Liberation Day

A new work in progress, about new beginnings.

I’ve had this idea for a while. Somebody said they liked my magical-realism groove. Somebody else said I should write a World War II story ‘because that suits your demographic.’ (Old, British male, obsessed with conflict? I’m not sure about that…) But when I put the two together (that genre-mixing thing, again) the elements fizzed beautifully, and the pitch kinda wrote itself…

Bob is dead.

A member of the Dutch resistance, executed by the Nazis on the last day of the war, he never hears the bullet, but a choir of angels and a thunderous applause. He’s in heaven.

Ophelia, his guardian angel, shows him around, explaining: the war is over, and if he looks a long way down, he can see the lower circles of hell. Hoping to see Hitler, Bob leans too far, and falls a million miles.

And wakes, next to a beautiful woman. He’s in Amsterdam, in 2025. Disoriented, he thinks she’s his girlfriend, Zizi, but it’s her great-granddaughter, Zaza.

Life begins anew, and heaven must have been a dream, despite the angel wings tattoo he doesn’t remember getting. But when Ophelia shows up - stepping out of an Alphonse Mucha painting - to bring him back upstairs, he’ll need all his worldly nature to stay on planet Earth.

I did some writing, liked the result, and submitted it for the London Festival of Writing Friday Night Live contest and, as previously mentioned, it got into the shortlist. I’ve been going nuts about this ever since.

Of Shortlists and Liberation

Quite a few people asked if I could share this, and I’d love to. I’d also love to read some of the other finalists first 500 words (the Jericho website might be a good place to do that, except I’m an attention-seeking type, so I’m doing it here). Maybe we can compare notes?

Beyond that, I’d love to hear some feedback on this one. Does this story have legs? Do you think you’d still be interested after these first few pages? Let me know what you think.

So, as promised, it’s time for the actual writing.

Liberation Day

Dead, at the age of twenty-one.

No hope of avoiding it now. Not after they’d marched him all the way to the middle of the dunes, the Nazi hufters. Bob scans the horizon. A chilly corn-grey sun peers through thin cloud, announcing the watery dawn of the last day he’ll ever see.

Was there no way back? A bit late to cave in and volunteer the names of his resistance colleagues after holding out for three days - beaten, starved, and beaten again in case he didn’t get the message the first time. But ratting out his friends wasn’t an option, even in the unlikely event the Germans would believe a last-moment confession. He’d rather die with his self-respect intact.

Of course, getting involved with the resistance in the first place was a decision he’d rather skipped over - grabbing the chance the first time Wim mentioned it, never giving a thought to where it might lead: suspicion, betrayal and capture.

Imprisonment, torture, and execution.

“Hier. Einfach.”

The Germans’ mean-mouthed Captain calls a halt to the march, and motions the prisoners - Bob, and two others, unknown - to stand in a dug-out section of dune just beyond the path, where three massive stakes have been hammered into the sand. They’ve used this place before.

While the other moffen tie his hands without ceremony - not wasting a last cigarette on a Partisaner - he drinks in the view. The marram grass waving in the breeze. The salt sea air. The beach, just near, where he’d taken his girl, only three weeks ago, for a stolen moment of love. My God. What was he losing?

Six rifles click. His eyes snap shut.

I’ll never see the beauty of a heron in flight again.

“Ready.”

Or my girlfriend, naked.

“Aim.”

In daylight, at least.

“Fire.”

I’m sorry, Zizi.

Crack.

Only, it’s not a rifle shot.

It’s a handclap.

Then another. Then, more. A thunderous applause. Beethoven’s ninth. A choir singing his name.

He opens one cautious eye.

It’s amazing. A salmon-pink sky wreathes clouds around a tower of Babel, seeming to spell out ‘Welcome, Bob van Zandt’ Fireworks pop on all sides. Crowds gather, smiling. Faces from all corners of the world, cheering him on as he walks up a palatial staircase, dumbstruck, to where the choir stands.

A choir of angels. Before he can acknowledge what’s happening, one angel picks up her skirt and runs to him, laughing like a child.

“I’m Ophelia. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

“Around? But, no. Is this…?”

“Heaven, Bob,” she answers for him, smiling like the sun. “It’s heaven!”

“But they…” It’s too much to take in. “Wasn’t I…?”

“Yes, Bob,” she whispers, face serious. “It’s over. Don’t worry.”

He reorders his thoughts.

“So…, we win?”

“You’ve already won! There’s no time up here. See down there?” She leads him to a balcony.

“If you look really hard…”

“Yes?”

“You can see Hitler.”

It is a long way down, he has to admit.

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