The bank of Lippmann, Rosenthal & Co. had been formed almost a hundred years ago by two Jewish men and had been well-respected until the occupation. This new branch, called Liro by Amsterdammers, was designed by the Germans to secure all the valuables of Dutch Jewry. The securing of property became mandatory with yet another regulation by occupiers who’d vehemently promised they wouldn’t persecute the Jewish people in Holland.
Then again, the Germans had promised they would never bomb the Dutch, hours before they crushed the grand city of Rotterdam into dust. Now Holland was being assaulted from inside and out. An onslaught of German soldiers, Gestapo, local police, and NSB—Dutch Nazis—who were all implementing what Hitler demanded of them.
Josie switched the basket to her other hand. “Samuel will go to dinner with you tomorrow.”
He eyed the basket. “Did he bring you another gift?”
“Jam.” She lifted the flowers to show him the two amber-colored jars. “Golden raspberry from home.”
She was fairly certain that her brother had purchased it at the market—he hadn’t been back to Giethoorn in weeks—but Samuel often called her from the bank these days, saying he had a gift from home. Better, he’d once told her, for them to make their exchanges in public than attempt to do so in secret.
Klaas reached for one of the jars, and she held her breath as he examined it, hoping he wouldn’t find the envelope.
Schutterijweg 265.
She couldn’t allow him to blur a single one of these letters or numbers in her mind. The smallest of details meant life or death in their work.
Klaas placed the jar back onto the napkin, and she swung the basket casually to her side. “How’s Sylvia?”
“Sylvia and I are no longer together.” He gave her that sly smile he liked to use when they were children. “She said I was much too interested in someone else.”
Josie hugged the basket to her chest, not certain how to reply. Klaas had never treated her as anything more than Samuel’s little sister. Someone he had to tolerate even when she annoyed him, a responsibility she’d taken quite seriously until Eliese arrived in Giethoorn.
They were all grown up now, Eliese safe in England while Josie, Samuel, and Klaas had moved to Amsterdam. It was her first year in the city, studying at the Reformed Teacher Training College, but Samuel had worked for several years at the Holland Trade Bank before transferring to Liro, and Klaas was employed at an architectural firm. Unlike her, Klaas managed to pretend that nothing in Holland had changed in the past two years, that their future was as promising as it had ever been.
He glanced at his watch. “I must return to the office or my boss might decide to lock the door.” He tweaked her chin like she was a child again and they were skating along the canals back home. “I wish I could go back to Maastricht with you.”
“Perhaps one day . . .”
“Perhaps.” He smiled again before he left.
Josie glanced at the partially caged window where her brother sat, helping another Jewish customer entrust his worldly goods into the care of the regime. A roofbank—that’s what this new branch of the respected institution was called. A pirate ship ready to plunder. The Nazis never planned to return anything they stole, but her brother kept pretending that all the gold and diamonds and certificates of stock were simply being stored here.
If only Samuel could have remained at the Holland Trade Bank with Eliese’s father and their investors. Instead, the occupiers shuttered the bank’s door months ago because of Mr. Linden’s Jewish heritage. Last she had heard, Eliese’s father was cooperating with the Germans.
The rain had stopped, but Josie still tied her red scarf under her chin, wishing it were a brilliant orange. Klaas didn’t think she knew much, but she was well aware of the ban on her favorite color.
In the early weeks of the occupation, she had worn her orange sweater—the color of Dutch royalty—to classes each day until Dr. van Hulst, the headmaster at her college, quietly pulled her aside and handed her a blue cardigan, saying there were much more productive ways for her to rebel against the unwelcome guests who’d taken up residence in their city.
She’d found a bracelet in the pocket of that cardigan, and she’d worn it every day since, hiding the silver links and orange lion under her sleeve.
A row of green-uniformed guards stood outside the rain-soaked windows; their honey-brown hair reminded her of the yellow pollen produced from ragweed, infiltrating every inch of this bank’s plaza. She rushed out past them, toward the bike rack, before someone stopped to search the contents of her basket more thoroughly than Klaas had done.
The road followed the river back toward the college, located at the edge of Amsterdam’s Jewish Quarter. The handle of the basket looped over one arm, the glass jars jostled as she bumped along the cobbles, trying to avoid the puddles. On a normal day, she would slow down to protect her wares, but today she wanted to deliver this envelope back to the safety of her room.
In a year, she hoped she would be ready to teach on her own. In a year . . . if the Allied troops prevailed and the Jewish children in their country were once again allowed to attend school.
She hated this feeling of being caught in the enemy’s web. Stuck. Of only being a courier for her brother with letters he said were making a difference, yet she didn’t know if they were doing anything at all. People whispered about resisting this enemy, as her country had done so long ago with Spain, but they needed—she needed—to do more.
Someone cried out nearby, and her heels dropped to the ground. It was a little girl, standing on the stoop of one of the row houses, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest.
Josie pedaled beside the parked automobiles in the alley and leaned her bicycle against the stoop. In the windows she could see faces of other people, watching the child, but no one came outside to help.
She rushed up three steps with her basket and knelt beside the girl, her heart sinking when she saw the yellow star on her cardigan. She must be at least seven. The younger children weren’t set apart by the stars.
