Harvest of War: A Flemish Novel

By Jan Smolders

Harvest of War: A Flemish Novel drops the reader into the German-occupied town of Ramsel, Belgium, during the summer of 1944. The towns doctor, Bruno Van Dam, cares for all who are sick or injured, whether they be Resistance fighters, collaborators, or the members of the quiet multitude just trying to survive. In secretand simultaneouslyDr. Van Dam hides from the German military a Jewish orphan and two British pilots.

Circumstances then take a turn for the worse. Dr. Van Dams son, Eric, is swept up by the German military and forcibly transported to Germany and its work camps. He faces the prospects of atrocious treatment and starvation. Diagnosing the situation and mapping out a plan, the doctor sets up an indirect line of communications for offering a bribe to the leader of Ramsels German occupying force. Then, as the Allies liberate the town, residents celebrate. But Dr. Van Dam faces accusations for his paternally motivated actions during the war.

All who find themselves drawn to historical novels or stories about the unflagging efforts of individuals to face up to power as they seek to protect and preserve their loved ones will discover in the pages of Harvest of War: A Flemish Novel a story that satisfies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491778913

Jan Smolders

Jan Smolders has lived in Belgium, Japan, Singapore and, since 1987, the United States. He has run industrial corporations worldwide and led Clinton Foundation activities in Latin America. Birds Sing before Sunrise is his ninth book.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

11:00 a.m.

Tuesday, May 16, 1944

The town of Ramsel, thirty miles southeast of Antwerp, in the Flemish part of German-occupied Belgium

D R. BRUNO VAN Dam looked over his reading glasses at the clock in his consultation room and scratched his head.

He was running shamefully late for his ten o’clock appointment with Sister Cornelia, the plump, intelligent superior of a group of six nuns who ran Ramsel’s elementary girls’ school and the town’s kindergarten. The latter accommodated boys and girls. The good sisters also had six orphans in their care at their convent. Four of them were girls aged six to nine, and two were five-year-old boys. This morning the doctor would assess the orphans’ physical and mental conditions.

He rushed through the hallway, all the way to the back of his residence, to the kitchen. As he opened the door, he caught the familiar aroma of his housekeeper’s soup. He inhaled visibly and approvingly raised his eyebrows for Emma but managed to control his taste buds. He said, I must hurry to the sisters’ for the kids. Till about one o’clock. He drew in more aroma, his palm assisting. Smells even better than yesterday’s. More leeks?

Emma dried her hands on the towel wrapped over her sturdy hips, nodded, and said, Not even a quick little cup? She reached into the cabinet for a cup while she spoke, looking back at him.

Not today, Emma.

She nodded again, an understanding smile on her face.

The sixtyish, happy spinster, diligent and always content, had been with the doctor’s family for twenty years, without any sick days and only one week a year off. Her walk was confident, and her no-nonsense facial expression was reassuring. She looked her age but was as fit as a fortysomething. The doctor didn’t have any doubts about her total devotion to her task, but he also knew her common sense and knack for good management would force her to raise her voice now and then. She was his mostly silent but well-appreciated sounding board.

The doctor walked toward Sister Cornelia’s place with his briefcase. It contained not much more than a stethoscope, a pen and notebook, and a thermometer. He didn’t need any scale to find out that kids were underweight nowadays. He wore his raincoat for the short trip from his house to the convent, six hundred feet away in his street, the Statiestraat. It was a bleak, chilly day. A tame drizzle made it extra somber. A day for a funeral, he mused. As it was for Suzanne’s.

The widowed doctor had a son, Eric, and a daughter, Monique. He was forty-six but looked more like fifty-six; hard work and the lingering illness of Mrs. Van Dam had taken a toll on him. He knew he was in better physical condition than his listless stride would suggest on days like today, when sad memories of his wife would grip him. Heavy glasses and softly graying sideburns conferred an air of gravitas to him.

He approached the sisters’ residence: a stately, three-storied row house. Old. Its dark red bricks had turned ashy gray in spots, sadness creeping through the wet gleam. They were in perfect harmony with the mood of the town under occupation.

