One Special Delivery

My name is Levi Meijer, and I want to be a world-famous artist. I was born August 12, 1930. I am a Jew.

My family lived on a small farm near Arnhem, May of 1940, when the Germans destroyed our home. We had to run to the woods in the dead of night to escape, while the house our family built was ruined. I hate the Germans.

The Jansens, our neighbors, were the nicest family; we always played with their grandchildren when they were in town. That night, though, I knew it would not be one of those visits. Almost the instant we were inside, there was a pounding at the door that scared us all - especially my mother. I still remember the face of the soldier that barged into the Jansens’ home. A crazed blue-eyed zealot. “I am Captain Heinrich Richter,” the terrifying man announced. “My men and I are searching the area for a family of Jews, by the name Meijer. Do you know the whereabouts of these fugitives?”

He went after my little sister Evi first. When his blue eyes swung in my direction, I felt my blood run cold.

“Michael!” I bravely answered, my jaw set.

“Michael! You’ll make a great soldier. Would you like to serve the furor one day?”

“Yes!” I blurted out, a bit nervously this time.

“Which would make you?” The captain rounded on my parents.

I have never been so terrified in my life; he questioned my parents and the Jansens so intensely. I was sure we were going to be caught, that he was going to discover that we were not really Jansens, and it felt like I had lost all control of my body for a short time.

This man is pure evil.

In a haze, I shook my head no to a question I don’t even remember. I watched the captain grab a fistful of cake in his hand, take a couple bites, then drop it right back onto the table and wipe his hand on Mr. Jansen.

I will never eat lemon cake again. I need to use the water closet.

The next day, my parents and I left for Eindhoven. I felt terrible leaving Evi behind, but I understood why. She would be safer on the Jansens’ farm until we could book passage out of the - away from that captain.

My father presented me with new papers; he said I was to go by Alexander now, and it took me a while to start responding to the name. Within weeks of the German occupation, the school I was attending in Eindhoven became overcrowded, and eventually it closed to house the German soldiers. From then on, my school lessons took place in the garage of one of the larger homes in town. It was strange going to school without Evi, I missed her all the time.

In the afternoons, my father had arranged for me to work at a delivery service - mostly running packages and dry cleaning for soldiers - and the nights were my own, provided I didn’t get into trouble. Some of the older boys from the delivery service would smoke cigarettes (if they could get them) and talk about how much they hated the Germans. I could never summon the courage to speak; I wanted to say that I hated them too, especially that captain. I wanted to say that I’d do anything to get our old life back, but I didn’t know whether I could trust anyone with my secret.

One night our boss, Lambert Van Dijk, threw open the door, yelling at us to go home and keep our mouths shut about the Germans. The other boys scattered immediately. I didn’t move.

“Alexander, right?”

“Yes sir,” I replied.

“You don’t talk much, do you? While the other boys are running their mouths and bragging, I never hear you speak. Why is that?” Lambert inquired.

“My father always said you learn more by listening, Mr. van Djik.”

He lowered his voice. “Smart man, your father. You’re Judah’s boy, yes?”

My face flushed with panic. I shook my head.

“It’s okay boy, who do you think arranged your new papers? Come inside, I have a special job for someone that doesn’t run their mouth, and call me Lambert.”

I followed him to his office. He was a smaller man than my father, but tough, and for his size, very strong. I remember my father telling me that he was a “Goddamned terror in The Great War, and not to be trifled with.” As Lambert pulled a book from the shelf behind his desk, I heard the faint clicking of a lock, and felt my eyes widen as he slid the bookshelf sideways, revealing a small corridor that led to a stairwell.

“This is my real office,” he said quietly.

In the corridor, he flipped a switch on the wall and the bookcase slid closed behind us. We descended the staircase, at the bottom of which sat a much larger office. A sizable drawing table was piled with dozens of fake passports, beautiful art hung from the walls and sat partially completed on an easel, and in the center of the sat a massive workbench, laden with tools and explosive materials.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, holy shit indeed. Do you know what it is that I really do?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He smiled like the devil. “I kill Germans, the best way I know how. But my hands aren’t what they used to be, and I understand you are a bit of an artist yourself, is that correct?”

“I want to be.”

“That’s good, I am an artist too. I could use a pair of small but practiced hands to aid me. In exchange for helping me, I’ll teach you to be an artist like me, does this sound fair to you?”

“Would I help you kill Germans, like Captain Richter?” I asked.

“Well...it’s a bit frightening that you already have a target in mind, but of course, my dear boy.”

“Then, yes. How do you do it?”

He smiled. “How does anyone deliver a special package? In a brown paper box.”

