Liz Tolsma

by Snow on the Tulips

His words made sense and she steadied.

  “If you fix me a little lunch, I’ll tell you everything.”

  With a great deal of speed, she straightened the house. She cut the last of her bread into thin slices, glad she didn’t have any milk or cheese in the house from her employer’s farm. They could have been in a great deal of trouble for withholding the milk from the Nazis.

  In the days before the war, her family would gather for a big dinner each Sunday, with a roast and mashed potatoes. The smell would make her mouth water. If a person could travel backward, she would return to those times and cherish them.

  She assisted Gerrit in sitting against the pillows. Beneath his soft cotton shirt, his muscles rippled. Emotions swept over her, recollections of another man and his sculpted arms and chest beneath her fingers. Her heart betrayed her.

  She dropped him back and he winced. Feelings were dangerous things. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He nibbled at the puny slice of unbuttered bread and filled her in on what had transpired.

  “You’re saying the man who shot you was here?”

  Gerrit nodded. “In this very room, looking straight at me.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t recognize you.”

  “He recognized me.”

  “Why would he protect you?”

  “I don’t know. If any of the other soldiers had discovered me, I would have been arrested or, more likely, shot without delay. But God led that particular soldier to me. Not another one, but the one whose sympathy I earned.”

  Cornelia fingered the edge of the blanket. “Amazing.”

  Gerrit’s mouth, usually hooked a little downward, curved upward like a horseshoe. “God’s fingerprints are over everything that is happening.” He reached out and brushed the back of her hand.

  His touch, his words, stirred feelings in her. Beautiful, awful feelings. What he awoke in her had died more than four years ago. She fought the emotions, not wanting to experience them, ever. Never again would she give her heart so freely it could splinter. It belonged to someone else. It always would.

  She stood to adjust the blanket that had slipped from his shoulder. With his left hand, he stroked her cheek and his eyes drifted shut. She left his bedside, her gaze fixated on the opposite wall. The picture, as sharp and clear as her recollections, hung there, encased in a silver frame. A young man stared back at her, his straight, dark blond hair slicked back, his joy and love of life evident in his wide grin.

  “Why, Hans, why? Why you?”

  WHEN GERRIT AWOKE from his nap, as the light slipped from the sky, Cornelia brought him another bowl of warm vegetable soup. She wished for a little meat to help him regain his strength. Perhaps tomorrow, when she went to work at Frou de Bruin’s farm, she would be able to get a little pork.

  She sat in the corner, in her rocker near the bedstee, absorbed in her thoughts about Hans and her prayers for Johan. The schoolhouse clock, which hung on the wall between the pictures of Hans and Queen Wilhelmina, ticked away the moments.

  “Do you like to sing?” Gerrit’s question broke her reflections and caught her off guard.

  “Ja. I used to sing with the church choir, but I don’t sing much these days.”

  “Why not?”

  “There isn’t much to sing about.”

  “We can’t allow those Nazis to steal our reason to sing. If we do, they have won the war. Don’t you ever defy them? Ever?”

  “Of course I do. I hide Johan here, among many other things.” She slid forward in her chair. “I don’t speak German and I take yogurt and cheese and milk from Frou de Bruin, you know. But in a way, they have won the war by taking irreplaceable things from me. And that is why I have lost the will to sing. Perhaps on our liberation day, I will break into song. Not now.”

  “Be a little daring. Sing a song for me. A hymn. Maybe ‘We Gather Together’?”

  “Nee, I won’t. Those words are almost rebellious.”

  “My mother used to sing that song to me. I miss hearing her voice. I miss being able to worship each Sunday with God’s people. Won’t you please sing for me?”

  “Throw your mother in there to gain my sympathy. Did you think it would work?” She shook her head and a small smile tugged at her lips.

  He shrugged. “Did it?”

  “It has been so long.”

  “Then there is no better time than now. I would like to hear your voice.”

