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Escape From Amsterdam

By Lauralee Bliss

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CHAPTER 1
Pop, pop, pop.
What was that?
Sharp prickles of fear raced through Helen Smit’s fingertips.
She gripped the handlebars, her feet jostling on the pedals, forcing
the bicycle to a screeching stop. Dirt spit up from the front wheel,
splattering her white cotton bobby socks and bare calves.
Boom!
Her head jerked to the left and the right as she steadied the
bicycle with her feet on the ground. Fields of waving emerald grass
wanted to calm her anxious heart, but she’d have none of it. Instead,
she sucked in a sharp breath, murmured a prayer, and forced her
feet back onto the pedals, pushing the bike as fast as she could.
Boom!
What is that noise? her mind cried again.
Her hands shook the handlebars. The bicycle wobbled, and the
front wheel caught on some rocks. Suddenly a scream rose from
her throat, and she stared at the ground. For an instant her arms
and legs froze, even as she spit out grainy sands of dirt. When she
finally did move, she felt a pain in her leg. I’ve fallen, her mind
finally realized.
“Gaat het?” A gentle voice asking if she was okay floated over
her head along with a tapping on her shoulder. Slowly she rolled
onto her back, squinting at the piercing rays of sunshine. Then a
dark form blocked the rays, and a strong hand reached down to
help her up. Once on her feet, she tugged down her soiled dress
and smoothed back strands of blond hair from her face. “I’m all
right. I must have hit a patch of rocks after I heard something. A
boom coming from somewhere. And a popping sound.”
“Maybe you heard noise from the windmills or boats on the
Markermeer.”
The explanation eased Helen’s mind as she gazed at her benefactor. She then analyzed her current predicament—a fine stream
of blood trickling from a small cut on her leg, dirt smudged on her
dress and socks, and, to her dismay, the handlebars of her bike bent
at a thirty-degree angle.
The man appeared in full view, lean and tall, wearing a dark cap
over a head of sandy-colored hair. He gave her a handkerchief to
dab the blood from her leg and then righted the bicycle to study
the misshapen handlebars. “I think I can fix this,” he declared.
“Can you?” She thanked him. “Dank je wel!”
Helen watched his every move as he returned to his bicycle.
Only then did she notice the cart he pulled and the small boy
sitting inside. The boy clambered out, holding a toy boat in his
hands. “What’s the matter, Erik?” he asked in a high-pitched voice.
“The lady fell,” Erik answered. He took a small bag from the
cart and found a wrench.
Helen smiled in the boy’s direction, but her attention remained
riveted on this man with the tool he twirled in one hand, returning
to fix her mangled bike. “You certainly are well prepared.”
“I have to be whenever I take Hans anywhere. Remember
when we had trouble with my bicycle, Hans?”
Hans immediately launched into a story of riding along one of
the dikes. The chain on the bicycle broke, sending the bike nearly
careening off the dike and into the water. Erik tried to maintain control until they had gotten clear of the dike. “Mother said
we could’ve drowned!” Hans exclaimed, his eyes growing large.
“Mother tends to exaggerate,” Erik corrected, taking hold of
Helen’s bicycle and locking the front wheel between his knees. He
blew out a sharp breath and used the wrench to twist the metal
lug nut holding the bars in place. Once he had the bars loosened,
he repositioned them and retightened the nut. “That should ride
well now.”
Helen stared in awe before realizing she ought to try out the
man’s handiwork before he left. She climbed onto the bike and
rode it fifty yards down the road and back again. “It’s perfect. Echt
heel erg bedankt!”
Erik returned the tool to the bag and stowed the bag in the
cart. “You’re welcome. We need to get going. We’re heading to a
children’s boat race in Durgerdam.”
“Is that the boat you will race?” she asked Hans.
He nodded as his fingers gently caressed the gleam of the
polished hull. Erik interjected that three generations of his family
worked on the small boat. “Grandfather designed it. Mother sewed
the sail for it. Hans and I built it.”
“How wonderful. Succes!” Helen bid them farewell and watched,
albeit wistfully, as they returned to their bike to continue the journey. She enjoyed their companionship, especially after hearing the
strange noises she was certain came from the air and not from the
lake, which had sent anxiety washing over her like waves on the
North Sea. Not that she wanted to crash into the dirt and nearly
wreck her bike and soil her clothes just to meet a man. But the
Lord always worked in mysterious ways, and He had done it again
with this pleasant encounter.
Mounting the bike, Helen willed her feet to pedal strong and
sound as she watched the fading forms of Erik and Hans in the
distance. She decided the idea of watching happy children race
boats on a fine summer day would do her good after all the recent
mishaps and misgivings. But hearing another boom! in the air, her
hands once more jiggled the handlebars. Despite what Erik suggested, could the noise be forecasting what Papa had spoken about
at dinner last night? She could still see Papa’s face—lines of worry
crisscrossing his lean cheekbones, his blue eyes narrowing, as he
clutched his hands together with elbows planted on the table. For
as long as she could remember, Papa rarely showed fear or any
other sign of weakness. His muscular arms had carried many large
boxes over the years, toiling in the work of a warehouse laborer.
