Corrie ten Boom's Sister Betsie Prays for the Guards

The train halted in a spray of steam and the guards began shouting before the doors opened. We stumbled out onto the platform at Fürstenberg, women and girls pressed together, our clogs sliding on the wet planks. Betsie walked just ahead of me, her arm linked with Corrie’s, both of them thin from the months already spent in Vught. The SS men formed us into columns and pointed toward the camp gates two kilometers away. One of them struck a woman who had knelt to retie her shoe; the blow sent her cap into the mud.

Someone began to hum. The tune spread backward through the line until the words lifted above the shuffle of feet. Betsie’s voice was clear and steady. Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom. Other voices joined, some cracked from thirst, some barely above a whisper. The guards glanced at one another but did not stop the singing. We kept the hymn going until the first barracks came into view, the high fence, the watchtowers.

Inside the compound the air smelled of smoke and disinfectant. We were counted twice, then marched again to a low wooden building marked 28. The bunks stood three tiers high, straw spilling from torn sacks. We climbed into the middle tier because the top was already taken and the bottom was slick with something dark. The straw moved under us. Fleas. They rose in clouds when we lay down.

Betsie sat up at once. She reached for the small pouch Corrie kept under her dress and drew out the Bible. The light was poor, only a single bulb at the far end of the aisle, but she found the place she wanted. First Thessalonians. She read in Dutch, her finger tracing the lines so Corrie could follow. Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all.

A woman two bunks over began to weep. Betsie closed the book and folded her hands. She thanked God for the assignment that kept her and Corrie together. She thanked God for the Bible that had passed inspection. She thanked God for the crowding that would let more women hear the words. Then she thanked God for the fleas.

Corrie’s voice rose in protest. Betsie answered without raising her own voice. The verse said in all circumstances. She asked God to bless the guards who had brought us here, to turn their hearts, to keep them from the worst they were capable of. Around us the straw rustled as other women shifted closer. No one laughed. The prayer went on until the bulb flickered and the block leader shouted for silence.

Morning roll call came before light. We stood in rows while the guards walked the lines, counting and recounting. One man stopped in front of our tier and stared at Betsie. She met his eyes and spoke a single sentence in German. The words were too soft for me to catch, but the guard’s face changed. He moved on without striking anyone in our row that day.

Days passed in the same pattern. Work details left at dawn and returned after dark. Betsie stayed inside because her cough had worsened. She read whenever the guards were absent. The group around her grew. Some women came only for the warmth of bodies packed together; others came for the words. Betsie prayed for the guards each evening, naming the ones whose faces we knew. She asked that their families be spared what they were doing to us.

The fleas never left. They bit through every layer of clothing. Betsie thanked God for them again one night when the block was searched and the guards missed the Bible because they would not enter the infested straw. Corrie stared at her sister but said nothing.