Of Windmills and War (16 page)

“Hurry,
Anya,” Wim urged, his hand at the small of her back. “We’re almost there.”

They quickly
made their way to the platform and boarded their train. Much of the train was already
occupied, and it took several minutes until they found a compartment with room
enough for the four of them. Once they settled in with the children curled on
the seats beside them, Anya leaned her head back. “Oh Wim,” she whispered. “He
knew we were lying. I could see it in his eyes.”

Wim gently
patted Liesbeth’s head which rested in his lap. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

Anya
leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, the implication of what
had just happened hanging over them like a shroud.

After
several moments, Wim took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I’m afraid
it will be a long, long time before we can return home.”

23

Anya
awakened as the train began to slow. She lifted her head off Wim’s shoulder.
“Why are we stopping? Is this
Leeuwarden
?”

“No,
we’re approaching the station at
Alkmaar
.”

She
looked out the window into the darkness wishing they were already at their
destination.

“Mama?”

“Shhhh,”
Anya warned quietly, hoping to lull Henri back to sleep. “Everything’s all
right.”

He
looked around, confusion drawing his brows together. “Where’s Mama? I want
Mama!”

“Perhaps
you’d like a lemon drop, Henri,” Wim said, digging a small paper packet out of
his shirt pocket. “Would you like that?”

The
little boy’s chin wobbled as his eyes began to fill. “I want Mama,” he
whimpered.

“Yes,
Henri. I know,” Anya cooed, whispering into his ear. “But Mama’s not here right
now. Let’s see if this lemon drop tastes like lemon, all right? Do you suppose it
might be grape instead? Or perhaps cherry? What do you think?”

With
his chin still trembling, he reached out and grasped the yellow candy out of
Wim’s hand then slowly put it in his mouth. Moving it from side to side, he
looked pensive. “Lemon. Just like the last one.”

“Ah,”
Anya said. “So it is. I was hoping it would be grape. But it’s yummy like the
last one, right?”

He
sniffed, wiped his eyes, and nodded. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s
safe and sound, and she loves you very much.” Anya tousled his hair and watched
as his eyes grew heavy. In a couple of moments he slumped against her shoulder,
sound asleep.

“We
must remember to thank Dr. Bakker,” Wim said quietly. “What a brilliant idea to
coat lemon drops with sedatives.”

Before
Anya could answer, the door to the compartment flew open. A huge German soldier
stuck out his beefy hand.

“Ausweiss!”

Once
again their papers were checked and identification photos compared to their
faces. Anya doubted she would ever get used to these impromptu inspections. The
soldier studied the children’s faces, tipping Liesbeth’s chin with his stubby
finger for a better look. Her eyes popped open.

“Papa?
Mama?”

“I’m
here,” Wim said, wrapping his arm around her.

She
pushed back from Wim’s embrace. “You’re not my papa . . .”

“What
is wrong with this child?” the soldier grunted in German. “Why is she crying?”

Both
Wim and Anya feigned ignorance, as if they didn’t understand.

He
pursed his lips in frustration, stared them down, but moved on.

Anya let
out a long sigh.

“I’m
afraid our friend is not alone. Look,” Wim said, pointing out the window. The
platform was filled with German soldiers, each with a rifle slung over his
shoulder. They appeared to be crowding in toward the train. “It looks like
they’re boarding.”

“Should
we get off?”

He
shook his head. “Too risky. Our tickets are stamped for
Leeuwarden
.”

One
after another, the soldiers passed their compartment door as they boarded. Some
looked in, most didn’t. Anya knew most trains had special cars reserved for the
German soldiers. Often, only one or two rode in the special cars while the rest
of the passengers were crammed into others. This time, the car with the
Nur
für Wehrmacht
sign would surely be filled. Regardless, Anya was uneasy knowing
so many of them were on the train.

Wim
bumped his shoulder next to hers. “We’ll be fine. Just try to get some sleep.”

“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
what?”

“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.”