Sister Cornelia opened the door before he could ring the bell. Welcome, Doctor, she said jovially. I was marveling from behind the curtain how cleverly you avoided the puddles without breaking your stride. You measured your steps smartly.

He managed a smile. Mothering me. Today wasn’t a good day for him. He apologized perfunctorily, mumbling, Sorry I’m late. Almost noon. He pounded his feet on the threshold before entering. A few raindrops hit the sister’s feet. He wiped his shoes on the mat while taking off his raincoat. How are our little devils doing?

Our angels? They’re waiting. Anxiously. I saw them playing doctor yesterday, excited about your visit. We bathed them with soap in a fresh tub of water and helped them brush their teeth.

Good. They must have loved the treat. He wasn’t joking.

She took his coat. As she shook and carefully folded it over her arm, more drops of water fell on her shoes.

He noticed that the sister looked up at him, a five-foot-ten man. She always did. He stood a full head taller than she. But five foot is big for a penguin. He snickered inwardly. He noticed a smile on her face as he ran his fingers through his full head of blond, wet hair. He grinned. Yeah, sometimes I behave as if I’m sixteen.

How about your glasses, Doctor? she asked.

Oh … they’re fine. Thanks, he said, shrugging. He wiped them with his jacket sleeve and then with his necktie.

They proceeded through a narrow hallway to the nuns’ sitting room. The kids would go in there one by one. Dr. Van Dam opened his briefcase and accepted a list the sister handed him. He said he wouldn’t have coffee but asked for water, soap, and a towel.

We got it all ready, the sister said. She disappeared into an adjacent room and almost instantaneously reemerged, proudly carrying a big wooden tray with everything neatly arranged on it. Just like last summer is okay, right? Her eyes and smile begged for approval.

Yes. Thank you. So we have six now, he said, skimming the list with names and ages of the children. Two more than last year. More orphans every day in the country, of course. He sighed, realizing he sounded tired.

Yes. Four are the same ones as last year. One girl and one boy are new for you.

Okay. I’ll take the new ones last.

The sister left the room.

The doctor sat down on the only regular wooden chair in the room. He hated fauteuils when he had work to do. He had his back to a worn desk, which was so old that it had become a conversation piece with its own history and anecdotes. As he waited, he let his eyes travel the walls, from the huge crucifix, black wood, to the familiar painting of the patron saint of Ramsel, St. Hubertus. The holy man was depicted staring, arms open and up in the air, at a deer with a burning cross between the antlers. An antique coffee set on a low table flanked the saint’s depiction. The room oozed quiet and peace. And devotion to the Lord.

The sister reappeared.

Here’s our number one, Doctor. Alice. A beautiful name. She’s always number one, in everything, she explained, nodding at the little girl whose hand she was holding.

Aha. Great. Let me make sure that she really is number one. He winked at the sister. Okay, tell me, Alice—what’s the name of the capital of France?

The girl frowned, looked at Sister Cornelia, who nodded, and answered, Paris, of course.

Good. And how high is the Eiffel Tower?

Alice seemed to hesitate, turned to the sister again, shrugged, and said, I forgot, Doctor. Her light smile signaled an apology.

I don’t remember either. I’d hoped you could tell me. He laughed encouragingly and took her hand. Let’s see. You have nice fingernails, Alice. And clean. He gestured to the sister that he was starting his work.

She left.

He proceeded with his task. He knew he was a reassuring presence for the children; all of them left their exams smiling on their way back to the group. A nice man, but old, he had heard once when a girl had left the door half-open.

It was close to one o’clock when he finished his assignment. Time for lunch at home, but he told the sister that first he had to have a conversation with her.

We give them all the food they need as best we can, Doctor, she said before he could get in another word. She sounded defensive, a deep frown underscoring her conviction.

He nodded.

We do what we can, she lamented softly, both palms open, her eyes staring at the doctor and her head rocking slowly.

I know, he said, absent. He held up his hand and pricked up his ears. This is in confidence, Sister. Something else, he whispered and looked around. The new boy. Albert.

He’s healthy, isn’t he?

He sure is. Do you know he’s Jewish? I think he is.

How would I know, Doctor? She looked down.

He’s circumcised. Flemish boys don’t get circumcised.

