How it starts…

Prologue

Unforgivable

Through a Child’s Eyes

“Frits, stop your ridiculous tinkering!” Zuster (Sister) Dermout’s harsh voice made me jump. “We’re nearly out of firewood. Go now. Find some before it gets dark.”

I looked outside. The sun was low in the sky, but I knew better than to argue. At least later, the moon might light my way. That is if the clouds would cooperate.

“Come on, Jan.” I shoved my beloved screwdriver into my pocket before grasping my younger brother’s hand with all the authority an eight-year-old can muster. “I’ll need your help.” I lined our shoes with newspaper so our toes wouldn’t freeze, then struggled into my too-small, threadbare coat. I put my hat over Jan’s rioting blond curls and pulled his coat sleeves down to cover his hands.

My spirits lifted when we reached het bosje (the forest). There was something magical about the trees pushing their long fingers into the sky, the fragrances that changed with the season, and the total isolation from the hustle and bustle of Driebergen, the little town in the center of the Netherlands where we lived.

“Wait for me!” Jan pled as, breathless, he struggled through the snow.

“Here, help me pull.” I placed my little brother’s hand on the wagon’s handle, knowing full well that now I’d be pulling him as well as it. Because the villagers would have harvested everything from the edges of the woods, we had to walk further, and time was short if we were to finish before dark.

“This should be far enough,” I muttered. “Do what I’m doing, Jan.” Using my foot, I pushed aside the snow before picking up sticks and branches.

“I’m cold!’ Jan’s teeth were chattering.

“Well, work faster! That’ll help.”

Once we’d found all we could in one place, we moved to the next until we were a long way from het kindertehuis (the children’s home). That’s where we lived with over 30 children, all of whom were cared for by two nurses, known to us as “sisters.” 

“Okay, that should be enough. Let’s go.” Suddenly, I froze, arrested by bangs echoing through the trees.

“Frits, what’s that?” My six-year-old brother’s voice trembled as his blue eyes scanned our surroundings.

 “Guns! Run!” The sisters had warned us about this. I knew that when we hear gunfire, we should go to the nearest house. So, pulling our fully laden wagon with one hand and my brother with the other, I ran out of the woods and into a tree-lined lane. 

The houses along this street had tiny front gardens, each bordered by a rose hedge.

I opened my mouth to tell Jan we should go into the first house, where the door already stood open. Guttural shouting changed my mind. Germans! We halted abruptly.

Jan knew to keep quiet, but just in case, I pulled his trembling body close to mine and put my icy hand over his mouth. Both of us crouched behind the hedge.

There in the front yard were three Nazi soldiers in woolen uniforms and shiny black boots, their machine guns slung over their shoulders. A stone-faced German with narrowed eyes came out of the home, dragging a ragged Dutch man forward by his arm.

“No, no, we were just having dinner together!” The wild-eyed man glanced over his shoulder. “Go back in, Hylke. Hide!”

The soldier responded by shouting about der Widerstand (the Resistance), a German word with which I was familiar, and forced the hapless victim to lie face downwards on a pile of rose clippings. The man’s young female colleague, who was now being held immobile by another soldier, watched.

“Frits,” Jan whispered after dragging my hand away from his mouth. “The thorns…”

“Shh!” I knew the thorns would hurt the man, but not as much as what I feared was coming.

At a snarled order from the Zugführer (commander), the other soldiers began to beat the prisoner with the butts of their rifles. They continued until he was motionless and covered in blood. I didn’t see how he could possibly be alive.

Jan tugged my arm, and I turned impatiently. Tears stood in his eyes, but he pointed to the front of his pants, where a dark stain spread from his crotch. I pressed my lips together, shrugged, and kissed his head before continuing to watch.

The Zugführer barked another command, and a pair of soldiers hauled the prisoner to his feet, propped him against the nearest tree, and all the soldiers emptied their guns into his back. 

Jan gasped. The woman’s eyes turned to us, and she quickly dropped to her knees, sobbing loudly. I pulled Jan lower and took the screwdriver out of my pocket, my stomach in my throat. Had they heard him, too?

One of the blood-spattered soldiers spun to face the woman. The Zugführer marched over to strike her on the ear before bellowing, “Schweigen Sie (be silent)!” right into her face. None of them looked at us. Instead, the soldiers turned, hoisted the man’s body up, and flung it onto the rose bushes at the far side of the garden. I was aghast to see a body draped there already. 

The wind stopped blowing, the trees ceased rustling, and the moon hid behind the clouds. Jan and I held our breath, and the woman didn’t even wipe the spattered blood off her face. 

I jumped as raucous laughter split the dark silence before the Zugführer pushed the young woman back into the house. His henchmen followed.

My horrified eyes were drawn to the holes in the tree trunk and the shadowy pool of blood at its base. Although that incident might be buried among everything else that happened during World War II, the tree would forever tell the tale.

We remained there, frozen, despite the screams coming from inside the house. Then, realizing that we shouldn’t be caught so near to what seemed to be a German base of operations, I pulled Jan to his feet. We returned to het kindertehuis via the forest. Only then did I tuck my screwdriver back into my pocket.

Zuster Dermout was angry about how late we were—but not for long. Even that unfeeling woman could see that something beyond words had happened. I curled up in my bed but never told her what. She didn’t ask.  

It seemed like I’d only just fallen asleep when… “Frits, wake up!” 

I sat up with a start, drenched in sweat, my throat on fire. “Wha? I was sleeping, Jan. And it’s the middle of the night. What do you want?”

“You were screaming. When I touched you, you tried to punch me!” Jan’s voice rose with indignation.

“I’m sorry. I guess it was a nightmare. Next time, leave me be. If you don’t touch me while I’m sleeping, I won’t hit you.”

That was the first of many dreams in which I relived the past.