Hero
Hero
martha attema
Copyright © 2003 martha attema
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Attema, Martha, 1949-
Hero / Martha Attema.
“An Orca young reader.”
ISBN 1-55143-251-X
I. Title.
PS8551.T74H47 2003 jC813’.54 C2003-910877-5
PZ7.A8664H47 2003
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003107505
Summary: In the last cold winter of WWII, Izaak is sent from hiding in Amsterdam to live on a farm in the north of Holland.
Teachers’ guide available at www.orcabook.com
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support of its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Department of Canadian Heritage, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.
Cover design by Christine Toller
Cover illustration by James Bentley
Interior illustrations by Stephen McCallum
Printed and bound in Canada
IN CANADA
Orca Book Publishers
1030 North Park Street
Victoria, BC Canada
V8T 1C6
IN THE UNITED STATES
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468 Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
05 04 03 • 5 4 3 2 1
In memory of Jan Hoogterp, my great uncle and
proud owner of Held (Hero).
Acknowledegments
Many people have encouraged me to write this story and I am grateful for their suggestions and ideas.
Thanks to Marla J. Hayes for her honesty as a friend and fellow writer; to Betty Jane Wylie for “walking” me through the difficult part; to the members of the North Bay Children’s Writers’ Group for their insight and suggestions; to Jan de Vries for his invaluable comments and for sharing his real-life, war-time experiences as a young boy on a farm in Friesland; to Maggie de Vries, my editor, for her patience and expert guidance during the revision process; and to my father, Willie Hoogterp, for providing the detailed information about his war experience and about Held; and to Albert for always being there for me.
The Hiding Place
Vroom! Vroom!
The sound of engines startled eight-year-old Izaak out of his world of make believe. He was pretending that he was the milkman, delivering milk bottles to the houses along the canal. Every chair was a house. First, he loaded his metal wagon full of imaginary bottles from the dairy. Bessie, his metal horse, pulled the wagon. Izaak chatted with the people along the way. “How is the war going? Did you hear the Allied troops have liberated the southern part of the Netherlands?”
Izaak pretended to ring a bell. “Ding, ding. The milkman is here.”
Outside, brakes squealed.
“Quick, Izaak, take your horse and wagon and run upstairs!” Mama stood in the doorway. The doorway of a small, gabled house. A house in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. A house that was not Izaak’s.
Izaak picked up the brown, metal horse and scrambled to his feet. He thrust the little wagon in his pocket and glanced at Mama, his eyes dark with fear. Not again, he thought, and ran as quietly as he could up a second flight of stairs.
Mama was right behind him. They slipped into a room in the attic and Mama closed the door without a sound.
Izaak heard a loud knock on the front door. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The front door creaked open.
Voices traveled up from downstairs, loud voices that made Izaak cringe.
Along the wall of their attic room stood a large, mahogany dresser. It had been moved away from the wall. In the faint afternoon light, Izaak and Mama crept behind the dresser, through a hole cut in the wall into their secret hiding place. Together they dragged the dresser against the wall to hide the opening.
The space was just big enough for a mattress. In the corner stood a bucket that they used for a toilet. Izaak did not like the smell of that bucket.
Mama pulled him down beside her on the mattress. Her arms wound tightly around him. Izaak wriggled. He could hardly breathe.
“Shh. Not a sound,” she whispered.
He felt the cold metal of the horse in his left hand. He pressed the little wagon in his pocket with his other.
Izaak and Mama sat still, as still as they could. They waited.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs made Izaak shiver. Mama held him.
Her head rested on his. He smelled her warm skin. The pounding of Izaak’s and Mama’s heartbeats filled their small hiding place. Izaak felt the tight-ness of her arms.
The voices grew louder. He tried not to listen.
Now the voices had reached the room in the attic, their room. He heard the door open.
“Who are you hiding in here?” The voice of a German soldier cut through the wall.
Izaak stopped breathing. Mama stopped breathing.
“I told you, there is nobody in here,” Mrs. Waterman answered.
A white line of light appeared on the floor. The beam moved from left to right and back. A flashlight, Izaak thought. Someone opened the dresser drawers, one at the time, and closed them with a bang.
The heavy footsteps trooped out the door and down the stairs.
In a long gush, Izaak and Mama blew out the air that had been stuck by fear. Izaak knew he wasn’t allowed to move until Mrs. Waterman came upstairs and told them it was safe.
“Mama,” he whispered, “are they gone?”
“Not yet.” Mama’s voice was very soft.
Izaak felt trapped, not just in his mother’s arms, but in this house. In this city. In this war.
For over a year, Mama and Izaak had been in hiding at Mrs. Water man’s house.
Izaak, his twelve-year -old sister, Sarah, and their parents had lived in their own gabled house along one of Amsterdam’s canals. The house had big, bright rooms. Izaak and Sarah each had their own room with sunny windows on the third floor. Izaak’s room had a high ceiling and creampainted walls. Beside his bed stood a wooden chest full of toys. Oak-stained shelves held his favorite books and his collection of metal and wooden horses. Izaak often thought about his room and wondered if he and his family would ever go back there to live.
