by Diane Moody
“Mother once told me how nervous she was in front of all those people, but she stood by your side because she loved you so dearly.”
His eyes glistened. “Yes, we loved each other very much. Even as a girl she was very shy. Yet she was willing to become a pastor’s wife because she believed God himself had drawn us together.”
A moment passed. “Will Mother recover? Will she ever be herself again?”
Sadness fell across his face. “I don’t know, Anya. This war will be very hard on her. Even now I don’t think she truly understands that the Germans now occupy our homeland. I can’t bring myself to tell her. She’s so fragile . . .”
“What’s to become of us?”
He squeezed her hand again. “Only God knows the answer to that question, Anya. He has allowed this travesty to occur for reasons we may never fully understand. But we trust Him, no matter what befalls us. Always we trust Him.”
Anya pushed her chair back and stood. “Why would a loving God do such a thing? How can He just sit back and watch the suffering? Where is His heart if not with His people?”
Her father gazed at her with sympathetic eyes. “This, you must ask Him. I cannot speak for Him.”
She reached for the dish rag and began wiping the countertop in busy circles. “I don’t have your faith, Father. I have no patience for God playing games with people’s lives. He must stop this at once!”
He made his way to her side, stilling her hands with his own. “Oh Anya, do not presume to tell God what He must or must not do.”
She untangled herself from his grip, lifting her face to mere inches from his. “Then what are we to do with our guests?” She jerked her chin in the direction of the attic. “Huh? How can we promise them safety when our own lives are in peril? What will we do when our home is searched and they are discovered? Even in the hidden space between the attic and the ceiling—if the baby were to whimper, we’d all be arrested. You’ve heard the stories. You know what the Gestapo does to those hiding Jews!”
“Lower your voice, Anya.”
She huffed, planting her fists on her hips. “Tell me,” she whispered coarsely, “tell me how we shall endure this. Tell me how!” A sob stopped her cold as she began to weep. “Oh Father, I’m so scared!”
He wrapped her in his arms, shushing her whimpers. She hated crying and always had. Tears were for sissies. At least that’s what she’d always thought until Hans died. Then, nothing could stop the flow of her tears. How frustrated she’d been! And now, the day her country knelt for surrender before Hitler’s machine, giving up after only five days—now she fought the tears all over again. This must stop. I will not cry again!
Anya straightened herself, wiping her face as she tried to find her composure.
“Dear Anya,” her father said, holding her face in his hands. “I don’t have the answers you need, and I cannot speak for God. But this I promise you—we will get through this together. And if God allows us to live through it all, then we shall look back and know we stood together and did what we had to do.”
She couldn’t respond and didn’t try.
He gently tweaked the tip of her nose, just as he’d done a thousand times before. “And now I shall check on your mother and our guests. Are you all right?”
She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yes, Father. As much as I can be, under the circumstances.”
As he left the room, Anya stood at the window looking out on the deserted road in front of the parsonage. No children played in the street. No vendors knocked on their door. No parishioners waved as they took a stroll by the house. Only the constant sounds of war in the distance. That’s when she knew she and God must come to some kind of understanding.
“You will answer my questions one day, Lord. In the meantime, I will do whatever it takes to survive this Occupation.”
Whatever it takes.
15
How odd, Anya thought. We sit here in our classrooms, acting as if soldiers aren’t in the halls watching our every move. We listen to our teacher, study our books as though the streets aren’t lined with armored tanks. How can we put our heads in the sand as if nothing has changed?
Anya fidgeted in her seat, her foot bouncing in rhythm with her nerves. How anyone expected them to learn in such a situation was utterly ridiculous. Already the Germans had mandated that all Jewish students must go to a special school for Jews only across town. More than half the desks in her classroom sat vacant, including that of her friend Lieke. She felt a knot in her stomach each time she thought of Lieke and her large family. There was talk of Jews forced to board trains to be transported to some kind of camp. Anya knew it wasn’t the kind of camp they’d gone to as Girl Scouts. She had to talk to Lieke, to convince her and her family to hide before it was too late. But would her family take the risk? For them to follow German orders would mean certain death.
I must find a way to help. There must be a way!
As Anya left school that day, she vowed it would be her last. Who could study in such an atmosphere? What was the point? Even her teachers seemed distracted and on edge. Every one of those empty seats in her classroom seemed to cry out, “Help us! We have done nothing wrong! Please help us before it’s too late!”
Anya ran the rest of the way home. “Father?” she called as she burst through the front door.
“Anya? Is that you?”
But the voice wasn’t her father’s. It belonged to Helga, her mother’s dearest friend. Whenever she was gone and her father was called away, Helga would stay with her mother. Anya was relieved her father wasn’t home. Now she could go to see the Boormans without him telling her she couldn’t.
“How is Mother today?” Anya asked as she entered her parents’ bedroom.
Helga stood to hug her. “The same. Always the same. As if her mind is locked away in some prison. Still, I talk to her and sing to her. I tell myself it calms her spirit.”
“You are so good to her.”
“She would do the same for me.”
