Free News From Berlin by Otto de Kat Page A

but so many others:yes. Was it true about the German Foreign Office being a breeding ground of resistance, as Carl and Trott maintained? She found it hard to believe. Watse’s opinion was probably closer to the truth. He was a Frisian, and a skater beyond compare. She treasured her memory of skating with him over the frozen lakes of Sneek and Gaastmeer back in the winter of 1938, when they were practising for the Eleven Cities Tour. Not a soul ahead of them, clear ice as hard as marble. She had made the trip especially from Berlin. Carl had sputtered a little, but she had appealed to their bond of childhood friendship. The kind of bond that whenever little Emma was asked who her friends were, Watse’s was always the first name to come up. It was late in December that she received a telegram from him saying “ ELEVEN CITIES TOUR, YOUR PRESENCE URGENTLY REQUIRED ”. She couldn’t let Watse skate the whole course on his own, it wouldn’t be fair.
    And so she went, three months after the phoney Munich Agreement, which professed peace, but which stank of war. It was a wrench leaving Carl behind, but Emma was delighted to escape the menaced and menacing city for a while.
    They skated side by side through the polders towards the frozen Sneekermeer, Watse on speed skates, Emma wearing the traditional strap-on type, on which she was as graceful asshe was swift. The low sun in their eyes, frosted reeds in tufts on the banks, a bridge here, a hole hacked in the ice for ducks there, they danced their way to Sneek. Same rhythm, same strokes, same style, although Watse slowed down a fraction. The first goal was reached without any pause or hesitation: the Pavilion on the edge of the Sneekermeer. They had gone to sit by the window overlooking the lake, with skating figures in the distance silhouetted against a cloudless sky: a frozen landscape resembling a painting by Avercamp or the meticulous Schelfhout, masters of the Dutch winter scene. Watse had looked at her searchingly, it was such a long time since they had spoken.
    “How are things over there, Emma, are you coping alright? Is Carl still working for those gangsters?”
    Subtlety was not his trademark. Honesty was. A man of few words, but when he did say something it was usually worth hearing.
    His question sounded like a pistol shot. Emma knew he liked Carl well enough; he had come to visit them once in Dahlem, and they had agreed on many issues. Carl had told him about the efforts he and Trott were making to get in touch with whoever was against the Nazis. Watse had left, taciturn as ever, and downcast.
    “Do you remember us playing in the park, when a boy got hold of me and threw me over? You were there in a trice. You grabbed him and pushed him in the pond. And fished him out again. I believe I considered that quite normal at the time, but from then on I knew I had nothing to fear as long as I was with you. If worst comes to worst, Carl and I will come and hide at your place, alright?” Emma laughed, putting her hand on his arm. “So stay right where you are, Watse, and don’t look so serious.”
    In retrospect, their skating trip on the frozen Sneekermeer had been one of the most glowing, light-hearted days of her life. They had skated as never before, nimbly and fast, Watse and she close together, hands clasped behind their backs, the sun just above the reeds, the sky like a dome over the countryside. The world was cast in ice, and it was theirs, theirs alone. Legs, feet, and wide, gliding strokes, nothing more. There was hardly any wind, the ice was hard and dry, no cracks or ridges. Late in the afternoon, when the sun had almost gone and darkness began to fall over the landscape, they stopped. Carrying their skates in their hands, they set off towards a bus stop. Half past four, and they could hear the bus approaching from a kilometre’s distance. Fields stretched away in dark, chessboard squares as the brightly lit vehicle floated towardsthem. Watse waved; they