Since the war started four years ago, things had gone from bad to worse for Izaak’s family. Not just for Izaak’s family, but for all the Jewish people in the country.
First, the German soldiers had closed his father’s jewelry store. Izaak remembered how angry Papa had been and how Mama had cried. Then they’d moved from their bright house to a small apartment above a warehouse. Living in the apartment became too dangerous when the Germans had ordered them to live in the ghetto. The Jews were forced to live together, so it was easier for the Nazis to hunt them down. From the ghetto, Jewish people were sent to camps in Germany and Poland. Papa said the people were herded onto trains like cattle.
“We are disobeying this order.” Papa had ripped up the paper and thrown the pieces in the stove. “We are not going to live in the ghetto. We are not going to be sent on trains to the camps. We will go into hiding until this war is over. I have contacts.”
Izaak trembled. Friends from school had left on those trains to camps in Germany. He was glad his father had suggested they go into hiding.
“Mama,” Izaak whispered now, “tell me again about the yellow star.”
“Oh, Izaak.” Mama dropped a kiss on his hea
d. “A man named Hitler, the leader of Germany, wants to rule the whole world.”
Izaak nodded. He knew, but didn’t understand how Hitler could fight all the countries in the world. He had seen the soldiers though. He’d watched them march in the streets. Every day, he saw military trucks loaded with soldiers. And here, Papa had told him, in the city of Amsterdam, were thousands and thousands of soldiers.
“Hitler doesn’t like Jews. He wants to lock them up.” Mama paused. “Or send them away.”
“Why Jews?”
“Because Hitler blames the Jews for all the bad things that happen in Germany.” Mama sighed; her eyes filled with tears.
Izaak found it hard to believe that the Jews could cause so much trouble that Hitler wanted to get rid of the Jewish population in all of Europe.
“He also wants to make sure everybody will recognize the Jews. That’s why we all have to wear the Star of David on our coats.”
Izaak nodded. Papa had told him he should be proud to be Jewish. But he was scared to be recognized.
“Can we leave now?” Izaak whispered.
“Not yet. We have to wait till Mrs. Waterman comes upstairs. She’ll tell us when it’s safe.”
Izaak wriggled in his mother’s arms. He closed his eyes and tried to think of Papa and Sarah. He remembered his father’s strong arms. When Izaak was little, Papa had carried him up the stairs every night. At first, when he closed his eyes tight, he could see his father’s face: those dark eyes that sparkled when he laughed, the bushy eyebrows that frowned and made a straight line when he was cross. Lately, Izaak found it harder to remember what Papa looked like. He hadn’t seen his father for over a year. Not since the night they had to flee the apartment.
The night the soldiers had come to their street in their big, military trucks, Papa had lifted Izaak from the bed in his strong arms. Together with Mama and Sarah, they had left the building by the fire escape. They’d run through dark alleys, climbed fences and run flat out until they came to Mrs. Waterman’s house on the Linden Canal.
Mama and Izaak had gone into hiding in the attic in Mrs. Waterman’s house. The hiding place was too small for four people. Mrs. Waterman gave Papa and Sarah the address of another safe home in the city. Izaak wished he knew where they were. He wanted to visit them, but Mama said it was too dangerous.
Izaak listened. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. With a deep breath of relief, he recognized Mrs. Waterman’s tread.
The door to the attic room opened. Izaak moved away from his mother’s arms. On his knees, he waited for the dresser to slide back, so he and Mama could crawl out of their hiding place.
“It’s safe now.” Mrs. Water man breathed with heavy gulps. She leaned on the dresser. Her bottom lip trembled. Her white curly hair lay damp against her forehead.
“It’s too dangerous,” she said. “You can’t stay here any longer.”
“But,” Mama placed her hand over her mouth, “where will we go?”
“I don’t know yet.” Mrs. Waterman looked at Izaak and at Mama.
Izaak grabbed Mama’s hand. He looked at her pale face.
“I don’t know yet,” Mrs. Waterman repeated.
Els
Izaak and Mama were alone in the attic room.
Izaak’s hands balled into fists. He stared at Mama’s colorless face. “I’m not going without you, Mama!” he said.
“I know. This is hard.” Mama swallowed.
Izaak’s voice rose. “No, it isn’t, because I’m not going!” He couldn’t believe it. First, Papa and Sarah had to hide somewhere else. Now, Mama wanted to send him far away.
“It is for the best,” Mama said.
“No!” Izaak stamped his feet.
“Sh.” His mother grabbed his shoulders. “Sh, Izaak, we can’t make noise. I don’t want Mrs. Waterman to hear us. And I especially don’t want the neighbors to hear us.”
Izaak slumped against Mama. Tears pricked his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. He was too mad.
“I don’t even know these people. Where is this far away place called Friesland? And where will you go, Mama?”
“Don’t worry about me, Izaak.” She stroked his hair. “I will find a good hiding place too. But you will have the best place. Friesland is a province up north, a place of small villages and towns, but mainly farmland. You will go to one of the farms.” Mama paused. “The farms in Friesland have enough food to feed you.” Mama looked away. “There’s no food left in Amsterdam. You’re so skinny. You need good food while you’re still growing.”
