Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

“It’s hard to sleep with such an overwhelming stench on board.”

  He smiled. “Would you like a lemon drop, little Anya?”

  “And then what would you do? Carry all three of us off the train?”

  “Of course,” he said with a wink. “I’m strong and virile. I’d just pile all of you on my back and off we’d go.”

  “Very well. Hand me a lemon drop.” She held out her open palm.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m afraid we must save these for the little ones.”

  “Convenient response.”

  He grinned. “Ja, it is.”

  Moments later the train lurched forward as it started down the track again. Anya wished she could sleep as soundly as Liesbeth and Henri, knowing they still had a ferry ride across the bay before making it to the province of Friesland. It would take most of the night to reach their final destination. As she thought about the journey still ahead of them, she tried to remember what life was like before every waking thought was consumed with fear—a fear so strong, it seeped into every pore in every situation. She dreamed of living free from such constant fear, wondering if that day would ever come again.

  Fatigue tugged at her even as renegade thoughts nudged her down a troubling path. There in her mind, she watched Franz van Oostra whispering into the ear of the gruff German who’d just checked their IDS. The scene played out as the soldier blew his whistle hard, signaling hundreds more of his comrades to assist. They were everywhere—their ugly olive coats and helmets multiplying before her eyes. Suddenly they all stormed a familiar house, dragging a man and his wife outside and holding them at gunpoint.

  “WO SIND SIE?! the soldiers shouted. Where are they?!

  “I don’t know!” the man answered in Dutch, his face streaming with tears. “I don’t know where they are!”

  “Sagen Sie uns!” Tell us!

  “I can’t because I don’t know! You have to believe me!”

  “Ja?” the huge German said. He laughed out loud, reaching over to drag the woman to her feet then placed his gun against her temple.

  “Mother!” Anya cried out. “No!—”

  A single gunshot rang out. “Nooooo!”

  “Anya! Shhhh! Wake up!”

  Her eyes blinked open, finding Wim’s face next to hers.

  “You must have been dreaming. You cried out.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’m here. You’re all right.” He kissed her forehead.

  “Wim, it was horrible! They shot—”

  “Shhh, Anya,” he whispered urgently. “You must be quiet.”

  She looked up, startled to find an elderly man and woman in their compartment looking at her. “I’m, uh . . . it was—”

  “A bad dream?” asked the old lady sitting across from her.

  Anya nodded, her hand trembling as she pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “We all have them, dear,” she said, shaking her head. “Such a nightmare we’re all living.”

  “It’s been a long night,” Wim answered, as if an explanation was needed.

  “Ja,” Anya added, “a very long night.”

  Suddenly the train lurched again followed by the high-pitched screeching of wheels braking against the rails.

  “What now?” the old man asked, gazing out the window.

  Anya and Wim looked out the window nearest them. “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he said quietly. “This can’t be good.”

  As they speculated the cause for such a stop, Liesbeth and Henri both woke up.

  “Mama?” Liesbeth blinked, her eyes bloodshot. “Mama?”

  Without a word, Wim slipped his finger into his shirt pocket then pushed a lemon drop into the little girl’s mouth before she knew what was happening. She sucked on it, still looking bewildered by her surroundings.

  “That’s a good girl,” Wim whispered, tucking a strand of her dark curls behind her ear. “Go back to sleep.”

  The train jolted to a final stop. “Why do you think we’ve stopped?” Anya asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Just then, their compartment door opened and a conductor stepped in. “The bridge ahead has been damaged and the train can’t cross it. Remain where you’re seated until you’re told what to do.” Just as quickly, he was gone.

  Wim closed his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Anya whispered.

  “Praying.” His eyes fluttered opened. He leaned closer, his mouth to her ear. “We have to get off the train and disappear. We can’t risk another outburst by the children if we’re escorted by the Germans. We need to casually gather our things then slip away before anyone notices us.”

