Liz Tolsma

by Snow on the Tulips

  She struggled to keep from being overwhelmed by memories. “I knew another young man like that. Things didn’t turn out well for him.”

  “That doesn’t mean Johan will have the same outcome.”

  “If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible.” She pointed the tip of her finger at his chest. “I am not sure I can ever forgive you for what you have done, allowing my brother to risk his life to find your friend.”

  She spun on her heel and marched from the room, fanning the heat away from her face with her hand. That man had some gall, demanding they take him in and care for him, then sending her brother out on a mission that could cost him his life. Gerrit would go this afternoon, even if it meant she had to drag him to the street herself and leave him there.

  ANKI DYKSTRA WANDERED through the small village, rows of narrow houses crowding the roads. Even though the Nazis had confiscated the church bell, women and children bustled toward the tsjerke at the appointed time on their way to Sunday service, heads bent against the light rain. This would be a good time to check on her siblings and their surreptitious visitor.

  She worried about the peril that had ensnarled Corrie. Her sister hadn’t always been this timid and frightened, but after Hans …

  The other night when the Gestapo came to the door, Corrie surprised her with how well she’d handled herself.

  Still, the sooner that man left her sister’s house, the better for all of them. Corrie was softening, thinking of working with him. No matter what, Anki had to convince her brother not to get involved. Corrie couldn’t survive another loss.

  Anki couldn’t keep lying to her husband either. She would not do it. He would figure out the truth in time and then …

  She bumped into a German soldier on the edge of town. Her spine stiffened and she sucked in her breath. Her baby sister hid what they sought.

  She crossed the bridge and came to Corrie’s small, two-story house. She did nothing out of the ordinary, including ignoring the soldiers she passed. She rapped on the cheerful green front door.

  Corrie pulled her inside. “What are you doing here?” she said, her words low and quiet.

  “I came to see Gerrit. I didn’t check on him yesterday.”

  Corrie nodded. “You can’t let him know you were here the other night. He can’t see you.”

  “Have the Gestapo been back? They are still watching all of these houses.”

  “Nee, not yet, anyway. I’m expecting them here any moment.”

  “This is much too dangerous.”

  “It gets worse.” Cornelia’s hands quivered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Johan slipped out earlier this morning to notify a friend of Gerrit’s who works in the Resistance. What are we going to do?”

  Anki rubbed the back of her neck. “He didn’t like the idea of contacting his family? Or didn’t you present that possibility?”

  Corrie chewed on a fingernail. “I did, but he said that his parents’ house has been under surveillance for years. It would be too risky to try to contact them through any means. Even if we could get ahold of them, there is no way they could help him.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Johan is gone, so there is nothing we can do about it except to pray. If he survives this escapade, he is going to want to get involved further in the Underground. He will get a taste of this adventure and want more. We have to find a way to stop him.”

  Anki’s own hands trembled as she grasped her sister’s. “You’re talking about the boy who climbed trees when Mem told him not to and who jumped off the Tuinstras’ barn roof into the pile of hay. He broke his arm that time, but two weeks later we caught him doing it again.”

  Corrie shook her head. “I am terrified that Johan is going to run into trouble.”

  “Me too.” She prayed she was wrong.

  JOHAN THANKED THE Lord for the cold drizzle that allowed him to pull Mem’s old blue scarf farther over his head and keep his focus on the ground. Only a crazy person would dress in Mem’s clothes, but Gerrit insisted he needed a disguise. He supposed he couldn’t gallivant down the street, announcing himself to the world. He wished they would have had the time and resources to come up with a better cover, though.

  After he crossed the bridge into town, he blended in with a group headed to the tsjerke for Sunday services. They lived in a small town where everyone was acquainted with everyone else, so he prayed none of the faithful would question this strange woman in their midst. Or recognize Mem’s clothes on his back.