The sister blushed.

He suppressed a smile.

Yes, he’s Jewish. From Antwerp. Her admission was barely audible.

You’re a hero, Sister. You risk your life for him.

She waved her hand and said, No risk at all, Doctor. The Lord will invite me to His place when my time has come. I’d never seen a Jewish person before, but I can tell you Albert’s a good boy. I guess Jews are good people, just like everybody else.

Of course. But the Nazis don’t think so. He lowered his voice even more. Does anybody else know about the boy?

Just Sister Alfonsine. She’ll die before she betrays him. Die with me.

Good. Listen well. We didn’t have this conversation, okay? I don’t know about Albert, right? And Sister Alfonsine has to think I don’t know. That’s okay too, right? He knew he sounded nervous.

As he spoke, the sister produced a series of rapid nods. She asked, Did you tell Albert what you think?

No. Let him assume nobody knows he’s Jewish. We shouldn’t scare the poor boy. Being an orphan is sad enough.

As he walked back home, the doctor looked forward to the soup that two hours ago had promised his nostrils so much. He knew Emma was keeping it warm for him. But he dreaded the prospect of having to stick his neck out yet again, this time to protect a little boy. He hunched his shoulders as he felt the rain. It was heavier now. So was the explosive load he carried inside—of dangerous secrets in Ramsel. If I spill one of them … He shivered.

CHAPTER

2

J EANNE PEETERS HAD snuck away with Eric Van Dam. Beautiful spring weather had finally come, it was a mid May Sunday, and the little rascal in her felt exuberant, impatient, eager to explore Ramsel’s big, deep clay pit once again with her boyfriend, out of sight.

The huge excavation was a favorite hideaway for Ramsel’s more venturesome young lovers. Owned by one of the two brick companies in the town, it was less than half a mile southwest of the church, not far from the soccer field, and uncomfortably close to homes of nosy neighboring gossipers. But, fortunately, the pit was a real bitch to access unless you were young.

Minutes past three o’clock. We have ninety minutes, plus ten for the halftime break, Eric said.

The soccer match had just started.

A big one today. Half of Ramsel is there. Never seen so many bicycles lying in the meadow behind the fence. The Westmeerbeek team is always itching for a fight and trouble, so we may have extra time. He sniggered.

Jeanne wasn’t going to argue.

She was eighteen years old and preparing to graduate as an elementary school teacher in July. She hoped to land a job at the public school of Ramsel, her town of less than three thousand souls. A short, slightly built blonde who perpetually pulled back her curls from over her forehead, she exuded delicate tenderness, her sparsely speckled skin a delicate pinkish white. Her blue eyes spoke of great dreams.

I hope my teacher salary will make life a little easier for my parents, she said sometimes with a sigh.

Her father, Bernard, was a mailman, and her mother, Marie, concentrated on raising her three kids. Jeanne was the eldest. Paul and little Annie looked up in awe at their old, wise sister.

Ramsel had been occupied by the Germans for four years, but—aside from perpetual shortages in food, clothing, shoes, and about everything else—life seemed to go on as before. You had to watch your tongue, though. The place was largely quiet, unambitious except for the feisty soccer team and a budding champion cyclist. Its population was peaceful at the surface. Its many small, sandy-soil farms were oases of calm.

My father and yours won’t even think of going down here and breaking their legs on the slippery clay, Eric used to tell Jeanne when she worried about being discovered in the pit.

Their descent often ended about 120 feet down, at the banks of a small pond, which was three hundred feet in diameter, or at a spot ten to fifteen feet higher, where bushes were dense. On hot summer days, the deep pond’s cold, saltpetric waters welcomed an occasional aspiring swimmer, usually one with an inflated bicycle tire tube wrapped over chest and shoulders.

As the lovebirds made their way down, they had enough sunshine to make the temperature bearable, low sixties; the pretty dry soil wasn’t too slippery, and there wasn’t a living soul in sight. When they heard oohs and aahs and boos from the soccer field in the distance, they looked at each other and smiled. Coconspirators.

Just the two of us, Jeanne said, excited. She squeezed Eric’s hand.

