Hannah slipped soundlessly down a residential street with the name she had been given, turned into a narrow alleyway, and located the door with the number she had memorized from the brown butcher’s paper.
From the outside the house looked unremarkable, a blue door with a pretty hanging basket of purple-and-yellow violas the only thing to mark its presence. Expecting something more ominous or clandestine, she was warmed and surprised by its disarming presentation. If she didn’t know better, she could have been visiting a friend.
With her heart practically pounding out of her chest, she glanced about as she rang the bell and waited for someone to answer, not sure what to expect. But as the door opened, she was mildly surprised by the short, elderly woman who greeted her. Her hair was plaited into two braids, pinned neatly across her head. With her sparkling eyes, round face, and flat, pink cheeks, she looked more like a grandmother than a femme fatale.
The older woman nodded and smiled at Hannah as she dried her hands on a flowery tea towel. Her rumpled clothes and colorful apron showed traces of flour, presumably gathered from whatever Hannah could smell wafting down the hallway to welcome her.
Hannah looked at the number on the door again and then smiled politely at the woman who greeted her brightly.
“Can I help you?”
Hannah faltered, trying to find the words needed. She settled on, “I was sent here by my butcher.”
Even to Hannah, that sounded ridiculous. But the woman didn’t seem in the least surprised and just nodded, ushering her in. “I’m glad,” she said pleasantly. “He is kind, thinking to invite you. You’re just in time for tea.”
Hannah found herself shuttled into a long, dark foyer with pretty Dutch floor tiles.
“Come this way,” her new acquaintance instructed as she bounded off down the hallway, opening a kitchen door. She invited Hannah to sit at a long wooden farmhouse-style table, then moved back to her stove and, humming to herself, checked her oven. “Not many ingredients, these days,” she announced dismally with a shake of her head. “But I do my best. Would you like tea, dear?”
Hannah shook her head and waited. For what, she wasn’t quite sure. The woman took biscuits out of the oven and placed them on a cooling rack as the scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the kitchen. There was something quite bizarre about the whole experience.
Just then, the kitchen door opened and in came an elderly man as squat as the woman but twice as round. He had a short, dark goatee and a balding head and was scanning the front page of a newspaper as he walked in.
“We have a visitor,” announced the woman in a singsong voice. “Someone from Mr. Markus.”
The man looked carefully at Hannah and nodded, apparently weighing her up. “You are local?” he asked, removing his spectacles and peering at her.
“Yes. I work at the university. My name is Hannah Pender.”
“The university. Very nice.”
“I have somebody that I need… to help.” She tried to find the correct words. “Somebody who is not from around here.”
The man nodded and looked at her with kind eyes. Placing the newspaper in front of him on the table, he came to her side. “This person, who is not from around here—where is he now?”
“He is staying in my workshop at the bottom of my garden.” She tried to keep it vague but also felt that she instantly trusted this man. “He is safe. No one goes in there except me.”
“Aha!” the man said. “He is well?”
Hannah nodded. “He arrived with a severe flesh wound, but I managed to tend to it, stitch it, and clean it, and he appears to be making a full recovery.”
Her new friend looked impressed.
Hannah continued. “Our house backs onto a wood, his plane came down and he managed to find his way to our shed. It would—I think—be fairly straightforward to get him away secretly. Especially at night.”
“You live alone?”
Hannah shook her head. “With my mother. She is housebound. And… well, while I am here, I also have two bicycles in the workshop I would like to donate to the cause.”
The older man’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful. Please write down your address.” He pushed a piece of paper toward her. “And we will take care of it for you.”
While she obliged him, he went over to where the woman was cooking.
“What do we have here?” he enquired, lifting an eyebrow.
“Speculaas,” she answered half-heartedly. “Well, some sort of version of it. It is complicated to cook anything without sugar.”
The man took a long sniff of the fragrant cookies, then indicated something to his wife, who added a couple of them to a plate and handed it to him. Turning to Hannah, he fixed her with a smile. “Thank you for coming by. We will come in the next couple of days, once arrangements are made. Leave the door unlocked and we will take care of your problem.”
Hannah knew it was time to leave. She stood and moved toward the door.
The man called after her, “You know… There’s more you could do to help. Having somebody on our… side, who works at the university, is something we have discussed before. So much information, such an important job. You get to meet a lot of different people, presumably?”
She turned and gazed at him inquisitively.
“You should think about it,” he added, his earnest request challenging her. “We need all the help we can get.”
Hannah shook her head, looking down. “I’m not very heroic. I’m doing the best that I can, but I have my mother and the students to think of. I think that maybe I will leave such things to much braver people.”
Following her out of the kitchen, the odd little man escorted her to the door and met her eyes before opening it. “One doesn’t know how brave one is until the cost outweighs the fear,” he said thoughtfully. “You may surprise yourself if the cost becomes something precious, worth fighting for.”
As she contemplated his words, he slipped the two biscuits into a tiny basket by the door and handed it to her.