  He knew the exact house Gerrit instructed him to find. It was brown brick, the middle one in a long row on quiet Prince William Street. Without any problems, he peeled away from the group and made his way to the house. He glanced to his right and left before ascending the single step to the door.

  His hand trembled worse than an old lady’s, and he didn’t think he would be able to use it to lift the brass knocker. He raised his chin and braced himself. He sure had wanted this adventure. He couldn’t turn and run now. For his people and his queen, he had to prove himself to be brave and trustworthy.

  Lord, help me.

  He summoned the strength to tap the code Gerrit had taught him. Three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, three knocks.

  He dropped the knocker against the door and held his breath.

  Steps sounded from inside and stopped. “Who is it?” a masculine voice asked.

  At first, his words squeaked and cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I have come with a delivery for you.”

  “Bread or milk?”

  “I have some vegetables.”

  He didn’t know what it all meant—Gerrit hadn’t explained—but the man on the other side of the door must have understood the code. “Good. Carrots, potatoes, or beets?”

  “Green beans.”

  “Green beans? Are you sure?”

  Johan thumped his head with his fist. Had he made a blunder? In his mind, he retraced every word of the conversation Gerrit taught him. Nee, he had said to tell the man green beans, Johan was positive. Could he have misunderstood him? Gotten it confused?

  “Green beans.”

  He waited while his heart threatened to jump ship, then spun around, sure someone watched him from across the street. The road remained empty.

  After a very long minute, the door creaked open and a hand pulled him inside. Anytime now he expected the Gestapo to shove him to the floor and arrest him. The small living area where he stood was dim and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. A huge man, both in height and width, shut the door. Only then did he release Johan’s wrist.

  “You have a message for me?” he growled at Johan, eyes narrowed.

  Johan stood firm, then asked a ridiculous question. “Are you Bear?”

  The extra-large man nodded his bald head. “What is your message?”

  He wiped his sweaty palms on his mem’s plain dark skirt. “Gerrit Laninga is alive.”

  With those words, the hardness in Bear’s face melted. “Are you sure? We got word they executed him three days ago, but we heard his body was missing.”

  Johan nodded and Bear lumbered away. “Rooster, you have to come hear this.”

  A tall, lanky young fellow with dark hair stepped out of the shadows after Bear. “What is it?”

  Bear nodded at Johan. “Tell him what you said to me.”

  Rooster must be the code name for Gerrit’s friend Maarten. He fit Gerrit’s description. “Gerrit Laninga is alive.”

  Rooster’s eyes widened. “You have to be kidding me.”

  “I sure am not. After the Germans left, I set off to cover one of the bodies in orange. I found him near the bridge, breathing but wounded, and brought him to my house. My sisters and I have been caring for him since. Gerrit sent me here saying he had an important message for his friend.”

  Rooster ran his hand through his hair. “Are you sure you have the right man?”

  It must be unbelievable to them
that someone survived their own execution. “He told me if you doubted me to remind you about the time you broke your mem’s window playing ball.”

  Bear motioned for Johan to stop. “You could be a collaborator, setting a trap for us.”

  Rooster shook his head. “He isn’t lying. Everyone thinks Gerrit threw that ball, but I did. He took the blame for me. Only he would know the truth.”

  Bear stared at Johan, his dark green eyes boring into him, testing him. The piercing scrutiny made him want to drop his look to the floor, but if he did so, Bear would think he lied.

  “Tell me where you live.”

  “The small brick house with a green door on the other side of the canal bridge.”

  “I know it.”

  The hulking man went to the window, parted the curtains, and peered at the street. When he returned, he opened the door. For their safety, no niceties or small talk passed between them. He never asked Johan’s name, just said, “Someone will be there soon.”

  Knowing he had made sure the street was clear, Johan stepped outside without another word.

  A sense of triumph filled him. He had accomplished his mission. Now they would have to let him work for them. No more sitting prisoner in that house, waiting to be either arrested or liberated. He wanted to skip all the way home.

