Chasing Shadows Page 26

  The knock on the back door startled everyone. Miriam’s instincts screamed, Run! Hide! But she couldn’t move. Mrs. Ver Beek sprang to her feet, her hand clutching her heart. She was always anxious when someone came to the door, but the look of horror on her face seemed more intense than usual. Miriam followed her gaze to the kitchen door and saw why. She and Mrs. Ver Beek had washed the kitchen curtains earlier that day, and they hadn’t dried in time to rehang them. Miriam had been so careful to stay away from the windows when she’d first arrived, but in the months since then, they had all become careless. Now a white-haired woman stood outside, peering in at them through the bare window glass. She gave a little wave.

  “She already saw us,” Mr. Ver Beek said. “Answer the door.”

  Miriam couldn’t breathe as Mrs. Ver Beek stumbled to the door as if she’d forgotten how to walk. She was honest and blunt, incapable of sugarcoating things, much less telling an outright lie. She opened the door so stiffly and awkwardly the visitor might truly have been from the Gestapo.

  “Hello, Gerda,” Mrs. Ver Beek said with a nod of her head.

  “Good evening. Sorry to interrupt your dinner. The postman put this letter in our box by mistake. I thought I’d just run it over to you.”

  “Thank you. This . . . this is Christina,” she said, gesturing to Miriam. “Gerda lives next door,” she told Miriam.

  The woman smiled. “Hello, Christina. Nice to meet you. Are you here for a visit?”

  Miriam nodded, not daring to speak. It must be obvious to their visitor that the three of them were nervous. Was Gerda just making polite conversation or were her inquiries more sinister? Her smile seemed pleasant enough.

  “Would . . . would you like to come in and sit a minute?” Mrs. Ver Beek asked. Everything in her posture and stiff demeanor spoke the opposite—this neighbor wasn’t wanted or welcome.

  “No thank you. I need to get home.”

  Mrs. Ver Beek thanked Gerda again and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment. She stumbled back to her place at the table, clutching her heart in one hand, the letter in the other.

  “I can’t do this, Henk,” she said. “I’ve been terrified all these months, and today . . . I’m sorry, Christina.”

  Mr. Ver Beek’s face was beet red, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “We’re both sorry,” he said. “We aren’t cut out for this . . . being always on edge . . . it’s too much.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” Miriam said. “I understand. She gave us a terrible scare. I’m sure the underground can find another place for me to stay.”

  “If we were younger . . . ,” Mrs. Ver Beek said.

  “Never mind. I’m grateful to both of you.”

  Mr. Ver Beek pushed his chair back from the table. “I’ll call Dr. Elzinga.” And just like that, her time here was over. Miriam had to leave this safe, familiar hiding place. She went upstairs to pack her things.

  Mrs. Ver Beek was hastily ironing the kitchen curtains when Miriam came downstairs again. Miriam had time to help with the supper dishes before Dr. Elzinga arrived later that evening.

  “Thank you for your kindness—” she began as she prepared to leave with the doctor. She spoke at the same moment as Mrs. Ver Beek.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You don’t need to be sorry,” Miriam said. “I will always be grateful to you for risking your lives for me. Goodbye.”

  “God go with you, Christina.” Mrs. Ver Beek had tears in her eyes, but Miriam knew it wasn’t in her nature to embrace her.

  The doctor didn’t say much as they drove, as if his mind was preoccupied with countless things. Outside of town, the Dutch countryside was so flat Miriam could see for miles. The roads became narrower and rougher as they drove, the aroma of cows more pungent in the evening air, until at last they pulled to a stop beside a small farmhouse. It needed a new roof, its mismatched tiles composed of several styles and colors. A large barn with a wide, open door was attached to the house. “I’m sorry you had to move,” the doctor said. “I know how nice it was for you there.”

  “You warned me that I might have to move often. At least I was able to stay there for almost a year. They were wonderful people, but I could see how fearful they were.”

  “Yes . . . well, here we are.”

  A cow lowed from somewhere inside the barn as Miriam stepped from the car. A wiry, white-haired woman came out to greet them, her skin wrinkled and wind-burned, her hands gnarled as if she’d plowed the rich earth barehanded.

