by Lynn Austin
“Dominie Albertus Van Raalte, who was one of the founders of the seceding church here in Leiden, has recently moved to Arnhem,” Papa told us. “He used to preach to our congregation until he was driven away a few years ago. The Separatist church in Arnhem is larger than the one here, so we won’t have to endure religious persecution alone.”
Mama reached for Papa’s hand as if to show everyone that she supported him. “This has been a very difficult decision for us to make,” she told my sisters. “It will be hard to say good-bye and leave you and your families behind in Leiden.” My sisters and I were already tearful, but Mama remained strong. She would shed her tears in private.
“But perhaps you will decide to come to Arnhem, too,” Papa said, addressing his sons-in-law. “If you’d like, I will see if there is work for you there.”
They showed little enthusiasm for the idea and their promises were vague, even though they also were Separatists. The only one who seemed eager to move to Arnhem with us was Maarten, who had finished his apprenticeship at age eighteen and was now Papa’s assistant. “I would like to move there with you,” he said, “if you will allow me to. My parents are remaining here.”
“Of course, of course!” Papa said, slapping his shoulder. “We will run our new printing business together.”
Everything moved quickly once the decision had been made, and we began the arduous task of packing up our household in hopes that Papa’s business would prosper in a new city. I said a sorrowful farewell to my sisters and two little nephews and to the lovely city of Leiden.
Papa found a building to rent in Arnhem near the train station, only a short walk from the Nederrijn River. Papa’s shop and our kitchen were on the ground floor, the apartment where we would live was on the second floor. Maarten seemed content to sleep in a room in the attic beneath the dormers, although how he kept from hitting his head on the rafters was a mystery to me. I worried he would become a hunchback from crouching up there every night. On our second day in Arnhem, Dominie Van Raalte paid us a visit. Papa left Maarten in charge of the shop and invited him back into our kitchen for coffee. Mama and I were still unpacking but the cookstove was hot and so was the coffeepot. Dominie Van Raalte wasn’t much taller than me, but his warmth and charisma made him seem like a much bigger man.
“The church is welcome to meet here in my print shop,” Papa told him as they sat down at our table.
“Thank you. I’m very grateful,” the dominie said. “I will gladly accept your offer.” He blew on his drink to cool it and took a sip. “But keep in mind, only nineteen people will be allowed to meet inside the shop at a time.”
“But why? We can fit many more than nineteen people out there,” Papa said. “If we move my desk aside and clear away a few other things it should be no problem at all to squeeze in fifty people.”
“It isn’t a matter of space. The king has declared the Separatists to be ‘secret agitators.’ It requires government consent if twenty or more people wish to meet for religious services that aren’t part of the State Church. And official consent is nearly impossible to obtain.”
I could tell by the angry look on Papa’s face that he was prepared to defy this ridiculous law. Mama quickly spoke up before he had a chance to object. “What will happen if there are twenty or maybe twenty-one persons inside?”
“The authorities will come in and break up the meeting. The owners of the house or business will be punished with heavy fines for disobeying. Several of our ministers have already been fined for holding illegal meetings and even put into prison.” Papa learned later that Dominie Van Raalte himself had spent time in prison for disobeying. “We are not wealthy people,” he continued. “The fines are a very heavy burden to bear. Yet some of us believe that being able to worship freely is worth any price.”
“There is no way around this law, then?” Papa asked.
Dominie smiled his calm, patient smile. “We have discovered a few ways. For instance, we could have nineteen people meeting inside your shop, while others stand outside, listening through the open doors and windows.”
“That is what I will do,” Papa decided.
“And when the weather is pleasant,” Dominie continued, “we sometimes hold outdoor services near the border of two towns. If the authorities from one town come to break up the service, some of us can quickly disperse to the other town so we are not all meeting in one place.”