  He wore away her resistance like rain wears away the snow. “I don’t sing that well.”

  “You sang in the church choir, so you must have a decent enough voice. Please.”

  “Only if you will sing with me.”

  He nodded.

  We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing;

  He chastens and hastens His will to make known;

  The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing,

  Sing praises to His name: He forgets not His own.

  His weak but rich baritone joined her soprano. She moved from the rocker to his bedside, sitting on the edge of the mattress as the long-buried song washed over her.

  Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,

  Ordaining, maintaining His kingdom divine;

  So from the beginning the fight we were winning;

  Thou, Lord, wast at our side, all glory be Thine!

  We all do extol Thee, Thou Leader triumphant,

  And pray that Thou still our Defender wilt be.

  Let thy congregation escape tribulation;

  Thy name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!

  Something happened in that moment, something Cornelia couldn’t express in words. These shared experiences bound her and Gerrit together.

  Like she had been bound to Hans.

  CORNELIA’S CLEAR, BEAUTIFUL soprano broke on the last line of the third verse.

  He didn’t want to hurt her. “What’s wrong? Have I upset you in some way?”

  “Nee, nee, not at all. Not really, anyway. It’s not you.”

  All the women he knew said that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  She shook her head and covered her mouth. Then a flash of gold caught his attention. A plain, thin band encircled the third finger of her right hand.

  A wedding ring. He hadn’t paid attention to it before. Maybe she didn’t wear it all the time or maybe he had been in too much pain to see it.

  Cornelia was married.

  But where was her husband?

  Did he work for the Resistance, or had he escaped to England in the early days of the war to fight with the British? Perhaps he had been detained by the Germans.

  In the end, it didn’t matter where the man might be. What did matter was that Cornelia was married. Likely the war separated them and they would be reunited once the Allies liberated them.

  He had no right to be attracted to her. From now on, he would have to watch himself. And not watch her. He would have to restrain himself and not let his budding feelings bloom.

  Men in the Resistance were taught to control their emotions. If they showed any signs of weakness—any fear, any love, any sadness—it made their jobs much more difficult. And dangerous.

  Cornelia sniffled. “You’re quiet.”

  “Am I?” He stared into her hazel eyes, the color of the fields in late summer.

  “Ja,” she whispered, looking right back at him.

  The tender moment stole all rational thought from his brain.

  The day’s last ray of sunshine caught her hair, setting the muted auburn on fire.

  “Cornelia.”

  She clutched her middle and stood, her rocker banging against the wall. “I’m going for a walk. You should rest awhile.”

  After she halted the motion of the chair, she left the house without even grabbing a sweater.

  CHAPTER 11

  A light mist fell, leaving Cornelia damp and chilled as she wandered the streets of town. She peeked in a few of the shop windows. Nothing but empty shelves.

>   Each building, though packed right against another, had a special uniqueness. Some were covered in light red bricks, so pale as to be almost pink. Others boasted brown or gray bricks. Many offered sloping roofs that pointed to the sky. Several were rectangular. Here and there, one had a green-striped awning, another a red-striped awning. All of them butted against the sidewalk that ran adjacent to the road.

  She didn’t think much, just meandered here and there. After thirty minutes or so, she discovered herself shivering on Anki’s doorstep, hoping neither she nor Piet were napping.

  Her sister invited her in, a much-loved book in her bony hand. “What brings you by?”

  “I was out wandering. Would you like to take a walk with me?”

  “In the rain? And you with no coat?”

  “It’s stopped. Please?”

  Anki gave a reluctant nod and fetched her red wool coat, which she held out to Cornelia. “Wear mine. I have Piet’s.”

  “Always watching out for your little sister, aren’t you?”

  “That’s my job.”

  “You will make a great mother someday.”

  She and Anki linked arms and stepped outside. “Someday.”

  Anki’s smile overpowered her face. She had a look like …

  “Someday soon, Anki?”