Anya leaned over her mother’s resting body. “Hello, Mother. It’s Anya. I love you.” She kissed her mother’s forehead and turned to go. “I must go to the Boormans for a while, but I’ll be back. Don’t wait dinner on me.”
“Oh Anya, do you think you should be out and about? What if you happened onto some Germans on your way there?”
“Then I shall speak Dutch and tell them what idiots they are.”
“Child! Don’t talk like that! These are dangerous times. People have been shot for less.”
Anya turned and tried to appease her mother’s friend. “I’m teasing. I shall act like I haven’t a brain in my head and sputter so much Dutch, they’ll wish me gone. Don’t worry, Helga. And please, don’t tell Father.”
“But if he asks—”
“Then change the subject.”
She changed her clothes and hurried outside to get her bicycle. It had seen better days, but it still rolled. She’d often thought of using Hans’ bike which stood in the shed collecting dust. Not yet, she always told herself. As her wheels offered a repetitive scraping and squeaking rhythm, she pedaled hard with the urgency of her mission. The farm was only fifteen miles away, an easy trip before the Occupation began. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Her father hadn’t allowed her to venture out except to school. He wouldn’t be pleased, but she was desperate to know how the Boormans were doing, and she had an urgent favor to ask of them.
As she crested the last hill, she spotted a group of people ahead walking her direction. Germans! Her heart skipped a beat. She yanked the handlebars a hard right, steering herself off the road and into a thick cluster of bushes. Quickly pushing her bicycle under the brush, she crawled in beside it. Panting hard, she scolded herself. Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t move a muscle.
She couldn’t see through the bushes and prayed they couldn’t see her either. As their voices grew closer, she held her breath. She knew enough German to catch the drift of their conversation. One of the soldiers was
bragging about the beautiful Dutch girl he’d bedded the night before. His comments and their responses disgusted her. Any Dutch girl who gives herself to lie with these pigs should be shot. Who would do such a thing?
Eventually the soldiers passed by, but Anya waited several minutes more. Finally, she crept from cover and peeked out to make sure they were gone. She struggled to pull the old bicycle from the bushes, but finally broke it free. She climbed on the seat and pedaled as fast as she could.
Two miles more and she turned left, bouncing along the rutted dirt lane that led to the farm.
“Anya!” Wim cried, hobbling toward her with the help of his cane. “Thank God you’re alive! We’ve been so worried!”
She dropped her bicycle and ran into his embrace. Something caught in her throat as she realized Wim had worried about her. She’d never allowed herself to have feelings for him, though he was always kind and attentive. In many ways she’d thought of him as a brother, though she knew no one would ever take the place of Hans.
He put his arm over her shoulders as they made their way to the farmhouse. “Your parents? They are safe too?”
“Yes, they’re fine. Well, except for Mother. She’s the same, but safe. Everyone is safe. At least for now.” She hoped he understood the implied meaning.
“Ah, yes. We are all well here too. All of us.”
“Oh, thank God. I’ve been so worried.”
“Come. Mother and Father will want to see you.”
Later, as they sat around the kitchen table, they shared their experiences since the fall of their country to the Germans.
Ella Boorman poured hot tea into Anya’s cup. “The paratroopers landed all over our fields! They came storming into the house, shouting their demands, taking whatever they wanted—”
“You must have been so frightened!”
“Ja, we were very afraid. But Bram, he told them we’re just poor farmers, we have nothing—”
“But that didn’t stop them. They started poking around the house,” Bram said, his deep voice agitated, “and into our closets, our cellar—”
Anya sucked in a breath.
“Our guests were tucked safely in the hidden cellar beneath the barn. We have practiced many times what to do if Germans come. They were quiet as church mice. Even the little ones. It was surely an act of God. The Germans poked around in the hay, disturbed our livestock, but they found nothing.”
Anya put her hand over her heart. “Oh, thank God. They must have been terrified!”
“They are safe now, Father,” Wim said, “but what about next time? It was dangerous enough before the Occupation. Now, we could be shot for hiding our Jews.”
“I asked my father the same question,” Anya said. “There must be something we can do?”
Wim looked at his father and raised his brows.
“What?” Anya asked, picking up on the unspoken message.
Bram shook his head and looked away.
“Stop that! Tell me,” she insisted, looking back and forth between them.
Ella patted Anya’s hand. “There are some things best not discussed.”
Anya pulled her hand free. “No. Do not treat me as if I’m a child.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “In fact, you should know that I came here today to ask you to help.”
“Help? What kind of help do you need?” Wim asked.
She paused. “I know you have more guests than you can handle. We have so little room in our home, we can’t take more. So many Jews . . . but my friend Lieke and her family, I must do something to help them. What shall become of them and all the others if we don’t help them? There has to be something we can do.”
Wim’s eyes stayed on her. “And what might that be?”
She looked from Wim to his father then his mother. “How should I know? I was hoping you had some ideas. Surely if we work together, we can do something?”
Bram stood and walked over to the kitchen sink where he poured out the rest of his tea. “Anya, have you mentioned this to anyone else?” He turned, looking over his shoulder at her.
