Annie Weeks

Der Tod

An Eastern Province Of The Netherlands
April 1944

The Audi bucked its way along the two narrow tracks that passed for a driveway. Stones pinged and clacked inside the wheel well. An overhanging fir chattered over the roof. How the Dutch had gotten the reputation for being neat and orderly, he would never know.

Lieutenant Hans Becker glanced at his watch. He had been driving for at least fifteen minutes and still there was no sign of the de Groot farmhouse. That was the name, wasn’t it? de Groot? He patted his shirt pockets. Verdammt. He must have left the instructions in the jacket he had tossed into the back seat. He braked, gently pushed the gearshift into neutral, and waited as the car nudged itself into a long, shallow pothole.

Becker found the small, folded paper in his left jacket pocket, along with a comb.  Ah yes, he had remembered correctly. De Groot, Jan and Willy. Ages approximately 60 and 35. No children present. Off the Wildekamp just south of Bennekom. Guilty of hiding a Jew.

Before continuing his journey, Becker shifted himself sideways, smiled into the rearview mirror and carefully combed his hair. Should he have shaved? This thought made him chuckle.

A clunking jerk in reverse pulled the Audi out of the pothole. A sharp push of the gearshift into first, a spinning tire, and he was off. A sixty-year old man as defender? Foolishness.

It was a new thing for him, this role of lone Jew killer. It was patriotic, even thrilling at times. There was no fuss to be made of it, no bounty was required. No need to make a record of the event. No officialdom. Unless things got out of control. Even then, well . . . Becker preferred to remain positive in all of his undertakings.

As the car jostled along, rays of sunlight stabbed through the side windows. He checked his watch again. If all went as planned, he would leave the farm within the hour. It would be impossible to navigate the driveway after sunset.

A neat row of poplars came into view, followed by an opening that revealed several acres of potatoes flanked by rectangles of intense green. Pollarded willows were set alongside a narrow canal running parallel to the driveway. To his left, sheep had congregated, ewes accompanied by tentative lambs; a ram off to the side. It was hard to ignore the slight ache of homesickness that rose up at these pastoral scenes.

————

On his last visit home, in March, Berta had changed. Instead of the usual colorful attire that had attracted him seven years earlier, his wife was dressed in dark colours: brown, dark green, a navy scarf. She wore black, laced oxfords instead of the high pumps that, even three months ago, had still animated him. She immediately and coldly stated that he was no longer welcome. He had wheedled and cajoled. “But, schatz, we must make more children for our Fuhrer.”

“What?” Berta replied, her voice catching. “For what? So they can be blown to pieces by English bombs?” Berta turned her back to him. “There are plenty of girls around. One or two on each street corner. In case you’re wondering, the children have been sent to school outside the city.”

“Where?” he asked.

“None of your business.”

That night, he drank schnapps with a girl in a bar who was willing to do the minimum  — for an exorbitant sum. When he complained, she said it was actually a bargain. It had taken him over ten minutes — others were waiting. “I’ve got mouths to feed,” she grinned. “Including my own.”

In the WC, he scrubbed hard to remove the bright perfumed lipstick. “Schiese” he grumbled. He did not return to his home that night, instead boarding a late train to Arnhem.

————

Another ten minutes passed before Becker caught his first glimpse of the farmhouse. A structure of weathered wood and green painted shutters, topped by a rusting metal roof. A large barn built in a similar fashion stood several metres away. Various buildings — a chicken house, a hog pen, a tool shed, were dotted throughout the property, separated by stands of elm and beech trees. He patted the holster at his waist. He had no doubt that a firearm of some kind was stashed somewhere inside.

“Did you hear something?” Willy asked Jan, who was sprawled on the worn chesterfield. A cup of tea cooled next to him. The Handelsblad had fallen to the floor, and his eyes were closing fast. “What?” he said, yawning. “That goddamn paper is getting smaller and smaller. Soon it will be down to one page, shouting only great German victories.”

“Listen,” Willy said. “It sounds like a car backfiring.”

“Ach,” said Jan. “Likely the neighbors shooting crows.”

“Shhh,” she said, holding her finger to her lips. She heard strange scraping and popping sounds. The intermittent rumble of an impatiently gunned engine.

“Well,” Willy said curtly, “if you’re not interested, I am.” She quickly headed toward the door, pulling on a cardigan as she walked.

“Take the pistol,” Jan said. Willy grunted, looping back to the sideboard. Her mouth tightened as she removed her grandfather’s Mauser from its case, carefully tucking the pistol underneath her sweater. “Maybe it’s nothing . . .”

Several moments passed by. Jan heard a soft rumbling. A choking gasp of exhaust as a car came to a halt. He pushed aside the curtain. Willy had been right.  

“That’s quite the driveway you have. How long is it actually?” The German Lieutenant leaned casually against the Audi, arms folded, boots crossed at the ankles. “Oh,” he said, his voice mild and friendly. “I’m sorry. I’m Lieutenant Becker, Lieutenant Hans Becker. Sorry for appearing without my jacket, or my cap. It’s a warm evening . . . and you?” Becker paused. His eyes flickered over his surroundings. “Well, never mind. I’m here just to check on some of you isolated farm people. You know that there have been random attacks…”

Jan and Willy remained silent.

