Peter Van Woerden - In The Secret Place: A Story Of The Dutch Underground

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Text originally published in 1954 under the same title.

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Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

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IN THE SECRET PLACE:

A STORY OF THE DUTCH UNDERGROUND

By

Peter Van Woerden

Contents

To my MOTHER who never ceased to pray for me who went to be with the Lord in 1953 to join my grandfather and the others gone before and who now awaits the Great Reunion

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. (Ps. 91:1)

IN THE SECRET PLACE

nnn nnnnnnnn the low drone of great metal birds detached itself from the early morning sounds and approached with a gradually deepening roar. Across the little land wedged between Germany, Belgium, and the ever-threatening sea, the people of Holland stirred restlessly as the strange sound shattered the dawn. With a strange feeling of foreboding, some awakened from their last peaceful sleep for several years to hurry to a window. Below them, crowds of early risers stood in the streets, talking excitedly and gesturing angrily, forgetting the chill draft and the hour.

The war has begun! The Germans are invading our country! blared every radio newscaster. The date was May 10, 1940.

At last it had come. All of Hitlers threats were to be a reality. Like a flood, proud arrogant soldiers goose-stepped across Holland, suppressed the desperate resistance of a brave little army, and occupied the land.

Only a short time after the first news of the invasion, we watched with frustration as the tanks rumbled down the narrow cobblestone streets of the old towns. Young, healthy-looking soldiers with triumphant smiles on their faces drove the powerful machinery. All but the very young understood what this occupation was to mean. The stories of cruel concentration camps, the brutal persecution of the Jews, and the activities of the German secret police, the Gestapo, had been front-page news in the daily papers for some time. A great bitterness enveloped the hearts of many who had fought, or whose parents had striven, to regain this small land from the sea only to have to turn it over to these marching men who sang their songs of victory as they paraded past. This was to be the beginning of five years of occupation, years when a godless ideology was to be imposed, years when freedom of thinking and action would be forfeited, years when these staunch people would become the slaves of a German tyranny.

Just a few miles outside of Amsterdam is the quiet city of Haarlem. It is a typically Dutch town, with canals and quaint gabled houses surrounded by flower and vegetable gardens. In the center of the town is the Groote Market plaza on which stand the seventeenth-century Meat Hall, holding national archives; the church of St. Bavo; and the town hall. The church, a fifteenth-century structure, has a noteworthy organ presented by William I. It is still one of the worlds finest and largest. The town is the birthplace of Lourents Coster, said by the villagers to have been the inventor of movable type. His statue is in the square, and all visitors are proudly told of his great contribution.

Haarlem is the center of world trade in flower bulbs. The surrounding countryside is entirely given over to the cultivation of tulips, narcissus, anemones, crocuses, japonicas, and hyacinths. Here also railway carriages, printers type, cotton fabrics, and paint are manufactured. There is trade in cheese, butter, and cattle. Printing establishments produce Dutch bank notes and postage stamps. There are also breweries and textile mills.

A short distance from the plaza is a little brick gabled house, just like its neighbors. This is the home of the schoolmaster, Mijn heer van Woerden. Within the walls of this home, the family included Fred, 21; Bob, 20; Aty, 18; Cocky, 14; Elske, 9; and Peter, 16.

Peter was at home with his family the morning the Germans marched through the city. He was slight for a boy, with dark brown hair that would not obey the struggling brush, and fair light skin. He had slightly protruding ears, a quaint pointed nose, and a wide crooked grin that suggested a mischievous personality. His outstanding feature, however, was his eyes. They were large and luminous; and if one took time to notice, they suggested the soul of an artist or a musician. As he stood and watched history in the making, understanding only too well what was happening, he did not know that God was going to use the next years to change the course of his life.

I am Peter. This is my story.

After only five days of war, the Dutch were ordered to gather around the German trucks to hear read to them the first Nazi decrees. They were not severe, and at first it seemed that the Dutch way of life would be altered only by the unfamiliar sight of foreign soldiers on the streets. Then, little by little, Hitler began to tighten his grip on the land which he had overrun so quickly. New restrictions and regulations were issued. At the park entrances, in restaurants, and other public places, little signs began to appearJews forbidden, or Jews and dogs not admitted. Food became difficult to obtain; ration books were distributed. The tension increased, and everyone realized that a long miserable occupation had begun.

The next two years passed slowly for Holland. One Sunday morning two years after the Luftwaffe had flown overhead and the armored columns of the Wehrmacht had first slam-banged along the roads, I rose early as usual, dressed, told my family goodbye for the day, and took a train to Velsen, where I was organist for the Reformed Church. The year before, the old organist had decided that at 71 he was ready for, retirement and had accepted his pension, leaving an important vacancy. The church council had decided to hire a professional musician to fill his place. I had been so very, very proud when, after competing against quite a number of older and more experienced colleagues, I was chosen. On this particular morning, as was my habit, I arrived an hour before the service was to begin to exercise my fingers on the beautiful old pipe organ. As the beams of the morning sun streamed through the time-glorified panes of the stained-glass windows, I let my mind wander to dreams of success, glory, and fame. Then the great doors were opened, and people filled the auditorium; the minister in his long clerical robes appeared before the beautifully carved pulpit, and the service began.

When it was time for the sermon, I sat myself comfortably in a chair in a corner of the gallery. Although the sermon, as usual, was delivered with great and lengthy eloquence, I did not pay much attention. In my corner, I dreamed on, centering my plans and imagination on the great desire of my hearta musical career.