“What’s wrong?” Josie spoke quietly lest she frighten the child even more.
“They’re taking us away.”
“Who is taking you away?” she asked.
The girl pointed toward a blue automobile that waited at the opposite end of the narrow lane, a capped driver inside. “The police.”
Something rumbled inside the house, thunder echoing between the walls, the sound of heavy boots pounding down the steps.
Would this girl’s parents want Josie to steal her away before the police did? Surely one of the neighbors would open up their door if she knocked, hide the girl inside.
But when Josie reached out her arm to take the girl’s hand, she shrieked in terror. A woman rushed out the door and held her close, glaring as if Josie were the one threatening their family.
Two Dutch policemen stomped out behind her, grim shadows in their black shirts and boots like the fabled Ossaert, a clawed monster who searched for innocent victims in the night. The agents were gripping the arms of a disheveled man wearing a tailored suit coat with a torn star and a swollen bump on his head.
Had they beaten this poor man in front of his wife?
“What are you doing?” Josie demanded.
The sergeant’s gray eyes, dual blades, pierced through her. She took a deep breath, the blaze of her anger dying down into embers of fear.
“Are you a neighbor?” He scrutinized her skirt and jacket as if searching for a star.
She shook her head. “I was worried about the girl.”
“You needn’t worry,” he said stiffly. “We’re relocating her and her parents to a safer place.”
The terror in the girl’s face shredded Josie’s heart. If only she could still steal her away . . .
“Please let the woman take her!” the father pleaded.
“Stilte!” the sergeant barked.
Silence.
The second policeman, the one who refused to look a
t Josie, shoved the father toward the car. The look in the mother’s eyes had changed, pleading now for Josie to help.
“Please . . . ,” Josie begged the sergeant.
He grasped Josie’s wrist, and the teeth of the orange lion bored into her skin. If he pushed back her sleeve and saw the bracelet, he’d arrest her right there.
Then again, he might arrest her anyway.
“I didn’t realize you were taking her to safety,” she said, relenting under the pain. And she hated herself for letting him bully her, cowering while this family was dragged away.
“Go home, Fräulein.” He pointed. “Is that your bicycle?”
She reached for the handlebars. “It is.”
Several people had stopped along the sidewalk, gazing at the family as if they were a parade of animals being led to the Artis Royal Zoo.
“What do you have in your basket?” He swept it out of her hands and threw her tulips on the wet sidewalk, the purple and orange petals wilting in the puddled raindrops.
“Diederik!” he called before tossing a jar of jam. The other officer tried to catch it, but the glass shattered against the cobblestone, spraying shards and raspberries across the pavers. The sergeant lifted the second jar, studying it as Klaas had done earlier. Then he turned over her basket, and the two cloth napkins slipped to the ground, red-and-white checkers bleeding on the ground.
She held her breath, waiting for the envelope to fall out, but no envelope appeared.
Had Samuel forgotten to hide it in the basket?
The sergeant ground his heel into the orange flower petals before turning to leave.
She slid down to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her entire body was trembling. She reached for the crushed flowers first, as if she could somehow recover their beauty, as if the brilliant color of their petals could soak up the darkness suffocating her.
As if the flowers could help her breathe again.
Then she picked up the napkins.
The bottom napkin felt stiff. Someone had stitched the fabric of two napkins together, concealing what must be Samuel’s envelope.
Schutterijweg 265.
The face of the little girl haunted her as she clutched the napkin to her chest, tears welling in her eyes. She’d deliver this message to Maastricht for this girl and her parents and all who were being tormented by the Nazis.
An elderly gentleman seemed to appear out of nowhere, wearing a black raincoat and hat.
She stood beside him. “Do you know this family?”
“As well as any of us can know each other these days.”
“Do you know where the police are taking them?”
“To one of the camps, I fear.”
“What happens at the camps?” she asked.
He took a step away as if he’d already stayed too long. “None of us know for certain.”
She glanced back toward the end of the alley. “What are their names?”
“Van Gelder,” he said. “Werner, Hanneke, and Esther van Gelder.”
“I only wanted to help,” she whispered.
“It’s too late to help them. Too late for any of us now.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
“My mom lived in Nuremberg, right after the war.”
These simple words from a friend sparked The Curator’s Daughter. Suzanne and Bing Ng occupied a home near the Nuremberg airport in 1945, the owner becoming their servant and friend. Suzanne saw the rubble, attended the Nuremberg trials, and took photographs of soldiers sledding with the local children.
This book wasn’t based on Suzanne’s life, but the foundation was inspired by her memories. The story of Nuremberg—a free imperial city—stretches back almost a thousand years. As I began to write, I realized that if I focused solely on World War II, I’d miss the rich history of this beautiful place and its centuries of innovation, art, and religious reformation through the German Renaissance. And I’d miss the cyclical integration, persecution, and then expulsion or murder of its Jewish citizens. A pattern that began long before the Holocaust.