She started to protest. “I can’t take your food.”
He silenced her by covering her hand with his own. “It looks better when you leave.” And then signaled to the door with his eyes. She understood. And his words about the cost struck her more profoundly; he was indicating to her that the house may be watched. She felt foolish and awestruck by this brave little man and his pleasant wife.
Opening the door, he said in a raised voice, “It was lovely to see you again. Please give my regards to your mother and tell her we hope to see her soon.”
Hannah nodded, knowing that he meant this for the ears of anyone suspicious who might be listening. He waved to her as she stepped out into the alleyway, then closed the door behind him.
Back out in the chilly afternoon, she trotted away, looking down at the meager biscuits, and contemplated his words. Was the cost not dear enough for her already? Yes, she felt the sadness, and she felt the permanent loss. Eva’s face swam into her thoughts; two of her brothers and her father so far from home already. Hannah wondered about the cruel cost it already had been to her and to her mother. Before she made her way home to check on Joe, she stopped off at a tobacconist in town.
Joe was standing in the corner of the shed looking at some of the posters on the walls. She surprised him with her gift: a packet of cigarettes and the two biscuits still in the basket. She could tell he was ecstatic, swallowing the first biscuit in one mouthful. Then he hastily lit a cigarette and took a long, generous drag of the nicotine, allowing it to fill his lungs with his eyes closed. His face showed its ecstasy as he held onto the smoke for a long moment before finally letting it filter out through his nostrils, a warm, happy smile spreading across his face.
“Beautiful!” He cast his shining eyes in Hannah’s direction. Then turned and pointed to the advertisement he had been studying. “Who’d have thought we’d get so excited about old bikes? Now, this looks like a Buick to me. Anything that could get me back to Allied land does that t
o me now.”
Hannah nodded. “I have made contact. Somebody is going to come by and rescue you.”
He turned, looking encouraged. He was starting to look much better; the color had returned to his cheeks. “Rescue me? From someone as lovely as you.”
She brushed him away. “Why don’t you keep all that charm for the girls back home?” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure they’re closer to your age.”
Joe smiled and reached toward her, taking her hand. “Thank you, Hannah. Thank you for saving my life. I will always remember the Dutch woman and her bicycle shed.”
Hannah shook his hand and then gave him a short, sharp hug. “Thank you for all you’re doing for us.” Tears started to brim in her eyes. “You men are very brave, and I know that we’ll win this war because of your sacrifice.”
Letting him go, she moved from the workshop quickly and shut the door behind her.
Two evenings later, Joe was gone, just a pile of blankets and the pack of cards to even remind her he had been there. As she gathered up the blankets and reached down to pick up the cards, she noticed that one was face upwards on the top of the deck. It was the Queen of Hearts. She smiled, knowing it was meant for her.
Part III
Chapter 24
November 1944
Climbing stealthily up the usually creaky wooden staircase of the university, Josef headed toward the library on the second floor. Rarely used by students because it was rather cramped, and most preferred the more extensive library on the ground floor, this small, one-room library tended only to be used by the faculty or for one-on-one tutoring. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked slightly as he glided along the polished corridor. It was late afternoon; the university was quiet. Slipping into the room, he closed the door behind him and listened. All was still.
He took a moment to look around, checked the back room set aside for students to collect books on hold. It was empty. So were the bays and tables where young people would sometimes bury themselves to finish homework assignments. Confident he was alone, he made his way to the bookshelf. He was pleased to see that the book he’d earmarked the day before hadn’t been moved.
He added it to the pile of math books he’d brought along as a ruse and hid it within the stack. Sitting at a far desk next to a window overlooking the leafy courtyard, he glanced around carefully. From this position, he could watch for people entering the building and also see anyone coming into the room, giving him plenty of time to react if he needed to. He had to be particularly careful with this project as, even though the classes had become smaller, the Nazis were still present, vigorously patrolling the hallways and the main grounds. The slightest thing, the tiniest hint of which side you were on, which side you supported—the Fatherland or the Resistance—was taken very seriously now. The week before, an elderly professor had been marched away for having “suspicious” books in his personal library. Innocent books that encouraged young minds toward free thought. Everything that didn’t fit within Hitler’s narrow idea of what was acceptable was now seen as the work of the enemy.
Fortunately, because Josef’s was a book about famous German painters, it had been overlooked. In it, he had found a portrait with what he needed depicted in the background of one of the works of art. Josef turned to the particular page and hastily jotted down some measurements into his notebook. That done, he placed the book back on its shelf and left.
Through the following weeks, he worked meticulously on his new project. He kept it downstairs, hidden in the hall closet, wanting this gift to be a surprise for Michael. Not being very adept or creative, it took him longer than he’d expected, but he was pleased when he managed to finish it by late November, just as, once again, snow began to fall on Holland.
