Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

  Then came the news reports, photographs, and personal accounts about the atrocities that had taken place in concentration camps all across Europe. No one in their wildest imagination could fully comprehend the brutalities the Germans had committed on their captives—and not just millions of Jews, but millions of other victims as well. One report described American General George Patton’s visit to the camp at Ohrdruf in southern Germany near Kassel. When the gruff and outspoken general who had led the U.S. Third Army to such great accomplishments, saw the piles of unburied corpses and the skeletal figures of those who had somehow survived, Patton vomited.

  As the world began to learn what had been going on in the concentration camps, Allied commanders retaliated by requiring townspeople throughout Germany to tour the nearby camps and see for themselves what their silent indifference had allowed for so many years. Many wept and became ill. One mayor and his wife returned from such a tour and hung themselves. Allied commanders ordered the captured members of the SS who had run these camps to carry the corpses of thousands of their victims to mass graves.

  In Holland, Nazi sympathizers were hunted down and arrested. When she heard that her former neighbors the van Oostras had been arrested, Anya couldn’t help feeling a swell of satisfaction. How many lives had been lost because of their lucrative treason? And in a bold and symbolic act of revenge, all Dutch women who had fraternized with German soldiers during the Occupation were rounded up and their heads shaved in public as a mark of disgrace.

  But along with so much sadness came the realization that those who had survived the war now had to go about putting the frayed and delicate pieces of their lives back together. For Anya and so many others there would be no reunions of laughter and tears. She had accepted the fate of her parents, and now it was time to bolster her courage and go home. To her home. Helga had offered to go with her. At first Anya declined the offer, but every time she pictured herself walking into her home, she felt her stomach knot and her knees go weak.

  She hated the reaction. She’d always been strong and willing to do what she must and when she must do it. But the war had taken a toll on her, so much more than she wanted to admit. And if someone kind and considerate offered to help her make that first journey home, then so be it.

  As they rounded the corner of her street, Anya could barely breathe. She hardly recognized the neighborhood for all the destruction. Thankfully, her block had suffered no direct bombing, still the damage overwhelmed her. As they neared the walkway up to her home, she stopped.

  “Oh, Helga,” she moaned, taking in the awful mess on the front lawn. A mattress was propped against a tree, obviously used for target practice—or worse. What was left of her mother’s piano sat flat on the ground, its four legs and most of its keys missing. A heap of ashes revealed bits and pieces of furniture and clothing. Broken glass and china littered what grass was left on the lawn.

  Helga’s arm encircled Anya’s waist. “Sweetheart, these are only things,” she said quietly but with firm authority. “Just things. Yes, they hold memories, but they are nothing more than wood and glass and fabric.”

  She tightened her hold on Anya. “And you, my dear Anya, are alive.” She paused, then whispered, “You made it. You survived. Through all of it, you survived.”

  Anya caught the sob in her throat when Helga’s voice cracked. She didn’t even try to speak.

  “You can do this. Together, we can do this.”

  Anya swiped at her tears and took a deep breath, nodded, then started up the steps.

  They were silent as they walked through the open doorway. Anya’s eyes drifted over the remaining pieces of furniture and clutter. “Someone has lived here.” The thought scared her. “What if—”

  “I had Lars stop over earlier to make sure it was safe. There’s no one here, dear.”

  Slow, wobbly steps took her through the entry hall into the kitchen area. There was little left, only a couple of chipped cups and a puddle of wax from candles in a saucer. She fingered the edge of the sink and turned the faucet on, but not a single drop fell from it. She stepped carefully over shards of glass and made her way down the hall. She wouldn’t look in Hans’ old room. Not now. Across the hall, her parents’ room had only a filthy, stained mattress on the floor. Fingers of anger curled in her stomach at the disgrace of the bedroom that once housed her mother and father. Nothing was left. Only her father’s old robe hanging from a nail on the wall. She started toward it, even reaching out her hand toward it thinking she might still find a trace of her father’s scent in its thick fabric. But she stopped, her hand in midair. Father always hung his robe in the closet. Always. Someone else must have . . .

  A chill crawled up her spine and she turned abruptly, needing to flee from the images in her mind. She moved across the hall and stood in the doorway to her own bedroom. Surely she would find something of hers still here?

  Nothing. Not the dresser where she kept her favorite things. Not a single piece of clothing. Not the worn stuffed bunny she’d slept with as a small girl. Nothing.

  Of course it was all gone. She hadn’t really thought she’d find anything left. But being here—finally returning home and standing in her own room—somehow the stark reality made it too much to bear. She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

  How can I go on? Why am I even here? Why did I survive when none of them did? Oh God, why didn’t You just let me die?

  Anya was thankful Helga had given her some privacy. She fell back on the floor in a heap, still holding her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. And when the last ounce of energy left her, she curled up and lay on her side. The wooden floor felt gritty beneath her as she tried hard to make sense of it all, tried to find some reason—any reason to go on. Oh, how she despised the incessant tears! No matter how hard she tried to rebuild her wall against them, she couldn’t stem the flow.

