The search for Peace After Peace (Adelheid)

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

Sunshine filled the streets of the small Welsh village Theo Wijzemens and his family were visiting. It was late May and the village bustled with life, awoken from a long winter slumber. The sound of singing could be heard, throughout the day, from some closed off backyard, women celebrating the peace and the happiness of their husbands, brothers, and sons returning from their Teutonic escapades. The cats and dogs even seemed to know that something had changed, that a great weight had been lifted from the heart of every person around them, or perhaps everyone simply enjoyed the liveliness of those animals more when they were not concerned with other matters. Children were playing in the streets, no longer afraid that news of their fathers’ and brothers’ deaths would await them at home. No, it was a sunny day, untarnished by cruelty and guilt, lavishing in the freedom of peace.

The family Wijzemens had arrived in the small village in a black Rolls-Royce which Theo had rented specifically for the trip to Wales. They were coming to survey summer homes. For the last months of the war, Theo had stayed with his family in London, where he was working as a surgeon and studying psychiatry at University College at the same time. After finishing a program there, he decided that it was time to find a vacation home that would perhaps become a permanent one. Wales was known for its seclusion and nicer weather than England, or so he’d heard.

Stepping out of the car, which had its top down, he looked back at his wife and two children, Willemijn, Maartin, and Siaak. “Maartin , Siaak, jullie mogen spelen als je moeder en ik Meneer Twining bespreken. Denk maar on de auto, zie dat niemand hem aanraakt.” He smiled and helped Willemijn out of the car and onto the cobblestone street. She wore a bright yellow dress that complimented her elegant blonde hair. In comparison, Theo was rather unattractive, despite the rich pinstripe suit he was wearing. His hair was a rough brown color and his face was wrinkled and scarred from his time in Russia. Underneath the old face, though, was a deep happiness that shown through his smile to his family and to the world beyond them.

He held Willemijn’s hand as they walked toward the real estate agent’s office. “Weet je precies wat je wilt, Willa?” They had discussed what they were looking for, but Willemijn had not known exactly what she wanted. Theo was looking for something small out in the country. If they were to live in town as well, so that Theo could set up a local practice, they would need to find a townhouse.

The two walked to real estate office and opened the bright green door. Inside was an unremarkable hallway that ended in a room with a secretary behind her desk. She looked at the couple through glasses that were perfectly squared, like an owl watching scampering veal before pouncing on it. She spoke with a scratchy English voice, ‘superior’ to the Welsh accent that was so prevalent. “I assume you are Mr and Mrs Theodrijk Wijzemens? Mr Twining has been expecting you.” She stood up and took three steps to the door behind her to the left and cracked it open. “Mr and Mrs Wijzemens, here to see you, Mr Twining.” She butchered the pronunciation of the name the second time she said it, as she did the first. The two Dutch-speakers walked to the door and went into the office.

Outside, Maartin and Siaak were on the street. They watched as their mother and Theo walked into the real estate office, only to eye a group of children playing football down the lane. Siaak looked to his older brother and asked him if he wanted to go and ask him if they could play, too. Maartin replied, “Dat kunnen wij doen, maar we mooeten de auto ook aankijken. Zullen wij gaan?” – “Ja.” The two boys walked down the lane and watched as their Welsh counterparts kicked the football up the alley. Siaak run up and kicked the ball back toward the other children and they all stopped for a moment. Maartin said in English, barely tinted with an accent, though unfortunately posh, “Might we play football with you? Our parents have gone for a little while.” One of the children, a boy with messy brown hair, obviously the leader of the bunch, assented and the two Dutch brothers joined in the rabid game.

It was not long before Maartin and Siaak were tag-teaming the others and eventually made a goal. Siaak, who had kicked the ball past the wall at the end of the street, yelled in Dutch to his brother. “Maartin! Heb je dat gezien?! ‘k Heb ik nog nooit gedaan!” the utterance in the foreign tongue was enough to grab the attention of the lead boy who had allowed them to play with the group. “Oy, what are y’ sayin’ there? Are you some kind of kraut-boy?” Siaak blushed almost and said in English, “I am not! I’m Dutch, not German.” It wasn’t enough to stop the boy from the track he had already taken. “We don’t want your kind here,” he yelled as he pushed the 11 year old boy. Maartin then lunged forward to stop the Welsh boy. “Don’t do that, we just want to play football is all, no need to go accusin’ anyone of bein’ German.” That was when two other boys and girl jumped out at Maartin. He stepped back, though before anyone hit him. An awkward, deeply tense silence dropped on the street as the Welsh boy, Aeron, as he was called by the other children, stared the strangers down. It was a wonderful sunny day in Wales and life seemed to run its natural course, full of mountains, streams, and bumps.

Translations:

“Maartin , Siaak, jullie mogen spelen als je moeder en ik Meneer Twining bespreken. Denk maar on de auto, zie dat niemand hem aanraakt.”
Maartin, Siaak, you can go and play while your mother and I are speaking with Mr Twining. Watch the car, though. Don’t let anyone damage it.

“Weet je precies wat je wilt, Willa?”
-Do you know exactly what you want, Willa?