  “This is Christina,” Dr. Elzinga said. “And this is Mrs. Mulder. She and her husband own this farm where you’ll be staying for now.”

  “Did you have your dinner?” Mrs. Mulder asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And you?” she asked the doctor.

  “I have as well.” He tugged on the vest of his three-piece suit as if to emphasize his full stomach. “If you don’t need me, I should leave right away.”

  Mrs. Mulder nodded curtly. The doctor removed Miriam’s suitcase from the trunk and handed it to her.

  “Come meet the others, then,” Mrs. Mulder said as the car drove away. The farmhouse was little more than a cottage, even smaller than the Ver Beeks’ modest house. Miriam wondered how many others there were and how they could possibly fit inside such a small home. But Mrs. Mulder led the way through the open barn door, across the pungent, hay-strewn space to a door in the rear that led into the barnyard. Miriam heard grunting sounds that she guessed came from pigs, and then the clucks and squawks of chickens as she neared a low-roofed coop. Mrs. Mulder opened the gate to the fenced-in enclosure, beckoning for Miriam to hurry as a rooster rushed forward, flapping its wings and crowing in displeasure.

  Miriam resisted the urge to cover her nose and mouth as they ducked inside the weathered gray coop. Roosting nests lined both sides of the narrow, windowless space. The smell was overpowering. She feared that the “others” Mrs. Mulder had mentioned were the hens and that she would have to bed down with the chickens, but then the woman removed a section of the rear wall of the coop, revealing a hidden room. Four dark-haired women sat on mattresses inside. They looked up anxiously as the door opened and Miriam ducked inside.

  “This is Christina,” Mrs. Mulder said. “She needs to stay with us for a while. Do you girls need anything while I’m out here?”

  “No thank you,” one of the women replied.

  “Then I’ll be putting the chickens to bed now. I’ll let you introduce yourselves.” The wall closed behind Miriam with a thud, leaving her in semidarkness. She squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust, fighting the feeling that she was trapped in this tiny space and the walls were closing in. It was no bigger than ten feet square and was a few feet lower than the coop.

  “I’m Lies,” the woman who’d spoken said. “These are my daughters, Julie and Betsie. And this is Alie.”

  “How do you do? I’m Miri—I mean, Christina.”

  The girl named Julie laughed. “We had to get used to our new names too. Have a seat.” She patted a space on one of the mattresses on the floor.

  A heavy weight began to settle on Miriam’s chest as she sank down, squeezing out all of the air. She barely managed to say, “Thank you.”

  “This place isn’t as bad as it seems right now,” Alie said. “There’s another door back here that we can open during the day to let in some light and air. We can even sit outside during the day if no one comes to the farm.”

  “But it’s better to wait until dark to go outside,” Lies said. “The farm is near a busy road and we don’t want to take any chances.”

  “There’s nothing but woods behind us,” Alie said.

  “Even so. It’s better to be safe.”

  Miriam thought she detected tension between the two women and wondered if they would all be at each other’s throats eventually, after being crushed together in such a small space. The one named Betsie hadn’t spoken.

  “The outhouse is behind u
s, too,” Julie added. “And there’s a pump for water. Mrs. Mulder brings us food when she feeds the chickens, and even some books to read.”

  Miriam had no idea how she would be able to eat with such a strong smell invading their room. She glanced behind her at the trapdoor to the coop, where there seemed to be a great deal of commotion. “Is it always this noisy?” Miriam asked. “I grew up in the city . . .”

  “You’ll get used to their racket,” Alie said. “You won’t even notice it after a while.” But even the low cooing sound the hens made as they finally seemed to settle onto their nests was annoying and unending.