  Anya nodded. She looked over toward the elderly couple who seemed glued to the window. “What about them?”

  “Don’t worry about them. Let’s go.”

  As they stood and hoisted the children over their shoulders, the woman looked back at them. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, we just need to stretch. Maybe get some fresh air,” Wim said as he opened the compartment door.

  “We’ll save your seats for you,” she said, smiling.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  Wim leaned out to check the passageway. “It’s clear. Follow me and stay close.”

  Anya held on to the hem of his coat as he led the way. Suddenly he stopped.

  “Soldiers ahead. Turn around—slowly, slowly.”

  As nonchalantly as possible, they reversed their direction and made their way down the passageway. At the door, Wim looked through its window. “No one’s here. Once we step into the connection corridor, I want you to wait while I jump, then when I signal, you jump. Hold onto Henri extra tight. I’ll help you land.”

  Anya’s heart raced. “Are you sure? What if someone sees us?”

  “Anya, do as I say!” And with that, he leapt from the train into the darkness. A moment later she heard her name. “Jump, Anya!”

  Without a second thought, she clutched Henri, tucking his head beneath her chin then jumped. She crashed into Wim, taking all three of them to the ground.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “I think so.” She checked Henri, surprised to find him still sleeping. “Where is Liesbeth?” she asked, her eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness.

  “She’s right here. I’m picking her back up. Now stay close to me. Hurry!”

  Blindly, they disappeared into the nearby woods, uttering a prayer of protection with each footfall. An hour later, Anya stopped, grabbing hold of Wim’s arm. “I can’t go on. I have to stop.”

  He turned around. “All right, but we need to stay out of sight. There, in that thicket of trees.” He helped her along, easing her down against the base of an enormous tree. They remained silent except for their panting as they tried to catch their breath. The children settled back in their laps, rousing but never fully wakening.

  “Wim, what will we do?”

  “We must look for help. Perhaps a farmhouse or a church.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. How will we find such places?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s rest for just a moment and think.”

  She rested her head back against the tree, hoping no snakes or wild animals roamed the forest. As her breathing returned to normal, she tried to pray. Instead, she fell sound asleep.

  “Anya.”

  She blinked, startled by the sound of her name. “What is it?”

  Wim stood, offering his hand to help her up. “You’ve been asleep for ten minutes. We have to get moving.”

  He pulled her up, helping her readjust Henri in her arms. “I’m so tired, Wim.”

  “I know. But the sooner we go, the sooner we find refuge.”

  Near the break of dawn, they came upon a small village. Wim approached a farmhouse on the edge of town. “This way,” he said motioning her to follow him toward the barn. As they rounded the back of the weathered structure, he held his arm out, stopping her. “There, Anya. Do you see?”

  “See w
hat?”

  “God has smiled on us yet again.” He pointed to a spot barely visible on the corner of the barn.

  There, in the dusty light of dawn she recognized the three-inch square of orange—the Dutch royal family’s color—atop a mini-version of the red, white and blue Dutch flag. “They are one of us?”

  “Shhh. Yes, it appears they are. But we cannot be too careful.”

  A rifle cocked into place. “Wie gaat daar?” someone behind them barked. Who goes there?

  They turned to find a farmer looking down the barrel of his shotgun at them. “We mean no harm,” Wim answered in Dutch, his hand raised to assure the old man. “We’re trying to get to Scheveningen. We seem to have lost our way.”

  Anya held her breath, waiting to see if the farmer understood. Members of the Resistance used the city’s name as a verbal test, knowing Germans could not pronounce the uniquely Dutch word.

  The man straightened, lowering his rifle. “Ah! Scheveningen,” he said, his pronunciation perfect. “Then you’ve come to the right place.” He approached them with a wide, toothy grin, holding out his hand to Wim. “I’m Joris Hildebrand.”

  Wim shook his hand heartily. “I am Wim Boorman. This is Anya Versteeg. We are from Utrecht. We were taking these children to a safe house in Leeuwarden when our train was stopped in the middle of nowhere.”

