THE PROVINCE OF FRIESLAND, NETHERLANDS
February 1945
Schnell, schnell!” A German soldier jammed the cold, hard barrel of his rifle into Gerrit Laninga’s back.
Gerrit’s heart throbbed against his ribs like waves in a squall against a dike. Any minute now, it would burst through his chest, splitting open as it flopped to the ground.
He scrambled to keep pace with the nine other Dutch Resistance workers in front of him. If he fell behind, the Germans would shoot him on the spot. Not that it mattered one way or the other.
Gerrit was on his way to his execution.
“Be merciful unto me, O God: for man would swallow me up.” The words of Psalm 56 that he had memorized long ago became his prayer. I know, Father, what awaits me on the other side of the bullet. But if it be Your will, let this cup pass from me.
The smell of boiled cabbage wafted on the early evening air as people finished their suppers. He sensed their pitying stares as they hid behind their lace curtains, peeping out to spy on the men marching to their deaths. Behind closed doors, these people whispered, wondering what crimes the men had committed to be executed in this way. Tomorrow morning they would talk about it around their breakfast tables.
He would not be here in the morning.
Behind one of the house’s brick facades, a child shrieked in laughter. The Gestapo officer jabbed his weapon between Gerrit’s kidneys.
“What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.” Please let it happen quickly. No pain, no suffering, Lord, please. But spare me, Father. “When I cry unto thee, then shall mine enemies turn back: this I know; for God is for me.”
He’d had many close calls during the war, like the time the Nazis searched every nook and cranny of the house where he had been hiding. They failed to move the rug that covered the trapdoor to the cellar where he was concealed. Or the time he had seen some soldiers on the road when he’d been delivering ration cards. He was able to hide in a ditch before he was caught.
I trust my life to You, sovereign Lord.
Peace filled him, a sweet taste of the heaven that awaited him.
No matter what happened, God was in control.
The men in front of him watched their feet as they moved forward, their backs hunched, their shoulders slumped.
Gerrit held his head high. He refused to let the Germans think they had him conquered. Death was not defeat. Death was victory.
His hands were tied in front of him. He clasped them together, tighter and tighter as death approached.
His ankle turned and he stumbled on the uneven street. The butt of the rifle slammed into his back.
With his wrists bound, he couldn’t balance himself. He fell to his knees. His breath caught in his throat. Any second now, a bullet would pierce his skull.
The Gestapo officer grabbed him by his upper arm, placed him on his feet, and shoved him. Gerrit spoke his thanks with a smile. If he could earn the sympathy of the soldier, maybe somehow he could find a way out.
The man stared at Gerrit with frosty blue eyes. Then he frowned and turned away.
Escape slipped out of his grasp.
A cold chill wrapped itself around him.
The death march continued to the canal. A squat house stood sentry at the water’s edge, its two first-floor windows like eyes, watching, recording, memorizing these events. The setting sun’s rays reflected off the still water.
Visions of Mies and Dorathee flashed across his mind. One woman had broken his heart. His heart broke for the other. He did this so they could be free.
The Germans forced the condemned down the icy canal bank beside the bridge. The early evening frost made the grass slippery. Gerrit and the other prisoners slid and skidded down the small hill. The Gestapo officers shouted at them while jabbing them with their guns. “Get up, get up. Schnell. Now line up here.”
This was the end.
Gerrit righted himself and faced the officers. The men who were slow to stand were kicked and dragged to their feet.
A neat line formed.
Silence filled the air.
He stood tall. He couldn’t think.
“Ready? Aim.”
He fixed his gaze on the cobalt-blue eyes of his executioner.
“Fire.”
Into Thy hands I commit my spirit.
A white-hot pain seared through Gerrit’s body.
He crumpled to the ground.