“Dat kunnen wij doen, maar we mooeten de auto ook aankijken. Zullen wij gaan?”
-We can do that, but we need to watch the car, too. Shall we go?

“Maartin! Heb je dat gezien?! ‘k Heb ik nog nooit gedaan!”
-Maartin! Did you see that! I’ve never done that before!

[Heidi]

Her interactions with children weren't too different from the ones she had in Germany. She was an outsider, attention called to her heavily German accent and poor English; the other children called her a Nazi. Which, nowadays, led to Adelheid doing some very questionable things that good little girls should not have done. Going through the process of being bullied, pointed at and told to shove off was very tiring, not to mention very disillusioning, after a while. Without her Herr Claude or Onkel Stephen or Onkel Mac, Adelheid again felt on her own. As the exciting football game continued, she sat on a bench nearby, her grandparents somewhere around there. Though she had been getting better at not disobeying them, Adelheid could still be a little hellion if she wanted to. And she wore that term as a badge of pride now, too!

In lieu of socialization, she had her book. A rather simple book, with easy English and lots of pictures, certainly nothing like what she had read in Herr Otto's vast library. However, she was still struggling with both of her father's birth languages, and was trying to absorb as much English as possible so she wouldn't look like a git in front of her peers. Adelheid Of-No-One ("Bevan" didn't seem to fit, and "Strumfelder" most certainly did not) would not stand for being subjected to the language barrier any longer. She was too smart for that.

One passage about a bunny hopping across a meadow was interrupted by a very hated word - "Kraut". Adelheid had come to learn that the term was a nasty one for Germans, referring to how they ate the cabbage dish all the time. The book lowered slightly, and Adelheid's eyes narrowed, hard and black and cold. Tucking her book under one arm, the young girl walked over to the group, where two boys were talking strangely. They sounded German to Adelheid - albeit of a very strange dialect - and she suddenly was fuming.

"Do. Not. Call. Them. Kraut."

The clipped, growled words made the group turned. Immediately one of the boys glared back at Adelheid, recognizing her as "that bastard Bevan girl". Word had spread around of Adelheid's origins and her father's deeds, and it had not helped her settling in one bit.

"Shove off!" said the boy. "You're not welcome here, Nazi Kraut-girl!"

WHACK!

That sentence promptly got him a smack to the face with Adelheid's precious book. The girl's eyes were smouldering, and the boy's expression was stunned.

"Do. Not. Call. Me. A Kraut."

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

In the few months that Maartin had been in England, he had learned the rules of combat in the youngest generation. First, insults were hurled, then silence, followed, either immediately or at various different intervals, by hurling fists and feet. It was a simple equation that, if not properly followed, could result in utter humiliation both publicly and personally. To lose was better than to be known as the boy who threw no punch. It was this, in addition to the desire of defending his brother, as well as the German girl who had yelled at Aeron that motivated him to jump at the Welsh boy with fists flying.

It was inconvenient timing on Maartin's part, since his mother and Theo walked out of the real estate agent's office with the agent himself in tow. Willemijn was not at all please with what she saw; she yelled and ran over to the boys and pulled Siaak out of the fray first. "Wat denk jij?! Dat mag totaal niet!" Theo ran over as well and grabbed Maartin's arm just as he was pulling back to hit Aeron. His surprise was an opportunity for another one of the Welsh boys to punch Maartin on his right cheek. In English, Theo told the children off, "Now, stop it. Stop fighting!"

By this time other adults who were nearby ran to the group and pulled the boys apart. When the hostilities had finally ended, and everyone was standing with sullen faces next to their elders, Willemijn, whose accent was more clearly continental than Theo's, offered an apology to the other children's parents, who didn't seem to trust her. There was still an obvious animosity against foreigners.

Standing next to his step-father, Maartin shot a glare at Aeron that would have melted gargoyles. The issue was not over, so long as supervision was gone. It was likely they would have another chance at one another. He looked over to his brother and uttered very quietly in that tongue that so angered the Welshman, "Later, Siaak, als we hem aanzien, weet je wat we zullen doen. Hij komt niet gelukkig hieruit." Siaak nodded in affirmation as he too glared at Aeron.

After sufficiently intimidating his enemy, Maartin looked to the girl who had walked over and stood up for him and his brother. She was small and held a book in her hands. She hadn't been playing with the other children, Maartin recalled. He didn't know German, but he had met enough German soldiers in his short years to know that the languages were similar, though the Dutch never admitted it. As his parents spoke to the real estate agent and the other children returned to their footballing farther down the street, Maartin spoke to the girl in Dutch, kind of. He knew the german word for 'you' was 'du' so he said that instead, to make it easier for her to understand. "Hallo, ik ben Maartin, en dit is mijn broertje, Siaak. Wie ben du?"

While Willemijn figured out the directions to a house outside the village with the agent, Theo watch his step-son. He was speaking to another girl in Dutch. that was unusual, the boys didn't like speaking Dutch in front of others. English was better for them in England. Though, the girl reminded Theo of another girl he had seen in France only months before. She had remarkably the same likeness.