The church met in Papa’s print shop on our first Sunday in Arnhem. Mama and I and a few other women listened from our kitchen behind the shop, while exactly nineteen people gathered around the huge printing press out front. Dozens more jammed the narrow alleyway on the side of the shop and crowded along the sidewalk in front of the open door to hear Dominie Van Raalte preach. Everyone agreed it was worth the discomfort to be able to worship together and to hear Dominie’s stirring sermon assuring us of God’s abundant love.
The joy we all felt was short-lived. A few nights later a gang of ruffians threw an avalanche of rocks and bricks through the window of Papa’s new shop. The sound of shattering glass startled me from sleep. This time the attack didn’t end with one window. Our tormentors continued throwing stones and bricks until nearly every window in our apartment had been smashed. Then they lobbed more rocks through the shattered openings, trying to destroy the furnishings inside.
“Geesje! Get into the closet!” I heard Papa shout. My wardrobe was on the other side of my bedroom and I could see silvery shards of broken glass littering the floor. I crawled beneath my bed instead, as Papa and Maarten ran downstairs to the shop. I closed my eyes and prayed for their safety as shouts and cries and the sound of thudding stones came from the shop below me.
At last everything grew quiet. Too quiet. What had happened to Papa and Maarten? Please, God . . . please, God . . . I prayed. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I was still hiding beneath my bed, so I squeezed as far back against the wall as I could, my heart pounding like the thudding rocks. The bedroom door creaked open. Someone stood in the doorway. I could see his wooden clogs from the crack beneath my bed. I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
“Geesje . . . ? Are you all right?” a voice whispered.
Maarten.
“I-I’m under here. I-is it safe to come out?”
“Yes. The thugs are gone. . . . But be careful. There is glass all over your floor.”
I felt so shaky I could barely crawl out. Maarten shoved some of the glass away with his foot, and as soon as I emerged, he caught me in his arms and lifted me onto the bed. “I was so scared!” I exclaimed as he hugged me tightly for a moment.
“I know. Me too.” He pulled away, and I saw a dark shadow on the side of his face. When I tried to brush it away, it felt wet. Blood.
“Maarten, your head is bleeding! You’re hurt.” He reached up to feel his forehead, and I saw him wince.
“They pelted us with rocks.”
“That cut should be washed and bandaged.” He helped me find my shoes, then we climbed down the narrow, winding stairs to the kitchen. Mother had lit a lamp and was tending to several cuts on my father’s face and arms. She nursed Maarten when she was finished.
“What were you two thinking?” she scolded as she worked. “You never should have gone out there. They might have killed you!”
“I will do whatever it takes to defend my home and my family,” Papa said.
“Why is this happening to us?” I asked. “Why doesn’t God protect us?”
“He is protecting us, Geesje,” Papa soothed. “They threw all those rocks, yet none of us was badly injured.”
“And remember what Jesus said?” Mama added. “‘The servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you.’”
The next day, Dominie Van Raalte and some other men from our church came to help us clean up. “Where were the authorities last night?” Papa asked as he shoveled up stones and broken pieces of bricks and tossed
them into a bucket. “Why aren’t they searching for the men who did this?”
“I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first such incident,” Van Raalte replied. “These ruffians have grown bolder and bolder because they know that the city officials will look the other way.”
“So we can expect this to happen again?” I asked. I wondered if I would ever feel safe at night.
“Our church will help you make shutters for your windows that you can close at night,” the dominie replied.
“And I will sleep downstairs in the shop from now on,” Maarten added. “I’ll make sure no one harms you, Geesje.” The purple bruise on his forehead had swollen to the size of an egg. He would always have a crescent-shaped scar there as a reminder of that terrible night. His dark eyes looked soft when he gazed at me, and it gave me a funny, watery feeling inside.
