Hunger Winter

by Rob Currie

  Because the sanctuary was nearly full, Opa selected a pew near the back. At the start of the meeting a gray-haired minister, who looked to be about eighty years old, stood, and with the use of a cane, he shuffled to the front of the platform. He stroked his gray, bushy beard, adjusted his thick glasses, and leaned on the pulpit for support.

  “Good morning,” he began. His voice was very low, and he had a strong French accent.

  “I am Pierre Henri, the assistant pastor of a church in Lyon, France. I am filling in for your minister while he recovers from surgery. We are pleased to offer our sanctuary for this important meeting. I turn the meeting over to Major Douglas Cox from the United States Army Corps Headquarters.”

  “Good afternoon,” the major began. “It is so good to look out and see families here today. I see fathers, mothers, and their children.”

  Why did he have to say fathers? For the rest of the meeting, Dirk caught only snatches of the instructions about where to go if people needed food or shelter. Mostly he recalled memories of Papa. “Teach me another wrestling move, Papa!” he had said many times. A favorite memory was the first time he’d pinned his father, and Papa had flashed a big grin. It was shortly before he went away. Dirk reached in his pocket and ran his finger over the stone from Papa.

  The next thing Dirk knew, the meeting was over, and people were standing.

  Oma and Anna went home, but Dirk and Opa stayed to talk to the major. After they waited in a long line, Cox motioned them forward to speak to him.

  “Hello, Major,” Opa said. “We are so grateful that you’ve liberated our town from the Germans.”

  “You’re welcome,” the major said.

  Opa fiddled with his hat and lowered his voice as he leaned a bit closer to Major Cox. “We’re trying to find our son and granddaughter. Do you have any news of the whereabouts of Hans or Els Ingelse from Oosterbeek?”

  “Let me check.” The major grabbed a briefcase, propped it on a nearby chair, and pulled a folder out. For about a minute he scrutinized the contents of a file. Dirk looked back and forth between Opa and Major Cox.

  “Hmm,” Major Cox said. He raised his eyebrows and studied the page in his hand.

  Opa took a step toward him, and Dirk took a quick, sharp breath. Could this be the answer to his hopes?

  Lines of concentration formed on the major’s forehead. He slid his index finger down a column of names.

  Dirk’s gaze followed that finger, willing it to find Papa’s and Els’s names. But when his finger reached the bottom of the page, the major grimaced.

  “No, unfortunately I don’t have any record of those names.”

  Opa took a small step forward and whispered, “Hans is with the Resistance, and the Gestapo has made capturing him a priority. We have to find him before they do!”

  “And the Gestapo captured Els,” Dirk added. “Who knows how they’re torturing her.” He shuddered.

  “I’m sorry,” Major Cox said. “I am very sorry, but I don’t have any information. You may inquire again in a few days.” A grim-faced Opa and the major shook hands.

  When they got back to the house, Dirk turned down Anna’s request to play hide-and-go-seek, went straight to his bedroom, and closed the door.

  “Any news?” Oma asked her husband.

  He shook his head. He looked around until he located Anna in the next room.

  “It could mean they don’t know,” he whispered, “but what I’m more afraid of is that the enemy is looking for Hans really hard, and the Allies know where he is but don’t dare tell anyone lest the Nazis find out.”

  Oma hugged Opa. “If you’re right, it makes me wonder what kind of dangerous assignment he’s on now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  DE NESSE STREET

  ROTTERDAM

  DECEMBER 2

  THAT SAME SATURDAY AFTERNOON, a small black car pulled up in front of the modest white house with bright blue shutters on De Nesse Street in Rotterdam. A tall man got out of the car and strode toward the house. Inside the home, a middle-aged woman heard the car door shut and peered out the window. When the man approached the house, her pulse raced, she gasped, and she lunged for a button on the wall near the front door. A buzzer sounded in the back of the house. “Not much time,” she said under her breath as she ran. She flung open the bedroom door and darted in. A fist pounded on the front door.

