The Nightingale Sings Alone: A Story of Courage

By Monika Savic

The Nightingale Sings Alone is a novel inspired by the cruel Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. In this story, we experience the journey of two girls, Anneke and Marijke, who live through the often tumultuous years of World War II. Their village suffers occupation, loss, and death, and the girls must find a way to navigate those challenging times while holding on to their friendship, the only part of their young lives that remains unchanged. From the first days of the occupation, when the German army invades this small country, forcing people to make sudden, life-altering decisions in order to survive, through the years of resistance and fear, to the final days of the Reich and the liberation of Holland, we follow their story and the little broach that gives them both strength—the nightingale. "The nightingale always sings alone, a bird that can only realize its potential when there is no one else around to join it in song. Only then, in those moments of loneliness, can it find its true strength." It is this little bird that holds the promise of reunion and renewal, a talisman that guides Anneke and Marijke to learn what really matters most: the love of a true friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667815329

Book preview

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©2021 Monika Savic. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-09836-117-4

This story is dedicated to my children, who inspire me every day, to my niece and nephew in the Netherlands, who tie me forever to my roots, and to my mother, who taught me the real meaning of courage.

Moorpark, California

July 14, 2020

Contents

~Prologue~

~1940~

I

II

III

IV

V

~1941~

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

~1942~

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

~1943~

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

~1944~

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

~1945~

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XXXX

XXXXI

XXXXII

~Epilogue~

~Author’s Note~

~With Thanks and Gratitude~

Map of Europe 1942 courtesy of mapssite.blogspot.com

Home

Each heart yearns,

Searches for that lantern.

Lit, warm, flickering, filling

A doorway, a window.

Miles of dry prairie, rolling seas

May lie between.

Summers close, a step is slowed,

And yet the heart yearns,

Remembers the one lantern

Warming the one doorway

That always remains

Home.

Though the flame dies,

The hearth grows cold,

The heart still tugs, strains,

Finds no peace.

Until within, deep, warm,

A new light flares, flickers,

Reaches the restless soul

And brings it home.

~2004

~Prologue~

Change is hard. It can inspire, such as the moment when two people begin their life together, or when we embark upon a long-sought career; it can also bring feelings of loss, of grief. It can tear us apart. Yet whether change renews our hearts or breaks them, it requires adjustment as the very definition of this word suggests that how things once were can never be restored, and we either re-establish our sense of balance or we live the rest of our lives searching for that which no longer exists.

In Europe, the spring of 1945 was a season circumscribed by change. It was a time of endings and uncertainty, but it was also a time of gingerly looking ahead through the haze and destruction of war. Some people tried to resume their previous lives and dared to hope again, but others found it best to disappear, to deny choices made. It was a time of great joy, headlines heralding the end of occupation’s cruel grip. There were also those who picked up those morning papers and set them aside, unopened, unread.

No one emerged from those years unaltered. Some still lived within the same four walls they had lived in all their lives, their communities changed in ways that only later years would reveal. However, others had no direction, no place to go, since they had lost the only home they had ever known. In the Netherlands, countless farms and towns had been heavily damaged, yet poppies bloomed, sparrows sang. The Dutch queen returned to much fanfare. There was optimism that spring, more than had been felt for many years, yet there was also confusion. Where does someone go when there is nothing to go back to?

To find the beginning of our story, it is necessary to return to the early spring of 1940. The troops of the German Wehrmacht had not yet pushed their way through the newly planted farm fields that reached from the German frontier to the sea, not yet marched along the cobblestone streets of small villages and the narrow country lanes that tied one village to the other, or invaded the crowded neighborhoods of the bigger cities that had stood for hundreds of years. Life was rarely easy then, but people had a sense of what they thought the future might hold. Townsfolk shopped and worked and studied and made do. Children played and argued and made up again. There was still a degree of predictability, of certainty.