* * *

Lambert taught me everything. Over four years, not only did he help me become a true artist, but he also taught me how to make fake passports, and - most importantly - our "brown paper boxes.” We made countless boxes for the resistance and eliminated many German soldiers. One night, I returned from a delivery to hear my father in Lambert’s office, their shadows cast on the wall where I could see.

“I didn’t want Levi involved, Lambert! You should’ve asked my permission!”

“He’s a natural though - a goddamn natural! We couldn’t do this without him! Look, Judah…my hands aren’t what they used to be,” he raised his hands, which trembled constantly.

“How long has this been going on?”

“A few years now...this is the worst yet, though.”

My father spun around and saw me.

“Levi! Get in here!”

“Yes, father.”

“You should’ve told me what you were up to. You are done as of now - do you understand?”

“But I want to fight!”

“See Judah! He’s a chip off the old block; piss and vinegar, just like you in the Great War.”

A nostalgic smile flitted across my father’s face, and he sighed.

“Fine…but no unnecessary risks. You take care of him while he’s here, do you understand me Lambert? He is my only son. Make sure he is safe.”

“Deal!” Lambert and I said in unison.

“And for God’s sake, don’t tell your mother. If she asks about your hours, you let me answer.”

A few weeks later, a man marched into the lobby at work. It was him - Captain Richter. Panic welled inside me as he asked the whereabouts of his personal effects from Stalingrad. My hands shook as I flipped the pages of our logbook.

“They haven’t arrived, sir,” I replied, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.

“It’s been weeks; this is unacceptable! I am at the Crowne Hotel, room 613. The moment they arrive, I want you,” he barked, pushing his finger hard into my chest, “to deliver them personally. The concierge will let you up. Do you understand, or do I need to speak slower?”

“No sir, I understand. You will definitely get what’s coming to you,” I said without thinking.

Oh shit. The panic grew.

He briefly gave me a strange look, but dismissed it and strode back outside. I sprinted to Lambert’s office.

“He was here!”

“Who?”

“The captain that has been hunting my family.”

That devilish grin spread across his face again. “Do you know where he is staying?”

“Yes.”

“What did he come here for?”

“His personal effects.”

“You mean this?” he asked, sliding a large trunk out from under a blanket. The latch was engraved with a name: Captain Heinrich Richter.

“I kept its arrival off our books,” Lambert said casually, though his eyes showed his excitement.

He picked the lock, and inside were what could only be surmised as “trophies.” Gold teeth, gems, a set of silverware, some journals, and other personal items. It took us a week, but we were able to build a “brown paper box” that fit with the rest of the items.

“Tonight’s the night, boy. He wanted you to drop it off, right?”

“Yes. Don’t tell my dad I did this.”

“Not a word.”

I set the timer for forty minutes, loaded the delivery wagon and set out for the Crown Hotel. I had never delivered a bomb myself. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I breathed slowly to calm myself - I had never felt so alive.

I arrived with twenty minutes left and informed the concierge of the delivery. He provided me with a cart and escorted me to room 613. I checked my watch as we opened the door.

Ten minutes left. The room was completely empty.

“Where is the captain?” I asked.

“I believe he is at his usual spot, Café Chocolate. He’s quite taken with a young woman there. I have specific instructions to show a ‘Maria’ in, if she ever visits.”

Oh, God - that’s my mother, you piece of shit.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He’s usually there until closing.”

“Right. Well, the captain left me specific instructions on where to leave his trunk. I’ll just set this out for him, and be right back out,” I said, hoping the concierge would not follow me into the room. I pushed the cart inside, letting the door close behind me, and opened the trunk.

Seven minutes left. Sweating, I opened the brown paper box and extended the timer by five hours, then hid the trunk beneath his bed and hurried out.

“Thanks for your help, sir, “I faked a smile. “I’m sure the captain will be most pleased when he returns.”

I rushed to the café to warn my mother. I knew I had to ensure she was alone to avoid raising suspicion, so I waited and watched as that bastard grabbed at her, hands sticky with chocolate cake.

Four hours left.

He and four other soldiers all got roaring drunk. One by one, the others fell asleep at the table, until he was the last one standing. The café closed. He followed my mother into the café unbuckling his belt.

There is no way she would do this!

The lights in the café go out, and I hear a commotion.

To hell with it, I thought. I can’t just sit here while that monster tries to lay his hands on my mother. I burst through the café door, just in time to see Captain Richter slam his face on the bar top and fall to the floor, dead.

“Levi! What are you doing here?!”

“What am I doing?! What are you doing?!”

“Killing Captain Richter! Now quickly, get your father...”