  “Sooner rather than later.”

  “Really?”

  “That is all you are going to get out of me.”

  Could it be? Oh, Cornelia prayed it was so. Piet and Anki had longed for a child since the first day of their marriage. Four years later, perhaps God had answered those prayers.

  They walked in silence for a while before Anki broke the quiet. “Did you see Frou de Bruin this morning at the tsjerke?”

  Cornelia shook her head. “Nee. I should go and see her after service this afternoon. Her gout must be giving her trouble. I am sure she will give me all the details.”

  Anki chuckled. “I’m sure she will. And you will listen and nod in the appropriate places and make her feel better.”

  “Of course. That’s how I keep my job, by agreeing to all she says.” Cornelia stopped in front of the tailor-shop window. The dark blue door had been locked for many months now because of a shortage of cloth.

  Anki leaned next to her, the sides of their heads touching. “Will we ever be free? Will the Allies ever get here?”

  Cornelia lowered her voice. “The Boonstras have a secret radio. They told me this morning the queen is making plans for a new government once liberation comes. If the queen is that optimistic, perhaps she knows something we don’t. But I agree—it’s a distant dream.”

  They stood silent under the tailor’s green-striped awning as the cold drizzle began again.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about? I am sure it wasn’t Frou de Bruin’s gout.”

  Cornelia watched the rain drip from the gray sky. “They came back today while I was at church.”

  “The Gestapo?”

  Cornelia nodded.

  “Not surprising.”

  “Our little drunk ruse worked again. The same soldier who shot Gerrit was there and saw him. By God’s grace alone, he didn’t turn in Gerrit. I could have been arrested. We both should have been.”

  “Corrie, you have to get that man out of your house, especially with Johan home. Both of you will end up in prison. Or worse. And now Johan is involved in this clandestine work.”

  Cornelia massaged her hands together. “And he is still not home. I don’t know. Gerrit said he is waiting until dark to brave the streets.” Icy cold hands gripped her stomach.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed three NSBers patrolling the street, huddled in their black coats. She and Anki stood in silence as they approached. Cornelia shrank back and averted her gaze, her hands shaking as they passed and turned the corner at the next block.

  Anki rubbed her arms. “You both are too involved. As soon as he can be moved, you have to get rid of Gerrit. You are both in too much danger. And Johan. What will you do if the Gestapo comes again?”

  Cornelia stared at the spot where the NSBers disappeared. She shrugged. “I did well enough when they came to the house the other night.”

  Her sister blew on her hands. “I have to admit you did.”

  “I wished I could melt into a puddle on the floor.” She giggled.

  Anki laughed. “Me too.”

  Cornelia gazed at the little house across the street, squeezed in between two others. “If I turn Gerrit out, I would be signing his death warrant. Maybe his contacts will have a place for him to go. If not, I suppose he will have to stay.”

  “You are going to risk your life for a stranger.” Anki shook her head in disapproval.

  “He doesn’t feel so much like a stranger. We get along well.”

  Her sister’s mouth rounded into a circle, her brows raised. “You have a crush on him.”

  “I don’t.” Cornelia cut her sister off but then thought of her encounter with Gerrit earlier.

  Nee, she didn’t. She refused to open herself up to the crushing pain of loss again.

  “Corrie, you don’t know the man at all. Don’t confuse your sympathy for him with anything more.”

  “Don’t worry. There is nothing going on.”

  “Such a dangerous man. And he is putting you in danger.”

  “What else am I supposed to do?”

  CORNELIA WOKE WITH a start, drenched in sweat, her heart thumping at an alarming rate. Bits and pieces of the nightmare came to her—the sound of shattering windowpanes and screaming women, the vision of shadowy figures and blood.

  Her breath came in short gasps and she hugged herself to stop her quivering.

  Several minutes passed before the dream faded and the adrenaline drained from her body.