That was the first time I became aware that Maarten thought of me as more than a friend or a little sister. In the days that followed, I noticed that he became so flustered whenever I walked into the print shop that he would forget what he was doing and his round face would grow very red. His reaction amused me, and so sometimes I went into the shop for no reason at all except to test my power over him. Then I would laugh to myself after I returned to the kitchen. Maarten was pleasant-looking in a gangly sort of way—like an oversized puppy that might eventually grow out of its awkwardness. I had always thought of him as an older brother, but after we moved to Arnhem, I began viewing him through the eyes of the other young women from our congregation. They giggled and blushed whenever he was around, and the braver girls made excuses to talk with him. These girls quickly befriended me as a way to get closer to him. “Does he have a girlfriend?” they would ask. “Please, tell us what he’s like!” A few even asked to be introduced to him. I was happy to play matchmaker but timid Maarten declined all their offers.
“Geesje, come for a walk with me down to the Nederrijn River,” Papa said one evening after dinner. I could tell by the somber expression on his face that he had something important to discuss. I never would have guessed that it would be about Maarten. “Listen, Geesje,” he said as we walked arm in arm. “Maarten approached me the other day and asked for permission to court you.”
I stopped walking, dragging Papa to a halt as I looked up at him. For some reason the request filled me with dread when I knew I should have felt excitement. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him that of course he had my blessing. I believe you’re old enough and mature enough to think about marriage in another year or so, but I said that the decision to court him would be up to you. I won’t force you against your will.” I felt relieved and started walking again. It was a warm spring evening and the streets were crowded with people who were taking advantage of the fine weather. “The only thing I will demand of any of your suitors, Geesje, is that he must be a believer.”
“And a Separatist, like us?”
Papa wagged his head from side to side. “I would need assurances that his faith and his commitment to Christ are genuine.” We paused when we reached the river. I gazed out at the wide expanse of water, and the birds wheeling and calling overhead. The Nederrijn was nothing at all like the river in Leiden, and I felt a pang of homesickness. “Maarten has all of the qualities I could wish for in your future husband, Geesje. He is already like a son to me. If the two of you were to marry, my printing business could remain in our family.”
“I will think about it, Papa,” I promised.
“Do more than think about it, lieveling. Pray about it.”
I was a compliant, obedient daughter. I usually did whatever my parents thought was best for me. Maarten was a man of very strong faith and would make a fine husband—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be his wife. To be honest, shy, soft-spoken Maarten seemed boring to me. Even so, I might have allowed myself to fall in love with him, especially after the tender way he’d treated me on the night we were attacked. But then the king’s soldiers arrived in Arnhem, and everything changed. . . .
Holland, Michigan, 1897
I have run out of stationery. The rest of my story will have to wait until Jakob brings me a new notebook.
Chapter 4
Anna
Hotel Ottawa
1897
I didn’t sleep well in the plain, unfamiliar hotel bed. My childhood nightmare returned after that terrible storm, and once again I dreamt that Mama and I were abandoning the sinking ship for the lifeboat. I heard the pitiful screams of drowning passengers and watched Mama sink beneath the waves. I’m awake now, and yet I still can’t stop shivering. Bright sunlight slants past the curtains, but I have no idea what time it is, nor do I care. I came to the Hotel Ottawa so I’d have time to think and to lick my wounds like an injured animal. I climb from the bed and rummage in my trunk for something to wear—I was too tired last evening to hang up my clothes properly, and they are strewn across the chair and floor. I change into a shirtwaist, a simple, loose-fitting skirt, and my traveling jacket, then brush my hair, leaving it unpinned. Why fuss when I no longer have a fiancé to impress or a calendar of social obligations to keep? I feel surprisingly liberated as I head outside.
I can tell it’s early because the grass still sparkles with last night’s rain, and the summer sun hasn’t had time to warm the storm-swept air. A few hearty guests are already walking toward the sandy beach on Lake Michigan, but I stay well away from that terrifying expanse of horizonless water. I find a place to sit on a bench facing the much smaller Black Lake and watch the water splash against the pilings. The City of Holland is no longer moored at the dock, and a family of ducks swims near the shore. They bob up and down on the waves like toys in a carnival game, dipping their heads into the water until their tails point straight up to the sky, then righting themselves again. I know nothing about wildlife and wonder if this is how ducks feed.