  But even the tears didn’t disappoint her as much as God’s complete and utter silence. No matter how much she cried out to Him, He never answered. Hadn’t she tried one last time just the other day? That day at the field, as hundreds of B-17s flew over dropping their loads of compassion and hope, hadn’t she prayed, extending her last olive branch to God?

  Silently, she had prayed. God, if You’re there, let me see him. That’s all I ask. Just let me see him.

  Now she felt so foolish. How stupid, expecting God to hear her silly prayer. Even worse, how ridiculous to still believe in God. After everything that had happened, why did she keep looking to Him for answers? Clearly, God was nothing more than a concept of wishful thinking.

  And yet, in spite of it all, the unbidden words fell from her lips . . . Oh God, I’m so alone.

  She lay there for some time before opening her eyes. Her view, at such an awkward angle skewed everything for a moment, and then . . . there, over in the corner . . . something. What was it? Silent hiccups quaked her body as she tried to sit up. She crawled across the floor, trying to see the tiny object barely visible in the late afternoon shadows. She reached out and grasped it, bringing it into the light. And as she opened her palm, what she saw took her breath away. There in her hand, with half a wing missing and a splintered snout, lay the flying piglet her brother Hans had carved for her so many years ago.

  “When pigs fly,” she whispered, cherishing the memory and missing him so much.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, someone coming down the hall. She hid the pig in her pocket and dashed away her tears, not wanting Helga to find her blubbering like some helpless child. Clumsily she stood and turned to find Helga standing in the doorway, the woman’s gnarled hands over her mouth and the strangest expression on her face.

  “Helga, what is it?”

  She pulled her hands from her mouth, revealing a quivering smile. “Anya, there’s someone here to see you, dear.” She stepped aside.

  In full dress uniform with his cap in his hands, Danny McClain stepped into the room.

  The space between them vanished and sudden
ly she was in his arms. “You’re here, Anya. You’re here!” he whispered into her hair. “I prayed so hard you’d be here.”

  She pulled back enough to see his face. “But how—?”

  “I would have walked to the moon to find you.” He pushed a strand of hair from her eyes and leaned down, gently kissing her lips. She felt so frail in his arms, so small—but so right. How he’d dreamed of this moment, as if a dozen tender kisses could make everything right in the world again. When he realized her response was tentative, he pulled back. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She started to say something then stopped, her eyes drifting downward. “I think perhaps I’m a little in shock.” She looked back up at him, her gray-blue eyes filled with something he couldn’t define. “Just now, before you came in, I . . . I cried out to God. I cried silently to Him, even though I wasn’t sure He still existed. I just didn’t think I could go on.” She reached down into her pocket. “And the next moment, I found this.” She opened her palm, revealing a small hand-carved pig.

  He smiled as he lifted it from her hand. “I know this pig. Hans made this for you, didn’t he? It was his Sinterklaas gift to you.”

  She nodded. “Because whenever he asked me to do something, I always said—”

  “—when pigs fly,” he said along with her.

  “And then I turned around and you were here.”

  He laughed. “Does this mean the pigs are flying?”

  She tried to smile. “Perhaps they are.”

  He handed the tiny pig back to her and she returned it to her pocket. Cupping her face with his hand, he brushed away her tear with his thumb. “I love you, Anya. I have loved you for so long. Since the moment I left you that night at the coast, I’ve thought of nothing but you.” He wrapped his arms around her again, her head tucked against his chest. “You never have to be alone again. Ever.”

  “And what have I told you about making promises you can’t keep?” she teased quietly.

  He leaned back to face her. “Well, this is one I know I can keep.”

  “Ja? And how can you know this?”

  “Marry me, Anya.”

  She stiffened, blinking up at him. “What?”

  “You heard me. Marry me. And let me spend a lifetime keeping promises to you.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was still in shock or possibly trying to make a decision. Another tear spilled down her cheek just as a trembling smile tried to take shape. He touched his lips to hers, and this time she responded eagerly. He could hardly think straight, his heart so full of love for her. How long had he dreamed of holding her again? He couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, but it didn’t matter. As long as she was here in his arms, he could handle anything.

  When she finally eased back to look up at him, Danny stared into her eyes with an easy sense of belonging.

  “I still don’t know how you found me,” she said. “How did you know to come here?”

  “Don’t you remember? The last time I saw you, you said you just wanted to go home.” He took her hand and led her down the hall toward the front door.

  “I know, but I didn’t believe you’d ever come back,” she said. “I wouldn’t let myself believe it. I thought everything you said . . . I thought they were just meaningless words from a man who didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

  They stepped out onto the front porch. “Shows how much you know.” He quirked a smile at her.

  They sat down side by side on the top step. “But how did you find my house?”

  “I remembered your address. All those letters you wrote when we were kids—I guess I memorized your address without even realizing it. And when I got over here, I—”

  “And how exactly did you get over here?”

  “I guess you could say I hitch-hiked.”

  “What does that mean, hitch—”

  “Hitch-hike? It means I caught a ride over.”

  Her brows crinkled as she searched his face.

