Thief in the night
Prologue
Gusts from the gathering November storm batter her body. She can barely stand on the slope of the majestic sea wall that seems to taunt the sea, which pounds wildly against the basalt ten meters below her – relentless, unyielding. She pulls her coat tighter, but the cold seeps in anyway. She feels the mist of the splashing seawater on her face and she sniffs the scent of salt and seaweed. “Come here, if you dare!” the wild waves seem to roar at her. “Come here! Then we’ll catch you after all!”
She doesn’t let herself be intimidated. Not anymore. Not by the water. Not by her haunting ghost of the past, the two wide-open light blue eyes disappearing into the dark depths. Not by her parents, who left a crushing mark on her life with the bleak memory of their last-born, too often forgetting that they had another child. Not by any of her other family members, who would rather pretend she doesn’t exist. She’s old enough to finally not care about anything or anyone. Old enough to finally put everything in its place.
She closes her eyes and hears the wind howling, just like then. She was six, and the world was a safe place – until that night, seventy-two years ago.
Looming danger
1
That Saturday morning, a strong northwesterly wind had already been blowing, but everyone in the small village of 400 souls, just a stone’s throw from the sea, was used to it. The fierce winds, sometimes lasting for weeks, even caused the massive poplar trees along the road to the sea to bend southeastward. As usual, she had put on her shoes when the clock on the fireplace mantel in their simple, cozy workers’ home struck once. Half past eight, she had just learned at school. Time to go. With the wind at her back, the walk to school had been easy. The school was located in the village centre, alongside the church, the cemetery, the grocery store and the café -all surrounding the square with its linden trees and its bandstand. The church clock hands had both pointed to nine. Quarter to nine, she had known, once again growing frustrated with the slow pace of lessons at school.
She had arrived early. Against the usual routine, the school door had already been open. Outside stood Mr. Van Belzen, one of the school teachers, who sent everyone entering the schoolyard straight inside.
When the church clock had struck eleven, the headmaster had entered the classroom. “Aôlemaêl gauw naê 'uus!” he had said at the front of the class. Go home, everybody, quickly! His mouth, usually adorned with a smile, had been reduced to a thin line. Deep wrinkles marked his forehead, and his bushy gray eyebrows had been drawn downward. And he had spoken in their local dialect, something he had never done at school before. This was serious. “We kriege sturm!” A storm is coming!
Along with other children, she had lingered in the schoolyard a little longer. Some boys had raced each other, stretching their arms wide and using the flaps of their open coats as sails. A few girls had lingered too, just as she had. Once home, their mothers would immediately put them to work tidying up the house—after all, Sunday was coming. But the school teachers had been relentless. “Naê 'uus! Gauw!” Go home! And fast!
Against the strong wind, it had been quite a struggle to move forward. Twice, she had even sought shelter from the wind behind one of the thick poplars along the road before reaching the refuge of home. With difficulty, she had managed to push the door open just a crack and slipped inside, where Mother had already set the table, and little Jakey had been placed in his highchair.
“D’r komt sturm,” a storm is coming, was all Father had said after stepping in and pulling the door shut—only for the wind to snatch it from his hands and slam it closed. Immediately, he had slid the bolt shut.
After murmuring The Lord’s Prayer at the table, they had eaten their potato-mash with bacon dices in silence. The howling wind around the house had drowned out the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel. Outside, the storm had ripped several flowerpots off the wall, but no one had moved to check. With the last dice of bacon on her fork, she had scraped her plate clean, savouring the final bite before swallowing it. Even little Jakey had eaten without protest.
The silence in the house had been broken by a rattling at the door. Villagers were used to simply walking in, but Father had bolted the door. He had stood, slid back the bolt, and gripped the door with both hands as he cautiously opened it a little.
"Goeiendag," the voice of Wisse, the blacksmith who lived on the outskirts of the village, had sounded. "Eetze." Good day. Enjoy your meal.
“Kom d’r in,” come on in, Father had replied, pulling the door shut again after Wisse had placed his wooden clogs beside the door and entered on his socks. " ôk goeiendag," a good day to you too, he had greeted Mother before continuing.