Two young girls lived side by side near the sunny market square of a small village of about two thousand inhabitants located just south of the broad Maas River in the province of North Brabant. They sat together in class and shared stories under the large elm tree that grew in the corner of their small school yard. After school each day, they did their chores, helped prepare supper, and then went outside to play hoops and hop scotch together in a quiet corner of the market square. Those who did not know them thought they were sisters. Those who had watched them grow up together knew that they were much closer than that. That year, as the sun cast shortening spring shadows across the cobblestone alleyway between their homes, they were often seen strolling arm in arm, blond heads close, whispering those secrets that only nine-year-olds know, wise in their youth, innocent of what was to come.

Anneke was the elder of the two by three months. She would turn ten in June while Marijke would need to wait until September. Anneke’s father and mother owned the only restaurant in their very small village. The restaurant was not new, having been built in 1885. It was constructed of small red brick, neatly laid, and had two stories; the second floor was divided between a living area and a spacious attic, this accessible just off the top of the stairs from the kitchen, where extra linens, holiday decorations, folding chairs, canned and preserved fruits, and large bags of rice and dried beans were stored. The area where Anneke and her parents lived had three small bedrooms, a sitting room, and a bath. Each story was fitted with large paned windows with bright brass handles, the window frames painted white. The roof was the real point of pride as it had patterned tiles in different shades of red and brown. At the front of the restaurant was a set of elegant French doors that opened onto a wide dining terrace; six metal tables with their chairs, all carefully painted a warm green, stood on fine grey and white gravel shaded by four mature chestnut trees, their roots reaching far down into the loamy soil. The edge of the cobblestone market square began directly on the other side of this row of stately trees. Inside, the restaurant had a dark red tiled floor and eight oaken tables with white linens, small candles for the evening and, in the center of each table, freshly cut flowers placed in tiny pink glass vases.

Filling these little vases was Anneke’s special responsibility. Every morning before school, she took a white wicker basket into the large kitchen garden behind the restaurant. In addition to the red and white painted chicken coop and the wide, red brick storage barn, a dusty place where Anneke’s father often stabled as many as five horses on Sunday mornings, there were also rows of ripening vegetables and seasonal flowers of all sorts. After greeting the curious chickens in their pen, Anneke wielded shears, big for her still small hands, clipping and cutting until the basket was filled. She then stepped back inside, walked through the spacious kitchen, entered the dark storage room under the stairs, and placed the flowers one by one into a small metal bucket filled with cool water. There they would wait until she returned from school when the late afternoon ritual of filling each vase would begin. After setting a flower upon each table, she would skip back into the now busy kitchen to see what was on the menu that day. In later years, when she would tell these stories to her grandchildren, her favorite memories were of those days when Papa and Mama needed to prepare for a wedding reception, always a special event in their small village. The wonderful soups and sauces and roasted beef! And the delicious little cakes and cookies specially ordered from the bakery next door!

Marijke’s father was one of two bakers that had a shop in the village, but his bakery was the busiest. Like the restaurant, the bakery was built of red brick. The shop on the ground floor had a single large window. To the left, the entrance door was painted a cheerful green and had a long, single glass panel in the center; whenever someone came in, a little bell rang merrily. The second floor had space for three bedrooms, a small sitting room, and a bath; the sitting room, which faced the back garden, had a wide paned window that caught the afternoon light. Marijke, her older brother, and their parents lived above the bakery and, six mornings a week at three o’clock, her father began his day by going downstairs and firing up the two brick wood-burning bread ovens in the bakery kitchen, a generous space with a wide hearth and four windows that opened onto their small back garden. He then kneaded and prepared the light dough for little cookies and cakes as well as the heavier dough for the five different kinds of bread expected by his many loyal customers.

The bakery was the center of their lives. Marijke’s older brother, Jan, was usually pulled out of bed before dawn in order to help set out the still warm loaves and cakes. He had turned fifteen in March and knew that he was to be a baker, too, like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather; this is what the men in the family had always done without question. Marijke had her part to play as well. Like her little friend, Marijke loved weddings and christenings. Then the old ovens emitted the most wonderful aromas, and she was permitted to help wrap the little cakes and cookies and carry them over to the restaurant. Anneke always met her at the kitchen door, and together they placed the delicate pastries on the sideboard near the window, checked to see if anyone was looking, stole a small bit of wonderful sweetness, and then skipped back out into the bright garden.

