Of Windmills and War (49 page)

08 May
1945

For two
glorious days, Anya slept. As exciting as it was to witness one of the
incredible food drops, she was simply too tired to offer any more help or find
out how she might be useful. It seemed as though she had not rested in years.
Only now, in the comfort of Helga’s home did she allow herself to truly forget
everything else around her and just sleep. Helga’s husband Lars had finally
returned home from his own journeys, tying up loose ends of what was left of
the Resistance. He delighted them with bags of food for which he’d patiently
waited in line at the Netherlands Food Distribution Service warehouse. The
simple taste of a good cup of coffee nearly brought them to tears, it tasted so
good.

Then
one morning Anya decided to get some fresh air by taking a walk with Helga.
They’d only been out for a few minutes when word began to spread like wildfire.

“
Wij Zijn vrij
!
Wij Zijn vrij
!”
We are free! We are free!

“The
Germans capitulated! The
Netherlands
are free!”

“The
Allies have liberated us!”

“The
war is over! The war is over!”

Anya
and Helga looked at each other then hugged and cried all at once. “Oh Helga,
can it be true? Is it really over?”

The
people of
Utrecht
poured into the streets, rushing from
their homes to join the celebration. At first they felt hesitant to believe the
wonderful news, but as reports of the armistice signed in
Amsterdam
filtered through the hordes of people, they dropped all caution and gave in to
unrestrained joy. Suddenly, like a ripple of red, white, and blue water
spreading through the streets, Dutch flags waved proudly once again.

Anya
had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. Somewhere a loud speaker
blared the announcement, validating the wonderful rumor. The people shouted
with joy then hushed once again, as the voice of Queen Wilhelmina came from the
speakers, confirming the news of their liberation.

Then,
even before they could applaud the comforting words from their queen, their
beloved national anthem “Wilhelmus” played as their cheers turned to tears filled
with longsuffering, patriotic emotion as they sang.

As she
too sang along, Anya had a momentary thought.
If it is humanly possible for
hundreds and hundreds of people to experience the same exact emotion at one
given moment in time, surely this is that moment
.

When
the song ended, the cheers rose again. Everyone hugged and kissed and danced,
even with perfect strangers. Some fainted, too excited to take it all in. Some
found refuge wherever they could find it and prayed out loud, giving thanks to
God for giving them back their freedom. Church bells peeled, almost as if the
Lord Almighty Himself had joined in the celebration.

Hours
later, they chatted all the way home, wondering what would happen next and how
they would begin to live again. As they approached the steps, a
boom-boom-boom-boom
pounded the air. They clutched each other in fear, jolted by the terrifying
sound, until a rainbow of colors exploded in the sky above them.

“Will
you look at that?” Helga marveled.

They
stepped up onto the porch then turned to watch the fireworks. “It’s all too
good to be true, isn’t it? I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find it was
all a dream.”

“And if
that’s so, then let’s hold onto the dream as long as we can.”

“Dear
sweet Helga,” Anya began, leaning her head on the older woman’s shoulder. “All
these years you’ve been such a blessing—always to my family, and now to me. How
can I ever thank you?”

“No
need to thank me. Your father always preached about bestowing kindness on
others. Jesus said, ‘Whatever you do to these least of these, you do it unto
Me.
’ And I
am humbled to be His hands when others need a helping hand. Especially one as
special as you.”

65

In the
days that followed, Anya felt her heart gradually begin to grasp what her mind
already knew—
Holland
was truly free! Like so many others
throughout her country, Helga and Lars opened their home to welcome the Allied
heroes and feed them with
real
food as a gesture of thanks. Helping her
friends prepare the meals, Anya thought she’d never tasted anything so delicious
as those first bites of corned beef and cheese and eggs—even powdered eggs—with
toasted bread and real butter. Where hunger had stolen their spirits, now each
bite seemed to give them the strength and courage to live again. How better to
celebrate this new beginning than by sharing their hospitality with those who
had made it all possible.

Along
the way, they began to notice their Jewish friends and neighbors gradually coming
out of hiding. Too frightened at first, the Jews finally accepted the news,
especially after hearing Hitler was dead and the Germans had been defeated. Anya
witnessed many of these reunions of Jewish family members and friends, their
tears and laughter all mixed and flowing freely. Many of them hadn’t been
outdoors in fresh air for years, and they couldn’t seem to get enough of it. It
was such a joy just to see them walking down the street inhaling deep breaths
of the crisp, spring-like air.

In
their new-found freedom, the Dutch could once again tune in their radios to
hear the news they’d missed for years.

Of
course, the news wasn’t all good.

Through
the BBC they learned that an American B-17 participating in
Operation
Chowhound
back on May 7 was fired upon by German ground troops and crashed
into the
North Sea
on its way home. Of its thirteen crew
members—including two ground personnel on their first ever flight—only two
survived.

Radio
reports also told of the tragedy in
Amsterdam
which
occurred just two days after the Germans surrendered. Excited crowds of Dutch
citizens had gathered in
Dam Square
near the
Royal
Castle
to
celebrate their freedom. Then, in the midst of their dancing and cheering as
their flag was once again raised above the castle, shots rang out across the wide
open plaza. A band of drunken German soldiers standing on the balcony of the
Grote Club began firing machine guns into the crowd. The heartbreaking irony—twenty-two
people killed and one hundred nineteen
men,
women, and children injured as they celebrated their long-awaited freedom—was now
mourned throughout The Netherlands.

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 suddenly 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.