Probably. He pointed up toward the house on the border of the pit. My father says that Smets has strong binoculars and likes to steal a glimpse now and then from up there. That he jokes about learning a thing or two. But we have our safe spot.

Mr. Smets was the owner of the brick factory and the pond.

We do. Jeanne briefly leaned her head against Eric’s chest. My father knows of the binoculars too. He says that Mr. Smets tells pit stories, true or not, in the cafés. But he never told me Smets mentioned you or me.

They continued their tricky voyage.

You’re a good soccer player, Eric. Doesn’t the team need you? Jeanne teased. She already knew his answer, but she wanted to hear it again.

All these matches, entire Sunday afternoons without you would be … He didn’t finish his answer as he lifted her out of a slippery corner with a slight groan. He pulled her close.

You look so beautiful, Jeanne.

Sure, she said with a laugh. You know why. This is why. She lifted her skirt an inch or two, showing it.

She wore her only Sunday skirt; weekday clothes would have invited unwelcome questions from her mother and glances from her father, who knew of her friendship with Eric, the son of Ramsel’s doctor and acting pharmacist. But her parents didn’t know it all, certainly not about their pit escapades. Eric’s father didn’t either, she thought. After High Mass that morning, she had noticed the doctor’s light frown and something like a smile as he walked down the church steps. She was standing close by with Eric and two friends, and she let go of Eric’s hand as the doctor approached.

So, what’s up today? Think we beat Westmeerbeek this afternoon? he had asked.

We’re going to bike to Aarschot, Father, Eric had said. We’ll meet three of Jeanne’s friends there and visit the museum with them.

Aha. Getting cultural. Very good. The doctor had winked mischievously and left.

Jeanne hadn’t worried too much about that wink, but she told herself that she shouldn’t forget to wipe all the clay off her shoes before she’d go home, as always. With water and spit. And that she had to remind Eric again.

Aarschot was a small city about three miles away, where Eric attended high school.

He was the same age as Jeanne and in his last year at the Sint-Jozefscollege in Aarschot. A good student, he planned to follow in the footsteps of his father. Jeanne and Eric knew they had reached the age at which a priest-teacher could no longer object too much if he caught them riding bikes together. No longer would Eric have to pretend she was his cousin.

I think you’ve grown some more since last week, Eric, Jeanne commented as they neared the bottom of the pit.

I don’t think so, darling, he responded and measured how high her head came against his.

He stood an athletic five eleven and had his father’s wavy blond hair. His facial features were those of his mother, deceased two years prior.

Jeanne remembered the sweet woman.

Eric also had his mother’s blue eyes and her slightly long nose for which Jeanne teased him. He joked about it himself, but only with her, and said it made him look like many of the English royals. He said he also had compiled a reassuringly rich list of respected long-nosed scholars and successful politicians.

Look at your shoes, Eric. Lots of clay wiping ahead.

Yeah. Let’s look for the driest spots.

Both had only one pair. Rationed like almost everything else, shoes were made out of cardboard or something that deserved that name and lasted only three months, if that. Wooden clogs were regular footwear around the house, warm in winter, cool in summer, great for sliding on snow and ice, and handy weapons in little fights between kids.

The couple reached their spot.

Look at our kingdom, Eric said, big smile and big eyes.

Time for our ritual. She always enjoyed this moment.

Can I invite my beautiful princess to sit down? Eric asked with a wide, gracious gesture.

Of course, my prince, but we must be careful. You know what my mother says: that she can discover spots, even after we’ve removed them. Any kind of spot, she giggled and glanced at him.

He winked. I know. Don’t you worry. Your prince has made good plans.

That I know, you hunk, she said as she unbuttoned part of his shirt and pulled a newspaper from under it. She rubbed his chest for a second. How smart you are, she cooed. And sweaty. And you’ve grown more chest hair.

Stop pulling it, he begged, laughing.

Het Volk feels nicely warm, Jeanne said softly as she held the paper and put her other arm around Eric’s waist. Our thermal mattress.

Eric’s father had a subscription for the daily.

Yep. Eric spread the sheets out on the ground. He fought a slight breeze, broke off a few branches, and stuck them through the pages and into the ground to keep the mattress in place.