Life was like this for these two small girls, precious moments of stolen joy, happy smiles in the spring sunshine. They were loved, they had each other; what else could anyone ask of life?

~1940~

I

On the morning of Friday, May seventeenth, a morning with a lovely, clear blue sky, Anneke’s father, his face grey, sat beside the radio in their upstairs sitting room. There had been fears of the German Wehrmacht crossing into the Netherlands, but no one had wanted to believe that it could actually happen. The Netherlands was neutral, surely the Germans would leave the Dutch alone as they had twenty-six years before. On May tenth, just one week earlier, even as the well-trained storm troopers crossed the border, many citizens believed that the Dutch government would order the destruction of key bridges that spanned the great rivers and thus stop them. Low-lying fields in the central and western provinces would be flooded and roads blocked by dynamited trees just showing their first soft leaves of spring. The army that had brutally occupied Poland would surely be stopped, the Allies would come, planes would fill the air, bombs would smash the enemy troop transports. But none of this had happened and now the Germans were here. Their tanks and artillery had rolled across fields damp with spring rain, and the untested Dutch army, fighting valiantly, had been defeated in just five days, the brutal air assault by the German Luftwaffe on the great harbor city of Rotterdam on May fifteenth forcing their surrender. The Dutch had resisted the much larger German force just long enough to allow the government and the royal family to escape to safety in England, but the British had not come. The French had not come. The Dutch had stood utterly alone against the determined force of the German 18th Army.

Anneke’s father, Hans van der Vaal, listened to the small, raised voice yelling from the radio: Rotterdam was still burning, thousands were dead, the Dutch army had surrendered, the last effort in Zeeland had failed, the government had left the country, all hope was gone. With a heavy hand, he reached out and clicked off the radio. Now everything was quiet. No one walked along the street, no draft horses clopped through the market square, pulling a heavy wagon from an outlying farm. Everyone was now waiting for the tanks to come, for their lives to be forever changed. There was nothing more to be done.

Anneke and her mother, Josline, stepped softly on the intricately woven carpet in the hall and entered the darkened sitting room, the heavy drapes hanging closed despite the gentle spring morning outside. Josline lowered herself into a small chair beside her husband, her face pale, her hands folded. "Wat gaat er nu gebeuren? she asked. What will happen now?" Hans gazed at her, his still lovely wife, before lowering his head into his broad hands. He was a man of gentle heart who needed order in his life, friends he could share a drink with, holidays to plan for. This terrible day had twisted his life into a knot that he feared would never get undone. Josline knew this. She was a woman who had been raised for more than kitchen cook. She had been to a teachers’ college, had learned manners, wore white gloves on Sundays. She would walk erect through the square on market day, her hair carefully coiffed. Josline heard the whispers behind her, the farm women with their rough hands pointing at her polished shoes. She knew what they thought of her, this educated woman who was not from their village, who was from a small northern city some distance away. Yet she had grown to love her adopted home, where she had developed friendships, where she had built her life.

She now touched her husband’s hands and pulled them into her lap. He looked up at her quiet face and drew strength from her eyes. Anneke crouched near them beside the table with the muted radio, saw the silent drama, the moment of a promise shared. She was still unaware of what had happened that morning but sensed that she would not be going to school that day.

Suddenly the front bell rang, loud, piercing. Anneke leaped up and scampered down the narrow stairs that led to their front door, a separate private entrance to the right side of the main entrance to the restaurant. Mevrouw Bosma, Marijke’s mother, stood in the doorway, a small basket of cookies hanging on her round arm. Her daughter stood behind her mother’s broad figure, her curly blond head just visible. Anneke smiled with relief and gestured for them to come inside.

