Unlike some of the stern adults who sometimes frowned on our frolic, I had always thought that the laughter of little children in an empty cathedral was the most beautiful of all hymns of praise. And so we grew up, knowing only a God who enjoyed our presence as we skipped, ran and played through this building which was built for His glory.
One afternoon we played very late; and before we knew it, the darkness of the cathedral swallowed us up. I looked around. Through the beautiful stained-glass windows I saw a little light coming in from the streets around. Only the silhouettes of the Gothic pillars stood out in the darkness as they reached upward and upward.
“Let’s go home,” whispered Dot. “I’m scared.”
I was not. Slowly I went to the usher’s door that opened out to where Uncle Arnold lived. There was a Presence that comforted me, a deep peace in my heart. Even in the darkness, smelling the dust and dampness of the church building, I knew that the “Light of the World” was present. Was the Lord preparing me for some time in the future when I would need to know that His light is victorious over all darkness?
It was forty-five years later. Betsie and I walked to the square where roll call was being held in the concentration camp. It was still early, before dawn. The head of our barracks was so cruel that she had sent us out into the very cold outdoors a full hour too early.
Betsie’s hand was in mine. We went to the square by a different way from the rest of our barracks-mates. We were three as we walked with the Lord and talked with Him. Betsie spoke. Then I talked. Then the Lord spoke. How? I do not know. But both of us understood. It was the same Presence I had felt years before in the old cathedral in Haarlem.
The brilliant early morning stars were our only light. The cold winter air was so clear. We could faintly see the outlines of the barracks, the crematorium, the gas chamber and the towers where the guards were standing with loaded machine guns.
“Isn’t this a bit of heaven!” Betsie had said. “And, Lord, this is a small foretaste. One day we will see You face to face, but thank You that even now You are giving us the joy of walking and talking with You.”
Heaven in the midst of hell. Light in the midst of darkness. What a security!
Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid: for the LORD JEHOVAH is my strength and my song.
Isaiah 12:2
4
A Song in the Night
The war was over. Even before I left the concentration camp, I knew I would be busy helping those who had lost their way. Now I found myself starting just such a work in Bloemendaal. It was more than a home for the homeless; it was a refuge for those who had lost their way spiritually as well as physically.
Yet, because I had lived so close to death, looking it in the face day after day, I often felt like a stranger among my own people—many of whom looked upon money, honor of men, and success as the important issues of life. Standing in front of a crematorium, knowing that any day could be your day, gives one a different perspective on life. The words of an old German motto kept flashing in my mind:
What I spent, I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.
How well I understood the feeling of the artist who painted the picture of the corpse of a once wealthy man and entitled it, Sic transit gloria mundi—So passes the glory of this world. The material things of this world no longer excited me—nor would they ever again.
It was during this time that I visited Haarlem, the town where I had spent more than fifty years of my life. It was late in the evening as I walked through the streets. Waiting before a traffic light, I had a strange feeling that the people should fall in line five by five, as in the concentration camp. Instead, they chatted about insignificant things and when the light changed, they moved on without anyone shouting at them.
Walking the streets that night, however, I felt growing in me a tremendous desire to tell all men, especially those in bondage to material things, of the One who can set us free from all prisons: Jesus.
It was after midnight when I finally made my way to the Barteljorisstraat. There were few streetlights, but the moon and many stars were visible above the ancient rooftops of the familiar houses on the short street. I paused in front of the Beje on the corner of the small alley that came out in the midst of the street. I let my fingertips run across the door of the watchmaker’s shop. Even though the Beje was no longer my home, it was still part of my heart. Little did I dream that one day it would be set aside as a museum to commemorate my family and the hiding place of those precious Jews who had been saved from certain death at the hands of the Nazis.
I stood alone in the darkness, allowing myself the sweet luxury of remembering. How often had I put the shutters before the show window. Through this door I had walked on my first day of school, almost fifty years ago. Oh, what an unwilling pupil I had been, crying in fear of leaving the dear old house whose warmth in winter had protected me, whose windows had kept out the rain and mist, whose cheery fire had welcomed me and others in the family each night after the dinner dishes had been put away. Yet my father, knowing my fear, took me by the hand and led me through this door and out into the world of learning, into an unknown world of teachers and classrooms.
Now Father was dead. Only my heavenly Father remained. I ran my hand over the door, letting my fingers explore the cracks. It was no longer my hiding place. Others lived here now, and the world was my classroom; my only security came in knowing that underneath were the Everlasting Arms. How thankful I was for my heavenly Father’s strong hand around mine.
I looked into the small alley. It was almost pitch dark. I strained my ears and, in the far off recesses of my heart, could imagine the voices of Father, Betsie and the others. Had it been only a year ago? It seemed like centuries. “What an honor,” Father had said, “to give my life for God’s chosen people, the Jews.”