"The water is at the dike," he had continued to Father. "Martin de Jonge is on his way with a truck full of sandbags. We need to reinforce the dike." Wisse had spoken more than ten words in a row, and the fear had been plain on Mother’s face. It was serious.
"Prayers first, then I’ll come along," Father had said. Along with Mother, she had followed his example, folded her hands and, at the end of the prayer, murmured "Amen." Father had skipped the obligatory reading from the Bible. God had needed help at the dike, and Father had left with Wisse, into the storm.
2
Despite the strengthening storm, she and Mother had tidied up the house that afternoon as best as they could. After all, the next day would be Sunday. After having washed the dishes, they had scrubbed the kitchen. Mother had removed the ashes from the stove and tossed them out through the only window sheltered from the storm—though the wind had still caught them. The coal dust had resembled a swarm of flying insects before dissolving into the wind. Together, they had prepared fresh sheets for the bedstead of Father and Mother downstairs and for the beds of her and Jakey in the small room upstairs. They had laid out their Sunday clothes so they’d be ready for church. Obviously, they had skipped beating the rugs and washing the windows that day.
It had gotten dark early that day in their little house with its small windows. "Let’s turn on the lamp," Mother had said, just after the clock on the mantelpiece had chimed four times. She had thrown some extra coal onto the fire in the stove, yet they had still felt the cold draft from the gusts of wind seeping through the window cracks. "Better put on your thick pullover," Mother had said, while doing the same for Jakey.
As always, Mother had made sure that there was bread on the table precisely at six o’clock that evening. The three of them had eaten their sandwiches. The light from the petroleum lamp above the table had cast eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling. Father’s empty chair and untouched plate had felt strange. Stranger, still, Mother had taken the lead of their prayers. And even stranger, almost scary, she had deviated from the standard Lord’s Prayer. "Lord, protect us from the storm. Please let Father return home safely," she had added to the prayer before concluding with "Amen."
During dinner, Mother had repeatedly glanced at the window. She had followed Mother’s gaze a few times, only to see nothing but pitch-black darkness. It had seemed as if even Jakey had sensed the gravity of the situation. Without protest, he had eaten his sandwich with head cheese.
“Werme klêêre klaer legge!” Lay out warm clothes!" was the first thing Father had said when he arrived home in the pitch-black night, just after the clock had struck eight. "And we’re sleeping upstairs tonight!"
She had helped Mother bring the bedding from the bedstead to the upstairs room. Father had dragged the mattresses up the stairs. In the small attic room, they had pushed her bed and Jakey’s aside and set up a makeshift bed for Father and Mother. Then, she had helped Mother lay out their winter coats, hand-knitted sweaters, work trousers, belts, and each person’s only pair of shoes.
"Clogs will be useless!" Father had said when Mother had carried their wooden clogs upstairs. Then, obviously exhausted from hours of hauling sandbags, he had fallen asleep like a rock.
Mother had beckoned her to come back downstairs. With a finger on her lips, she had signalled to stay quiet, so they wouldn’t wake Father and Jakey. Mother had stoked the stove and had set a pot of water to boil.
"Let’s prepare enough bread," she had whispered. "You never know."
Then, Mother had taken the bread knife, had cut two whole loaves into slices, and she had helped spread butter on the slices—until they ran out—and then used lard. They had topped them with cheese and pork meat jelly. Mother had wrapped the sandwiches in pieces of newspaper in stacks of four and packed them into the duffel bag.
When the water boiled, Mother had brewed coffee, poured it into their two thermos flasks, added a few scoops of sugar, and had sealed the flasks.
"Grab a few cups from the cupboard," she had asked, after which she had packed the thermos flasks and cups into the duffel bag.
Upstairs, Mother had placed the bag on the small table in the corner.
"Go to sleep now," she had whispered. "Keep your clothes on."
She had had a thousand questions, but she had known that it was better to stay silent and listen to Mother. She had still heard the howling storm making the wooden beams of the roof creak. Despite the threatening pounding on the roof tiles, she must have quickly fallen asleep.