He tried to remember the exact situation, but he could not put his finger on it. How could a little German girl in France end up in Wales, anyway? It couldn't be her. It simply wouldn't be logical. He listened though, Maartin seemed to know something he didn't.

Translations:
"Wat denk jij?! Dat mag totaal niet!"
-What are you thinking?! That's totally not allowed!

"Later, Siaak, als we hem aanzien, weet je wat we zullen doen. Hij komt niet gelukkig hieruit."
-Later, Siaak, when we see him, you know what to do. He won't be happy when we're done with him.

"Hallo, ik ben Maartin, en dit is mijn broertje, Siaak. Wie ben du?"
-Hello, I'm Maartin, and this is my little brother, Siaak. Who are you?

-Special note. The German word for 'how' is the same as the Dutch word for 'who' -- wie. This causes much confusion between Germans and Dutchmen to this day. I'd assume Adelheid would have the same problem.

[Heidi]

The fighting lasted for mere moments before the adults descended in a frenzy. The children were pulled apart, with Adelheid scurrying backwards out of the fray as fast as she could. She stood on the side of the street, watching silently as the boys were scolded, picking up little bits of what people were saying. Her little brain managed to translate bits and pieces, albeit roughly, and she tilted her head ever-so-slightly to the conversation.

After everything was said and done, Adelheid waited a moment more, unsure of what to do next. So far, it seemed that nobody had noticed that she had whacked one of the aggressors across the face. In fact, nobody even seemed to notice she was right there. Then again, being so quiet and out-of-the-way, it was easy enough for people to pass her by if she stood still enough. Though the memories had somewhat faded, she could remember being smaller and intimidated by the older children of the orphanage, tight-lipped and sitting by herself in the corner as they played. It was only when one of the defended boys called to her that Adelheid was noticed, and she took a step back, her shyness getting the better of her. She hunched up, blushing, and put her hands and her book behind her back.

"Hallo, ik ben Maartin, en dit is mijn broertje, Siaak. Wie ben du?"

Adelheid looked confused for a second, then managed to roughly translate what the boy was saying. In English, feeling too self-conscious to use her native German, she said, "I'm...doing...vell. How...du? How du du?"

It was pathetic, mangled and subject to the mercy of homophones. However, it was her best, and she hoped it was enough. She blushed further, swallowing slightly - Adelheid wouldn't lie, she felt a little scared. The boys sounded kind of like her, but she had seen how they had attacked the Welsh boys so ferociously. That, and she still hadn't been punished, and she was expecting someone to come around to fetch the "little hellion" at any moment. Really, smacking someone with a book? Why, if she was still living at the orphanage, it would be straight to time-out and prayers for her!

Slowly, ever-so-slightly, Adelheid took a little step forward, but then retreated back again. Her dark eyes suddenly focused on a patch of cobblestones, and she felt too overwhelmed by embarassment and self-doubt to make eye contact again. She wasn't one to be the centre of attention - maybe a little, once, but now, she just liked her books. And quiet. And being alone. Not very different from when she was five or six.

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

Maartin was neither dumb, nor blind. He could see that the German girl who had run over and hit Aeron with her book, was greatly shy. She didn’t seem to quite know how to react to his questions, didn’t understand Dutch as Maartin had hoped. He spoke in his steady, becoming-fluent English, “I don’t like speaking in Dutch around here, either. Too many problems. Theo and my mother always want to. I’m Maartin and he’s my brother, Siaak,” he pointed to his younger brother, "We’re here, looking for a summer home, seeing as the war’s over and we have the time to find one. What’s your name?" His conversational English was well learnt, though his masters at school certainly thought he had room from improvement in his writing.

Maartin had had a hard time adapting to England, especially since his mother had married Theo. Maartin’s own father had been killed by the Nazis after he had been caught picking up a weapons drop. It was almost three years ago when it had happened and in only one three months after meeting Theo, his mother had married him. He didn’t dislike Theo, but he resented having to go to England, and Theo was as good a target as any for his resentment. He had been bullying for being foreign and had to learn English, which he did not like very much, though he was good at it. It was this history that made Maartin strive to find someone else who had had experiences much like his own in England. He didn’t hate Germans; his mother had made it clear that all Germans were not Nazis. You wouldn’t want the Belgians to hate you, because the nuts in the Dutch NSB had invaded them, would you?

Theo watched from the corner of his eye, as his step-son spoke to the German girl. He was interested in the girl. He felt a nagging feeling that he knew who she was, or that he had at least met her before. It was an queer feeling; how could German girl end up in Wales...of all places? He knew her from somewhere, but could not put his finger on it. He turned back to Mr Twining who was speaking in a damp received drawl, “Mr Wijzemens, I believe you will find this house quite satisfying to all your needs, chuh! chuh!, sorry, including financially. It is located about thirteen miles from the edge of the village with plenty pasture space. The previous owner kept sheep, though he sold them when he left for America.

