Chapter 13 - Dirk Jan's Mission

Uncle Cor, head of the KP Department, wants Dirk Jan to deliver a coded message to a friend, Van Manen. The message is about a new plan for weapon storage. Dirk Jan is instructed to go to the corn mill and give the password. He sets off on his journey and sees the struggles of the Dutch people during the winter. He helps a young boy who is hungry and exhausted. Dirk Jan continues his journey, aware of the dangers of land watchers. Chapter 13, Dirk Jan's Mission. Here's the situation, said Uncle Cor, taking Dirk Jan aside. I'm the head of the KP Department, which supplies other underground groups with weapons. There was to be a weapon dropping near Leyden next week, but it can't go through now because of today's raid. All those fields will be watched. I've decided the fields around here are very suitable. We can use the Giant as a temporary storage place, and they can be transported further by boat. Now I want you to go, my friend. Go to my friend? Gerardus Van Manen, with a message which you are to learn by heart. It will seem nonsense to you because it is in code. The less you know, the better for all of us. If Van Manen says the new plan is feasible, you'll have to let me know as soon as possible by mail telegraph. I must make arrangements here. Could you just write a letter? asked Dirk Jan, frightened at the idea of garbling the message. No. We don't use letters in the underground if we can possibly avoid it. They're too dangerous. I had to eat someone to keep them out of the wrong hands. Eat them? Dirk Jan looked horrified. Uncle Cor laughed. I did feel a bit like a ghost, he confessed. When Van Manen gives the okay, you will go to the corn mill, the Falcon. Miller Van Ryn will receive you kindly, but it is his assistant, Van Lou, who will help you. Give him our password, Old Ryn and Green Cabbage, and tell him that your uncle of the garage had a sad or happy event in the family, as the case may be, and wants to have the mill put into joy or sorrow. Joy means yes, sorrow, no. Tell Van Lou to wind the mill towards Hoogmaid Polder. The Hoogmaid Mill will then give the sign to the Jan Caterveen, which can be seen from here. Now you must remember that it takes time to wind the mill. After sundown, it's too dark to see, so you should be at the Falcon at 3.30. You can't be out after curfew, so you'd better stay the night in Leyden. The Van Manens will put you up. He showed Dirk Jan the various addresses on his map, but it was not wise to ask away and reveal oneself a stranger. Then he made Dirk Jan repeat all that he had been told, and when he had it in his mind, Uncle Cor gave him the message, which was in rhyme, so that he would remember it easily. Leyden nests are preyed upon, spread into the horizon. Eggs are safe in Nordinar. Same time signal at afar. Number one and number two, number sixteen, see it through. Mother got Dirk Jan some extra warm clothing and baked him good bread for him, and the last of her wheat. She filled his satchel with potatoes and added two plucked chickens, some smoked eels, and a jar of milk. You'll need presents for the Van Manens and Miller Van Ryn, she said. Father gave Dirk Jan the heavier silver watch he had always carried, and then it was time for bed. Joris and Rhianna were fast asleep, Joris in the attic, and Rhianna with Mother in the living room press bed. Father and Uncle Cor would sleep with the boys upstairs. Dirk Jan was too excited and nervous about the message to sleep right away, and then he dreamed that big birds were after him, dropping eggs on his head, and that he had to swallow a letter the size of a pillow. The stamp stuck in his throat. Gah! Gah! Finally, he woke up choking. Gah! When Father called him in, it was still pitch dark. Mother had hot rye porridge waiting for him, and she handed him his neatly packed satchel. It felt very heavy. She brought him to the door and stood shivering in the cold wind. God be with you, son, she said, and hugged him. She watched him until he was out of sight. At first, Dirk Jan had the cold, dark world all to himself. A powdery snow covered the fields, and his footsteps sounded shrill in the silence. He walked straight in spite of the weight of his satchel and breathed deeply. This is what he had wanted for so long, to be doing something. He was making good progress. Already, light was drawing at the horizon. He slapped his arms across his chest to warm them. He was glad of his gloves. He wondered how his weapon-dropping was organized. People in London were in touch with the Underground, of course. How would they hide such a big affair from Schindler Hans? Dirk Jan would have to warn Uncle Cor about that. Perhaps Uncle Cor would let him help. The stars were fading, and a milky light oozed over the landscape. Mist rose from the fields to meet it, and for a while, Dirk Jan walked in a kind of a