It’s so quiet I can hear my own breathing. There are no traffic sounds as in Chicago, no streetcars or trains or rumbling carriage wheels or horses clomping down cobblestone streets. The only sounds that disturb the stillness are crows calling and birds chirping and water slapping against the dock—until some fool shatters it by calling, “Elizabeth! . . . Elizabeth!” His voice is loud and insistent. I don’t turn my head, ignoring him as his footsteps hurry along the path, coming in my direction. He stops beside me, panting, and thumps my arm playfully. “You’re such a tease, Elizabeth. Why are you ignoring me?” I finally look up, and he steps back in surprise. “You aren’t Elizabeth!”
“No, I am not. Which is precisely why I didn’t answer you.” I comb my blowing hair out of my eyes with my fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he says. But instead of excusing himself and moving away, he remains where he is, towering over me and scratching his head as if bewildered. I turn to him again, scowling at his rudeness. He is about the same age as me with eyes the same gray-blue color as the lake. His hair is so fair it’s nearly white. His eyebrows, which are still raised in surprise, are pale as well. “It’s astounding,” he says. “You look exactly like Elizabeth. You could be her sister!”
“I have no sisters, I assure you. Or brothers either, for that matter.” The polite thing for him to do would be to excuse himself and leave. Instead, he sits down on the bench beside me and extends his hand. “I’m Derk Vander Veen. I work here at the hotel . . . well, for the summer, that is.”
I ignore his outstretched hand, then realize I’m being just as rude as he is. Besides, I came here for a reprieve from all the stiff social rules and mores. “Anna Nicholson. How do you do?” I extend my fingers, palm down, and he holds them awkwardly, as if unfamiliar with the proper way to greet a lady. The first time William and I were introduced, his touch caused a rush of heat to travel up my arm to my cheeks even though I was wearing silk gloves. I have no such reaction this time even with bare fingers. “I arrived on the steamship last evening from Chicago. In the storm,” I tell him.
“That was some storm, wasn’t it? It’s going t
o take all morning to clean up the downed branches.”
“I was quite certain we would sink to the bottom of Lake Michigan. I’m not at all sure why we didn’t.”
“It wouldn’t have been the first time a ship was wrecked in a storm like that one. I could tell you quite a few stories about the ones that didn’t make it. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.”
“No, thank you.” My voice sounds prim. “I don’t care to hear about sinking ships. I’ve already decided to take the train back to Chicago when my holiday ends.”
He laughs, although I hadn’t meant it as a joke. I find it strange that I can’t recall William’s laugh. Maybe he laughed in the beginning when we were first courting, but certainly not in the last few months when everything began to fall apart like a house made of bricks without mortar. “Do you have family here in Holland?” Derk asks. “You must.”
“Why must I? What makes you say that?”
“Look in the mirror!” he says, laughing again. “You look just like the rest of us Hollanders. This town was settled by Dutch immigrants, so a good many of us have fair skin and blond hair and blue eyes. Like mine. Like yours.”
I have always known that my parents adopted me as a newborn, so I suppose there is a chance that he’s right and that my ancestry is Dutch. I rarely think about being adopted and haven’t had any interest in finding my birth parents. Even so, I find it intriguing that he thinks I resemble this girl named Elizabeth. Might she be a relative?
“You could pass for a Hollander if you wanted to,” Derk tells me. “You could claim to be Elizabeth’s cousin or some other long-lost relative, and people would believe you.”
“Is Elizabeth your girlfriend?”
“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “No. She’s my neighbor’s granddaughter. I can’t afford a wife until I graduate. I’m studying at Western Seminary here in Holland to become an ordained minister.”