Willemijn turned to Theo, “Ik denk dat het goed klinkt, maar zou je niet iets in het dorp willen hebben. Je kunt dan je genezen naar benden doen en wij kunnen een auto dan kopen om buiten het dorp te gaan.” It was an interesting proposition, but Theo wasn’t sure he wanted to work during the summer, since it was a vacation home. Though planning for the future was probably a good idea. “Ik dachte, dat het een vakantiehuis zou zijn.” Willemijn stood and thought for a moment. Her considerations were different from Theo’s in many respects. Being the family cook, she had concerns about market distances and other such trivialities. “Ja, het is beter als wij in het dorp zijn. Dan kunnen wij naar de markt makkelijk gaan en die winkels en zo. Klopt, of niet?” Theo answered affirmatively and rearranged their tour with the agent.

Siaak was watching his parents for a little while, though he was more interested in the girl Maartin was talking to. He spoke up as well, certainly more honestly and with less nuance than his older brother, "We can be y’r friends if y’want. It only makes sense since y’en’t British n’ we en’t British." It was a little embarrassing to Maartin, listening to just how blunt his brother was, but he held his own tongue in anticipation for the girl’s answer. He was, in all honesty, just as curious, just as desiring of someone who could understand their predicament.

Translations:
“Ik denk dat het goed klinkt, maar zou je niet iets in het dorp willen hebben. Je kunt dan je genezen naar benden doen en wij kunnen een auto dan kopen om buiten het dorp te gaan.”
-I think it sounds good, but don’t you want something in the village. You could set up your office in that, and then we could get a car to go outside the village.

“Ik dachte, dat het een vakantiehuis zou zijn.”
-I thought it would be a vacation home.

“Ja, het is beter als wij in het dorp zijn. Dan kunnen wij naar de markt makkelijk gaan en die winkels en zo. Klopt, of niet?”
-Yes, it’s better if we’re in the village. Then we can go to the market and all the shops. Makes sense, right?

[Heidi]

So the boy wanted to know her name. Adelheid gently bit the bottom of her lip, clearly fighting with herself whether or not whether to say more or not. On the one hand, the boys seemed nice, and she could kind-of understand what Maartin was saying. She too felt alone, without a sense of kinship or camaraderie, even among her own family; the household had a sad undercurrent. Adelheid's father was dead, her older uncle missing, her younger uncle having run away a few years before. The Bevans were overjoyed to have her, it seemed, but she saw the pain in her grandmother's face whenever Martha Bevan saw a photo of her children. And, with that, Adelheid could not help but feel a slight sense of jealousy; her father had had a loving mother and father who were still grieving greatly for their lost son. Adelheid had been dumped in an orphanage by that same son - he could have found out what had happened to Adelheid's mother.

"...Adelheid," she said, in a tone just above a whisper. She scrunched up more, tightening her grip on the book. Maartin and Siaak were still keeping their distance - to some, it may have been a bit odd that they were having a talk from more than a metre away. However, the girl was grateful the pair weren't coming closer; they didn't want to close in on her, make her feel like she was being penned up and cornered like a badly-behaving sheep. In her own time, she would come, but everything felt so pained and strained right then and there. Again, what on Earth had just compelled her to smack Aeron's face like he was a fly?

"We can be y'r friends if y'want. It only makes sense since y'en't British n' we en't British."

Siaak had finally piped up, seemingly uncaring of how startlingly blunt he had just been. Adelheid blinked, opening her mouth to quip, but then realized that Siaak had a point. She wasn't British, they weren't British, and Aeron had called her "a little bastard" repeatedly. Adelheid had been born and raised in the very nation that the British were fighting against, and she was illegitimate, to boot! So many people seemed to be angry at her and her father for that. She could agree with the anger at her father, though....

"Vhy not?" she suddenly said, looking at Siaak as a scholar would to a perfectly valid point in a debate. Her posture slackened ever-so-slightly, the book coming out from behind her back and now held against her chest.

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

It was settled then, the trio of foreigners would be friends, per a verbal agreement, lacking all nuance. Maartin felt as if a wall had been broken, demolished by this small leap of faith; an honest hand extended in friendship has always been more powerful than the most destructive bombs. As with the any new trust, the partakers were obviously uncomfortable, if they were aware of the complications. Maartin felt he should say something to fill the short silence, which felt like centuries, following Adelheid’s answer. “Why are you in Wales? Did you just get here after the war?” Maartin asked. It seemed a simple question, but answers were always complicated. Maartin, Siaak, and their mother had escaped from the Netherlands into Allied France after the Allies had repelled the German forces in Northern France. The escape through the war zone had been harrowing. The small family had stowed under a false bed bottom of a truck carrying potatoes from Utrecht.

When the truck had reached the border of Belgium, the Germans took all the potatoes and told the driver to go forward and deliver the taken potatoes to their destination in Antwerp. It was in that land of the ‘soft g’ and the up-down rhythmic speaking that the Dutch family came out of their hiding place to be moved by the Flemish resistance into a hidden cargo space on board a Nazi patrol boat, manned by disguised German-Belgians. In coordination with the Royal Navy, the boat docked alongside HMS Belfast. The ship finished the journey to the Allied port in Le Havre and let the Dutch family off with a set of Free Dutch ID papers and some Francs to get themselves started in the newly liberated nation. It was in the village near Paris, where they took up residence, that Willemijn had met Theo. It was not long before Theo used his connections to get them on a ship to London, where they had stayed since August.

