ADVANCE ACCLAIM FOR SNOW ON THE TULIPS
“A splendid debut novel! With a tender romance, a gripping plot, and a well-researched setting, Snow on the Tulips drew me in to the harrowing uncertainty of life in the Netherlands under Nazi rule. Liz Tolsma’s beautiful story kept me up at night—not just wondering what would happen to her endearing characters, but wondering what I would do in similar circumstances. Do not miss this book!”
—SARAH SUNDIN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF WITH EVERY LETTER
“Being widowed at a young age, I once again felt the pain and joy during those days as Cornelia fights her own feelings for Gerrit. The guilt of loving again, the desire to be wanted, set against the backdrop of the Nazi-infested Netherlands brings joy and heartache to the reader. New author Liz Tolsma brings her fresh writing to a tragic time in history. Her use of engaging characters and description should not be missed.”
—DIANA LESIRE BRANDMEYER, AUTHOR OF MIND OF HER OWN AND WE’RE NOT BLENDED, WE’RE PUREED: A SURVIVOR’S GUIDE TO BLENDED FAMILIES
“Snow on the Tulips is richly layered with courage, faith, and love. It reminded me of all the things I loved with Bodie Thoene’s Zion Covenant series: characters doing more than they thought possible, wrestling with how to live lives of faith in time of war, and history that comes to life on each page. It is a compelling story that will delight readers.”
—CARA PUTMAN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF STARS IN THE NIGHT AND A WEDDING TRANSPIRES ON MACKINAC ISLAND
© 2013 by Christine Cain
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
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Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tolsma, Liz, 1966—
Snow on the tulips / Liz Tolsma.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4016-8910-0 (trade paper)
1. World War, 1939-1945—Underground movements—Netherlands—Fiction. 2. Netherlands—History—German occupation, 1940-1945—Fiction. 3. Historical fiction. 4. Christian fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.O329S66 2013
813’.6—dc23
2013006376
Printed in the United States of America
13 14 15 16 17 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
In memory of Heinrich Harder, Dirk DeJong, Hendrick Jan DeJong, Jan Nieuwland, Henry Joseph Spoelstra, Douwe Tuinstra, Egbert Mark Wierda, Hyltje Wierda, Klaas Wierda, Sijbrandus van Dam, and Ruurd Kooistra—the Dutch Resistance workers who gave their lives on April 11, 1945, in Dronrijp, Friesland.
In memory of Gerard DeJong, who survived that day.
CONTENTS
GLOSSARY OF FOREIGN WORDS
DUTCH
FRISIAN
GERMAN
CHAPTER 1: THE PROVINCE OF FRIESLAND, NETHERLANDS
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
READING GROUP GUIDE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AN EXCERPT FROM DAISIES LAST FOREVER BY LIZ TOLSMA, AVAILABLE MAY 2014: BRAUNSBERG, EAST PRUSSIA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.”
PSALM 4 6: 1–3
“You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word. It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.”
WINSTON CHURCHILL
“For the dead and the living, we must bear witness.”
ELIE WIESEL, NOBEL PRIZE–WINNING AUTHOR
GLOSSARY OF FOREIGN WORDS
DUTCH
BANKET: almond-flavored pastry
BEDANKT: thank you
BEDSTEE: a bed, usually a double, hidden inside a cupboard, most often found in the front room of the house. The doors would be closed during the day to hide the bed.
DEEL: large, sloped barn, often attached to the house by a breezeway
ELFSTEDENTOCHT: an almost 200-kilometer skating event held on the canals in Friesland. It is typically held in January or February and only when the ice is at least fifteen centimeters thick. It may be held on consecutive years or may skip many years, depending on the ice conditions.
HAGELSLAG: chocolate sprinkles
HEEL HARTELIJK BEDANKT: heartfelt thanks
HONGERWINTER: the especially long winter of 1944–1945, during which over eighteen thousand Dutch people starved. In September of 1944, the Dutch government-in-exile ordered a railway strike in the Netherlands, and as retaliation, the Germans blockaded the western part of the country, including the important cities of Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and the Hague. Because Friesland is an agricultural center, the food situation wasn’t nearly as dire there, and many women came from those blockaded cities looking for food for their starving families, often bartering anything they had of value.