  She stretched, an ache in her back and a crick in her neck. Light framed the blackout shades.

  This wasn’t her tiny bedroom under the eaves. She found herself lying on the blue sofa in the front room with its red brocade wallpaper, Gerrit snoring in the bedstee. Why had she slept here? Her foggy brain searched for the answer, and as she roused, the realization hit her.

  Johan never came home last night.

  Gerrit told her he had waited for darkness, but she had sat up until the small hours of the morning in vain. Perhaps he had snuck in after she dozed and crept upstairs without waking her. Clinging to that glimmer of hope, she rose from her davenport, hoping the springs wouldn’t creak and wake up Gerrit.

  For the second morning in a row, she climbed the steps to Johan’s door. For the second morning in a row, she discovered an empty room.

  Her chest rose and fell quickly and her airway constricted. If Gerrit hadn’t come into their home and disrupted their lives, none of this would have happened. Johan would be sleeping in his bed where he belonged.

  How dare Gerrit send an impressionable young man into such insanity as strutting about the streets dressed as a woman, dodging Nazi officers on a Sunday morning? The gall of the man, telling a stranger how to live his life. Yesterday she had been willing to let him stay. Today she changed her mind.

  She didn’t tread lightly down the stairs but stomped, wishing she had on her klompen. Marching into the front room, she stood next to the bedstee, her hands on her hips as Gerrit left sleep behind. He smiled at her. Imagine that.

  “Good morning, Cornelia.”

  “Where is my brother?”

  His face paled. “He didn’t come home?”

  “Nee. You put him up to this crazy scheme, risking a young boy’s life to let your friends know you were alive. Was it worth my brother’s existence?”

  “Don’t think the worst. We don’t know what might be going on. He could be well and safe somewhere.”

  “Don’t think the worst? How can I help it? You sent my brother on a dangerous mission and now he has disappeared. People who vanish like that do not come home again. I used to know where my brother was and that he was safe. You have stolen him from me.”

/>   He reached out his work-worn hand to touch her, but she shrank away. “Listen, Johan volunteered to go. I didn’t want to send him, but you were unwilling. What was I supposed to do? I needed to make contact with the Resistance here. You want to get rid of me as fast as possible—well, this is the way it needs to be done. In fact, you may have to go to the Underground cell yourself and find out what happened.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “If you remember, your brother brought me here. I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “You didn’t have to shoot a missile through our happy life.”

  “Were you really happy?” His bright blue eyes bored into her, as if he could see into her head like a gypsy’s crystal ball.

  He had no right to ask her that question. Safe and secure—that’s what she wanted. Happiness had died with Hans. Happiness carried too great a price.

  She clutched her stomach and turned away from the man who made her think too much. “I have to go and check on Frou de Bruin, do a few chores for her, and get her noon meal prepared. I have a job. When I get back, you need to have a plan to find Johan.”

  She turned and strode out of the room, not wanting to give Gerrit a chance to say anything more. Especially not anything that would make her delve further into long-locked-away memories.

  CORNELIA WALKED BRISKLY down the road lined with farm fields, away from Gerrit and the intense gaze of the German soldiers. She lifted her shoulders and inhaled a deep breath of cold air and tasted the ocean on her tongue. She had known Gerrit Laninga for less than sixty hours and he had toppled her world.

  Because of him, Johan had disappeared. Would she ever see her brother again? Danger hung about Gerrit like a cloak. He brought only heartache and trouble with him.

  Since that first night of the war, since her soul had been torn from her chest, she had structured her life so she might live in peace. Having Johan home had disrupted that some, and Gerrit disturbed her calm further. Just because she followed the rules didn’t mean she liked them or thought them right.

  A windmill rose above the flat, windswept landscape, its sails turning and whispering in the breeze. Her breathing slowed. The wind gusted and then calmed. The iconic structure kept spinning.

  For a moment or two, she forgot the war, forgot Gerrit, forgot everything.