Theo and Willemijn decided early on that they did not want to return to the Netherlands. There were too many bad memories there, and neither of them had really felt at home there. Theo had quickly gone to Germany for his university studies when he finished his Gymnasium diploma and Willemijn had been born in Utrecht, never feeling at home in her community she was brought up in. At the time, the Dutch were still highly segregated into their four communities: the Catholics, the Protestants, the Liberals, and the Socialists. Her parents had been one of the rare pairs who had married between the groups. Throughout her life, she had hoped to leave the social hell she grew up in. South Africa was always an appealing alternative since her early years.

In any case, the family found itself abroad, building a network with other expatriates, voluntary and otherwise. Theo was finishing off with the real estate agent as Maartin and Siaak made their new friend. “Mr Twining, we’ve decided that a more permanent residence in the village would be more desirable. It would need to be larger than a normal home, as I would operate a medical practice there. Perhaps you have a shop with an apartment above?” Mr Twining went on to describe a property he was renting out himself, though he would sell it to the good doctor for the right price. It was the best in the village, by far, or so the owner himself said. Luckily, the apartment was located just across the street from the real-estate office.

“Maartin, Siaak! Jullie mogen buiten blijven. Je moeder en ik gaan een huis doorkijken. Herinner jullie zich de auto aan te kijken. Het zal maar goed gaan. Deze Walese mensen hebben meer aandacht voor hun schapen.” He grinned a bit and turned with Willemijn toward the townhouse. Maartin grimaced a bit at his step-father and turned back to his own affairs.

Translation:
“Maartin, Siaak! Jullie mogen buiten blijven. Je moeder en ik gaan een huis doorkijken. Herinner jullie zich de auto aan te kijken. Het zal maar goed gaan. Deze Walese mensen hebben meer aandacht voor hun schapen.”
-Maartin, Siaak! You two may stay outside while your mother and I look at a house. Remember to look after the car. It will go well. These Welsh people are paying more attention to their sheep.


((Adopted your style of quoting. Less coding. ))

[Heidi]

"Why are you in Wales? Did you get here after the war?"

Technically, the war was not over. People were coming home and everyone seemed happier, but conflict still stirred in Germany. Though Russia and America marched on Berlin, in the Pacific, all was still horrific and bloody. It would not be until the invention of something great and terrible, something Adelheid would be terrified to understand, that the continent-spanning conflict would cease. However, to the young girl, her new friends and all the people of Britain, that time was not now. She could barely remember being asked to be a friend, or not stared at, or a mean comment made about her German ethnicity and accent. It was refreshing, even, and Adelheid found herself sparing a weak smile. She still stood back from the boys, however, and that time for another reason: she was disfigured. Holding her book up in front of her to help hide some of the scars, patches of pale skin dotted her face, neck and hands, more on her collarbone, legs and feet. Her right pinky was gone, as well as the end joints on her right middle finger and left smallest fingers. If they looked closely, they would also see she favoured a leg, and walked with a slight limp from a bullet wound long healed over.

The yelling of an older man suddenly caught Adelheid's attention. Unlike Maartin's stepfather, Adelheid did not recognize the man's face. Perhaps if he had been closer, something in her memory would have sounded, but that was not the case at the moment. Looking at Maartin and Siaak, only having a vague idea of what their father said, she asked, "Vhat he says?" The question about her origin was ignored, or perhaps only half-listened to; Adelheid seemed to be a bit distant. Distracted, even. Her dark eyes suddenly went to the game going on down the street.

Without warning, the ball the boys were playing with suddenly went flying through the air, much to their hollering and cheers. It flew onto the roof of a nearby building, hitting the zenith and then rolling down back towards them. It caught itself on the drain, however, and quickly settled there; the boys were not pleased. The boys cussed and complained, and Adelheid's dark eyes were intense, focused, almost curious even. The boys threw their hands up and chastised the kicker, saying - or so she thought - that he was useless and aimed too high.

Without warning, the girl put her book down on the ground. She hurried over to the building, her aforementioned slight limp noticeable as she ran. Stopping before the pipe that led to the roof of the building, Adelheid spat on both hands, then rubbed them together. With squirrelish nimbleness - and a bit of awkwardness from her bad leg - she began to climb, grunting, but slowly making her way up the pipe. One of the boys nearby did not notice her until she was almost halfway to the top, doing a double-take.

"Oi! What's that crazy Jerry girl doing?"

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

It was enigmatically telling of the German girl who at one moment was incredibly shy and in the next moment was bold enough to chase the flying football of children down the lane up the side of the nearest house. Maartin picked up the book she had dropped in order to climb up to the rain gutter. It was a small, simple book, a fitting text for someone, whose English was elementary, Maartin supposed. Looking back from the book, he watched as Adelheid made her way up the drain attached to the side of the house. She was quite the climber for being a girl.

