by Jan Terlouw
“Why? Van Hierden’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Our guns. If they stop us and search us, we’ve had it.”
“Of course. Yes, yes, you’re right.”
They each went their own way. Mr Postma headed home, and Michiel went back to the hideout to return the pistol to Jack and Dirk and to tell them what had happened. In spite of the shock, he felt relieved. Ben van Hierden would not be able to do any more harm. But he was tired. Tired from all the danger and the tension, from the fear and the responsibility. When, when, when would this terrible war finally be over?
16
The Van Beusekoms were just eating lunch when a vanguard of five British tanks entered the village. Mother was the first to notice the unusual vehicles. They looked less bulky than the German tanks, more nimble, more elegant. In every gun turret stood a man in a light-coloured jacket with a beret perched at a jaunty angle over one ear. She jumped to her feet and, shouting louder than her children had ever heard, cried out: “Our liberators!”
People wrapped in orange sashes and Dutch flags poured out of the houses and onto the streets. They climbed onto the tanks and hugged the soldiers. The hiding places opened up—and out came the Jewish people and the escaped prisoners and the hidden pilots. There was singing and dancing and celebration.
It was soon discovered that not a single German was left in the entire village, and the barracks had been abandoned. The night before, everyone and everything that was German had disappeared across the IJssel.
The men from the underground finally surfaced. They wore special orange bands on their arms to show that they’d been members of the resistance. The men who had been fighting in secret for a long time, who had lived in danger for years, were tired and humble. Now they simply did what had to be done, and they left it at that. Those who had joined the resistance only in recent weeks, however, when the war was clearly coming to an end, were full of stories and paraded around the streets at every opportunity. They also had fun bringing in everyone who was suspected of having been too friendly with the Germans. The girls who had gone out with German soldiers had their heads shaved. Men were hoisted onto the handlebars of motorbikes and driven through the village with their hands up, before being imprisoned in the school. Some of them deserved no better, while others had just been friendly to the Germans because they were scared, but had done nothing else wrong.
Schafter was one of those taken for a ride on the front of a motorbike. However, that turned out to be a serious mistake. He’d actually had three Jewish people hiding in his house all along. He was soon released, with an apology. Michiel went to visit him at home to say how sorry he was for having suspected him.
“You thought I was the one who told them about the Koppel ferry, eh?” said Schafter. “After all, we’d spoken about it only that morning.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Michiel shamefacedly. “It’s just that you asked so many questions. And everyone said you were hand in glove with the Germans and… well, to be honest, that’s what it looked like.”
Schafter nodded. “The thing was, I had those people in my house. They’d been with me since 1942. At a certain point I realized that the Germans were getting suspicious. So, to be on the safe side, I pretended to be a friend of theirs. I did little favours for them, trivial things, of course. Obviously I never gave them any information about anyone.”
“Did you tell them to go to Bertus van Gelder’s house?”
“Huh? No.”
“Jannechien heard that, on the day her husband was taken in, you were seen chatting with the Germans.”
“Oh, that’s what you’re talking about. They knew me, so they asked me the way. What I mean is that they asked me if I knew where Driekusmanswegje was. And, of course, I told them where it was. They could have found it just as easily on a map.”
“But how on earth did you know I was the one who posted that letter through your door?” asked Michiel.
“Because of the people who were in hiding in my house. We’d made a peephole by the front door, just for emergencies. They heard footsteps on the gravel and looked to see who was coming. I could tell from their description that it must be you. And I knew you were suspicious of me because of the ferry business.”
“I see,” said Michiel. “I really am sorry that I suspected you. But you were just so… curious about everything.”
“It’s in my nature,” said Schafter with a grin.
“Aren’t you angry about the way they treated you?”
“Not really,” said Schafter. “I was scared I’d fall off the motorbike, that’s all. I knew it would all turn out fine in the end. Do you know who it was who came to get me?”
