How strange, I think, I’ve become like an animal, like one of I he cows here, or the sheep. Licking, sucking, biting, wolfing my food down, a ravenous, greedy beast. It doesn’t surprise me, and I am no longer upset by it either. Aloof and lonely, hidden away in my bolt hole, I am becoming more aware of myself.

And so the winter crawls by, on hands and knees.

LIBERATION

Chapter 1

And then, suddenly, the days grow lighter and warmer, the land seems to brim over with blossom, birds and frogs and the breeze is laden with scents and sounds. Young calves BCamper among the calmly grazing cows and spring in the air without warning as if taken by surprise at the touch of the sun in their skin.

Each day we make our way stolidly to school through the burgeoning landscape: there in the morning, back in the Bllernoon, our daily treadmill. We still go about in our shabby winter clothes despite the tumultuous renewal of life trumpeting its arrival everywhere around us. To us everything is .is it has been, the men working the land and the women In icing the weeds in the vegetable garden or stoking the fire in the stove. Though the land grows busier by the day, to our eyes everything looks unspeakably dull, and most of the time we walk silently along the road paying no attention to our surroundings. Occasionally there is a sudden brief remark or a laugh, and we career around after one another playing tag in a sudden outburst of energy.

It is a cool morning, the sky steel blue and almost cloudless. On the way to school Meint and I trudge along on different sides of the road while Jantsje walks purposefully in front. All three of us, in our own way, are wrapped in thought, reacting huffily to any intrusion by the others. Then, as we approach Warns, we notice that the monotonous everyday pattern seems to have been broken. Something unusual is going on in the village: there are villagers standing about everywhere along the road talking to each other and people have taken to the street whom you don’t normally see about on a weekday. Everyone is walking in the same direction towards the crossroads by the church, where they congregate in an excited huddle.

‘Bet you if s something to do with the Germans,’ says Meint, ‘they’re up to their dirty tricks again, for sure.’

‘Betting is against the Bible.’ Jantsje gives her brother an injured look, but her voice sounds triumphant. ‘Hait won’t even let us say that, "betting". The Germans can bet, if they like, they’re heathens. But not us.’

I have become used to the rivalry between these two over who is going to have the last word. Meint sometimes strikes out at her, suddenly and feebly, but somehow or other Jantsje always seems to get the best of the battle. In any case she gives the impression that she is coolly and level-headedly putting our affairs to rights.

A good thirty people are milling about at the crossroads, talking excitedly, gesticulating vigorously, and moving from group to group. Some of the women look as if they have just rushed out of their houses, and everything suggests that something unusual is going on. When Meint and I walk up to the villagers Jantsje stays obstinately behind. She makes an attempt to keep me back as well, but I can sense that really she wants to come along too and see for herself what is happening.

From snatches of conversation we gather why so many people have come out on to the street: the Germans have blown up the bridge across the canal, at the end of the village; it’s kaput, gone, destroyed, all blown to smithereens!

We run back to Jantsje. ‘The Germans, what did I tell you? Come on, let’s go and have a look!’ Meint runs ahead of us. ‘We’ve got to see.’ I am torn between wanting to stay with Jantsje and running after him to the bridge. I have learned not to overreact to things but to let them take their course: whatever happens is bound to be a disappointment. But you don’t see a blown-up bridge every day. Reluctantly at first, then faster, I follow Meint.

‘Just so you know, I’m going on to school!’ shouts Jantsje, ‘and I’m going to tell Hait everything!’

I take my clogs in my hands and run exuberantly through the village street: something is really happening at last. More and more people are walking up the road, singly and in groups, in an obvious confusion which in many of them has turned to fear and uncertainty. I am aware that my rushing along is adding to the confusion, but, as far as I am concerned, the more commotion there is the better. The village is coming to life at last, everything is astir and on the move. I stop when I reach the next knot of people. Meint beckons frantically and seems to be giving a kind of victory dance. ‘The bridge has been blown up, but the Germans have gone, sent packing by the Americans. Really and truly!’ He talks in gasps, half shouting, and balls of spittle appear in the corners of his mouth. ‘They say that there are American cars over there, army cars. And as soon as the bridge is repaired they’ll be crossing over to this side of the village to liberate us!’

