot me.”

  “It’s what you deserve,” said Michiel, but he was starting to hesitate. Was Mr Postma really capable of that? He couldn’t imagine it. On the other hand, could he ever have imagined that Uncle Ben was a collaborator?

  “I’m going to walk off down that path over there,” said Ben van Hierden calmly, “and you’re not going to shoot. You’re going to say I escaped because a German patrol came through the woods or something like that. I promise you’ll never see me again.”

  He had stood up and was walking slowly backwards down the path, his eyes fixed on Michiel’s. Michiel stood there with the pistol in his hand and didn’t move. Could he shoot at that familiar face? He thought about his father, about the baroness, about Dirk, about Bertus and Jannechien. What good would it do them if Ben van Hierden were killed? But Jack… Jack would be caught, of course. Van Hierden knew about the hideout. And Erica and Michiel—they’d be arrested and shot too. Still he didn’t move.

  And his mother… his mother would receive another letter, maybe even two letters in the same envelope, politely informing her that her daughter and her son… She would grit her teeth and send Jochem to join the underground. The madness of that thought, a boy of six as a resistance fighter, was what it took to break the spell. As Michiel pictured his mother’s look of determination, the smile on Van Hierden’s face seemed to turn into a sly grin.

  Michiel stepped forward and pulled the trigger. The bullet didn’t hit, but the shot sounded incredibly loud in the quiet of the evening. Van Hierden’s hands shot up.

  “Now walk,” hissed Michiel, “or I’ll shoot you dead, for sure.”

  The traitor realized that his plan had failed. Obediently, he headed in the direction Michiel pointed. They soon met Mr Postma, who, alerted by the shot, had run towards them.

  “He tried to escape,” Michiel explained.

  Mr Postma was wearing a raincoat with large pockets, his hand clutching a pistol inside the right one. He walked close beside Van Hierden, pressing the barrel of the gun through the fabric of his coat into the man’s hip.

  “I’ll shoot first and then warn you,” he said.

  Michiel walked on the other side of his former uncle. None of them spoke a word. Twice they saw someone they knew, and they nodded and smiled as naturally as they could. After a while, they reached the road to the station. But something was different. What was it?

  “Munitions trucks,” whispered Mr Postma.

  There were five camouflaged trucks standing beneath the trees, about a hundred yards apart.

  “Are they dangerous?” asked Michiel.

  “Very. One lit cigarette could cause a disaster.”

  A little later, Michiel heard a quiet droning in the distance.

  “I think Rinus de Raat is about to pay us a visit,” he said.

  Mr Postma stopped.

  “You’re right. A Spitfir
e. That’s a problem.”

  Michiel thought his reaction was a little extreme. He’d seen British planes in action so many times before. The noise swiftly came closer.

  “Quick! Take cover!” said Mr Postma. When Michiel didn’t move, he yelled: “Don’t you get it? If that plane fires even a single round into one of those trucks, half of the village will go up in flames.”

  He pushed Ben van Hierden into one of the holes at the side of the road.

  “Keep down,” he growled. “I’ve got my gun on you.”

  Then he jumped into the next hole, and Michiel took the one after that.

  Mr Postma peered out over the edge of the hole, closely watching Van Hierden.

  Soon the plane came thundering over their heads. They all ducked, but there was no sound of shots. The plane disappeared. Michiel began to climb out, but Mr Postma signalled at him to stay down.

  “He could come back,” he shouted.

  He was right. The pilot must have seen something suspicious. He made a sharp turn above the village and came flying back along the road, lower than before. As the terrifying noise swelled, Michiel and Mr Postma ducked into their holes. But Ben van Hierden seized his chance. He leapt up and, before they even noticed, he’d already zigzagged his way about twenty yards down the road. Mr Postma wanted to shoot, but he was scared of hitting one of the trucks. He might as well have done it though, as the Spitfire unleashed a hail of bullets towards the vehicles. A deafening noise. It was as if the ground split apart. Michiel and Mr Postma lay curled up like hedgehogs in the bottom of their holes—it’s incredible how small you can make yourself when you need to. Two trucks were blown to smithereens—fortunately the two that were furthest away from Michiel and Mr Postma. Huge craters in the ground marked the spots where they had been. A tree lay halfway across the road. Three houses were now piles of rubble. The devastation was shocking.

  When the sound of the explosions had died away, Michiel and Mr Postma emerged from their hiding places, their faces pale. Ben van Hierden had been wiped off the face of the earth, so thoroughly that it would be hard to find any part of him to bury. People came running from every direction, diving onto the smoking heaps of rubble, searching for survivors. Michiel wanted to join them, but Mr Postma said, “We need to get away. There’s enough help here.”