Thief in the night
3
"Wakker worre! Opstaê! 't Waêter komt!" She heard Mother scream, felt herself being shaken roughly, but she did not want to leave her warm, peaceful dreamland. But Mother kept shaking and screaming. "Wake up! Get up! The water is coming!"
She opened her eyes and the eerie reality of the night slowly dawned on her. In the ghostly light of the kerosene lamp, she saw raw terror in Mother's wide-open eyes. She had never seen Mother like this before. She wanted to cry out of sheer fear, just as Jakey had started screaming, but she did not get the chance. "Get dressed, quickly! Your sweater, your coat, your shoes! And put on your beanie!"
Everything happened at lightning speed – like the silent film she had seen in the city last summer, where people had moved unnaturally fast and had said nothing. Mother dressed Jakey in barely a minute, it seemed, without Jakey protesting once, and then hastily pulled on her own thick overcoat. Father, already dressed in his leather jacket, had pushed the table against the wall under the roof window, climbed onto a chair and then onto the table and now, standing on top of the table, was pulling open the window. For a moment she thought it wasn't real, that she was in the middle of a monstrous dream. then she saw the stairwell: two steps above the rising black water. A gust of wind tore the attic window out of Father's hand and smashed it on the roof, blew out the kerosene lamp and filled the attic room with an icy cold. "A chair!" shouted Father above the howling wind. He took the chair from Mother, placed it on the table and hoisted himself through the window frame, his figure ghostly lit by the full moon that had appeared briefly and then disappeared behind the clouds, leaving her with Mother and Jakey in the pitch dark. "Climb up!" Mother commanded. She hesitated, she didn't dare, but Mother's voice brooked no contradiction. She climbed onto the chair, the table, then onto the second chair and felt Father pulling her out by her arms. She kept her eyes tightly shut, felt the icy wind sucking down over the roof, as if it wanted to pull her straight into the water. "Sit there! To the right!" Father shouted above the howling storm. "I've kicked a row of roof tiles to pieces. Put your feet against them. But be careful! Don't fall through!" The moon broke through the clouds again. In the faint glow she saw the fast-flowing black water, from left to right, just under the edge of the roof. She clung to Father with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut. "Try to cooperate a little, girl..." she heard his voice close to her left ear as he lifted her halfway up, so that her shoes could grip the half-broken roof tiles. Step by step she slid to the right, her hands clinging to the sleeves of Father's jacket, until he slowly lowered her. "Hang on girl... I'll get Mother and Jakey!"
When Father crawled back to the opening, leaving her alone on the roof, her tears finally came, but she didn't have much time to cry. Father came back with Jakey, who had now started screaming desperately, but his screams were lost in the howling wind. "Go and sit with your sister!" Even Father's voice was almost swallowed up by the tumult of the storm. She threw her left arm around Jakey, when Father had lowered him, desperately trying to calm him down. His screams turned into a plaintive wail with long gasps. "Don't want into the water!" he kept repeating between his gasps. "Don't want to get wet! Don't want into the water!"
She pressed Jakey a little tighter against her. To their left she saw the silhouette of Father in the dark, who took the bag, then helped Mother onto the roof, supported her on the half-broken roof tiles and helped her to sit down to Jakey's left. Finally, Father balanced in front of them and lowered himself onto the roof to her right, the duffel bag tucked under his left arm. To her left, Mother took Jakey on her lap and slid close to her.
When the howling of the storm subsided for a moment, she finally dared to open her mouth again, wedged between Father and Mother.
"Father?"
"What's up, my girl?"
"How... how long... how long do we have to stay here?"
"Dâ weet hin maens, misje... dâ weet alleêne Ônze Lieven'eer," he replied after a few seconds of silence, as he laid his rough fist on her right hand. "We kunne mâe beter bidde, dienk j'ôk nie, Moeder?"
Despite the horrific circumstances, Father's honesty gave her a sense of calm. Here, in the hellish storm, in the horror of the freezing night on the roof, surrounded by the monster of the dangerously flowing black mass of water, Father had shown his human side. Never before had she felt so close to Father.
"No-one will know, my girl..." he had said. "Only Our Lord knows. We'd better pray, don't you think, Mother?"