I felt the wall with my hands, then gently pressed my face against the cold stones. No, I was not dreaming. It was reality. The old Beje, the old hiding place, was no longer mine. Ravensbruck had taught me much I needed to learn. My hiding place was now in Jesus alone. Even though I was wandering the streets at midnight in a town that used to be my home but was now only a town, I knew the presence of the heavenly Father.
Suddenly the cathedral started to play its nostalgic chimes. Day and night through my lifetime I had heard the beautiful music from the Grote Kerk. It was not a dream, as I had often experienced in the concentration camp. It was real. I walked out of the shadows of the alley and made my way down the Barteljorisstraat to the Grote Markt. I paused to look at the cathedral which was silhouetted against the dark sky, framed into place by a million twinkling stars.
“Thank You, Jesus, that I am alive,” I said.
In my heart I heard Him reply, “Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world” (Matt. 28:30).
I stayed there for long minutes as the hands on the face of the great clock moved toward the hour. Then the chimes in the cathedral tower pealed forth once again, this time with the sounds of Luther’s famous hymn “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” I listened and heard myself singing the hymn, not in Dutch, but in German: “Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott.”
“How like You, Lord,” I half-chuckled, “that You would remind me of Your grace by letting me hear a German hymn.”
A policeman passed, looked at me and spoke a friendly word.
I said, “Good night, Policeman. A mighty fortress is our God.”
I was free.
By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went.
Hebrews 11:8
5
A Great Discovery
When my parents were married many years ago, they claimed Psalm 32:8 as their “life verse,” the promise which they felt was God’s assurance for them:
I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye
.
Now that Father and Mother were gone, this promise became the special directive for my life as well—God’s pledge to guide me in all my journeys. It was especially needed as I set out for my first trip to America.
The war had only been over a short time, and many Europeans wanted to go to America. However, few, if any, wanted to go for the same reason I did—to carry the gospel as a missionary to the Americans. For all of us, however, it was the same story when we applied for passage to America: “It is impossible to obtain papers.”
I prayed, “Lord, if it is Your will that I go to America, then You must provide the necessary papers.”
I soon discovered that man’s importunity is God’s opportunity. He uses our problems as building materials for His miracles. I began to understand that this was my first lesson in learning to trust Him completely, my first steps on the path to complete dependence on, and obedience to, His guidance. How much I had to learn!
At last all my papers were approved, except the final one—the most important one. I sat alone on a hard wooden bench in the hall of the Immigration Office in The Hague. Everyone coming out of the office warned those of us waiting in the hall, “That fellow in there is as hard as flint. He passes no one.”
“Lord,” I prayed silently, “I am willing to go or stay. It is up to You.”
“Hello, there! Don’t we know each other?” It was the voice of a middle-aged woman standing in front of me. I looked up into her face, trying vainly to recognize her.
“You’re Corrie ten Boom,” she laughed. “I’m one of your cousins, and this is Jan, my husband. I haven’t seen you for years, and of course, Jan has never seen you since we were married only six years ago.”
“Are you trying to go to America, also?” I asked.
“Oh no,” she laughed. “I’m visiting Jan. He has his office in this building.”
“Then perhaps you can help me,” I said, shaking his hand. I told him my story.
He was polite but said, “I’m sorry. I would like to be of service to my brand-new cousin, but that’s not my department. However, if you have trouble, ring me up.” He gave me his telephone number, and we shook hands again as he left.
I continued to wait. The “man of flint” left the office for coffee, and a young clerk took his place. Then it was my turn.
“You had better wait until my boss returns,” the clerk said when I told him where I wanted to go and why.
My shoulders sagged. “I cannot wait any longer. Won’t you please call this number?” I handed him the card that Jan had handed me earlier.
I prayed while he placed the call. Moments later he hung up. “All is arranged. I am approving your passport. You may make your trip to America.”
From there I traveled to Amsterdam to try to arrange passage on a ship of the Holland-America Line. However, another mountain loomed before me. The agent told me they would only put my name on the waiting list. “We will notify you in about a year,” he said.
“A year! But I must go now.” The agent just shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work.
Disappointed, I returned to the square in the center of the city. God had told me to go to America—of that I was certain. All my papers were in order. God had seen to that also. Now it was up to Him to move this mountain. Glancing across the street, I noticed a sign: AMERICAN EXPRESS COMPANY. Stepping into the office, I inquired, “Have you passenger accommodations on any of your freighters to America?”
The old clerk looked over his glasses and said, “You may sail tomorrow, Madam, if your papers are in order.”
“Oh, tomorrow is too sudden,” I said, hardly believing what I heard. “What about next week?”
“That too can be arranged,” he said. “We don’t have very many women your age who ship out on freighters. But if you are willing, so are we.”
Several weeks before I had met an American businessman who was visiting relatives in Holland. When I told him of my plans to visit America, he tried to discourage me. “It’s not easy to make one’s way in America,” he said.
