The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom

Author:Corrie ten Boom
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIO018000, REL012000
ISBN: 9781441232885
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2006-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

10

Scheveningen

Outside Haarlem the bus took the south road, paralleling the sea. On our right rose the low sandy hills of the dune country, soldiers silhouetted on the ridges. Clearly we were not being taken to Amsterdam.

A two-hour drive brought us instead into the streets of The Hague. The bus stopped in front of a new, functional building; word was whispered back that this was Gestapo headquarters for all of Holland. We were marched—all but Pickwick, who seemed unable to rise out of his seat—into a large room where the endless process of taking down names, addresses, and occupations began all over again.

On the other side of the high counter running the length of the room, I was startled to see both Willemse and Kapteyn. As each of the prisoners from Haarlem reached the desk, one or the other would lean forward and speak to a man seated at a typewriter and there would be a clatter of sound from the machine.

Suddenly the chief interrogator’s eye fell on Father. “That old man!” he cried. “Did he have to be arrested? You, old man!”

Willem led Father up to the desk. The Gestapo chief leaned forward. “I’d like to send you home, old fellow,” he said. “I’ll take your word that you won’t cause any more trouble.”

I could not see Father’s face, only the erect carriage of his shoulders and the halo of white hair above them. But I heard his answer.

“If I go home today,” he said evenly and clearly, “tomorrow I will open my door again to any man in need who knocks.”

The amiability drained from the other man’s face. “Get back in line!” he shouted. “Schnell! This court will tolerate no more delays!”

But delays seemed all that this court existed for. As we inched along the counter, there were endless repetitions of questions, endless consulting of papers, endless coming and going of officials. Outside the windows the short winter day was fading. We had not eaten since the rolls and water at dawn.

Ahead of me in line, Betsie answered, “Unmarried,” for the twentieth time that day.

“Number of children?” droned the interrogator.

“I’m unmarried,” Betsie repeated.

The man did not even look up from his papers. “Number of children!” he snapped.

“No children,” said Betsie resignedly.

Toward nightfall a stout little man wearing the yellow star was led past us to the far end of the room. A sound of scuffling made us all look up. The wretched man was attempting to hold onto something clutched in his hands.

“It’s mine!” he kept shouting. “You can’t take it! You can’t take my purse!”

What madness possessed him? What good did he imagine money would do him now? But he continued to struggle, to the obvious glee of the men around him.

“Here, Jew!” I heard one of them say. He lifted his booted foot and kicked the small man in the back of his knees. “This is how we take things from a Jew.”

It made so much noise. That was all I could think as they continued to kick him.

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