In the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds, she saw Father fold his hands. Mother followed his example, her hands folded around Jakey's little fists. She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.
"God, our Lord," Father began, his voice strong in the sound of the storm. "In the strength of the storm we seek your protection..."
4
"Watch over us and our loved ones.
Give us courage in the darkness, strength in our uncertainty, and peace in our fear.
Bring us safely through this night and let us welcome the new day in your grace.
Amen."
She opened her eyes, tugged her beanie tighter, and stared out at the darkening stream, dimly lit by the pale moonlight through a thin spot in the dark cloud mass. Father's prayer had calmed her. She understood now – it was all a trial, a tribulation. Only yesterday, the teacher had told a story at school about trials. About Joseph, who had been sold as a slave but had become a great man in Egypt. About the people of Moses, who had wandered in the desert for 40 years. About Daniel, who had been thrown into the lions' den but had come out unharmed. "Sometimes we must endure the hardest trials," the teacher had said, "to prove our faith in the Lord." The teacher had told the story just in time. The Lord had taken care of this, of course. One last warning from Him, just before the water came, just as He had given a last warning while Noah was building his ark. God was merciful, and she would not disappoint Him. She looked to her left, at Mother, who was cradling Jakey in her arms. Jakey's crying had turned into a soft murmur. "Go inside..." she could just make out. "Wan’ go inside Mommy..." She looked to her right, at Father – he looked utterly spent. For hours he had helped carry sandbags in the storm and the cold. And he had hardly slept. How exhausted must he be?
The teacher had said that people had to be strong in times of need. Tonight, here on the roof in the cold storm, she would be strong. For Father, Mother and Jakey. She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and began to sing. " There floats through the heavens a name full of grace," she began, her voice was hoarse and faltering against the howling wind. Then she felt Father's arm around her shoulder. She opened her eyes to slits. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mother pressing Jakey close against her with her left arm and putting her right arm around her waist. Softly, hesitantly at first, Father and Mother began to sing, until the three of them were singing the chorus at the top of their lungs, above the roar of the storm.
"That joins earth and heaven in one sweet embrace,
Know ye, know ye, whose Name that is?
That Name is my Savior’s, my hope and my bliss.”
5
They had sung hymn after hymn, huddled close to give the biting cold as little chance as possible. But it had become harder and harder to think of another gospel song. "Let's eat something," Mother had finally said. "And drink. The coffee is still warm." She had handed each Father and her a newspaper-wrapped bundle of bread. After her second sandwich, she had rewrapped her parcel and tucked it into her coat pocket. Mother had fed Jakey a sandwich, then had eaten the rest of hers. She had poured coffee in cups and handed them out, but their fingers had been so cold it had barely been possible to hold them. The icy wind had cooled the coffee almost instantaneously, but at least they had had something warm. Mother had sweetened the last bit from the thermos and let Jakey drink. Father had spoken the prayer of thanks, and for a moment their shared "Amen" had seemed to bluff the wind. Even Jakey's shrill little voice had briefly drowned out the storm.
That must have been hours ago.
Jakey now slept in Mother's arms. She, Father and Mother took turns sipping from the second thermos of coffee, now cold. They tried to sing again, but the words would not come. They huddled together as closely as possible, but the cold still took hold of them. She sometimes felt a tremor run through Father's body. Mother, with Jakey pressed close, seemed less affected. But her own hands and feet had gone numb, and she felt the cold slowly creeping up her arms and legs.
"Lâete me ma' prebeere, om burte te slâepe," Father roared over the storm, as Mother began nodding beside her. Let's try to take turns sleeping. Of course Mother needed to rest. Imagine if she let go... Jakey...
"Give Jakey to me, Mother!" Carefully, Father stood up, bent over her and took the sleeping Jakey from her arms. He unzipped his jacket halfway, pressed the little boy to his chest, zipped it up again and carefully sat down. Mother shifted, stuck her feet in the broken roof tiles again and pulled her close. She closed her eyes. With her head against Mother's shoulder, she heard the storm rage… and then the world slowly faded.
6
From the depths of her sleep, she felt herself being shaken. "Wake up, girl..." Mother's voice was close, but she was still floating in her no-man's land. "Wake up... there's a boat coming!" More shaking. "We're being saved!"