He always proved the picture of strength and confidence, both
physically and in his words. But last night he couldn’t mask the
emotional tide. He’d inhaled a deep breath and told them the news.
Germany was readying its forces to invade Poland soon. Everyone
looked at one another, wondering what it meant for them and
the world. From the worry on Papa’s face, Helen knew it couldn’t
be good. Would there be another world war? Would it affect the
Netherlands, or would they remain neutral?
The quaint fishing village of Durgerdam appeared on the distant horizon, squelching the fearful thoughts of war. Helen liked
to venture here when her heart yearned for peace, away from the
congested suburbs of northern Amsterdam or Noord to quieter
places beside the fresh waters of the Markermeer. Once, long ago,
she found a fisherman willing to take her and her brothers on
an excursion out on the waters. The peace of that time filled her
heart, as did the wonder of seeing the Dutch coast from a watery
perspective. How she wished she could capture the scenes rising
before her—of the fishing village dotting the shoreline, children at
play, and farther east along the coast, windmills that kept waters
from a lake called the Zuiderzee out of the rich farmlands. Perhaps
one day she would have the money to buy a camera. The desire
to relish fine memories rose steadily with each passing moment.
All of this was too precious to forget, and one day she must have
photos of the scenery to remind her of happier times.
Helen cycled through the town to where the children gathered
for the race. Suddenly she heard a voice from behind.
“Hallo! We never did introduce ourselves out on the road. I’m
Erik Minger.”
Helen whirled to face her benefactor once again. This time she
studied more of Erik’s appearance—shallow cheekbones, a triangular chin, bright blue eyes igniting his face, shocks of hair poking
out from beneath a wool cap, and his tall frame outfitted in a simple cotton shirt and trousers. Warmth invaded her cheeks when he
caught her staring at him, and his lips curved into a slight smile.
She looked off in the direction of the boat race where the children
crowded together, each clutching their prized handmade boats,
before turning to face him. “I’m Helen Smit. I came to watch the
boat race after you mentioned it. I would love to see my brother's
race, but they are far too old for such things.”
“Hans is the perfect age. He was a surprise for our family eight
years ago. God has His plans, eh?”
Erik now gazed at Hans, his body straight, as if finding
strength in the words he spoke. It moved her heart to hear him
speak reverently of God. Not many did these days, including her
family. She wished things were different. For her part, Helen kept
a small Bible under her pillow, and she would read it early in the
morning before a neighboring rooster crowed Goedmorgen. At
night the comforting words of scripture—like waiting on the Lord
to renew one’s strength and make one fly like an eagle—would
give her peace.
Just then a booming voice called the next group of children
to the race. Helen saw Erik motion for her to join him and Hans.
Warmth flowed through her. They stood with Hans, who jumped
up and down, ready to race his boat. The small fleet of boats from
the first group were already making their way, bobbing on the
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LAURALEE BLISS ESCAPE FROM AMSTERDAM
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gentle ripples of water in the canal. Helen watched the gleeful
smiles and wide eyes of the children. She wished they could be
like this forever—enjoying the beautiful day with new friends
and the excitement of the race.
Hans carefully placed his boat in the water. He clapped his
hands, urging his boat onward. Helen watched Erik walk over to
another little boy who hadn’t yet placed his boat in the water. The
boy’s large eyes and trembling lips tugged on her heart.
“It’s okay,” Erik assured him. He then helped the boy put the
boat in the water. When Erik returned to Helen’s side, he murmured, “His boat won’t go far with that small sail. But sometimes
it’s the act of doing, like putting the boat in the water anyway, that
matters most.”
The children laughed and pointed at their boats until a humble
craft floated across the finish line. And then Helen heard a wail.
“I didn’t win!” Hans cried, running to Erik. “You said I’d win!”
The boy’s face turned pink like a tulip, and his lips formed a scowl.
“Did your brother really promise you’d win?” Helen asked,
looking from Erik to Hans. “How could he?”
“But—”
“I said your boat could win,” Erik reminded him. “But the other
child had a better sail. You should go over there and congratulate
him on winning the race.”
Clutching the dripping boat to his chest, Hans stared at the
grinning face of the victor, and his pink cheeks turned red. “Nee,”
he muttered under his breath.
“Hans. . .”
He shook his head, his feet shuffling. Helen knelt before the
boy and looked him in the eye. “Did you make this boat?” she
asked.
“Not all of it. I helped Erik put the glue on it. I painted it
red too.”
Helen pointed to the other boys. “You know that only one can
win. But we can win in other ways too. Like by helping each other.