  “The train was full of German soldiers,” Anya continued. “We couldn’t risk being questioned about the children, so we fled on foot.”

  “You made a wise choice. You must be exhausted,” the farmer said. “Come along. Let’s get you something to eat and let you rest a while.”

  Wim pulled her against his side as they followed the kind stranger. “That would be most kind. You are an answer to prayer.”

  Joris stopped and turned back to face them. Pointing to the two sleeping children, he said, “No, I would say you are an answer to prayer to these little ones . . . and to their parents as well.” He shook his head. “So hard it would be to send your own children away.”

  24

  Anya rolled over, suddenly startled by her surroundings. Then she remembered. The kind farmer, also a member of the Dutch Resistance. His wife Roos, who readily took charge of Liesbeth and Henri, giving Anya and Wim a chance to rest. The soft glow of a lantern on the bedside table helped her get her bearings as she sat up in bed. It’s dark again. I wonder how long I have slept?

  A few moments later, she opened the bedroom door and walked down the hall. She followed the sound of Wim’s voice, glad to know he was awake as well.

  He turned as she entered the kitchen. “Anya—at last, you are up,” he said coming to her.

  Anya tried to read something which flickered across his face, then decided she must still be groggy. “It is already night again?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

  Wim put his arm over her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Night then day then night again. You’ve slept almost thirty-six hours. I was beginning to worry.”

  “What?” She twisted to look up at him. “No, that’s not possible.”

  “Ja, but you needed your rest and so we let you rest,” the farmer’s wife said.

  Panic cut through her. “The children—where are the children?”

  Roos crossed the kitchen, taking Anya’s hands into hers. “The children are fine. They’ve been fed, they’ve played with our own grandchildren, and now they’re once again in bed. Not to worry about the little ones.” She patted Anya’s hand. “Now. What can I cook for you? You must be starving.”

  Anya looked at Wim again for assurance. “The kids are fine. Mrs. Hildebrand took good care of them. I promise.”

  “Please. I insist. Call me Roos. Yes, those poor dears. They were so frightened when they first woke up. It took a while but slowly they began to warm to us. Especially when our grandchildren stopped by. It was good for them, I think. Playmates, ja?”

  “We can’t thank you enough,” Wim answered, taking the words out of Anya’s mouth.

  “Come. Sit. I’ll warm you some dinner.”

  Wim led her to the kitchen table where he pulled out a chair.

  “Thank you. I am rather hungry.”

  Wim sat beside her, rubbing his hand along her forearm. “You’ll love it. Mrs. Hildebrand—I mean Roos—made the most delicious erwtensoep. I confess I had two bowls of it myself.”

  Anya loved her mother’s Dutch pea soup, so thick and flavored with leeks and carrots and sausage.

  Mother . . . She wondered how her mother and father were getting along.

  “There you go. Nice and hot. Don’t burn your tongue. Would you like een sneetje brood?”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  Roos placed the warm bread on a small dish then spread butter on top. “Now. Eat up.”

  Every bite was better than the one before. Anya couldn’t remember ever being so hungry. Only a farmer and his wife would offer such hearty food. At home, only the bare necessities could be found in the stores. And even then, you had to be there when the merchandise arrived or the shelves would be emptied. Everyone in Holland had already learned to do without.

  Mr. Hildebrand entered the kitchen through a second door that looked to come from somewhere beneath the house. “Good evening, Anya,” he said. “You are rested, I hope?”

  She smiled, embarrassed. “Yes, apparently I’m well rested.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of, child. From what Wim tells me you have worked tirelessly for some time now. I’m glad we could offer you a pillow on which to lay your head.” He held up the coffee pot. “Koffie?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Anya said between bites.

  He filled a cup for her then refilled Wim’s mug. The farmer caught Wim’s eye and made a gesture with his eyes.

  Anya caught the exchange between them. “What is it?”