“I believe you,” I told him. “But God has directed me and I must obey.”
He then gave me two checks, one small and one larger. “If you need it, use it,” he said. “You can repay me later.” I tucked them away for safekeeping.
So I arrived in New York as a missionary to America. I was only allowed to bring in fifty dollars, and of course, I knew no one. However, I found my way to the YWCA where I found a room and a place to leave my bags.
I had the address of a group of Hebrew-Christian immigrants who were meeting in New York. I made a phone call, and they invited me to come speak. Since they were German, I could not use the English lectures I had prepared on board the ship but had to speak to them in their native language. It was better, perhaps, for my English was rather hard to understand.
At the end of the week, after wandering around the city in a rather helpless daze, I went downstairs in the YWCA to pay my bill. The clerk looked at me sympathetically. “I am sorry, but our accommodations are so restricted that we cannot allow you to stay here any longer. One week is our limit. Do you have a forwarding address?”
“Yes. I just don’t know what it is yet.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, perplexed.
“God has another room for me,” I explained. “He just hasn’t told me what the address is. But I am not worried. He led me through Ravensbruck; He will surely see me through America as well.”
Suddenly the clerk remembered. “By the way, a letter came for you.”
Strange, I thought, as she handed me the envelope. How could I receive a letter? No one knows where I am staying. But there it was. I read it hurriedly and then turned to the clerk. “My forwarding address will be this house on 190th Street.”
“But why didn’t you tell me that before?” she asked.
“I didn’t know. It was in this letter. A woman that I do not know writes, ‘I heard you speak to the Jewish congregation. I am aware that it is almost impossible to get a room in New York City. My son happens to be in Europe, so you are welcome to use his room as long as you are in New York.’”
The lady at the desk was more amazed than I. However, I reasoned, perhaps she had not experienced miracles before.
I rode the subway to 190th Street. The house at the address was a large, multistoried building occupied by many families. I found the correct apartment at the end of a hall, but no one was home. Certainly my hostess did not expect her invitation to be an eleventh-hour answer to my problem. I arranged myself among my suitcases on the floor and, leaning against the wall, soon began to drift off to sleep.
In those last moments before sleep took over, my mind drifted back to Ravensbruck. I could feel Betsie’s bony hand touching my face. It was pitch-black in Barracks 28 where seven hundred other prisoners were asleep. Each day hundreds of women died, and their bodies were fed to the ovens. Betsie had grown so weak, and we both knew that death was always moments away.
“Are you awake, Corrie?” Her weak voice sounded so far away.
“Yes, you wakened me.”
“I had to. I need to tell you what God has said to me.”
“Shhh. We hinder the sleep of the girls around us. Let us lie with our faces toward each other.”
The cot was so small. We could only lie like spoons in a box, our knees bumping against the knees of the other. We used our two coats as covers, along with the thin black blanket provided by the Nazis.
I pulled the coat over our heads so we could whisper and not be heard. “God showed me,” Betsie said, “that after the war we must give to the Germans that which they now try to take away from us: our love for Jesus.”
Betsie’s breath was coming in short gasps. She was so weak, her body wasted away until there was nothing but her thin skin stretched over brittle bones. “Oh, Betsie,” I exclaimed, “you mean if we live we will have to return to Germany?”
Betsie patted my hand under the blanket. “Corrie,
there is so much bitterness. We must tell them that the Holy Spirit will fill their hearts with God’s love.”
I remembered Romans 5:5. Only that morning some of the women in the barracks had huddled with us in the corner while I read from our precious Bible. But I shuddered. Germany. If I were ever released from this horrible place, could I ever return to Germany?
Betsie’s weak voice whispered on. “This concentration camp here at Ravensbruck has been used to destroy many, many lives. There are many other such camps throughout Germany. After the war they will not have use for them anymore. I have prayed that the Lord will give us one in Germany. We will use it to build up lives.”
No, I thought. I will return to my simple job as a watchmaker in Holland and never again set my boot across the border.
Betsie’s voice was quivering, so I could barely understand her. “The Germans are the most wounded of all the people in the world. Think of that young girl guard who swore in such filthy language yesterday. She was only seventeen or eighteen years old, but did you see how she was beating that poor old woman with a whip? What a job there is to do after the war.”
I found a place where I could put my hand. It was such a stupid problem, I thought, yet it was a small cot and it was difficult to position my hands and arms. My hand rested on Betsie’s left side, just on her heart. I felt her ribs—only skin and bones. How long would she be able to live? Her heart was fluttering inside the rib cage like a dying bird, as though it would stop any moment.
I rested and thought. How close to God’s heart was Betsie. Only God could see in such circumstances the possibility for ministry in the future—ministry to those who even now were preparing to kill us. Most of all, to see in such a place as Ravensbruck an opportunity to bless and build up the lives of our enemies. Yes, only the Lord Jesus could have given Betsie such a vision.