Many loving hands went into making your boat. Three generations
of your family, from what your brother said. So don’t you think that
a family who makes a beautiful boat together wins, no matter what?”
Hans crinkled his small face and rubbed his eye with his fist.
“But I didn’t win the race.”
“There will be other races. You can see what went wrong and
correct it. But there are other good things to think about. How you
worked together with your family to make the boat. And being
here with your older brother, who has helped you in many ways.
I know I’m thankful you both came to the race today, or else your
brother would not have been there to fix my bicycle. I would still
be stranded at the side of the road. Instead, I’m here.”
Hans said nothing but only stared at his boat.
When she stood, Erik was gazing at her with a grin as if he
liked the scene. “Dank je wel,” he said softly.
“I learned from you,” Helen said with a smile.
“I don’t understand.”
“When you helped that scared little boy put his boat in the
water and told me about true winning. . .in the doing.” His gaze
remained fixed on her, increasing the warmth radiating within.
She found herself sidestepping toward her bicycle. “It’s getting
late. I’d better be going.”
“Will we see each other again?”
Helen thought on it then nodded and shared her phone number and address in Noord should he have an opportunity to visit.
Inwardly, she hoped he would. “Tot zien.”
He lifted his cap.
Helen could barely contain the tremors of excitement as she
furiously pedaled back toward Amsterdam, the wind blowing in
her face. Her insides mimicked the fluttering of the birds overhead. Not that she hadn’t had the attention of men in the past.
But there was something interesting about Erik Minger that drew
her. Perhaps the way he interacted with his little brother and the
children around him. And they did have one thing in common.
Helen wanted to share everything she knew with the eager minds
of children. When she once shared with her parents her interest in
becoming a teacher, Mama encouraged her to learn about running
a household. It was difficult trying to convince her that there was
more to life. God intended for women to use the gifts given to
them and do good. Isn’t that what the Bible admonished? Do good
and share with others? And who was needier than the children she
and Erik taught the lessons of life to today?
Helen straightened on the bicycle, and her pedaling feet
slowed. She and Erik? Where did that thought come from?
She biked on with vigor, waving at passersby she knew until
she came within sight of the homes clustered along the narrow
street in Amsterdam Noord. The blue sky framed the gabled roofs,
with several of the dwellings painted the cheerful colors of red and
blue. Pausing before her home, Helen dismounted and pushed the
bike up the walkway to be greeted by an array of blooming flowers. Mama loved her flower bed, and the posies displayed in the
window boxes added to the brightness of the day. Mama’s gardens
held so many tulips that when they blossomed in the spring one
could not walk from one end of the house to the other without
passing by colorful petals every three inches.
Helen propped the bike against the stately oak tree with a
wooden swing hanging from a thick branch that had given her
hours of enjoyment as a youngster, and hurried into the house. She
found her parents in the sitting room, gazing at a piece of paper.
They looked up as she approached, surprise on their faces. Helen
stared, wondering what they could be looking at.
“Hartelijk gefeliciteer!” Papa exclaimed. Helen continued to
stare. Why would Papa be offering profound congratulations,
unless. . .
She hurried to his side to see the large words, Teacher’s College
of Amsterdam. Her heart skipped a beat. Dare she even think? “Did
I. . .?”
“You did!” Papa announced, his eyes wide and bright. He patted
her shoulder. “They have accepted you.”
Helen could hardly believe it. She had applied many months
ago, and after time went by without a word, she thought for certain
she’d been rejected. Papa rejoiced, but Mama said little. Helen knew
what she was thinking—that her only daughter would be thrown
into an institution filled with strange ideas. For Helen, this day
had seen several dreams come true. And now with the icing spread
on this luscious cake—an acceptance into the Teacher’s College of
Amsterdam to begin her journey of becoming a teacher—the day
could not have ended more perfectly.
Helen turned and hugged her father close, inhaling the scent
of tobacco from his once-a-day pipe he smoked most evenings.
“I’m so proud,” he murmured. “You will do well.”
“Will she?” Mama wondered aloud. “It’s getting more and
more dangerous these days, Hendrick. How can you be happy that
our daughter is going away from us?”
“She’s hardly going away to another country,” he told her.
“Only to Amsterdam Center. And you, my darling Helen, will
excel above them all. I have great confidence.”
Helen would have danced around the room to match the joy
radiating in her heart if not for Mama’s glassy-eyed look and
reddened cheeks. And then Mama took an embroidered handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and began dabbing her
eyes. Helen’s cheer dissipated and she felt her mouth droop into
a frown of dismay. “Oh Mama, why are you crying? Can’t you be
happy for me?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid for you, Helen. I’m afraid for all of us.
There’s danger coming. I know it. And I don’t know what to do.”
Helen refused to worry about the unknown or the sounds she
heard earlier today near the Markermeer or anything about war
or invasions. Everything faded under the news of a fresh start in
college, and that’s all that mattered to her joy-filled heart.

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