  “Hurry!” she urged. She waved her arms at the young woman who had slid open a small compartment in the wall. The young woman winced and held her side as she stepped in and closed the door behind her. The older woman yanked the sheets, blankets, and pillow from the bed. She hastily folded them and shoved them into the closet. She grasped the edge of the mattress and, with a grunt, turned it over.

  Two hands pummeled the front door like a drummer playing a rapid beat. The woman studied the closed door of the hiding place. “Looks good.” She scurried to the front of the house.

  “Open up,” a deep voice demanded. “I’m a doctor.”

  “Stay calm. Do what you practiced,” she said under her breath, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. As she approached the front door, the knocking repeated. It was so hard it rattled the window in the door.

  The woman arrived at the front door and looked out at the visitor. She jostled the doorknob and bumped the lock several times, and then she unlocked the door and opened it.

  The man burst in and swept the room with his gaze. “I’m here to see the patient.” He was a bit less than two meters tall, and very thin. He wore a long tan coat and a dark brown hat.

  “What patient?” the woman asked.

  “The one at the end of the hall.” He pointed toward the back of the house. “I hope she’s feeling better,” he added, with a softened tone. “I understand a doctor visited her a week ago today.”

  “You see how little I have in my house. Do I look like someone who could afford to pay a doctor to make a house call?”

  “Please forgive my manners,” the man said with a smile. “I forgot to tell you that the doctor who came last time could not come today.” He leaned forward. “Someone talked,” he said quietly. “The doctor has been captured, and I was told to tell you that Peter Hilbelink sent me.”

  “I’m so sorry you went to all the trouble of coming here, but I’m afraid it’s a waste of your time.”

  “There is a patient here!” His face turned red, and he raised his voice. “She’s in that room at the end of the hall.” He jabbed his finger toward the back of the house.

  “Go ahead, doctor, and see for yourself.” He stepped briskly past her and strode down the hall with his thin legs, looking like a two-legged spider. A spider hunting a fly.

  When they reached the closed door, he burst into the room. In front of him lay an empty bed with a bare mattress. There was nothing else in the room.

  “Where is she?” he demanded. “She needs to get out of Rotterdam, but she needs to be seen by a doctor to determine if she’s able to travel.”

  “As you can see,” the woman said, motioning with her hand, “the room is empty.”

  He studied her face, then turned his gaze to survey the room. He scanned it slowly from left to right. He approached the bed and placed both of his hands, palms down, on the center of the bed and pressed lightly. He scowled. Then he pulled a stethoscope out of his bag. He put the two earpieces in his ears and held the round metal piece against the wall. He moved it at one-meter intervals, listening. As he listened on the opposite side of the room from where the fugitive hid, the middle-aged woman coughed a few times.

  “Stop making noise,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry, doctor,” she said. “I have a touch of a cold.” She coughed three times in a row. He stepped closer to the wall and listened intently for a minute or so. Finally, he jammed the stethoscope into his medical bag, shot an angry look at the woman, and stormed out of the house.

  The woman walked to the front door and watched him drive away. She locked the door and watched the
street for five minutes. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her heart still raced. “Deep, slow breaths,” she told herself. He would probably love to come back and catch me with my guard down. After a long final look at the street, she walked back to the bedroom.

  “He’s gone,” she announced. The door to the compartment slid open, and the young woman grimaced as she emerged with difficulty from the cramped quarters. The older woman held out a hand to assist her guest.

  “Are you all right?”

  The younger woman stood and stretched. “Yes. Just a little stiff.”

  The older woman nodded.

  “He wasn’t really a doctor, was he?” the younger woman asked.

  “No. He was too pushy, and he felt the mattress with both hands.”

  “Checking for body heat?”

  “Yes,” the older woman said. “That’s why I flipped the mattress. In case he tried a trick like that.”