  Excited about the adventures that lay ahead of him, he turned the corner without much care and ran smack into someone. He thought it might be a latecomer to church, hurrying not to miss the service. When he looked up, though, his stomach plunged like it did when he had jumped off the Tuinstras’ roof.

  He stared into the hard, grimacing face of a German soldier.

  CHAPTER 10

  You had better pray that Johan returns by the time I get back from the tsjerke.” With those words, Cornelia slammed the front door, leaving Gerrit and the house in absolute silence.

  She didn’t give him a chance to tell her he had been doing just that.

  Once he finished praying, he had time to assess his surroundings. The front room’s peeling red paper transported him to another era. Across from the bedstee, a faded blue sofa dominated the wall. Cornelia’s rocker sat next to it in the far corner beside the small but elaborate iron stove. Then he saw it—the photograph on the wall where she could see it from her chair, next to a schoolhouse clock and a picture of the queen.

  A young man, full of joy and life, dressed in a dark suit coat and a loosely knotted tie, looked at him, his back straight and proud. Who was he? Not Johan. And much too recent to be her father. He recalled her once or twice mentioning Hans. Was this him? And who was he? When she came back, he would ask her.

  How long before he could be up and around? He had been a little boy very sick with scarlet fever the last time he had to stay in bed this long.

  For the past year or eighteen months, he had been so busy with Resistance work, he had little chance to rest and catch his breath, constantly moving from place to place, always carrying either stolen or forged ration cards and fake identity cards. While getting shot wasn’t the way to go about it, he tried to welcome the rest. Maarten would come soon and Gerrit could get back to work.

  He dozed. Through his dreams of home, he heard a persistent knocking on the door. He came fully awake.

  “Open up. Schnell.”

  The pounding continued for a moment before he heard the door being kicked in and soldiers entering the house. “Search everything. Don’t miss a thing. He is here. I can smell him.” The voice reverberated through the small dwelling.

  Though the movement caused heat to spread from his wound throughout his entire torso, Gerrit reached up and shut the cupboard doors. He prayed Johan wouldn’t return just now and meet up with the soldiers.

  The near total darkness enveloped Gerrit. He struggled to remain calm. He would never make it into the hiding place in time. Instead, he curled into a ball in the corner.

  The thud of jackboots marched nearer to him.

  He pulled the soft blue blanket over himself. When they discovered him here, he would have to hide the wound that would scream his identity.

  Please, Lord, protect me.

  He breathed in and out silently, but forced himself to maintain a slow, steady rhythm. He bit his tongue to halt the building scream.

  Moments later light flared into his cubbyhole. He lay with his back to the soldier. With the butt of his gun, the Nazi turned him over. The Gestapo officer jabbed Gerrit’s side with the barrel of the gun. Gerrit moaned and observed the man.

  His heart catapulted to his throat.

  He would never forget the cobalt-blue eyes that stared at him.

  Looking back at him was the face of the officer who had attempted to execute him.

  Silence covered Gerrit. His awareness of the other Nazis in the house faded.

  His breathing ceased.

  His heart arrested.

  Lord, save me.

  White-blond eyelashes blinked at him. Disbelief widened those unforgettable blue eyes. The soldier squeezed his gun’s barrel.

  Indecision worked his face. His jaw muscle twitched and his lips scrunched. He lifted the blanket. Gerrit wore Johan’s clothes that hid his wounds. The soldier didn’t probe.

  He dropped the blanket and gave Gerrit a few good jabs to the ribs with the butt of his gun. “What a drunkard. A useless excuse for a human being.” He shut the bedstee doors.

  The commander called from the front room’s doorway, “What did you find, Neumann?”

  “A lazy old drunkard sleeping off his Saturday night binge.”

  “Strange, we didn’t find any liquor bottles.”

  “Who knows where he got the spirits. But he is as drunk as any I have ever seen.”