Writing about gender or race evokes many emotions. We all have a story about victimization, some of them tragic. As I researched, I met with Anne LeVant Prahl, the curator of collections at the Oregon Jewish Museum, and was shocked by her stories about the growing anti-Semitism near our home. About those in Portland who troll for young men, in particular, offering them a brotherhood founded in hate.
My dear Jewish friend, Gerrie Mills, told me the same thing. So did Kevin Bates, a friend and pastor who shared his experiences from earlier years in Idaho.
Sadly, the news concurs with these personal accounts. CNN recently reported about the rise in domestic terrorism:
Americans are being killed. Murdered not for what they have done or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Slaughtered again and again because, whether Jewish or black or simply not “pure” white, they are seen as a pestilence to be purged.
History is circling back around one more time, and I can’t ignore the revival of hatred around our world. Nor do I want to forget the hope of God’s redemption and love for all. That a spirit of fear does not come from Him (2 Timothy 1:7).
I’ve written six novels inspired by events that happened during World War II, and each time I have learned something new. Until I started this book, I didn’t know about the Nazis’ obsession with archaeology or the horrific kidnapping of thousands of children (some say more than 200,000) from countries like Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Yugoslavia. After the war, all four leaders of Lebensborn, including Inge Viermetz, were found not guilty of any crime during the Nuremberg Trials.
My research for The Curator’s Daughter took me on a grand adventure up the East Coast with my daughter Kiki before heading across the ocean to explore Germany. I’ve uploaded pictures on my website of the places and people that inspired this story, but one of my highlights was visiting the baroque Lutheran church in the German village of Pfungstadt, built in 1746. Several of my greats worshiped in the sanctuary, and my double great-grandfather Peter Wacker was baptized there in 1845 before he immigrated to the United States.
Another baby was being christened the morning of my visit, and during the baptism, Pastor Dienst spoke about my ancestors’ legacy. About how the Christian heritage of Johann and Wilhelmine Wacker, through the life of their son Peter, had passed down through the generations. As I sat there steeped in the history, blessed by his words, I thought about identity, how we can embrace the good parts of our story and adopt new ones to replace the evil.
The writing of this story was a personal journey for me as I sought answers as to how so many of the German people, my ancestors, rallied behind the cruelty and oppression of Hitler’s Third Reich. Some of them, I discovered, knew well what was happening in the east. Others suspected but didn’t know the extent. Many felt helpless with no way to stop this tsunami from hitting their land. When it was over, they didn’t want to talk about it.
While I had to tweak a few dates and places for the sake of story, I tried to keep the key historical events in place. The abandoned church was inspired by the ruins of an abbey near Schmausenbuck and named after Katharinenkirche, a medieval Nuremberg church destroyed during World War II. While the SS began kidnapping Eastern European children in 1939, Sonnenwiese (Sun Meadow) didn’t begin “Germanizing” abducted children until 1942. Another date to note—the Nuremberg Military Tribunals were a series of trials that lasted until 1949, but it was the first international trial in November 1945, with its shocking film footage, that awoke and horrified the world.
Countless people answered my questions as I wrote this book. I am grateful to each one and also for those who courageously recorded all that happened during the war, including Emanuel Ringelblum and his group of scholars who chronicled the suffering in the Warsaw ghetto, burying their archive of documents so the truth would be discovered later. Some of these biographies have been found while others remain hidden. And Ingrid von Oelhafen and Tim Tate who coautho
red Hitler’s Forgotten Children, a firsthand account from a girl stolen away from her family and then adopted through Lebensborn. Word-smelters, they called the Nazis who twisted and distorted the best of words.
While The Curator’s Daughter stemmed from my faith as a Christian, not everyone who contributed so kindly to this book has these same beliefs.
A special thank-you to:
Joy Ng for entrusting her mother-in-law’s story to me. My agent, Natasha Kern, and editors Stephanie Broene and Kathryn Olson for helping me weave together this fictional account based on the frightening truth of what happened in Germany during World War II. I’m grateful to the entire staff at Tyndale House for using the many gifts that God has given them to create, edit, and spread the word about faith-based books. It’s a joy to partner with all of you!
Sandra Byrd and Michele Heath—my fabulous first readers who helped me close the gaps and stay on track. Corinna Doty and Gerrie Mills for offering me your invaluable perspectives on both heritage and history. And my own Inklings—Julie Zander, Nicole Miller, Tracie Heskett, Dawn Shipman, and Ann Menke—for your laughter and logic and for pushing me back up into the writing saddle whenever I begin to slide. Each of you ladies were instrumental in molding the shape of this story.
Family friends Gabi, Freya, and Andreas for welcoming me to Germany and sharing your many stories, past and present. Wacker, Gabi says, is the name of a stone. In Germany, if you’ve done something Wacker, you’ve done it brave and strong. A beautiful tribute to my courageous aunt Janet and all of my Wacker (and sometimes wacky) family.
Maria Evers—it was an absolute delight to celebrate your birthday at the Frankenstein Castle above Pfungstadt. You and your family made my day!
Curator Anne LeVant Prahl and the staff at the Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Education for answering my questions and collecting the stories of many who experienced firsthand the horrors of the Holocaust. Mary Ann Hake for all of your encouragement and sharing the interview with a Jewish man from Nuremberg who survived the war.
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