“No. No one. Not even Father. He knows of my concern but until today, I hadn’t thought beyond my own needs—only how the war would affect me. But today as I sat in my classroom surrounded by so many empty desks . . . something happened inside my heart. I can’t explain it, I only know I have to do something!” she growled. “Father doesn’t know it yet, but I’m not going back to school. It’s a waste of time and there’s too much to be done. Tell me—you have to tell me what we can do!”
Anya studied Bram’s weathered face. Such a kind man, always ready to lend a hand, gracious with everyone he met. She’d grown to love her time with this family. As she looked into his deep set eyes beneath those bushy brows, she knew he was holding something back. But why would he?
She turned to find Wim looking at her, his gaze dropping when their eyes met. Such a strong face, his messy blond hair falling across his forehead, his eyes so blue. She felt herself blushing and pursed her lips, unsettled that she’d reacted like such a school girl.
“Anya . . . there are people . . .”
16
“Yes?” Anya said. “Go on, Bram. There are people?”
The farmer took his seat again. Resting his elbows on the table, he leaned in toward her, lowering his voice. “There are people who are organizing.”
She pushed her chair closer, leaning in as far as she could. “I’m listening.”
“They’re coming together, people just like you, wanting to help those in grave danger in our country. They have begun an effort to mobilize individuals like you, like Wim and Ella and myself—people who are tired of the injustices against their Jewish countrymen.”
Wim spoke as quietly as his father. “Anya, it’s very dangerous. The things they do could get all of them—all of us killed. Are you sure this is something you want to do?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes. I want to be a part of this group that is organizing. Tell me what I must do.”
“First, you must understand you can tell no one of your involvement,” Bram began. “And I mean no one. A slip of the tongue could cost any one of us our lives. I would never ask you to keep something from your parents, but I’m afraid I must. It’s as much for their safety as yours. The less they know, the better.”
She looked down at her tea cup resting on its saucer. Could she be a part of this without telling her father? He seemed to know her so well—how she thought, how she acted. Would he see through her? Still, she knew what she must do.
“Yes, I’ll do it. I may have to be creative in explaining my absences to Father, but I can do it. I must do it.”
“Good,” Bram said, folding his arms. “Your help will be greatly appreciated.”
“What can I do?”
“At this point, much of our work is primarily that of communication. When so many of our people handed over their radios to the Germans, they cut themselves off from the truth. The German newspapers are filled with lies and propaganda. We must get the truth to our people. Every night at the 8:00 broadcast on the BBC, we have people who take down the information in shorthand. They transcribe their notes, then others print the news which is then carefully, so very carefully distributed.
“As we inform our people by spreading the news, we shall grow stronger in numbers. But I warn you again—not everyone wants the truth. Some have already fallen for the lies.”
“Only yesterday, I delivered milk to some homes just inside the city,” Wim said. “When the woman at the first home opened her door, I was shocked to see a huge picture of Hitler on the wall behind her.”
“A Dutch woman?” Anya cried. “How can she be so stupid?!”
“That is between her and God,” Bram said. “But Wim learned quickly how to shield his feelings. Didn’t you, son?”
“I forced myself to act like I hadn’t seen it. I went about my business. But I realized what my father has said is true. We can trust no one.”
“Ja, and we
must work faster, husband,” Ella said then turned to Anya. “Today we heard such horrible news. It seems the Germans have already started rounding up the Jews. The curfews they have set are merely a way to try to hide their dirty work. These razzias are nothing more than mass kidnappings under darkness. Entire families rounded up and put on trains,” she said, shaking her head.
“Many are taken to labor camps where they are forced to build ammunition. Imagine, being forced to build the very weapons used to annihilate your own people! And these are the most deadly locations because these factories are prime targets for our Allies. It’s an impossible situation. We must stop as many of these transports as we can.”
Anya noticed Wim nervously tapping his spoon on the table. He continued where his mother left off. “The Jews are frightened and with good reason. Many of those who came here to escape the persecution in Germany are refusing to surrender. They receive notices, ordering them to show up at a certain time and place. They are allowed only one suitcase. Some are told to show up at the train station for immediate transport to Poland.”
“Surely they do not show up as instructed? Surely they know not to—”
“Many of them are confused. They think it’s just a temporary situation. They think the war will be over in a few months and they can return to their homes. And some actually believe the lies in the German papers telling them this is for the Jews’ own protection—‘from the barbaric Dutch people who despise them.’ Lies, all of it. Still, some are naïve and do as they’re told. But not all. The ones who came here from Germany know all too well what the Nazis are capable of. They give up. We heard that more than 300 of them committed suicide rather than surrender to the Germans.”
“I cannot believe this is happening,” Anya cried, shaking her fists.
“The others,” Wim continued, “the other Jews ordered to show up are taken to certain Jew-only neighborhoods which the Germans are calling ‘ghettos’. They tell us it is because the Jews are all infected with terrible diseases. But we are not fooled. To keep them all together makes it easier for the Germans to rule over them or deport them.”