  “My papa taught me that one too,” the younger woman said.

  “And he put a stethoscope on the wall.”

  “I heard you cough. You baited him into listening on the opposite side of the room, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” the older woman said. She looked her visitor in the eye. “The Germans will come back, and next time they’ll bring dogs to sniff you out.”

  “I need to leave today,” the younger woman said. “I think I’m strong enough now to ride a bicycle, so I’ll go to my oma and opa’s house. I’ve been here a week, and my head feels much clearer.”

  “Yes, you do seem much better.” The older woman tapped her cheek with her index finger. “But when you leave, whoever’s watching the house will tell the Nazis.” Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what we should do.”

  “I do,” the younger woman replied. “We should keep our hopes up and our prayers strong.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  OMA AND OPA’S HOUSE

  NIJMEGEN

  DIRK SAT ON THE EDGE of his bed, his face somber and his head down. “What if I never see Papa and Els again?” he said to the empty room. He lay on his back, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out the stone from Papa.

  The feel of it triggered a memory. Papa had been gone for about a month when Mama handed Dirk a small box.

  “It’s from Papa.” Dirk opened the box and stared at the smooth, round stone inside. He looked up at Mama, confused. She smiled. “He found two stones that were almost exactly the same. He kept one and sent this one to you.” She paused. “He sent an orange ribbon for Anna, and a necklace for Els.”

  “Is Papa all right? Where is he?”

  “He’s fine, and I don’t know where he is. But the stone is to remind you he loves you and he’ll come back as soon as he can.”

  Now, lying on the bed in his grandparents’ home, Dirk rubbed the stone between his fingers. The stone was to remind him of Papa. Like he could ever forget.

  Several hours passed as he worried. Tante Cora didn’t know where Papa was, Oma and Opa didn’t know, and neither did the authorities. Of course they didn’t know. Papa was hiding from the moffen, the masters of finding people in hiding. If Papa was hidden well enough to keep even the enemy from locating him, what chance did Dirk have of finding him? And if he couldn’t find Papa, Els had no chance.

  Waves of sorrow crashed against Dirk’s heart, like the North Sea swells which batter the Dutch coast. He slid the stone back in his pocket and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Where are you, Papa?”

  Several minutes passed in silence.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s Oma. May I come in?”

  “Yes.” Dirk sat up.

  She sat next to him on the bed and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “I miss your papa and Els too.”

  “It’s not just that, Oma.” He fidgeted with the stone in his pocket. “The night Mama died,” he said, “she went to bed early because she was sick. I remember everything so clearly. She coughed so hard her face turned red. I asked her if I should go get a doctor, but she said no. So I made her some kwast. I mixed the last of our lemon juice with honey and hot water.”

  “That was a good idea,” Oma said gently.

  He paused again. “Papa was already gone. Els was away at university. When I got up in the morning, Mama was gone.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.” Oma squeezed his shoulder. “The doctor said your mother died of natural causes during the night.”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes, and tears leaked out around their edges. “Oh, Oma, there’s something else.” He paused longer this time, taking several deep breaths. “I never told anyone this.” He opened his eyes and stared at the floor. “Before I went to bed that night, I passed her bedroom.” His voice quavered. “Something told me to check on her. Her door was partly open, and I reached out to push it the rest of the way.” He reached his right hand out in front of him, reenacting the experience. The dam of his emotions broke open. He cried out loud, tears gushing down his face. He doubled over as his abdominal muscles forced air from his lungs so hard and so fast he could only catch quick breaths. “But for some reason,” he said, still crying so hard it was difficult to speak, “I didn’t open the door!” Oma embraced him, and he hugged her the way Anna had clung to him the past two months. “Don’t you see, Oma? What if it’s my fault? What if I had gone to get a doctor? Maybe Mama would still be alive.” He continued weeping, and his right hand twitched harder than it ever had.