His eyes caught Mama’s. “How will you eat then?”
“I will be looked after, Izaak.”
Anger welled up in Izaak’s chest. He wanted to strike out at Hitler and his mean soldiers. He wanted to hit Mama for sending him to Friesland.
“Out in the country, the soldiers will never find you. You’ll be able to go to school and play outside, instead of being cooped up in the attic day after day. There will be children for you to play with.”
Mama rattled on and on. Izaak didn’t want to know. He’d never been on a farm. He’d never been outside the city. The only farm animal he’d ever seen was the milkman’s horse.
“You will have a new name.” Mama’s voice was soft now.
“A new name!” Izaak’s mouth fell open. “I don’t want a new name! I’m Izaak!”
“You will always be Izaak.” Mama looked straight at him now. “But, in Friesland with your new family, you will be called Jan. It will only be for the time while you’re there. As soon as the war is over, you can be Izaak again.” Mama smiled weakly.
“Why can’t we stay if the war will be over soon? You said that the southern part of the country has already been liberated.”
“It will be so good for you.” Mama couldn’t stop talking about him going away.
“If it’s so good, why aren’t you coming with me?” He looked at her with dark eyes.
“It’s too dangerous for me to travel. The soldiers will recognize me.”
“Why isn’t it dangerous for me?” Izaak persisted.
“You’ll be traveling with a woman. People will think you’re her child.”
Izaak pulled free from his mother’s grip. “I’m not going with a strange woman!” The anger bubbled up inside of him again.
“I hate this war!” he screamed.
“Izaak!” In one step, Mama caught him. Her hand closed over his mouth. Izaak wrestled. Mama held him. Her arms wrapped around him like a vice. He kicked and struggled, but it was no use. Mama was much too strong for him.
“When am I leaving?” The tears tried to come back. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“Tomorrow,” Mama whispered. She took his hand. “Come, you have to help me pack. Go get your coat.”
Izaak crawled into their hiding space. He dug into a cardboard box of clothing. At the bottom, he found his blue coat. He held the material against his face. It felt soft and woolen. His finger traced the yellow star that Mama had sewn on the upper left side. He hadn’t worn the coat since … Izaak didn’t want to think about the night they had fled. Now, he had to flee to another hiding place. All by himself. Far away.
Izaak and Mama walked down the stairs into Mrs. Waterman’s kitchen. Mrs. Waterman sat at the table, peeling potatoes.
“They’re rotten.” She held up a peeled potato that looked brown.
“We’ll add some more salt. They’ll taste fine.” Mama took Mrs. Water man’s sewing basket from a shelf behind the stove. “I’m taking the star off.” Mama reached for the coat in Izaak’s arms.
Izaak nodded.
Mama used tiny scissors to snip off the yellow star. “Oh, no!” She held up the coat. “Look at this. You can tell exactly where the yellow star was.”
Izaak looked at his coat. A dark blue star stood out against the faded blue fabric.
“That won’t do,” Mrs. Waterman said. “Can you sew a pocket over top?”
Mama smiled. “Yes. I’ll sew four pockets on your coat
, Izaak. Two at the top and two at the bottom. You can fill them with food for your long trip.”
Izaak didn’t want to think about the trip. Ever since Mama had mentioned his going away, his stomach had hurt, as if he had a ball rolling inside.
“I have some nice gray fabric.” Mrs. Waterman rose from the table. She opened the pantry. “Here it is,” she said. “It will be perfect.” She handed Mama a piece of coarse, gray material.
“It’s great.” Mama winked at Izaak.
Izaak turned to face the window. He didn’t want to look at his coat anymore.
Two seagulls dove into the back yard while Izaak listened to the scissors snip through the fabric.
If only that feeling in his stomach would go away. The afternoon crept by. Izaak didn’t play with his horse and wagon. He watched the birds or stared at nothing in Mrs. Waterman’s back yard.
Early next morning, Izaak tucked his horse and wagon in the lower right- hand pocket of his coat. His arms had grown too long for the sleeves.
He couldn’t eat breakfast. The ball still filled his stomach.
Mama and Mrs. Waterman didn’t speak.
Izaak looked out the kitchen window. He heard the ding, ding when the milkman arrived in the street.
The doorbell rang.
Mrs. Waterman left to answer it.
Izaak looked at Mama. Deep lines marked her face, from her mouth to her chin. Dark, puffy circles lay beneath her eyes.
Muffled voices floated from the hallway to the kitchen. Izaak turned towards the window. He didn’t want to see the woman who was taking him so far away. He clenched his fists tight in his pockets.
“Izaak.” Mrs. Waterman’s voice was tight. “This is Els. She’s come all the way from Friesland to take you to a safe place.”
Izaak turned to look at the woman. She wore a beige raincoat. A flowered scarf was tied around her chin. A few blond curls escaped from the scarf and framed her face. Els didn’t look like a woman, Izaak thought. She looked like a big girl.
“How old are you?” Mama asked.
The girl’s face turned bright red. “Eighteen,” she answered.
Hero Page 1
