Of Windmills and War (11 page)

Part
II

14

May 15,
1940

Utrecht
, The
Netherlands

Anya
sat across the kitchen table from her father. She studied the new creases on
his face, the stubble on his chin; his eyes, normally shining with hope and laughter,
now shrouded and troubled. But it was his silence that unnerved her, almost as
much as the distant gunfire echoing through the streets. His hand, still poised
around his coffee cup, trembled ever so slightly. Anya reached across the table
and placed her hand over his.

“Father?”

As if
snapping out of a trance, he looked up. “Yes?”

“So
quiet you are. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He
turned his hand, taking hers in his, as a tired smile tried to form. “I was
thinking of the day I married your mother.”

“Tell
me about it.”

“It was
such a beautiful day. The sky so blue. Birdsong filled the air. A cool breeze
danced through the flowers in her hair. How lovely she looked, her hand in mine,
as we walked from the church to the parsonage surrounded by those we loved. The
parishioners had prepared a great feast in our honor.”

A
distant explosion rumbled through the air, shaking the foundation below them.
They’d grown wearily accustomed to such interruptions over the past few days.
Since
3:30
on Friday
morning, when the Germans invaded in spite of Dutch anti-aircraft and ground-to-air
artillery, Anya and her father had watched their way of life turn upside down.
The Germans quickly made themselves at home, emptying homes and warehouses,
stealing everything in sight, even forcing families out of their homes so they
could move in. They gathered food from shopkeepers, raiding shelves until
nothing was left. While pillaging, they ordered residents to give up all their
metal treasures—copper, brass, pewter, silver, serving pitchers, plates, and
anything else they could melt down for ammunition. Anya had watched her
neighbor dig several holes in his backyard to hide his treasures.
How has it
come to this?
she’d wondered.

The
Germans demanded all radios be turned in. But like many others, Anya and her
father hid their radio—in their case, behind a wall in the pantry. They drilled
a hole for access then placed a framed picture over it. Listening late at night
to the BBC, they’d heard that Queen Wilhelmina and most of the Dutch government
had fled to
England
just before the invasion. Anya was
furious.
How could our queen turn her back on her people at such a time? How
could they care only for themselves, leaving the rest of us to ruin?
Her
father had cautioned her, speculating the queen surely had good reason to go to
England
. Hours
later they heard the voice of Wilhelmina explaining her actions. Unwilling to
be arrested or shot as a lamb unto slaughter, the wise queen and her government
had taken all of the national treasures and money to
England
.
There, they had set up a temporary station where they could continue to govern from
a safe place. Wilhelmina could speak to her people via
Radio
Orange
—
a
broadcasting service in cooperation with the BBC—at least to those who kept
hidden radios.

Now,
Anya and her father waited, listening to determine how far away the bomb must
have hit. Father and daughter looked once again at each other, confident there
was no need to take shelter.

“Go on,
Father. Tell me about the wedding feast.”

“So
much food, so lovingly prepared. And yet I don’t remember what was served. Only
the cake we cut together. Lemon cake with a pale yellow icing.” He paused
again.

“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 . . .”