veil. This was rent and scattered by the first rays of the sun, which burst across the horizon in all the glare and pomp of royalty, a royalty even the Nazis could not banish. Its light spilled over and flooded the shivering landscape with gold, echoing in glittering windows or gleaming pestles of ice. Now people came creeping out of hiding places, out of barns and haylofts, or the homes of kind farmers where they had found a night's shelter. These were foragers, inhabitants of hungry cities, where food could not be had, even on the inadequate ration coupons, where light and fuel had been cut off and people had to live on watery soup distributed from central kitchens. The most able-bodied members of the family, mostly female on account of the manhunt, ventured forth in the cold to find something to eat. It was because of this heroic activity that many Dutch people managed to survive. Dirk Jan had heard about these trips, but he had never witnessed any. The sight shocked him deeply. He seemed to be in the company of an army of tattered beggars who had offered their good clothes for barter, and a few lucky ones had roughed these bikes without tires. Few had decent shoes. Many had shoes that did not match, or clogs that were split and nailed together. Some were walking on little planks tied under their feet with rags. There were women pushing carts in which children sat, wrapped in blankets beside dearly bought sacks of carrots and potatoes. One woman pushed a pram on three wheels, which constantly threatened to tip over. An old man with a white beard slipped and fell. If Dirk Jan had not helped him, he would not have had the strength to get up. There was a strange apathy about these people. All their energy was concentrated on getting home. They looked neither to the right nor to the left, but walked like puppets. Hunger and the love of those at home drove them on. This was only the beginning of the winter. There was not yet a continuous procession of foragers from dawn to dusk, in such close formation that it was a marching army. There was still food on the farms around. People did not yet have to cross the river Ysel to barter their possessions. At the end of the winter, they would be marching hundreds of miles through bitter weather to get a few potatoes. Dirk Jan did not know all this, and it had just as well. For what he saw was bad enough. He always was hungry himself, but at home there was something to eat three times a day. What must it be like when miles and miles of rough road and dozens of grudging farmers lay between yourself and the next meal? Yet Holland was a rich country, and had been very well stocked. It was because the Germans took everything to feed their own people that Dirk Jan's fellow citizens fell by the roadside and their children sat motionless on carts, too weak to move, staring glassily out of hollow eyes. Dirk Jan clenched his fists. He was glad he was going to give the sign that would send arms dropping down, arms to shoot with and fight with and throw off as tyranny. The satchel weighed heavily on his shoulders. It also weighed on his conscience. He would have liked to open it and divide the food with the exhausted fellow travelers, but reason told him it would be wrong. He was on a mission. He needed the food to do his mission. And what good would it be among so many? It was a drop in the bucket. Meanwhile, he better keep an eye out for land watchers who were already ready to always ready to take anything valuable. When he saw any suspicious-looking person coming towards him, he hid in the shrubbery or in the ditch. The satchel was heavy. As he paused to put it down for the tenth time, he saw a pathetic sight. A half-starved little lad, no older than Joris, who had been pushing a handicart on which lay a sack of potatoes, sat by the side of the road trying to stem a nosebleed. It was a very bad nosebleed. It frightened Dirk Jam. The snow around was spattered with blood. No one was paying any attention to the poor fellow. They had no energy to spare for him. People just trudged past, their heads bowed, their eyes fixed on their goal. Dirk Jam made the boy lie on his back and press the cold snow in the nape of his neck. After a while, the flow ceased, and the boy lay motionless and exhausted against a tree trunk. His eyes were closed, and the lids were a transparent blue. His pale skin, drawn tight over his cheekbones, showed the shape of his skull. His mouth and nose were swollen from bleeding. For a moment, the dark lashes lifted, and the boy gave Dirk Jam a grateful look. Thanks, he muttered thickly. Here, have something to drink, urged Dirk Jam, opening a jar of milk his mother had put in his satchel. The boy drank thirstily, and then accepted a slice of Dirk Jam's bread. He ate it slowly, reviving a little. You shouldn't be sitting in the snow like that, said Dirk Jam worriedly. The