Siaak stepped up next to Maartin. “Denk je dat jij dat zou kunnen doen, Maartin?” What an exasperating question. “ ‘tuurlijk, Siaak. Zou ik het nu kunnen doen. Ik kan het altijd doen.” He didn’t look directly at his brother; he certainly didn’t want to climb up at the height Adelheid had gone to. “Maartin,” Siaak said.

“Wat?!” Maartin yelled. “Denk je, dat ze gaat vallen?” Maartin rolled his eyes. “Neen, helemaal niet.” The moment reminded Maartin of an occurrence back in Holland. It was 1943 and the Germans were deporting the last of the Jews with the help of the police and NSBers. Maartin was standing in the open doorway of his home in Utrecht and watching as his neighbors were pulled out of their houses and forced into trucks at gunpoint. The Germans were screeching in their sharp tongue, “Raus, ihr Schweine! Raus!” He there was one moment though, when an old man was holding tightly to the urn that held his long-departed wife’s ashes. He was walking slowly, being sure not to drop his most-prized possession, when an NSBer in his black uniform walked up to the man and yelled, “Verlaat uwe possessies en gaat in de auto. Nu!” The NSBer screamed at the man at the top of his lungs. A German SS soldier walked over to the NSBer, and the two conversed for a moment before the SS soldier shouldered his k98 and shot the man through the urn. Ashes flew and the ruckus continued throughout the street.

The man’s grandson, upon seeing his grandfather being shot, yelled and ran back to his house. A German SS officer was standing in the door way and he ran over to the drain and started climbing. It was at that moment when Maartin’s father had come to the doorway and pulled him inside. It was only seconds before Maartin heard another gunshot. He wanted to believe that whoever had shot had missed, and the boy had escaped and was living in someone’s attic. In his heart, he knew that the boy had been shot. He had been just as old as the grandson.

Quickly, Maartin was back in 1945, watching his newest friend climb up the same way his friend in Utrecht had climbed to his death. This time there was no SS soldier, no Jews either. It was an eerie feeling. Instead of soldiers and militants, children walked down the street, shooting words at the ‘Germans.’

Translations:
“Denk je dat jij dat zou kunnen doen, Maartin?”
-Do you think you could do that, Maartin?

“ ‘tuurlijk, Siaak. Zou ik het nu kunnen doen. Ik kan het altijd doen.”
-Of course, Siaak. I could do that. I could do it anytime.

“Wat?!”
-What!?

“Denk je, dat ze gaat vallen?”
-Do you think she’s going to fall?

“Neen, helemaal niet.”
-No, not at all.

“Raus, ihr Schweine! Raus!”
-Out, you swine! Out!

“Verlaat uwe possessies en gaat in de auto. Nu!”
-Leave your possessions and get in the truck. Now!

[Heidi]

Her brow knit in concentration, one segment of pipe after the other slowly ascended, it didn't take long - in Adelheid's mind, that was - for her to reach the top. Taking a moment to catch her breath at the top, her side with the bad ribs aching a little, the young girl hauled herself onto the roof. Flat on her stomach, she panted, rubbing at her face and her dark eyes. Carefully she stood up, almost losing her balance but quickly steadying herself, walking along the edge of the roof where the gutter connected. The ball was only a few feet in front of her.

Down on the street below, the boys watched with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. The girl was an enigma; first, she came from Germany, and then, she barely talked to anyone. Her English was stupid and she had slapped one of them in the face - now, she was getting their ball back? It was like Adelheid herself couldn't figure out who she was. Then again, she was a bastard child, and bastard children were supposed to be very strange little children.

Adelheid, meanwhile, was leaning down to pick up the football, gently grasping the ball and throwing it down to the children below. One of the boys lifted his hands to catch it, deftly snatching it, and looked strangely at Adelheid for a moment. Then, he raised his hand, waved a little and said, "Thank you!" more out of habit than anything. Adelheid looked down at him, smiling shyly, and nodded in return. She then turned around to move back towards the drain pipe she had climbed.

CLANG!

Adelheid's foot slipped on a wet patch of roof tile. Without warning, it hit the thin gutter, and then, the gutter suddenly detached from the roof. Adelheid cried out and fell, nearly sliding off the roof, trying to scramble back up onto the roof. Her flailing foot kicked at the gutter, dislodging it further and causing dead matter and dirt to fall to the ground.

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

Everything seemed to go perfectly, until Adelheid slipped and sent the gutter loose, pouring out all manner of dust and grim beneath her as she hung from the roof. Maartin yelped as he watched, before he ran toward the drain and started climbing up it himself to help her. He gripped the rung-like connectors and started stepped upward, all the while yelling to Adelheid, "Just keep hold there. I'm coming to help you!"

Siaak yelled first at Adelheid in some unrecognizable slurs between Dutch and English, before yelling at his brother to stop and not climb up. Feeling completely ignored and scared, he ran to down the street and tripped when he ran into the rear end of the car he and his family had arrived in. not yet feeling the pain, he got up and limped toward the house his parents were touring and went through the door that had been conveniently left open.

