Mrs. Janssen

There was a dusting of snow on the street below as she gathered up the last of the papers. They had been stashed in every corner of the small apartment she shared with her family, and she marveled again that the children had never asked about them. It was just as well. She was not sure how to answer even now.

Her husband had carried the bicycle into the stairwell, away from prying eyes. He worked quickly, rolling the papers tightly and pushing them into the hollow frame. They were thick and difficult to bend. The small space inside the bike frame was not nearly large enough to fit them all. She thought for a moment before picking up a stack and carrying it to their small bedroom. She undressed quickly, tucking booklets into every layer of her clothing. She was grateful for the cold, snowy morning, and the excuse to wear a heavy overcoat. She prayed it would be enough to conceal the stiff contents of her underclothes.

“You’re sure about this?” her husband asked as she returned to the stairwell.

“What choice do we have?” she said somberly. “If you go out, they will surely pick you up for one of the work details. No, it is safest for a woman right now.”

He nodded reluctantly.

“It has to be done, Dirk. They depend on these papers,” she touched his cheek gently. He nodded, knowing too well that she was right.

“Hug the children before you leave,” their eyes met, and the unspoken meaning in his words brought a lump to her throat. She nodded. She must say goodbye to the children, just in case.

She held each of them, lingering over the feel of their silky hair against her neck. She must not worry them, she knew, and yet she longed to tell them each how much she loved them and would always love them. Instead, she kissed their cheeks and told them to be good for their father.

“I love you all to the moon and back,” she said from the doorway, blowing a kiss that hung, suspended, in the cold air of the kitchen. Then she closed the door on them and walked away, her heart aching in her chest.

“It is time, Nelly,” Dirk said as she returned to the stairwell.

“Yes, I know.” She fell against him, her face pressed into the rough wool of his sweater. She thought of the long evenings he had spent by candlelight, his artist’s hand carefully scrawling forged signatures on the stacks of papers. She had worked alongside him, blotting each one and comparing it to the real signature on her own ration card. Every one had been precise, an exact match. Someone’s life depended on it.

All that remained now was the task before her. He carried the bicycle to the street and held it as she steadied herself on the seat.

“I will be here praying,” he said, kissing her gently on the cheek.

“I know you will,” she replied softly. She looked once more into his eyes before pedaling slowly down the street and out of sight.

The morning was cold, and Nelly could see her breath as it escaped her lips in short puffs. The snow made the cobbled streets slippery. She wished, as she had many times before, for real rubber tires. They had long been confiscated, and the garden hoses that now wrapped the rims of the bicycle were a poor replacement. She slid over the wet stones of the street, struggling for traction. It seemed to take all morning to cover the short distance through town.

Soon the brick homes and cobbled streets slipped away, and she found herself surrounded by the lushness of the countryside. Even on this snowy morning, the bright green of the pastures managed to poke through here and there, brilliant against the patches of white. A few cows remained in the fields, standing closely together for warmth. She remembered a time when these meadows had brimmed with livestock. Like everything else, though, they had grown scarce.

In the distance an ancient windmill turned slowly in the cold morning breeze. She had picnicked so often in its shadow that she knew its detail by heart: the long, black grid-like blades that swooped down to the earth like enormous hawks; the rough brown walls towering up over the green fields; the coarse brick base, cool against her back as she had sat in the shade too many afternoons to count. There was something comforting about this windmill, constant and moving on the horizon. It was like a familiar giant or a steadfast parent keeping watch over this little piece of her homeland.

The landscape was dotted with small farms, ancient buildings that had stood unchanged for generations. She wondered, as she often had, how many of them concealed onderduikers, people who had chosen to go underground into hiding. It was best not to know. Knowledge was a volatile weapon in these times.

The houses grew closer and closer together until Nelly found herself on the outskirts of another town. Her heart beat faster as the garden-hose tires transitioned from the dirt roads of the countryside onto the stony village streets. As she rode, she recited the directions Dirk had carefully given her. Right at the first street, down two blocks, left, three more blocks, right, go over the bridge, and down four houses on the left. If you are stopped, there is a bakery just beyond the place you are going. Tell them you are in town to buy bread for your family.

Nelly had been to the town many times before to visit the shops, but not since the war had begun. She was surprised by how changed it seemed. An entire building was boarded up, its wood-covered shop windows painted with a grotesquely distorted Star of David. Apartment windows that had once flooded light into the street below now sat hollow and vacant, dark gaping spaces that lined the streets. She turned at the first intersection. A woman hurried along the sidewalk, clutching her threadbare coat around her waist. Their eyes met briefly, exchanging a mutual understanding of the hardship they endured. Nelly nodded and attempted a smile.

She counted the blocks—one, two. The schoolyard on the corner was mostly empty, save for a few children bouncing a ball against the cold brick of the school. Children never seemed to play these days. How different their childhoods were from her own.

She wrestled the slipping wheels around the next corner. Three more blocks. A man in uniform stood outside the city hall. His helmet glinted in the pale winter sunlight. She swallowed hard as fear crept up and colored her cheeks. You are just a housewife in town to buy bread, she reminded herself. You are nothing more than a housewife. Her pedaling quickened. She forced herself to meet his eyes, nodding and smiling thinly as she passed. He tipped his head in greeting, clicking his heels together as she rode on down the road. It was several moments before she realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out with a shudder, willing her pulse to slow.