  Oma gently pushed Dirk upright and clasped his shaking hand. “It’s not your fault, Dirk. The doctor said it looked like your mother just suddenly stopped breathing. He said it probably happened so quickly that even if you had gone into her room right when she stopped breathing, you couldn’t have helped her or gotten a doctor there in time.”

  Dirk’s right hand stilled in Oma’s warm grasp.

  “Let me tell you something,” she added. “My best friend died when I was your age.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Dirk said.

  “Many people have some kind of regret after a loved one dies. I did. Having those thoughts doesn’t mean it was your fault. It just means you miss your mama more than you can say.”

  She looked him in the eye for a long time.

  “Dirk, I know what makes it all harder is that you’re also worried about your papa. Don’t give up on him. He’s a very clever man, and Els is very strong, so don’t count her out either.”

  She handed him a handkerchief, and he blew his nose. “A good way to lift your spirits is to help someone, and I’ve just the thing for you. A friend called and said the new minister is still in his office. It’s dinnertime, so I made up a basket of food for him, and I want you to take it to him and visit with him. Tell him about the town and about yourself. It’ll do you some good, and he might be ready for a little conversation.” Dirk nodded, and they hugged.

  A few minutes later, he put on his coat and took the basket across the street. After he climbed the stone steps to the front of the church, he opened the heavy wooden front door. He walked through the foyer, opened the next door, almost as heavy as the first, and stepped into the sanctuary. It was much darker inside with only a few lights on.

  When he got to the front, he made a right turn and opened a door. He entered a hallway with multiple rooms and knocked on the first door, which was partly open.

  “Coming,” a voice said from inside the office.

  As he waited, shuffling steps inside the office approached the door. He pictured the elderly minister making his way slowly, perhaps painfully, to the door. The pastor leaned on a cane and was stooped over a bit. He looked at Dirk and the basket of food. “Ohhh. What have we here?” he said in his heavy French accent and low voice.

  “My name’s Dirk. My grandmother thought you might like some food.”

  “That is so kind. Yes, I would enjoy some food,” Rev. Henri said. “Please come in.” He pointed Dirk to a chair. “The food lo
oks wonderful. And I bet you prepared it all by yourself.” He winked.

  Dirk blushed. “No, I only carried it here.”

  “Well, that’s all right,” he said. He handed Dirk a sandwich and kept one for himself. “I’m new here, and I’ve been looking forward to meeting people in town. My chance has come sooner than I thought.”

  “What do you mean?” Dirk asked. He set his sandwich on his lap.

  “I have something important to tell you,” Rev. Henri said. “But first, I want you to close the door, even though I’m pretty sure no one else is here.”

  Dirk’s heart thudded as he rose to shut the door. “What do you want to tell me?” he asked. What could this man possibly know about me? Did Oma send me here for the minister to give me some bad news? Did something happen to Els? Dirk’s mouth got dry. The minister had been in a stooped position, leaning on his cane. But now he released the cane and stood up straight.

  “If I tell you, you won’t believe me, so I’ll show you.”

  Dirk gripped the chair armrests tightly. The minister’s French accent and low voice were gone. Dirk’s mouth went dry.

  Henri reached into his pocket and pulled out a gray stone, round like an extra-large coin, and held it out for Dirk to see.

  Does this man have news of Papa? Did something happen to him?

  Looking intently at Dirk, he said, “You have a stone that matches this one.”

  “Where did you get that?” Dirk asked with a shaky voice.

  “I’m not a minister, I’m—”

  The office door burst open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway. “Hans Ingelse! You don’t fool me with your beard and phony gray hair.” He held a gun waist high. “Your time is up.”

  “No!” Dirk shouted.

  “Who’s the boy?” the intruder demanded. “He’s your son, isn’t he?”

  “Leave him alone,” the minister said. He stepped slowly into the center of the room, between the gunman and Dirk. “Whoever you are, your quarrel is with me.”