The first thing to break through her haze was the salty smell of seawater. Then came the bitter cold, deep in her body, making her teeth chatter and her limbs tremble uncontrollably. She slowly opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to realize where she was: outside on the roof. The storm. The dark water. The biting cold.
She was pressed close to Mother, who held Jakey in her left arm and had wrapped her right arm around her. To her right, Father stood on the roof, waving and shouting. "Here! Here! Right in front!"
In the dark, a small rowing boat slowly appeared. Only now did she notice that the wind had eased, and the water was flowing the other way, from the right to the left -back toward the sea. The men at the oars struggled to keep the boat steady, rowing diagonally against the current from the side, but they were drawing nearer.
A wave of happiness and gratitude rose inside her. She closed her eyes and folded her freezing hands. "Thank you, Lord," she whispered, her voice shivering from the cold deep in her bones. "Thank you, for saving Father and Mother who are so good to me - for saving my dear little brother, and for your grace on me. Thank you, Lord!"
Her prayer seemed to restore control over her body. The shivering eased. The cold, while still bitter, became bearable. Just a little while longer, and they would climb into the boat. Just a little while longer, and they would be safe. Saved, as Jesus once saved his disciples from the storm.
She counted four people in the boat, which had now almost reached the roof. Two men pulled at the oars; another man and a woman sat near the bow. The man held a flashlight scanning the water between the boat and the roof. Then she saw a thick blanket on the woman’s lap – a baby, perhaps.
The boat neared, the men still rowing diagonally against the current. The man with the flashlight stood, a rope in his hand. "Catch it!" he called to Father, throwing the rope toward him. Father missed, but caught it with the heel of his shoe. He bent quickly, grabbed the rope, and hauled it from the water, wrapping it several times around the chimney to his right. One of the men pulled the boat close to the roof, gripping the gutter with both hands – just above the waterline.
"Mother, you first!" she heard Father call to her right, as he held the rope around the chimney in check. "Take the bag! And then Jakey!" Mother crawled to the gutter, carefully sat down down and passed Jakey to her. "Stay with your sister, Jakey! Stay with your sister! You can do that, can't you? Big boy, Jakey! You're a big boy!"
Jakey didn't protest as Mother stood up on the very edge of the roof. With help from the men, she climbed into the boat. Maybe the cold had paralyzed him. Maybe it was fear. Maybe he understood it was his turn next. One of the men would lift him into the boat, where he would be safe with Mother.
A gust of wind suddenly tugged at the boat. The man lost grip of the gutter and the boat drifted. "I've got it!" she heard Father shouting to her right behind her, by the chimney. "I've got the rope! Just row a bit!"
The man between the oars reacted fast, redirecting the boat, knowing that they couldn't drift any further. Father had a firm grip on the rope.
"To Mommy!" Jakey suddenly stood, his full weight on the gutter. " Wan’ go to Mommy!" he screamed, his small voice filled with desperate strength. "Wan’ go to Mommy!"
Then the gutter gave way.
Mother's horrible cry pierced the darkness. Jakey’s arm still clung to the roof. She dropped onto her left side and grabbed his hand. She had it—she had him—but Jakey slipped into the water.
“Hold on!” came Father’s voice, stumbling across the roof.
“Hold on, girl! I’m coming!”
Lying on the edge of the roof, her hand in the freezing cold water, she clung to Jakey’s hand. In front of her she saw the end of the rope disappear into the water. Mother's screams echoed further and further.
"Hold on!" Father sounded again, together with the stumbling over the broken roof tiles. "Hold on, my girl" Mother's shrill cry sounded desperately from the boat, which had audibly drifted further away. "Don't let go!" The icy water drained the last bit of strength from her hand. She didn't want to let go, she mustn’t, but her hand no longer obeyed. Beneath her, in the faint glow of the flashlight from the boat, she saw Jakey’s two wide-open, light blue eyes, just beneath the surface. "Don't let go!" Mother’s scream came once more.
But then, the very last bit of feeling left her hand.
And she saw her little brother, his eyes still wide open, disappear into the dark.