What shall we do, go on to the bridge or go to school? It seems silly to go back now. ‘Come on,’ says Meint, ‘let’s go and see if we’re too late for school. If everyone’s gone inside, then we’ll carry on to the bridge.’

But all the children are still standing in the small yard in front of the school and a boy comes out, leaves the doors wide open and shouts, ‘No school today, we’ve got the day off!’ His voice cracks with excitement, and this excitement spreads like wildfire across the yard. Everyone is suddenly moving, an ant-heap of shouting and curious children. Just as we are about to leave, the master calls us back; he stands solemnly on the steps in front of the open doors and slightly raises his arms.

‘Silence!’ Everyone stops talking. ‘The school will remain closed for the day, but be sure you all go home quietly now, all of you, and don’t hang about in the village. The bridge has been blown up by the enemy, but you must on no account go there, there may well be more shooting.’ He looks across the yard like a general, ‘We do not yet know what else the day may bring, but that…’ – he points to the other side of the street where a man has firmly planted a red, white and blue flag outside his house – ‘that is forbidden anyway. So be careful: the Germans haven’t gone yet.’

A Dutch flag in the garden! We crowd up to the fence to look at the man who is defying all the regulations so openly. ‘They’ve hopped it,’ the man laughs, ‘so we can do what we like again. Down with the Jerries!’ He spits contemptuously and I am shocked by his open disrespect.

‘Come on, we can do as we like as well. Let’s go and have a look.’ Meint grabs hold of us excitedly and pulls us up the road.

‘Mem,’ says Jantsje, ‘we have to tell Mem, and Hait. Someone has to go back.’ Both of them look at me.

‘Yes, you go, you don’t come from here after all. It’s our bridge.’

I feel the unfairness of what they are saying, I feel it deeply and woundingly and yet I can also see their point: the bridge is theirs, my life is in Amsterdam. And anyway, I’m too keyed up to protest and on top of that I don’t really know what I want right now: to be alone or to tag along with them to the bridge.

Without saying a word, I turn around and begin to run back home. On the way I yell like a madman to anyone who comes out of the isolated houses I pass, ‘The Americans are here, on the other side of the bridge, the Germans are beaten. Hey, hey, hey, we’ve been liberated!’

Before I know it I have reached Laaxum. I clamber over the fence, race across the meadow and find Mem and Pieke alone in the improbably quiet and brightly gleaming living-room. Panting, I lean against her chair. ‘Mem, the Germans have gone, there are American cars…

Mem has sat down – her predictable reaction to any big news – and she looks at me with eyes wide open.

‘I know, my boy, I know. Hait has already been round to tell us. It’s some news, isn’t it? Pieke…’ She gropes for the girl and hugs her with rough affection, ‘Did you hear that, what Jeroen said? The Germans really have gone, he’s just been in the village. Jantsje and Meint haven’t gone to the bridge, have they?’ she adds suspiciously, her voice now carrying a threat in anticipation.

Ten minutes later I am running back, amazed that Mem hasn’t abandoned her work for the day, amazed too that she hasn’t come with me to Warns to see for herself what’s going on. But she had said that there might well be some more fighting – hadn’t I seen any guns? – and that I must go and find Jantsje and Meint at once and bring them straight home, or else they’d be sorry.

Fighting for air, arms flailing, my breath rasping painfully in my throat, I run back to the village, exhausted yet ecstatic. A few more flags have made a cautious appearance along the village street, like timidly raised hands. The sight of the road adorned with unexpected splashes of colour heightens my excitement. It is as if everything were happening for me alone, the flags, all the commotion and suspense. This is the final stage of my exile, the arrival of the soldiers means the end of my separation from my parents, they’ll be fetching me home soon!

After the grey sleep of winter this is the culmination for which we seem unwittingly to have been waiting. I feel I’m ready to burst, everything inside tingling and swirling. My feet are making strange, light clattering sounds under my body, beating out an irregular rhythm on the paving stones. One of my clogs, which has split, is held together with an iron band and makes a different noise on the road from the other, so that a little tune is sounding away in my ears: lib-er-at-ed, lib-er-at-ed…