HUTSPOT: a Dutch dish consisting of mashed potatoes and mashed carrots, as well as meat, all mixed together
JUDEN: Jews
KLOMPEN: wooden shoes
NEDERLANDERS: Dutch people
NSB: the Dutch police who worked in collaboration with the German occupiers
OLLIEBOLLEN: powdered-sugar-covered donut holes
ONDERDUIKER: literally an “under diver.” Dutch men hiding to avoid being sent away to a German work detail.
RADIO ORANJE: Radio Orange, the Dutch language program broadcast by the BBC and listened to in secret by many Dutch. Orange is the Dutch royal color, and the queen often broadcast messages to her subjects as she spent the duration of the war exiled in Britain.
RAZZIA: a plundering raid
SLOTEN: a ditch around a farm field, usually filled with water
SNERT: pea soup
VRIENDELIJK BEDANKT: friendly
thanks
FRISIAN
(You may see these same words spelled differently elsewhere. Frisian is mostly a spoken language and spellings can vary greatly. There are at least four spellings for the Frisian words for “thank you.” In Friesland, Frisian is spoken in the home and Dutch in the schools and for business.)
BEPPE: grandmother
DOMINEE: preacher
FIERLJEPPEN: (lit. far-leaping) ditch or canal pole vaulting, a traditional Frisian sport. Still today, there are competitions held around Friesland.
FROU: Mrs.
HEAR: Mr.
HEIT: father
JA: yes
LEAFDE: love
MEM: mother
NEE: no
PAKE: grandfather
TSJERKE: church
UMPKA: uncle
GERMAN
AUSWEIS: a paper exempting a man from a German work detail because of a job he holds
DANKE: thank you
FRÄULEIN: miss
HERR: mister
HEIL: hail; carries connotations of well-being and health
MUTTI: mom
NEIN: no
REICHSMARKS: the standard monetary unit in Germany from the mid-20s until 1948
SCHNELL: fast
SOLDBUCH: pay book
UNTEROFFIZIER: an under officer or sergeant
CHAPTER 1
THE PROVINCE OF FRIESLAND, NETHERLANDS
February 1945
Schnell, schnell!” A German soldier jammed the cold, hard barrel of his rifle into Gerrit Laninga’s back.
Gerrit’s heart throbbed against his ribs like waves in a squall against a dike. Any minute now, it would burst through his chest, splitting open as it flopped to the ground.
He scrambled to keep pace with the nine other Dutch Resistance workers in front of him. If he fell behind, the Germans would shoot him on the spot. Not that it mattered one way or the other.
Gerrit was on his way to his execution.
“Be merciful unto me, O God: for man would swallow me up.” The words of Psalm 56 that he had memorized long ago became his prayer. I know, Father, what awaits me on the other side of the bullet. But if it be Your will, let this cup pass from me.
The smell of boiled cabbage wafted on the early evening air as people finished their suppers. He sensed their pitying stares as they hid behind their lace curtains, peeping out to spy on the men marching to their deaths. Behind closed doors, these people whispered, wondering what crimes the men had committed to be executed in this way. Tomorrow morning they would talk about it around their breakfast tables.
He would not be here in the morning.
Behind one of the house’s brick facades, a child shrieked in laughter. The Gestapo officer jabbed his weapon between Gerrit’s kidneys.
“What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.” Please let it happen quickly. No pain, no suffering, Lord, please. But spare me, Father. “When I cry unto thee, then shall mine enemies turn back: this I know; for God is for me.”
He’d had many close calls during the war, like the time the Nazis searched every nook and cranny of the house where he had been hiding. They failed to move the rug that covered the trapdoor to the cellar where he was concealed. Or the time he had seen some soldiers on the road when he’d been delivering ration cards. He was able to hide in a ditch before he was caught.
I trust my life to You, sovereign Lord.
Peace filled him, a sweet taste of the heaven that awaited him.
No matter what happened, God was in control.
The men in front of him watched their feet as they moved forward, their backs hunched, their shoulders slumped.
Gerrit held his head high. He refused to let the Germans think they had him conquered. Death was not defeat. Death was victory.
His hands were tied in front of him. He clasped them together, tighter and tighter as death approached.
His ankle turned and he stumbled on the uneven street. The butt of the rifle slammed into his back.
With his wrists bound, he couldn’t balance himself. He fell to his knees. His breath caught in his throat. Any second now, a bullet would pierce his skull.
The Gestapo officer grabbed him by his upper arm, placed him on his feet, and shoved him. Gerrit spoke his thanks with a smile. If he could earn the sympathy of the soldier, maybe somehow he could find a way out.