“I see you have a good crop of potatoes on the go. And a healthy looking flock of sheep. I’m very fond of lambs. I expect you are too . . . Mevrouw.” Becker smiled at Willy. His eyes crinkled. He took a deep breath, adjusting his gaze to include Jan.

“May I ask if there are other residents here? A hired hand perhaps? We want to make sure everyone is safe and accounted for.”

“No,” Jan replied curtly. “And,” he cleared his throat,” I must tell you, a couple of extra hands wouldn’t hurt.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr . . . ?”

“De Groot. Jan, Jan de Groot.”

“Ah, yes. May I call you Jan? If you don’t mind Jan, will you accompany me while I explore your farm a little bit? I’ve always had an interest in agriculture.”

They walked side by side in silence. Clouds stacked at the horizon began to colour pink.

“That is a wonderful name really, de Groot, that is. Very grand.” Becker turned to Jan, grinning. “No Russian royalty in your background?”

How had the man been blessed with such straight white teeth?

Jan cleared his throat, and said dryly, “In my case nothing is true. I am neither tall, nor royal.”

“Hmm,” Becker said. “I wonder,” Becker added, placing a hand on Jan’s shoulder, “if it would be wise to keep a guard dog. Just the two of you here. Anyone . . .”

Jan interjected, “. . . could come at anytime.” He shrugged off Becker’s hand.

Jan de Groot led Becker on a circuitous route. He looped twice around the chicken house. Inspected the main storage shed piled with sacks of wheat, oats and barley. Attended to the barn with an empty hayloft where pigeons flapped under the rafters. Sweat beaded between his shoulder blades.

Jan gestured to the hayloft. “The hay is still growing.”

“Of course.”

“Cows are in the upper pasture . . . a couple of horses too.”

“Hmm.” Becker nodded. “Do you keep a bull on the property?” He chuckled. “Keep the cows happy.” Jan rolled his eyes.

“Tool shed.” Jan slapped the side of a small wooden building.

“Hmm.” Becker said. He framed his eyes with the palms of his hands and peered through a dusty window. “Yes, definitely a tool shed.”     

Jan walked Becker alongside the creek, and next to the pasture fence. Quail scuffled in the tall grass. All the while, Becker commented on the obvious difficulties of running a farm. “You realize of course how valued you are, people like you and Willy. You are the real heroes.”

“Apples and plums over here,” Jan said, motioning with his arm.

“Ah,” Becker said, nodding. Jan zigzagged, then approached the orchard from the east.

“Haven’t we been here before?” Becker asked.

“Hmm,” growled Jan. “Maybe.”

Boots shusshed through patches of long grass. Shadows grew long.

“I assume you have an outhouse?”

“You need it?”

“Ha. Well, to tell you the truth, I do.” He turned to look at Jan. “But, you know, I don’t mind pissing out here . . . you don’t mind, do you?”

Jan waited while Becker made his way to the rear of the toolshed. His mind raced. How could he get word to the boys?  

“The cows and horses will need to be put in for the night, quite soon, I expect,” Becker said as he reappeared, buttoning his fly. Jan nodded. His hands were damp. “Puts me in mind of my childhood,” Becker said affably. “Pissing outside, that is.”

In the pigpen, sows of varying sizes barked and snuffled. “I’m not crazy about pigs,” Becker said, speeding up his pace. He turned his head toward Jan. “My grandfather raised pigs.

“Oh . . .where?”

“Münster.”

“Hmm . . . don’t know it.”

“You know the Jews won’t eat them. The pigs.” Becker’s voice grew louder. “Stupid — no ham or bacon, no pork roast with spaetzle and sauerkraut — just stupid.”

“Tell me, Jan,” Becker said, pointing to his left. “What is that building?”

“Where?” said Jan, looking right. “There,” he said, pointing again. “See?”

“Oh, oh, that building. My neighbour uses it for storage.”

“Can you take me there, please?” Jan’s neck prickled.

“Well …” Jan ran a damp hand down his face. He looked down. “We would be trespassing…”

“Let’s go. Now.” Becker’s voice had turned hard. He set off at a jog, quickly outpacing the farmer.

When Jan arrived, breathing heavily, the door stood wide open, and Becker was inside. A slash of bright orange light illuminated a small table set with plates and cutlery. A curl of steam rose from the kettle.

“What’s this then?” Becker asked, his arms spread wide. “And this,” pulling back a blanket and sheet from one of the cots. “What is it exactly that your “neighbour” is storing here, Herr de Groot? Juden? Is that it?”

“I think,” Jan’s voice shook. He swallowed. “I think you’d better get off my land, Lieutenant.”

Becker turned back to face Jan and laughed. He unsnapped his holster.

The shot was short and sharp, only a “pop” really, as if released from a toy. These things remained: a swirl of blue fog; blood spatter across a shirt; the shriek and flap of a single blackbird.   

“I knew you’d get here sooner or later.”

“Willy, my God, Willy . . .” Jan shifted his left foot away from the Lieutenant’s body, where it had sagged and folded, now resting next to the gas burner.

“I hid behind the wardrobe.”

“It had to be done.”

“I know, but …”

“I’ve already thought that out.”

“Oh,” Jan said.

“He was an evil man,” Willy said.

END

Annie Weeks has been writing fiction since the beginning of 2019, after a long career as a graphic designer. "Der Tod", is one chapter in a full-length novel in progress.