boy had on cotton pants. The shoes were too big for him, and the soles were worn through. He had no coat, but he wore several sweaters through the holes in each. You could see the ones below. He was a mixture of red, yellow, and black patches, now covered with blood. A blue woolen cap protected his ears. Fortified by the bread, the boy began to talk. Thanks so much, he said. I thought I was going to die, he shivered. You really should get up, Dirk Jam told him again, trying to get him to his feet. But the boy tottered, too weak to stand. I've been so far. They wouldn't give me food, he murmured. I've come from the Hague. It's a long walk. From the Hague? Dirk Jam's heart was flooded with pity. Was there no older person who could have gone? He asked indignantly. But the boy shook his head. Mother is ill, he said, and father is dead. I don't want another to die, too. The thought seemed to give him strength, for he managed to reach the cart. But he could not budge it. You sit on the cart, and I'll push you, said Dirk Jam. I'm going to Leyden. I'll bring you to some kind people there, where you can rest until you're strong enough to go back to the Hague. Oh, thank you, said the boy. Dirk Jam lifted him into the cart. What's your name? he asked. I'm Dirk Jam. For Hagan. I'm Everett Haffelar, said the boy. He seemed drowsy. After a while, he curled up like a kitten and fell asleep, his head on the precious bag of potatoes. Dirk Jam swung his satchel on the cart and felt relief not to have to carry it on his back anymore. But the cart was heavy, and progress was slow. Dirk Jam looked at his watch. One o'clock. This was terrible. He'd better hurry. Luckily, he could see the blue and misty towers of Leyden rising above the snowy fields. But near the city, he met land watchers again. They were holding up people, confiscating the food they had brought at such a cost. Dirk Jam could not hide this time. Not with the cart. One of the land watchers was approaching him. Then, Dirk Jam had an inspiration, pointed to the sleeping Everett in his blood-soaked sweaters. He said, There's been an accident. I'm rushing my brother to a doctor. The land watcher stepped back and waved him on. Dirk Jam pulled out his watch again as he entered Leyden. Half-past one. It took him some time to find the shop at the Hoogward, even though he had seen it on the map. Somehow, it all looked different in reality. At the shop, a young assistant told him that Van Manen was out. I'll ask Mrs. Van Manen if she'll receive you, he said. Mrs. Van Manen came directly. A nice, motherly woman, who was very concerned about Everett, lifted him out of the cart. Poor little fellow, she muttered. Completely spent, isn't he? She laid him on a bed and covered him with a rug. Meanwhile, the assistant had took the cart and the potatoes away safely. Dirk Jam felt immediate confidence in Mrs. Van Manen. He was soon pouring out the tale of his journey to her while warming himself at the tiny stove. Mr. Van Manen came in after a while, and Dirk Jam gave him the message. He had rehearsed it so often, the words seemed to be burned into his brain. He had to repeat it several times. Afterwards, Mr. Van Manen stood thinking for a moment. I'll have to consult with the people about this, he said. I'll be back. Don't wait with lunch, he called his wife. I won't have time to eat. Dirk Jam remembered his satchel. He went into the kitchen and gave Mrs. Van Manen the loaf, the milk, the potatoes, the eels, and the chicken. The other chicken, he kept for the miller. Mrs. Van Manen. Mrs. Van Manen! Had tears in her eyes when she saw the food. It's a godsend, she said with a catch in her voice. We haven't tasted decent bread for months, and the eels, oh, we're starving for some fat. The chicken, too. That will make soup, which will last us a week. Really, I can't thank your mother enough. To tell the truth, she said shamefacedly, I was praying for food this morning. Dirk Jam was pleased to see her, so happy. He did not eat much, to leave more for the children who fell upon the food like hungry sparrows. There were five of them, all with straight platinum hair, round violet eyes, pale lips, and pinched cheeks. And how is your uncle? asked Mrs. Van Manen. We have been anxious about him. We heard about the raid, and we wondered if he had escaped. He dressed up as St. Nicholas, said Dirk Jam. Mrs. Van Manen laughed. Isn't that just like him? He really is brazen. No one else in the underground has his imagination. Dirk Jam felt proud of his uncle, but he began to worry about Mr. Van Manen. It was getting late. He played a bit with the children and kept looking at his watch. It would be dark soon after four. At last, at three o'clock, Mr. Van Manen came back. It's all right, he said. You can signal yes. Dirk Jam did not stay for further conversation. He pulled on his coat and ran off. The End