  The women seemed delighted to have someone new to talk with, and they shared their stories with Miriam. Lies and her daughters—Julie, who was sixteen, and Betsie, who was fourteen—were from Amsterdam and had gone into hiding during the roundups with the help of her husband’s Gentile business partner. Lies’s husband and son were also hiding, but she had no idea where. Alie was eighteen, also from Amsterdam, and the daughter of a rabbi. “I’m the oldest, and Abba found a hiding place for me first. I have no idea if my parents or any of my six siblings escaped the roundups. Abba has a special stamp on his papers, which is supposed to give him favored status, but . . .” Her words trailed off. All four women had been in hiding for as long as Miriam had, most of that time here on the Mulders’ farm.

  Miriam told her story quickly, needing to scrape past the pain. She knew it made her sound unfeeling, but then the others had sounded brusque too as they’d spoken of their families. It was better not to feel any emotion, she’d decided, than to store up the pain until it destroyed her the way Eloise’s grief continually threatened to do.

  “You must miss your husband and child,” Lies said softly. “I know how much I miss mine.”

  “Yes.” Miriam couldn’t think about them. Wouldn’t think about them. The low drone of airplanes sounded in the distance, growing louder and closer until the planes rumbled heavily above the chicken coop, rattling the walls.

  “We hear firefights sometimes,” Alie said. “And bombs exploding.”

  “Have you heard any news of the war?” Lies asked. “Is there any chance of it ending soon so we can have our lives back?”

  “I’m not sure. The people I was staying with had to turn in their radio a few months ago. The newspapers are run by the Nazis, and they always claim to be winning.” The little room grew darker as they talked and night fell. The chickens seemed to have settled down too, and except for the sound of crickets, the night grew still. Miriam wondered how she would sleep without the rumbling, rustling noises of the city. She heard someone yawn.

  “I’m tired,” Lies said. “Maybe we should all turn in for the night.”

  “It’s all of us or none of us,” Alie said testily. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

  “How do you see what you’re doing in the dark?” Miriam asked.

  “We’re used to it,” Julie said. “We each have our own little space.”

  “But we can light a candle for you, Christina,” Lies said. Miriam heard her rummaging around nearby, and a moment later a match flared, blinding her temporarily. There was the sharp scent of sulfur, then warm candlelight bathed the tiny space. “We keep our things over here during the day,” Lies said. She pointed to a crude set of shelves that Miriam hadn’t noticed before, made from wooden crates. Four suitcases were stacked neatly inside. Plates and bowls and cutlery lay on top, along with a small basin. A bucket of water stood next to the shelves. “We usually use the outhouse before we undress,” Lies said.

  Julie pushed open the back door, making the sound of insects louder. She took her sister’s arm. “Come on, Betsie. I’ll go with you.” The girl still hadn’t spoken. Miriam knelt and opened her suitcase, unwinding her clothes from around her violin and bow.

  “Is that a real violin?” Alie asked. “Do you play it?”

  “Yes—that is, I used to play it. I didn’t dare at the last place I stayed. The houses were too close together, and we worried that the neighbors would hear me.”

  “I would love it if you would play something for us,” Alie said. “We haven’t heard music in ages!”

  “I don’t think so,” Lies said quickly. “Who knows how far the sound might carry in the night?”

  “I know I’m not allowed to play,” Miriam said. “I was just checking to see if it made the journey safely.” They cleared a space for Miriam’s suitcase on the shelves, and when Julie and Betsie returned, Alie offered to go to the outhouse with Miriam. As they took the short walk down the dirt path, a memory suddenly flashed through Miriam’s mind of her grandmother’s beautiful home in Cologne, the way it had been before the Nazis came to power. She remembered the black-and-white marble floor tiles in her bathroom and the deep porcelain bathtub. Her grandmother’s maid would fill the tub with warm, rose-scented water for Miriam. But before the memory could erode the iron shell Miriam had erected around her heart, the stench of the outhouse brought her back to reality.

  CHAPTER 39

  SEPTEMBER 1943

  The wet ground tried to suck Lena’s wooden clogs from her feet as she and Pieter crossed the cow pasture. They had poled their little wooden boat down the narrow canals to their neighbors’ farm, traveling as close to it as they could before tying up. Now they headed across the field, taking the long, indirect route to avoid going near the village, where the Nazis and the Resistance had been active in recent weeks.