On that day, he opened a bottle of wine, laid the table with food, and crept up the stairs. Opening the attic door, he observed Michael hunched over his desk, quietly listening to the Resistance Report as he worked on one of his poems.
“How are you, my friend?” Josef asked in a cheerful, upbeat manner.
“I desperately need a word for ‘light,’” Michael grumbled, the frustration apparent from his tone. “This last line is driving me mad.”
“Maybe what you need is another source of stimulation,” Josef responded helpfully. “I have a surprise for you.”
Turning, Michael looked suspicious. “Is it a surprise that I will like?”
“I hope so,” Josef smiled. “Follow me downstairs.”
“All the way downstairs?” Michael looked shocked. The house had three levels and they’d agreed he could use the second-floor bathroom, generally during the middle of the night, when he would empty his chamber pot and wash. But he hadn’t been down on the ground floor since the first day he’d arrived.
Josef nodded. “All the way downstairs.”
Tentatively, Michael followed Josef down from the attic but halted at the top of the landing, looking down the main staircase. “Are you sure it’s okay?” He sounded like an anxious child asking permission.
“Yes, yes,” encouraged Josef. “Come on. It is very late, and I know Ingrid is at a party with her Nazi, so they shouldn’t trouble us tonight.”
Michael bounded down the stairs. His face lit up when he reached the dimly lit kitchen and saw the food on the table, something they hadn’t seen a lot of in weeks. Josef had built a warming fire and the heat permeated the whole downstairs. He had turned off the lights, and the curtains and shutters were closed fast, creating a feeling of warmth and security.
Josef poured two glasses of wine, encouraging Michael to sit down.
“How is this possible?” Michael asked incredulously.
“I have been keeping food from my visits with Ingrid. Even though we are starving, she always seem to have a supply.” In the center of the table, a tea towel covered Josef’s project. As Michael eyed it, Josef nodded to him. “It’s for you.”
Michael pulled back the towel, revealing the gift, and sat back to stare at the eight candles placed in an intricate wired arrangement. He was visibly taken aback.
“Professor, you made me a menorah?”
Josef smiled. “It took me a while, and I know it’s not authentic, and it’s not exactly the right day, but I wanted you to celebrate your own holiday this year.”
Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I hope it’s correct.” Josef beamed. “I created it without a formula.”
“It’s perfect,” Michael acknowledged. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” Then a thought seemed to strike him. “I’ll be right back.”
He raced up the stairs, and Josef took a moment to admire his handiwork. It wasn’t bad. You could tell it was a menorah. The candles had been harder to come by than the actual wire, but he was glad that it made Michael happy.
A few minutes later, the young man returned to the kitchen with a makeshift yarmulke on his head made out of the corner of an old black dust sheet Josef had in a discarded box in the attic.
Josef beamed.
“I found myself making this a few months ago,” Michael explained. “I think I wanted to try and reconnect with… things. It’s hard to spend years in solitude and not contemplate God. But I remembered the stories of Joseph and Moses and how many others of my faith have spent time in exile or were guided by God to leave their homes, and for the first time in my life, I have found comfort in those stories. As a child being Jewish was just who I was, like the color of my skin or my eyes. But hearing your reports about the ongoing persecutions and thinking what so many have suffered through the years, I believe God has helped me find peace.”
Held nodded thoughtfully.
Michael then stood, lit the candles, and closed his eyes.
“Luminous,” he whispered, his eyes flashing open again, the emotion evident in his tone. “The perfect word for light I was looking for upstairs.”
Quieting himself again he smiled reminiscently, deep in thought, as though remembering music from long
ago. Softly he sang the words of a prayer. And Josef noticed the sincerity in his tone and sat reverently until Michael had finished.
“That was beautiful.”
“I’m amazed I remember it. Isn’t it funny how things that you felt were forced upon you as a child can be of such comfort as you age? I also have something for you.” He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the professor.
Josef eyed it with surprise.
“Merry Christmas, Professor.”
“And happy Hanukkah to you, Michael.”
By the candlelight, Josef opened up his gift and read the beautiful poem that Michael had written for him.
Looking up at his young friend he asked, “Please read it for me. Read it to me as you would read it.”
Illuminated by the flickering candlelight, Michael put his heart and soul into his words, such beautiful words, which touched Josef to his core. He felt his heart opening up in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. Such beauty among so much sadness, and it was a precious gift.
Michael had grown so much through the brutality of the last few years, Josef reflected, gained so much about his character and lost something, too. The impulsive young person who wanted to take on the whole German army was now narrowed by the wisdom of his reality. Captivity had contained him long enough to hone his desire for instant gratification and channel that fiery energy into deeply profound writing and a clear-cut vision of how he wanted his future to be. Josef felt proud of him. He closed his tear-brimmed eyes as Michael continued to recite the poem.
“You are my safe port in a turbulent ocean, the steadfast candle that guides me and when the swelling darkness threatens to overwhelm me, your light shines ever brighter. Never faltering to lead me home.”
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