  “They’ve been transporting our POWs from the camps back to England. The planes are empty on their way over, so I climbed on board. And here I am.”

  “Just like that? You stowed away and no one saw you?”

  “No, no, I had permission. Turns out the Old Man has a soft heart.”

  She shook her head, raking her fingers through her hair. “You always talk in such riddles, Danny McClain. Of the hitch-hike, of some old man—”

  “Not some old man—the Old Man. It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, my Commanding Officer sends his best wishes and told me to send him an invitation if the wedding is in Chicago.”

  “This officer, he is from Chicago, America too?”

  Danny smiled. “Yes, he is from Chicago, America too.” He leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead. “So what do you think?”

  “What do I think about what?”

  “Should we invite him?”

  Her smile began to fade, and she looked out across the scattered debris in her front yard. A trace of the former sadness drifted across her face. He knew what she was thinking.

  Several moments later, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Danny, I think I should like to meet your mother and father.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And I think I should like to meet your brother Joey who steals biscuits during prayers.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah?”

  “And I think I should like to eat a dog at Wrigley Field.”

  He threw back his head, laughing out loud. “I think you mean a ‘hot dog’.”

  “Yes, then. I think I should like to eat a hot dog at Wrigley Field.”

  He smiled. “I think we can make that happen.”

  She reached into her pocket, then placed the tiny carved pig in his hand, and closed his fingers over the small wooden keepsake. Looking up into his eyes, she smiled. “Yes, Danny McClain, I will marry you. And yes, the pigs will fly.”

  He laughed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. “Perhaps they will, Anya. Perhaps they will.”

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  The Rest of the Story

  Most Americans have never heard of Operation Chowhound. Most English have never heard of Operation Manna. But mention either of these life-saving missions to those of Dutch heritage, and chances are they will smile with knowing eyes. Mention these missions to the veterans who flew them, and chances are they’ll tear up at the memory.

  For the history books, Operation Manna / Chowhound was the first mission of its kind flown by military aircraft to drop help instead of destruction on those below. The war was winding down near the end of 1945, but those in western Holland faced certain starvation. While the southern part of The Netherlands was liberated, the highly populated areas of the northwest still endured brutal retaliation from the Germans. During the “Hunger Winter” the Dutch in those areas who had subsided on less than 600 calories a day, now had nothing. More than 16,000 men, women, and children died from hunger and the bitter cold.

  Exiled Queen Wilhelmina begged the Allies to save her people before it was too late. What happened next was nothing short of a miracle.

  In response to the Queen’s plea for help, a plan was quickly orchestrated. On April 17, 1945, Air Commodore Andrew J.W. Geddes, Chief of Operations and Plans of the Second Tactical Air Force, was instructed by General Eisenhower’s staff to formulate a plan to airlift food to the starving 3,500,000 people of western Holland. A few days later, Geddes presented a brilliant strategy which was immediately approved. An hour later he was on his way to Achterveld in The Netherlands where he would meet with German officials.

  On April 28, the German officers arrived at the conference. It became quickly apparent that the four men had been sent on a fact-gathering mission with no authority to sign an agreement. They were sent away with terse instructions to return with whatever authority was necessary. Th
ey were also informed that General Eisenhower had ordered the food drops to begin the following day, April 29—with or without their approval. If a single plane was shot upon by the Germans, they were told “Germany will cease to exist.”

  Upon hearing that Reichskommissar Seyss-Inquart, the German commander over Occupied Holland, would be accompanying a large delegation, a prank of sorts was put into motion. Members of the Dutch Resistance had recently stolen the large black Mercedes staff car belonging to the proud Reichskommissar. Seyss-Inquart adored the vehicle. These Dutch Resistance workers had given the car to Prince Bernhard, the Commander in Chief of the Dutch Forces. That morning, Bernhard drove the vehicle to the meeting and parked it where Seyss-Inquart couldn’t miss it—its license plate “RK-1” still attached. The German commander seethed upon seeing his beloved car now in the hands of his enemies.

  But Seyss-Inquart, refusing to believe Germany was about to lose the war, stood his ground and refused to cooperate with regard to the food drops. It took several heated exchanges and outright threats by Geddes and other Allies to force the German to sign.

  Between April 29 and May 8, English Lancasters and Mosquitos, and American B-17s flew almost 6,000 missions, dropping more than 12,000 tons of food and supplies to specific locations in western Holland. Some of these planes flew lower than 300 feet off the ground. The Dutch were thrilled with the food “raining down from heaven,” but even more excited at the implication of these bizarre events. To see the Allied planes flying so low with no Germans firing at them could mean only one thing—the war was almost over! Liberation would soon be theirs!

  When the long war finally ended, the Dutch slowly began putting their lives and their country back together. Queen Wilhelmina returned from exile and opened half of her palace to those of her people who had been in prisons and concentration camps. There, the heartbroken, beaten, and downtrodden found a place to rest and recuperate. Hundreds of others volunteered to help these wounded souls, and the queen insisted on visiting her “guests” each night and having tea with those helping them. No wonder they loved her so.