  “Are you sure it’s not Aartsma? If the man can escape death by firing squad, he can pretend to be drunk.” The domineering officer’s words caused Gerrit to flinch.

  “Nein. He reeked of alcohol. I checked for wounds but I found none. It’s not him. He is that woman’s brother-in-law.”

  “Maybe I should check.” Heavy footfalls stepped toward Gerrit.

  Lord, turn him away.

  “Sir, that’s not necessary. I conducted a thorough investigation. This isn’t Jan Aartsma. It is Piet Dykstra. And he has an ausweis.”

  The steps ceased. Gerrit’s vital signs stilled.

  “Fine.”

  Cornelia’s knitting needles clanked to the floor and one rolled close to Gerrit. From the kitchen, pots and pans clanged and dishes clinked against each other as the men searched the kitchen cupboards. They stomped upstairs and thumps came as items were tossed to the floor. The men shouted things to each other in the guttural language he couldn’t make out behind the bedstee doors. After a few more minutes, the boots marched to the front door. Cold air seeped in as the Gestapo left.

  Gerrit wilted.

  CORNELIA STROLLED OVER the bridge, almost home from morning services. The light rain had stopped and now she could put away the calm facade she had adopted while at the tsjerke. A burning sensation gnawed at her stomach. A strong foreboding had accompanied her all morning. She prayed she would walk through that door and see both Johan and Gerrit, safe and sound.

  Her apprehension magnified. Her front door hung open, swinging to and fro on the wind.

  The Gestapo had been back.

  Gerrit lay helpless in there. And what about Johan? Had he returned? He could have walked straight into their open arms, hungry for a Dutch workforce.

  She commanded her legs to hold her and keep the same pace up the path and over the canal to her house.

  She glanced in all directions. No soldiers watched the bridge. She willed herself to breathe. They waited inside, not wanting to tip her off, not giving her a chance to flee.

  Should she run? That’s what she wanted to do. Run as fast and as far as she could. But she had to know about Gerrit and Johan.

  Or maybe Johan had come to get Gerrit and take him to the Resistance safe house. They had left and forgot to shut the door
. She always imagined the worst. Mem had told her she had a vivid imagination. Very likely things weren’t as ominous as she envisioned.

  Should she take the chance and walk straight into the house? She would look silly if she slunk around only to find Johan sitting at the table sipping his ersatz coffee. Then again, she would be downright foolish to strut inside to meet a German battalion waiting for her.

  She would rather appear crazy than stupid. She and Johan would have a good laugh about it. Gerrit wouldn’t be there. A wave of something—regret or maybe sorrow—washed over her.

  Shaking off the emotions, she crept around to the kitchen window in back and peered through the parted curtains.

  She covered her mouth to seal off a gasp. Cupboard doors hung open and pots and pans and silverware littered the floor. Her small table had been overturned, and the papers with the notes she had taken during devotions were scattered.

  Her heart threatened to defect from her body.

  The Gestapo had been here. And she saw no sign of Gerrit or Johan.

  Not a single soldier roamed the place. But they would return. For her.

  With her blood pounding in her ears, she decided to grab a few things and escape.

  She sprinted inside and slammed the door, bolting it. First thing, she had to know about Gerrit and Johan. As she scurried to the front room, she wondered if they would be here or if they had eluded the Gestapo.

  Maybe the soldiers shot them on the spot.

  She steeled herself, then grasped the bedstee’s hand-smoothed knobs and pulled the doors open.

  Gerrit lay against the pillows, his yellow curls mussed, pale but alive. “I’m glad you are home.” A dimple creased his right cheek.

  “They were here.”

  “Ja.”

  “How did you … ? They believed your story?”

  “You will never guess what happened.”

  “What about Johan? Is it safe for him to come out now?”

  “He is not here.”

  She swayed. “Shouldn’t he be back? It shouldn’t take that long to deliver a message.”

  Gerrit’s face remained calm. “He may have decided to wait to come until nightfall, under the cover of darkness.”