Once in, Anneke seized Marijke’s hand and pulled her up the narrow, corkscrew staircase, onto the landing, and into her small bedroom at the end of the hall. Laat ze maar even praten, she whispered. Let them talk for a while. The girls clung to each other and moved to the low seat just under the window. Below, the market square was slowly coming to life. The sounds of hurried footsteps and lowered voices passed by. Some voices drew near their front door, unseen hands rang the bell, heavy footfalls were heard on the steps, worried people came upstairs into the sitting room. More voices were heard, rapid, questioning. Anneke heard her father answer, and then heard others respond. She glanced at Marijke. Her friend’s thin face was flushed, her eyes bright. She had heard all about the news reports and quickly related what her nine-year-old mind could comprehend. Anneke stared back. Burnings? People from another country moving into their small village? Tanks as big as a house? She remembered the radio reports from earlier in the day, her father’s silence, and she felt something shift and change deep inside, that feeling of safety that happy children assume to be a natural part of the fabric of their lives, now compromised, doubted.

Anneke’s ability to comprehend such large events was also limited as she had been away from home only three times. Her parents had taken her the year before to the coastal province of Zeeland for a summer holiday, and her mother had brought her twice to visit her grandparents in the small city near Utrecht where Josline had been born. These visits were special as they were part of the feast of Sinterklaas on December sixth, when all good Dutch children get gifts from the beloved saint. The first time they went, Anneke was only four; she had few memories of her grandmother, all dressed in black and brown, standing in front of a tall mirror and carefully adjusting her small hat on her curly grey hair. Anneke could still recall her kind smile. The second time they visited, Anneke was seven. Her opa was alone then but, with care and much love, had carefully decorated the front room for his small granddaughter. The large Christmas tree had filled the room, each branch carefully balancing a single white candle, the tiny flames flickering warmly. And the presents! Anneke had received a delicate porcelain doll that year, with blond curls and painted blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. They had stayed for four days, and Anneke clearly remembered her own mother’s quiet happiness, her joy at being home again. Her opa had died the following spring, so they never went back.

The girls now sat close together on the low upholstered seat, Anneke’s porcelain doll leaning against the arm rest, two red and yellow embroidered pillows casually tossed on the floor. The voices had now changed, people were leaving. The heavy front door opened and closed, boots scraped the wooden floor in the small entry hall below. Mevrouw Bosma, upstairs and stepping partly down the hall, called softly, Marijke, waar ben je? Where are you? The little girl squeezed Anneke’s hand, slid off the seat, and hurried to her mother’s side. In a moment they were both down the stairs, out the door, and in the diffuse spring light of morning.

Josline now stepped into Anneke’s bedroom, spotted her daughter still sitting, waiting, and moved toward her. She noticed Anneke’s questioning look, her nervous hands. Josline sat down beside her on the window seat, taking the small girl’s hands in her own and laying them in her lap. This simple act transmitted the same warmth, the same calmness that had given her husband strength an hour before. We will be all right, she smiled. She would find a way.

II

Two days later, five German Panzer III tanks, each with three machine guns, rolled along the main road connecting this small village with the large city of Breda to the south. The red and brown brick homes and shops, many built in the eighteenth century, trembled from the distant vibration even though the heavy tanks did not enter the village. Six dark grey BMW motorcycles, however, found their way to Hans van der Vaal’s restaurant. They were new, the uniformed soldiers riding them were clean, their helmets glinting in the weak May sunshine. In their wake appeared a large black Mercedes-Benz, the Nazi swastika carefully painted in red and black on the doors. The entourage rolled to a stop in front of the restaurant. The market square was empty, silent but for the sound of the black boots scraping the cobblestones, the foreign sound of German suspended in the quiet morning air. A well-dressed officer stepped out of the car, strolled to the main entrance of the restaurant, and pushed the door open.

Inside, Hans and Josline stood in the entry way, hand in hand. They were not sure what to make of the group outside, but they knew what they needed to do. Josline slowly slipped her hand out of her husband’s and moved toward the officer, a tall man with dark brown hair pushed back from his forehead, a seasoned veteran from another war, a member of a lost generation. He was now in his prime, forty-three years old, and was in need of a coffee. He smiled and stepped without ceremony into the large dining area, his support staff following behind. Kaffee? Haben Sie eine Tasse Kaffee fur uns? The German felt rough to the Dutch ears, but Josline understood. She nodded and hurried out of the room to the comforting familiarity of her kitchen to set a pot of coffee. Hans, his face flushed, gestured for the men to sit down at a long oaken table near the front windows, and then moved to a hand-carved walnut cupboard along the left side of the dining room, adjacent to the French doors leading to the terrace, to bring out cups and saucers. His hands shook; the officer and his men smiled serenely, and then the officer indicated that Hans was to sit down with them.