  “I hope there are other people here to help Mrs. Boertjens so we can finish quickly,” Lena said. “I’m nervous about leaving Wim and the girls home alone.”

  “They’ll be fine. The Boertjens family needs our help.” They reached the edge of the field, and Pieter held the fence wires apart so Lena could duck between them. Normally Wim would have gone with Pieter to help their neighbors, but Wim had grown to be as tall as his father and looked older than his fifteen years. The Nazis conscripted all men over the age of eighteen now, and Lena and Pieter feared Wim would be snatched up and sent to a work camp.

  “Has there been any more news about Mr. Boertjens?” Lena asked as they reached the dirt road and started up it to the farm. “Surely the Nazis will release him to finish his harvest, won’t they?”

  “He was caught with a hidden radio, Lena. He won’t be coming back.”

  She shuddered, remembering how they’d debated whether or not to hide their own radio when the Nazis had ordered all of them to be turned in last May. More than ever, Lena relied on the underground newspapers that Wolf brought to find out what was happening.

  They had walked only a short distance when they heard the rumble of Nazi motorcycles behind them. The sound filled Lena with dread. “What should we do, Pieter?” There was no place to hide in the flat, open countryside. Thank God Wim had stayed home.

  “Nothing. Just keep going.”

  They stepped to the side of the narrow road to give the motorcycles room to pass, but Lena could tell they were slowing. Her heart raced.

  “Halt!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Halt where you are!”

  The engines roared in Lena’s ears as they idled. Heat radiated from the machines. One of the soldiers pointed to Pieter. “You—come with us.” He gestured toward the village, the direction the motorcycles had come from. Lena’s heart raced faster as the men wheeled their vehicles around.

  “What could they possibly want?” Lena whispered. Pieter shook his head. As a farmer, he was exempt from the labor camps. She wondered if they’d caught up with him for working with the underground these past few months.

  “Faster,” they told Pieter.

  They didn’t seem interested in Lena, but she gripped Pieter’s hand tightly as they hurried toward the village, the motorcycles growling behind them. It was only a ten-minute walk, but Lena’s fear mounted with every step she took. She was powerless. And terrified. She tried to pray, but her thoughts galloped and careened like a runaway horse, and all she could manage was a silent, desperate prayer. Please, God. P
lease help us!

  They reached the market square and saw six men from the village standing in a line in the street across from the church. The soldiers halted their motorcycles and waved Lena away, pointing for Pieter to go stand with the other men. He squeezed her hand before releasing it.

  These were men Lena knew. Her cousin Truus’s husband. Two deacons from church. Three area farmers who were their neighbors. They looked pale and frightened, some of the men trembling visibly. Nazi soldiers strode into the square with three more men—the village baker and his elderly father, and one of Wim’s schoolteachers—adding them to the line until ten men stood in the row.

  Lena clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. She knew all about Nazi reprisals. If an act of resistance left a Nazi soldier dead, ten townspeople would be executed in revenge.

  Panic filled every inch of her. She was going to be sick. She wanted to run forward and throw herself in front of Pieter to protect him, but there was nothing she could do. She was aware of the other men’s wives gathering around her, weeping and pleading and hugging each other. Truus ran up beside Lena, screaming, “No, no, no . . . oh, please, God . . . no! Don’t let them do this! Please!”

  The men were told to kneel. Lena watched Pieter drop to his knees. This couldn’t be happening! It couldn’t be! They were going to execute Pieter! A Nazi officer stepped forward with a revolver in his hand. He shouted for quiet but the weeping continued. His Dutch was very poor, but everyone understood. An Allied plane had crashed during the night, and a crewman was missing.

  “One of you knows where he is. I will shoot, one by one, until you tell me.” The officer stepped within a few feet of the men and pointed his gun at the baker.

  Terror overwhelmed Lena. Every inch of her trembled and shook. Pieter didn’t know anything about the Allied crewman, she was certain of it. She closed her eyes against the horror, sobbing and pleading with God, bracing for the sound of the first gunshot. Instead, above the cries of the other women, she heard a motorcycle approaching. She opened her eyes. The officer had lowered his gun as he waited for the vehicle to halt.