The man stared at Gerrit with frosty blue eyes. Then he frowned and turned away.
Escape slipped out of his grasp.
A cold chill wrapped itself around him.
The death march continued to the canal. A squat house stood sentry at the water’s edge, its two first-floor windows like eyes, watching, recording, memorizing these events. The setting sun’s rays reflected off the still water.
Visions of Mies and Dorathee flashed across his mind. One woman had broken his heart. His heart broke for the other. He did this so they could be free.
The Germans forced the condemned down the icy canal bank beside the bridge. The early evening frost made the grass slippery. Gerrit and the other prisoners slid and skidded down the small hill. The Gestapo officers shouted at them while jabbing them with their guns. “Get up, get up. Schnell. Now line up here.”
This was the end.
Gerrit righted himself and faced the officers. The men who were slow to stand were kicked and dragged to their feet.
A neat line formed.
Silence filled the air.
He stood tall. He couldn’t think.
“Ready? Aim.”
He fixed his gaze on the cobalt-blue eyes of his executioner.
“Fire.”
Into Thy hands I commit my spirit.
A white-hot pain seared through Gerrit’s body.
He crumpled to the ground.
CHAPTER 2
Cornelia de Vries sat in her rocking chair, alone in the small front room with its out-of-date red brocade wallpaper, the heat from the black cast-iron stove warming her cold feet. Twittering birds serenaded her as she sewed the fraying hem of her silky green Sunday dress. Glancing at the picture of Hans on the wall, pain nibbled at the edge of her heart.
The skirt’s material cascaded over the arm of the faded blue davenport beside the rocker as she laid aside her mending. She rose, watched the pendulum swing in the schoolhouse clock on the wall, stared at Hans’s picture, then went to the long front window. Parting the lacy curtains, she peered out to watch the birds on the bare, brown branches of the bush. The sky, often filled with droning Allied planes on their way to Germany, remained serene. The sun cast its dying rays over the canal, a thousand lights playing on the water’s surface.
The birds blended in with branches, but when one of them hopped from twig to twig or flitted to another bush, she caught glimpses of their black and brown feathers.
Then a different kind of movement on the other side of the water caught her attention. Not the cheerful, bouncy action of birds, but the movement of men. A plodding motion. She parted the curtains farther for a better view.
A number of men, maybe a dozen or so, marched toward the steep canal bank. Five or six German soldiers, armed with rifles, surrounded the men and shouted at them. If they were trying to reach the edge of the canal, it would have been easier to do so about fifty or sixty meters from the bridge where the land once again became even with the water level.
What was happening?
The answer came as soon as the thought crossed her mind. From her vantage point, she watched as the soldiers forced the men to scramble down the bank, though their hands were tied in front of them. The Germans kicked many of them as they slid and fell.
Cornelia dropped the curtain.
She closed her eyes because she couldn’t watch.
She covered her ears because she couldn’t listen.
She sank to the floor because she couldn’t stand.
Memories of that horrible night more than four years ago knocked at her consciousness. Denying them entry, she pushed her hands
harder against her ears and scrunched into a ball.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
She had hoped and prayed to never hear that sound again, but the reverberations echoed in her head. The past mingled with the present.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
All fell silent. The birds ceased their chirping.
Five or ten minutes passed as she sat on the floor, her entire body shaking. The floorboards creaked under the unmistakable bounce of her brother’s footsteps on the stairs. She opened her eyes. He moved down the hall and passed the front room to the door.
She rose to her feet. “Johan?”
He stopped, frozen by her call.
“Johan?”
“I am going out.”
“Nee,” she screeched. “Nee. The Nazis just executed a dozen men. There is no way you are going to step foot outside this house.”
He stood several centimeters taller than her and he used his height to his advantage, peering down at her. “I want to see the men they shot. Maybe we know some of them.”
She stepped in front of the door. “They will arrest you on the spot, you know.”
Her brother ran a hand through his tousled sand-colored hair. “They are gone now and I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“I won’t let you go.” She stood with her hands on her hips, something she had seen Mem do a thousand times. With their mother no longer here, she was the caregiver to her brother.
“You can’t forbid me. I’m an adult.”
“Only a fool would go out there now.”
“Maybe I’m a fool, then. I am going anyway.”
“What will happen to you if you get caught? Working in German factories with all the other young men who have never returned—is that what you really want?”
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