“Yes. I saw you going past. It was Dries Grotendorst, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. The Grotendorsts kept a motorbike hidden under their hay shed for the last few years. They made a pile of money on the black market too. I heard they were asking for twelve new pre-war bed sheets in exchange for a pound of butter.”
“Really? But there wasn’t much profiteering around here,” said Michiel.
“No, the local farmers were honest and decent for the main part,” Schafter agreed. “But not the Grotendorsts. Dries was a member of the resistance for precisely twenty-two days. Not long enough for him to know I’d been a member for three and a half years. Oh well… At least he’s pretty safe on a motorbike.”
“Would you believe I always suspected Dries was a big shot in the resistance? It just goes to show how wrong you can be. Thank God it’s all over now,” said Michiel.
Schafter nodded. “You can say that again,” he replied. “But still… how many people can really be happy? The people who hid in my house are free to walk the streets for the first time in three years. Are they happy? In a way, I suppose, yes, but then… They’re probably the only members of their family who are still alive. That’s a very sad place to start over again.”
Michiel thought about his father.
“And you know exactly what I’m talking about, of course,” said Schafter.
“Yes, it’s hard, especially for Mother. Do you remember those two farmers’ wives I took over on the ferry? They were actually a Mr Kleerkoper and his son. Someone brought a message from Den Hulst this morning to say that they survived the war. But yes, they…”
He didn’t finish his sentence.
Schafter nodded. “It’s terrible what the Nazis have done to the Jews,” he said. “So many deaths.”
Michiel headed home. In spite of Schafter’s sombre words, in spite of his mother’s sad eyes, a feeling of happiness was bubbling up inside him. It was over, finally over. Hitler had been defeated. An end had come to the shooting and the murders and the torture. Dirk was with his parents, safe and sound. Jack was back with his squadron and wrote Erica long, loving letters full of mistakes. Van Dijk the ferryman had died in a concentration camp in Germany, but Bertus was back with his Jannechien. The days of starvation were over. There were delicious things to eat, like “corned beef”, whatever that might actually be. The Allied soldiers lived in luxury. They wore casual, sporty gear—such a breath of fresh air after the Germans’ loathsome, stiff uniforms! They joked with the girls, dished out cigarettes and cans of food and raced around in small open vehicles, which they called Jeeps.
Life had colour again. There were many stories of death, but also stories about people who had miraculously survived the war. Newspapers were being published again and you were allowed to read them right in the middle of the street if you wanted. What a difference from the illegal newssheets—being caught in possession of one of those could have got you killed. And then there were all the parties. People couldn’t get enough of dancing and singing, of fun and laughter. They had five years to catch up on. Peacetime was met with joy, peace after a war the like of which should never, ever be seen again.
A few months later. The war with Japan was now over too. America had succeeded in creating two terrible, devastating bombs. Atom bombs. It was deemed
necessary to drop them on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Those two cities, with all their men, women and children, were wiped out, and Japan surrendered. The damaged world could now start licking its wounds.
One evening, Michiel and Dirk went for a walk around the village. It was a slow process. Dirk’s right foot was in plaster. At the hospital they’d broken his toes all over again and then straightened them, this time under anaesthesia. If his right foot healed properly, they’d do the left one next. They were optimistic that he’d be able to walk normally again in about a year. For now, though, it was just one step at a time, with the help of a walking stick.
In the distance, they saw Gert Verkoren approaching, an athletic young man of around twenty-five.
“You see Gert Verkoren over there?” asked Dirk.
“Yes. What about him?”
“He was the third man in the raid on the rations office in Lagezande.”
“The man you didn’t give away?”
Dirk nodded.
Gert had come closer now.
“Evening, Gert.”
“Hello, Dirk. Michiel.”
He stopped for a chat.
“So how’s your foot, Dirk?”
“Not so bad. Next year I’ll be running the race around the village again.”
“If it weren’t for me, you’d be running it this year,” said Gert, “and winning it too. You’ve no idea how grateful I am, Dirk.”
“There’s really no need,” said Dirk. “I was unlucky and you weren’t. That’s all there is to it.”
Humbly, he changed the subject.