The entrance hall of the home was laid in hardwood flooring, which the young boy slipped on in his attempts to be heard. Falling backward, he yelled, "Mama, Theo, zij valt. Adelheid valt." The shrill call was not ignored. Both Theo and willemijn rushed into the entrance hall with Mr Twining following slowly behind them. "Wat is het, Siaak?" Willemijn asked.

After getting their answer, the two adults went out the front door, and watched as Maartin finished his climb to the top of the two story townhouse. He, in all his glory, held out his hand to the German girl who was slipping. By hooking his foot over the edge of the roof at the corner, he would be able to keep steady as he laid down to reach her. Holding out his hand, Maartin looked at Adelheid and speaking in very clear English said, "Take my hand. I will pull you up."

Translations:
"Mama, Theo, zij valt. Adelheid valt."
-Mama, Theo, she's falling. Adelheid's falling.

"Wat is het, Siaak?"
-What is it, Siaak?

[Heidi]

Adelheid's knuckles were white with tension, her eyes wide with fear. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, adrenaline racing through her veins. Looking over her shoulder, she felt the colour drain for her face as she stared at the ground. She wasn't used to being up so high; in her time homeless, she had clambered over countless obstacles, but sickness and a new home had her out of practise. Swallowing hard, Adelheid looked back up, then began to try and haul herself onto the roof. However, she ended up slipping back again, giving a little yelp as she found nothing to hold onto. Again, she was dangling from the edge.

Maartin's yelling made Adelheid turn her head again, and to her widened eyes, she saw him coming to get her. She nodded, the motion clearing her head enough for her to think; she began looking around. Going up wouldn't be possible, but maybe she could try going to the side. Carefully, she let go of the edge, and then grabbed further along in a swift motion. Slowly, she tried to keep moving, but almost lost her grip a second time. As Siaak ran off to somewhere, yelling something she couldn't hope to comprehend, Adelheid could feel her arms begin to burn.

Thankfully, Maartin was up on the roof in minutes, about as deft a climber as she was. Though she was too scared to immediately translate all of his English, an extended hand in this situation was universal. She launched herself at him, not just grabbing his hand, but his entire arm and reaching up to cling onto his shoulders. She scrabbled up like a frightened animal at the roof before she went for a near-tackle at him.

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

A wave of relief flowed through Maartin’s body when Adelheid was securely, if it was possible to be secure, on the roof. The clear country air filled his lungs as he took deep breaths, calming himself from the adrenaline rush, which had propelled him up the side a building. From on the roof, he could see the entire bleak little village, an island of grey and brown in the middle of a large green ocean—with some sheep. It looked and smelled like his home in the Netherlands, just outside of Utrecht. His mother had come from the country outside the city, and he had often spent time there.

Below, the family Wijzemens was feeling more stress than Maartin. Theo, finally out in the street, looked up at the two children on the roof and spoke to them in English, barely accented, “Stay where you are! We’ll have someone bring a ladder and bring you down. Don’t try to come back down the drain.” Worry struck its precarious vibration in Theo as he thought of what could happen if the children fell. He felt that Maartin and Siaak were his own children, despite that fact that he had not had them himself. It explained how he rushed to the real estate agent and demanded that he bring out whatever ladder he might have so that the children may be brought safely back to the ground. He was in such a rush that he missed the scuff mark on the car that Siaak had left after running into it.

Willemijn mostly watched as everything happened. She was not usually one to do nothing in any situation. Since the twenties she had been a feminist, having marched in the streets of Utrecht and the Hague for the right to vote. However, watching her son on the roof had her frozen, but it occurred to her that he was only sitting on the roof and looking around with the girl next to him. She had seen him pull her back up on the roof and a sudden feeling of pride swept over her. Perhaps it was youthful stupidity, rash decision-making, but he had not thought for a moment to go up and help the girl.

Soon after Theo had called for a ladder, the stuffy secretary in the real estate office came rushing out with a ladder in her hands. The sight was unseemly, considering the ladder was about three times longer than she was tall, and she was by no means a short woman. She looked directly at Theo, and said in her crooked, demanding tone, “Mr Wijzemens, you can take one end of this ladder and help me if you’re no overly distracted by the children imperiled by your lack of responsible oversight.” Theo rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottom of the ladder and walked behind the secretary to the side of the building, whose inhabitants remained blissfully ignorant of the activity on their roof.

When the pair reached the building, the secretary stood and watched as Theo set the ladder against the building and then gave him a look that said ‘you’re going up there at this very moment.’ Theo didn’t care to argue with a woman who had apparently spent enough time in English public schools to perfect her prudish attitude to a faultless degree. As Theo began the climb up to the roof, Maartin watched the German girl for a couple of moments then asked “Why did you run for their ball? They were utter arses to you and me.”

[Heidi]

She went from desperately holding on to calmly sitting on the roof, all within two minutes of falling off the ledge. There was a creak and a clank as the final metal threads of the gutter snapped; the broken piece fell to the ground below. On the streets below, the English boys were watching with awe, and the adults were scrambling about to get the two down. Adelheid's eyes widened a little at seeing the grown-ups approached, and she swallowed a little at the thought of having to face them. Somebody was probably looking for her by now, and any of the people coming forward with a ladder could be one of them. Adelheid pulled backwards a little, looking ready to bolt across the roof and down the opposite pipe.