He proceeded to explain in German that, while they would be sleeping elsewhere, they would be using his restaurant as their primary gathering place as this village, though small, was near the Maas River as well as the main highway that linked Breda in the south with Utrecht many kilometers to the north. Consequently, the Van der Vaals’ restaurant was the perfect place for them since it afforded them plenty of food and space to meet with other officers, other administrators. Hans grasped most, but not all, of what was said. His brow beaded from nervousness; where was Josline? She could speak a little German, had often spent childhood summers in Emmerich, just over the border, with her mother’s younger sister, Lena, and her four energetic cousins; Josline’s aunt had married a German doctor and still lived outside Munich. At that moment, Josline returned, carrying the heavy coffeepot on a tray together with a small plate of butter cookies and some sugar. She set them down and immediately proceeded to fill the cups Hans had brought to the table. The Germans continued to smile, but not with their eyes.

Hans turned to speak to his wife but was interrupted by the well-dressed officer. Nicht sprechen, nur zuhören! They could only listen, not speak. The officer smiled and repeated for the wife what he had already said to the husband. Josline’s face grew pale, but she did not tremble. She nodded and responded that they had three bedrooms above the restaurant, that the Germans could have two for their use as office space. The Germans settled back in their chairs, nodded with satisfaction, and sipped their freshly brewed coffee. This was going to be easier than they had thought.

Anneke was downstairs while all this was happening. She stood like a shadow near the bottom of the second, smaller staircase that led upstairs from the kitchen to their rooms above the restaurant, and she could hear the German voices drift out through the half open door leading to the dining room. She had studied a little German in school, but not much, not yet. She knew a smattering of French, tutored mostly by her mother, but all she could really say was Voulez-vous un café? Anneke climbed slowly upstairs and stepped quietly along the carpeted hall to her small bedroom, a room that she would now be sharing with her parents. She sought some degree of safety, but it was not to be.

Just as she reached for the door, she heard the sound of heavy boots on the stairs behind her. They were coming upstairs to see the rooms! She took some quick steps, pulled the door open, nearly leaped into her room, and pulled the door shut behind her. Her heart beating in her throat, she leaned against the door, barely breathing. Her mother’s voice could now be heard, but it sounded strange as she was now speaking German, though hesitantly. Josline was showing the proffered rooms, comprised of their room and a spare for the second child that had never come. A hand tapped on Anneke’s closed door. Schat, mogen wij binnen komen? Her mother wanted to come in, show the officer the final member of the family. The small girl slowly opened her door and looked right into the broad face of the German officer. She stifled a cry, put her hand to her mouth, and searched for her mother with her eyes. Josline appeared from behind the officer and held out her hand. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. She led her small daughter out from behind the door, introduced her to the officer, and smiled faintly.

After an hour, the officer drove away with most of his staff, but three soldiers remained in the dining room, lolling in the neatly upholstered chairs, demanding now sandwiches, now more coffee, now mineral water. Josline and Hans kept moving from the kitchen to the dining room, barely speaking yet sharing their fear, their uncertainty. What was to become of their family, their business? Who would come to the restaurant for afternoon tea, for late spring suppers on the graveled front terrace? How long could this go on? Surely it would only be a few months before the British would come together with the French, maybe even with the Americans. Surely they would come.

III

When the Germans pulled up in front of the Van der Vaals’ restaurant next door, Marijke was upstairs, peeking through the paned glass window of her small bedroom, her little nose just visible above the windowsill. She saw the motorcycles, the big black car, the neatly dressed soldiers. Her thoughts sought out her friend, both from fear and curiosity. What were they saying? Why were they there? She heard footsteps behind her and, turning quickly, saw her older brother come into her room. Jan moved with the energy of youth, saw everything with hazel eyes that could find excitement anywhere. He stood tall beside his little sister, put his hand