“Hey, Gert, that’s a nice shirt you’re wearing.”
“Yeah, thanks. My girlfriend made it for me out of parachute silk. Would you believe I came across a dead Kraut wrapped up in a British parachute? The Kraut wasn’t much good to me, but the parachute came in handy.”
Michiel gaped, but no sound came out. Dirk laid his hand on his arm as if to say, “Let me do the talking.”
Calmly he asked, “When was that?”
“Just before the raid. I got out of the area pretty quickly after that. Didn’t come back to De Vlank until after liberation. The parachute was still waiting for me in the barn, under the chicken feed.”
“Did you know…” Dirk began, but then he stopped.
“Know what?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Come on, Michiel, let’s get going. Evening, Gert.”
“See you around.”
As they strolled on, Dirk gave Michiel an apologetic smile. “There’s no sense talking about it now, eh?” he said.
“No,” replied Michiel. “There’s only one thing now that makes any sense.”
“What’s that?”
“Never fighting in another war ever again, only fighting against war.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Dirk.
17
Many years have passed since then. Michiel is now an old man of eighty-nine. He reads the newspapers and he knows that since his walk with Dirk that evening, there has been fighting in Hungary, Vietnam, Korea, China, Northern Ireland, the former Yugoslavia, Turkey, Cambodia, Indonesia, Nepal, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Bhutan, Papua New Guinea, Taiwan, Jordan, Lebanon, Libya, the Congo, Angola, Burundi, Côte d’Ivoire, Liberia, Sudan, Ethiopia, Nigeria, Senegal, Somalia, Rwanda, Uganda, Eritrea, Yemen, Niger, Djibouti, Tanzania, Kenya, Mali, Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Honduras, Haiti, Columbia, Venezuela, Guatemala, Peru, Bolivia, Mexico, the Falkland Islands, East Timor, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Russia, Chechnya, Georgia, Israel, Algeria, Egypt, Ukraine, Syria and many, many other countries.
We created Pushkin Children’s Books to share tales from different languages and cultures with younger readers, and to open the door to the wide, colourful worlds these stories offer.
From picture books and adventure stories to fairy tales and classics, and from fifty-year-old bestsellers to current huge successes abroad, the books on the Pushkin Children’s list reflect the very best stories from around the world, for our most discerning readers of all: children.
THE BEGINNING WOODS
MALCOLM MCNEILL
‘I loved every word and was envious of quite a few… A modern classic. Rich, funny and terrifying’
Eoin Colfer
THE RED ABBEY CHRONICLES
MARIA TURTSCHANINOFF
1 · Maresi
2 · Naondel
‘Embued with myth, wonder, and told with a dazzling, compelling ferocity’
Kiran Millwood Hargrave, author of The Girl of Ink and Stars
THE LETTER FOR THE KING
TONKE DRAGT
‘The Letter for the King will get pulses racing… Pushkin Press deserves every praise for publishing this beautifully translated, well-presented and captivating book’
The Times
THE SECRETS OF THE WILD WOOD
TONKE DRAGT
‘Offers intrigue, action and escapism’
Sunday Times
THE SONG OF SEVEN
TONKE DRAGT
‘A cracking adventure… so nail-biting you’ll need to wear protective gloves’
The Times
THE MURDERER’S APE
JAKOB WEGELIUS
‘A thrilling adventure. Prepare to meet the remarkable Sally Jones; you won’t soon forget her’
Publishers Weekly
Copyright
Pushkin Press
71–75 Shelton Street
London, WC2H 9JQ
Copyright © 1973, 2003, 2016 by
Lemniscaat, Rotterdam, the Netherlands
Text © 1973, 2003, 2016 by Jan Terlouw
English translation © Laura Watkinson 2018
Winter in Wartime was first published as
Oorlogswinter in The Netherlands, 1973
First published by Pushkin Press in 2018
This publication has been made possible with financial support from the Dutch Foundation for Literature.
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
ISBN 13: 978–1–78269–177–8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press
www.pushkinpress.com