  Wim shook his head. “It can wait. Go ahead, finish your dinner.”

  She took a big bite of the buttered bread and set down her spoon. “No. Tell me now.”

  “Anya, please. You need to—”

  “Don’t tell me what I need to do, Wim,” she snapped. She looked back at the farmer, who’d turned to leave. “What is it, Mr. Hildebrand? What hasn’t he told me?”

  Joris turned, his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be downstairs.” He disappeared down the steps.

  Anya turned, grabbing Wim’s wrist as she searched his face. “Tell me.”

  He took a deep breath, blowing it out with gusto. “Joris has an elaborate secret phone system. He’s in close contact with many in the Resistance. Not just here but all over the country.” He paused, tracing his finger around the rim of his coffee mug. “I asked him to contact our people in Utrecht.”

  “And?”

  He kept his eyes locked on his mug. “And . . .” He reached for her hand then looked into her eyes. “And it seems your parents were arrested, Anya.”

  She stared at him, positive she’d misheard him. “No, you must be mistaken.”

  “I wish I was.”

  She withdrew her hand from his. She couldn’t blink. She couldn’t even breathe.

  He tried to put his arm around her shoulder, but she batted it away. “No! Don’t touch me. You’re mistaken. There’s no way my parents could have—” But in that split second, she knew. The face of Colonel von Kilmer flashed in her mind. His veiled threats. His accusations.

  Before they’d left home, several weeks had passed with no more visits from the suspicious officer. They’d presumed they’d been lost in the paperwork; his accusations nothing more than idle chatter meant to make them nervous. And yet, as the thoughts peppered her mind now, she knew he’d come back to her home.

  She looked up at Wim. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Von Kilmer?”

  He nodded, pulling her into his arms. “Yes, Anya. He came back. Only this time he brought a dozen soldiers with him and they literally tore the house apart.”

  She jerked her head up. “But we moved them—the Wolffs and Lieke an
d Inge—we took them to your farm!”

  “Yes, we did. But in our haste, we neglected to go back and check the attic space where they’d hidden. It never crossed my mind, and apparently it didn’t cross anyone else’s. When the soldiers came and tore through your home, they ripped the bookcase apart and discovered the hidden attic. They found a worn copy of a Hebrew Bible under the floor board. Bernard must have hidden it there and forgot it. Inside the cover of the Bible, it listed his name, his wife’s name, and the names of their two children—all of them wanted by the Gestapo for not showing up to be transported months ago.”

  “How could Bernard be so stupid?” she cried out.

  “Anya, it wasn’t his fault. It all happened so fast that night, remember? We rushed them out during the ghetto uprising. It was all very sudden and none of us thought to look for hidden things beneath floor boards. Only the Germans would think to rip the wooden floors apart in the home of a Christian minister.”

  “But . . . where did they take them, my parents? My poor mother—”

  “Joris is trying to find out.” He stroked her hair. “Some of our people in Utrecht saw them loaded onto a cattle car filled with Jews.”

  Anya shook her head and covered her face with her hands. “No, no, no . . . this is all a mistake.”

  “The last they heard, the train was headed for Westerbork. But Westerbork is only a holding camp. By now they’ve most likely been sent to one of the concentration camps, either here or perhaps in Germany.”

  As the words fell from Wim’s mouth, Anya couldn’t breathe. She collapsed into his arms, the wails rattling her lungs sounding distant somehow.

  Suddenly, she felt herself lifted up in his arms and cradled against his chest. She grabbed hold of his shirt, tightening her grip as she cried. He walked her to the bedroom, then gently laid her down on the bed. As the sobs shook her body, she curled onto her side, pulling her knees up tight. She felt him lie down beside her, tucking himself against her back as his arm wrapped around her waist.

  Finally, much later, she felt each breath catch in little hiccups as she tried to calm down. As exhaustion slowly took over, she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

  And prayed she would never wake up.