She counted the blocks, each one lined with its brick buildings and darkened shops. She wondered about the woman she would be meeting just beyond the bridge. She knew nothing about her—nothing but a name, Truus. Perhaps it was not even her real name. Nelly was to tell her she brought news of her mother. Then Truus was supposed to say she hoped it was not bad news and invite her inside.

Nelly reached the third block. The bridge should be just ahead. She was nearly there. She found herself breathing a sigh of relief as she turned the corner.

Suddenly, her blood turned to ice. There was the bridge, just as Dirk had described. At its entrance stood a group of eight men, their dark woolen uniforms visible even from here. A checkpoint.

Her mind raced as she slowed her bicycle. Perhaps she could take another route. But she knew too well that this was the only way to the meeting place. She had studied the map with Dirk for hours. Perhaps the soldiers would let her through without questioning. But even now, she knew that would not be the case. They would be fools to let anyone through.

Nelly breathed deeply, praying against the fear that roared in her ears. You are just a housewife, she told herself, in town to buy bread for your family. The bakery is just beyond.

“Halt,” an officer held up his hand, and Nelly slid to a stop before him.

“Good morning, sir,” she said weakly.

“Your papers, ma’am.” He was busy looking her over as he held out a hand for the documents.

She fumbled in her pockets, producing her identification papers. He studied them momentarily, grunting what appeared to be an approval.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bakery, sir, just that way. I’ve come from out of town to buy bread for my family.” He studied her briefly, and she felt the color rising again in her cheeks.

“I’m afraid we will have to search you and the bike,” he said gruffly. She felt her surroundings beginning to spin. There would be no escape, no way to explain the papers concealed in her bike frame and on her person.

The officer spoke in German to the men by his side. He gestured toward her, and they stepped closer. Her knees grew weak.

She handed the bicycle over reluctantly, watching as they wheeled it to the side and prepared to dismantle it. She thought of the dozens of people who would be waiting for the ration cards hidden in the frame. What would become of them, she wondered.

“Remove your coat, please,” said the officer. Nelly drew a deep breath.

As she struggled to unbutton the heavy coat, another officer stepped forward from the back of the group.

“This woman is Mrs. Janssen,” he said to the first officer. His voice was thick with a German accent.

Nelly looked up quickly at the sound of her name. She studied him. He had a broad face with high cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes. Wisps of blonde hair were visible under his cap. She had never seen him before in her life. She did not even know any Germans.

“And so?” the officer seemed perturbed by the interruption.

“Sir, I know Mrs. Janssen. I would stake my life on the knowledge that she is trustworthy. There is no reason to search her.”

“You know this woman?” the officer paused.

“I do. She can be trusted.”

The first officer thought for a moment, considering the situation. He glanced between Nelly and the man with the deep blue eyes.

“Very well,” he said gruffly. He spoke to the soldiers in German.

“Mrs. Janssen,” he said as he nodded, “you may be on your way.”

A soldier wheeled the bicycle back, smiling briefly as he handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Nelly pedaled down the road, her heart pounding in her chest. The warmth of relief flooded her. She thought of her husband and children, waiting for her at home. She thought of the onderduikers and Jewish families who were desperate for the papers she was carrying. There would be good news for all of them.

At the top of the street, she chanced to look back once more at the group of soldiers. They huddled together on the snow-dusted bridge. She could just barely make out the form of the unfamiliar man who had vouched for her so unexpectedly. Nelly shook her head, pushing the matter from her mind, and turned instead to the house on her left where Truus already stood waiting.

—

This story is, of course, fictional. But like most fiction, it is rooted in reality. My paternal grandparents grew up in Holland during the war. They have remarkable stories to tell about those years. Their families, like most Dutch people, subsisted on the food provided by ration cards. My grandmother’s sister was tasked with traveling to the neighboring town to buy milk with the family’s ration coupons. Early in the war, as was the experience of many, the bike tires were confiscated by the Nazis. And so, she rode on the metal rims (slipping and sliding). Others got creative, wrapping garden hoses around the rims in place of tires.

My great-grandfather, Opa Potma, fought in the Dutch Resistance army until Holland’s occupation in May 1940. For the remainder of the war, he continued to work with the Dutch underground in more covert ways. He was an accomplished artist and calligrapher, and his skill was put to use forging the necessary Nazi district officer’s signature on ration cards. My Oma remembers stacks of papers stashed all over the home, although she never thought to ask what they were for. It was just as well. The less children knew in those days, the safer it was for everyone. There was a hiding place in their home between the family’s home goods shop and the dining room in their upstairs apartment. It was just big enough for Opa Potma; no one knows whether he ever had to use it.

One day, he was traveling by bike with a bundle of forged documents to be distributed to Jews in hiding and to the families who hid them. His journey was going well, until he came unexpectedly upon a Nazi checkpoint. I don’t know what he must have been thinking at that moment, but I know from a letter he wrote to his wife and children during his army days that he was ready and willing to lose his life for what he felt was right. He knew the penalty for what he was doing: imprisonment in a concentration camp or execution. He was a courageous man. Still, he must have been terrified believing he would be arrested. A soldier ordered him to open his bag, which was full of the illicit documents. He was slowly dismounting when a second soldier approached. Opa had never seen the man before. He wore the uniform of a German soldier, and Opa didn’t know any German soldiers–nor did any know him.

The man approached the first soldier and said, “That’s Mr. Potma, let him go through.” I don’t know what happened in the next moments, but I know that Opa was let through without any further questions. And he went on to help in saving the lives of countless people during the war. His escape was nothing short of a miracle.