Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends – John 15:13 (from Rika's prayer card, at her requiem)
World War 2 novels have a leg up: danger, heroes, evil, but a reminder of hope. The Boy Between Two Worlds has another leg up, as its story is true: two people: Rika and Waldemar fall in love against all odds. Rika was a spirited Dutch woman and mother of four, separated from her husband; Waldemar, almost half her age, was an émigré from Suriname. Rika white, Waldy black, scandalizing her family and the larger community by their relationship and son (also Waldy). Rika and Waldemar work themselves from nothing to prosperous owners of a seaside bed and breakfast.
Never being ones to follow the straight and narrow, they also hid Jews during the war.
Until they were picked up and sent to a concentration camp.
For short periods of time, things went well(ish). Rika received baskets of fruit and scarves from her family and friends. And, Waldemar's skin color was accepted: In an environment designed to strip people of their identity and reduce them to an amorphous mass, Waldemar’s skin color ensured that he was never just a number. He remained an individual, a person, and that fact alone provided him with extra opportunities. (p. 134)
This is a biography, so no happy endings here, although there are questions. How do you live in the face of evil? How do you survive in such a world? How do you survive if left behind? How do you move on?
It's hard for a book like The Boy Between Two Worlds to be just a book when it stands in the shadow of memoirs like The Diary of Anne Frank and Man's Search for Meaning, which define what it means to resist evil and remain hopeful. Their voices sound original, but when The Boy Between Two Worlds is optimistic, I wondered to what degree this was wish fulfillment.
I want to believe that I would stand up for the downtrodden if we faced something similar. Most of us believe this, however, and few act.
In assessing what happened in the Netherlands under Nazi occupation, later generations were quick to draw hard lines between good and evil, but they hadn’t experienced the war and all its ambiguity firsthand, and it was all too easy to see things as black or white. But those who had lived through it knew better: only the dead were blameless. All survivors had something to feel guilty about—if only the mere fact that they were still alive while so many others, some of whom had surely been better, braver, more deserving than they, were not. (p. 175)
I appreciated The Boy Between Two Worlds, but would have liked it more if the characters were drawn with greater chiaroscuro. I wanted to love this book and its characters, but never really fell in love.