It was easier to feel the wind on her face up there. It reminded her of the high hills and mountains she had climbed, the odd tree she had scaled, back when she was on her own. Though it was somewhat scary, being up high made her feel comfortable; no sane person, usually, would try and follow her across the rooftops. She recalled once or twice trying to climb out Herr Otto's windows, but she was too intimidated to go very far. And then, of course, there was Doktor Strumfelder, who'd Adelheid would have never dreamt of crossing while she was his prisoner. At the memory of him, Adelheid tensed up further, but then Maartin's voice caught her attention.

"Why did you run for their ball? They were utter arses to you and me."

A moment was taken to translate, and the girl did not like what she had heard. Adelheid fixed a glare upon Maartin, those black eyes of hers becoming as hard as river stones. "No bad vords," she said sternly. "I war being nice." Yes, the boys might have been mean, but Adelheid saw no harm in retrieving a ball for them. Plus, it made them look stupid - here they were, gawking at her gall and her skill in climbing, none of them gutsy enough to retrieve the ball they enjoyed so. If there was anything Adelheid had proved, it was that she was far tougher, far more street-smart than them in the end, and they would have never survived a winter on their own. She had, although she would not tell Maartin this.

"Du go," said Adelheid, pointing at the man climbing towards them. "Du go." She then slowly stood up and turned, gone to make her way along the zenith of the roof with arms outstretched. Careful to balance herself and watch every step that time, she soon reached the other end, clambering down the opposite end's drain pipe. A foot or two before she reached the bottom, she pushed herself off of the pipe, landing on all fours like a cat. Wincing a little from her sore set ribs, Adelheid then stood back up, walking out from behind the building to where she could be seen again. Immediately the boys ran over to her, their game temporarily forgot.

"That was amazing!"

"How did you do that?"

"You could have got yourself killed!"

Adelheid only put her hands behind her back and smiled shyly.

[☤Theodorijk Wijzemens]

The nerve. What kind of self-centred person would first edify the person who came to save them and then leave down the way they had come so dangerously. Maartin was not a boy to be outdone, by anyone, least of whom, a German girl. He held no real prejudice against her for being German, but the thought certainly contributed to the spirit of competition that so vibrantly and unopposed runs in the hearts of adolescents. As Theodorijk was nearly to the top of the ladder, he watched both in horror and in amazement as his step-son stood up from from where he was, glanced slightly in Theo's direction, and then went to the edge of the roof and looked down to where Adelheid had landed herself among the Welsh children. Theo stopped for only a moment as he reached the top rung to watch as Maartin slung his body over the edge, keeping a grip on the drain, and slid down in exactly the fashion Adelheid had done.

A feeling of confidence and satisfaction swept through Maartin as he grinned at Adelheid. He had spent far too much time in the city not to have learned how to clamber on top of buildings and balance himself on rusting pipelines. In his city experiences he had also learnt the value of the con. Being both 13 years old and intelligent, he was very good at contriving stories or, in their basic form, lies on the spot. He wasn't sure why he did it this time, it wasn't because of attraction; he was yet on the cusp of that period in life, but perhaps it was the personal gratification of control, or simply being able to share a certain mischievousness with someone. "Father!" he yelled. It was one of the few times he had called Theo his father; he did more in English, never in Dutch. "Adelheid's broken something!" He grinned at the girl, knowing that once Theo had heard such a thing, he wouldn't let the girl out of his sight without making sure that she was medically in order, or that she had at least kept her bones in one piece.

The grin was quickly replaced with a look of concern on Maartin's face as his step-father walked over. His mother would soon be there to chasten him for climbing up, and then coming down, leaving her husband to stand dumbly on the ladder. His assumption was correct, but the schoolmarm, now real estate secretary, whose grey-brown hair could not have been woven tighter together than it was now wrapped in a bun, was the first to arrive with scolding words to match the look on her face.

"What were you doing up on that roof? You could have fallen, you could have gotten yourself killed!" She spoke hurriedly and with the accent of Edinburgh, affected by London, and currently being overtly tainted by Cardiff. Maartin paid her no attention, and instead looked at Theo. He didn't look angry; Maartin was convinced the man could be shot at from all sides and not flinch. He was never one for anger.

Theodorijk was not amused by Maartin's antics. It was surprising, though, that he would simply climb up to help someone else, without thinking for a moment of the risks. He had underestimated his new children's depth, perhaps. His problem with the behavior was not that he had helped someone; it was the not thinking aspect of it that was disappointing. In all this thinking about Maartin, he suddenly realized again why he was coming toward the children next to the house. Maartin had called out that Adelheid was hurt.

Theo arrived at the group to hear the secretary wail in her most unusual accent at the children about running up walls. "Excuse madame," he said, "I am a doctor. I heard that one of the children was hurt." He looked directly at Adelheid and glanced at Maartin, who was watching the entire situation; he seemed far more noble now than he ever had before. Looking back to Adelheid, he began the questioning for a diagnosis, "what is that hurts?"