would have her ration card and could use her rations for themselves.
From her pocket, she withdrew the hand that had ached to slap Sofie’s face and held out her identity card to her friend.
Sofie beamed. “We’re going,” she said. “We’re actually going!”
Two more weeks passed before Sofie had the tickets and the identity cards. During those weeks, Lena stayed home as much as she could, and went in terror on her wood-gathering missions, knowing that at any moment a German soldier could ask to see her card.
Each day, Lena worked in the kitchen, helped with the baby, sat at the dinner table, all while her secret grew and grew.
Once she had the new card in her hand, her terror deepened. Now she was German. Her name was Aubrey Schulze. She imagined looking up at a German soldier and convincing him that she was the girl on the card. She could not. But there was no going back. She would never have a legitimate identity card again.
In the end, it was actually hard to leave, even putting aside her fear. When she held Nynke in her arms for the last time and felt the weight of her and the life in her; when she hugged Bep and remembered the little girl’s head on her shoulder, felt her loneliness and longing; when she looked at her brother, so full of purpose; and even when she thought about her bossy big sister, her greedy father and her pale and fading mother—she felt love. Some of that love surprised her.
On Monday, February 5, 1945, Lena ate her last meagre lunch at home. Piet stood by the window stroking a velvety leaf of the African violet, calm and silent. Lena’s heart twisted in her chest. He was going to think she was running away.
Well, it would be as it would be. She busied herself tidying up the kitchen and awaited her moment. Her old battered suitcase was already packed, hidden under the bed. In her pocket were her ration cards, along with a short note for her family. At last, Piet went out, as she knew he would. Margriet had gone to line up for this week’s sugar beets. Father was in his study, and Bep was in the bedroom with Mother and baby Nynke.
Lena dried her hands, took off her apron and hung it over the back of a chair. Then she went into her bedroom, took the folded papers from her pocket and put them in the middle of the bed, where they could not be missed. She hoped that Bepand Piet wouldn’t worry about her too much. She had done her best, writing that she was with Sofie, that they would be safe, that she was leaving her ration cards so everyone could have more to eat. She adjusted the note on top of the cards, put on her wool coat, her favourite hat and her funny green mittens, pulled her suitcase from under the bed and walked briskly down the hall and out the front door.
She and Sofie met at Sofie’s house, since their journey was not a secret from Sofie’s parents. And they walked to the station, exhausted long before they reached it from the combination of fear and exertion.
The plan went well at first, though—or seemed to. Sofie led the way into the red brick station, down the incline at the back, and marched up to a man at the bottom of the steps to the first platform. Lena knew he must be Sofie’s contact, but he gave no indication of ever having seen her before. He glanced at their identity cards, smiled politely—a little deferentially, Lena thought—took their tickets, nodded and returned them. Then he took a suitcase in each hand and walked ahead of them up the stairs.
Lena had not been in a train station in years, and in many ways, nothing had changed in all that time. The train loomed in front of them, and the sounds and sights of the station poured over them, promising (if you ignored the men in uniform) a journey, new places, new experiences. Lena felt a longing almost past bearing for the days when trains actually fulfilled that promise.
Well, she thought, there would be a journey, wherever it led.
The man led the girls onto the first car, waited while they
From her pocket, she withdrew the hand that had ached to slap Sofie’s face and held out her identity card to her friend.
Sofie beamed. “We’re going,” she said. “We’re actually going!”
Two more weeks passed before Sofie had the tickets and the identity cards. During those weeks, Lena stayed home as much as she could, and went in terror on her wood-gathering missions, knowing that at any moment a German soldier could ask to see her card.
Each day, Lena worked in the kitchen, helped with the baby, sat at the dinner table, all while her secret grew and grew.
Once she had the new card in her hand, her terror deepened. Now she was German. Her name was Aubrey Schulze. She imagined looking up at a German soldier and convincing him that she was the girl on the card. She could not. But there was no going back. She would never have a legitimate identity card again.
In the end, it was actually hard to leave, even putting aside her fear. When she held Nynke in her arms for the last time and felt the weight of her and the life in her; when she hugged Bep and remembered the little girl’s head on her shoulder, felt her loneliness and longing; when she looked at her brother, so full of purpose; and even when she thought about her bossy big sister, her greedy father and her pale and fading mother—she felt love. Some of that love surprised her.
On Monday, February 5, 1945, Lena ate her last meagre lunch at home. Piet stood by the window stroking a velvety leaf of the African violet, calm and silent. Lena’s heart twisted in her chest. He was going to think she was running away.
Well, it would be as it would be. She busied herself tidying up the kitchen and awaited her moment. Her old battered suitcase was already packed, hidden under the bed. In her pocket were her ration cards, along with a short note for her family. At last, Piet went out, as she knew he would. Margriet had gone to line up for this week’s sugar beets. Father was in his study, and Bep was in the bedroom with Mother and baby Nynke.
Lena dried her hands, took off her apron and hung it over the back of a chair. Then she went into her bedroom, took the folded papers from her pocket and put them in the middle of the bed, where they could not be missed. She hoped that Bepand Piet wouldn’t worry about her too much. She had done her best, writing that she was with Sofie, that they would be safe, that she was leaving her ration cards so everyone could have more to eat. She adjusted the note on top of the cards, put on her wool coat, her favourite hat and her funny green mittens, pulled her suitcase from under the bed and walked briskly down the hall and out the front door.
She and Sofie met at Sofie’s house, since their journey was not a secret from Sofie’s parents. And they walked to the station, exhausted long before they reached it from the combination of fear and exertion.
The plan went well at first, though—or seemed to. Sofie led the way into the red brick station, down the incline at the back, and marched up to a man at the bottom of the steps to the first platform. Lena knew he must be Sofie’s contact, but he gave no indication of ever having seen her before. He glanced at their identity cards, smiled politely—a little deferentially, Lena thought—took their tickets, nodded and returned them. Then he took a suitcase in each hand and walked ahead of them up the stairs.
Lena had not been in a train station in years, and in many ways, nothing had changed in all that time. The train loomed in front of them, and the sounds and sights of the station poured over them, promising (if you ignored the men in uniform) a journey, new places, new experiences. Lena felt a longing almost past bearing for the days when trains actually fulfilled that promise.
Well, she thought, there would be a journey, wherever it led.
The man led the girls onto the first car, waited while they
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