Then the young couple stretched out on their bedstead and turned their eyes upward, to the unusually blue sky. Lying on their backs, their hands under their heads, they listened to the chorus of birds singing away without choirmaster. A soft wind intermittently blew under Jeanne’s dark blue skirt. She kept smoothing it.

They’re in mating season, she whispered as she pointed her head up. She searched for Eric’s right hand, pulled it from under his head, and put his palm on her chest.

Yeah, they’re showing off. Making their case.

Eric’s fidgety fingers told her he was nervous. Still just like the first time. She chuckled. We’re young; you can sing to me for many years, she joked, softly sliding his hand back and forth over her breasts.

Yeah. And the human mating season is a full year. No interruptions. He rolled over, covering her body and laughing. As long as you don’t tire listening, my beautiful Jeanne, I’ll keep straining my vocal cords for you. Every day of the year.

Just your vocal cords, Eric? She pretended to pout as she put her hands on his hips.

Every muscle in my body, darling. You know it. He kissed her, turned his head, and took a quick look up at the house of Smets high above them.

Every muscle? She softly rocked her hips and whispered, I’m starting to feel one. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair and said, Your melodies will sound so much better than the marching songs the krauts howl as they parade in the street. She squeezed his arm. Their songs scare me, and the clanging of their boots on the cobblestones … our poor little Annie runs upstairs when she hears them. She jumps onto the bed, pulls a sheet over her head, and shouts, ‘They can’t find me!’

Eric grinned.

He had no little sister.

You’re a good storyteller, Jeanne. Annie’s quite a number.

She pushed her hips up so she could feel him better. You know, Eric, once a Feldwebel stepped out of one of their Kübelwagens. He pretended to be lost. He ogled me. Annie was holding my hand. He asked me for directions to a neighbor whose house number, he said, was missing on the sheet he held. He smiled and put his free hand out to Annie. She started screaming, scared stiff. I had to cover her mouth so she wouldn’t utter any insulting words. The man would’ve asked me where she’d learned them.

Yeah. Children. I bet she already knows a few doozies.

They can get us in trouble.

Good that he wasn’t a Gestapo creep. They’re the worst, those black suits, Eric said with a sigh. And the GFP aren’t any better.

The Gestapo, the black-suited Geheime Staatspolizei, and the GFP, the Geheime Feldpolizei, were two much-feared units of the Nazi organization. Most of the nonmilitary individuals seen in Ramsel during the occupation were from the GFP, but among themselves, the locals called them all Gestapo men.

My uncle in Langdorp knows all about the grief the Gestapo can cause a simple town functionary working for a pittance.

Jeanne’s uncle happened to be the mayor of Langdorp when the Germans invaded. He had to walk a real tightrope to stay out of trouble. Mayors had thankless, dangerous jobs.

True, Jeanne. It’s easier just to be a yes-man to the Germans. But true civil servants, with their hearts in the right places, try to find ways to survive without harming the people they’re supposed to care for. That’s what my father always says.

Jeanne wanted to speak sweet words and get away from war talk. She caressed Eric’s forehead. She whispered, her lips touching his ear, You don’t have one wrinkle, baby. You and I are lucky, not in charge of anything. We have the whole world to conquer together, and we can start as soon as the Russians destroy the Germans in the East and the Allies arrive here.

Right. The krauts keep saying they’re winning on the east front. I don’t believe them; you and I will be free soon, and even happier than now. But we may soon have to worry about communism, coming from the east. In school, the priests explain how awful communism is. They say diddly-squat about Nazism. Of course. He rolled his eyes.

So … Eric? What can we do? When will the Allies show up?

He shrugged and said, You wanted talk about sweet things, my beautiful treasure. Let’s make it more comfortable for you. He put his hands under her back, moved her on top of him, and squeezed her hard for a second. He caressed her hips and rested his hands on them. He looked up at her.

She sat up, towering over him, smiling, shaking her breasts, her hands rubbing her neck.

He whispered softly, pulling her down, Now you have a hot mattress under you, and you won’t get any clay or newspaper ink on your skirt, Jeanne. He winked as she looked in