To Die Beautiful

Description

A heartrending novel based on a true story of love, loyalty, and the limits we confront when our deepest values are tested, by award-winning writer Buzzy Jackson
 
How far would you go to protect the people and country you love?
 
It’s 1940 and Hannie Schaft is a shy nineteen-year-old law student living in the Nazi-occupied Netherlands with ambitious goals for her future. But dreams die in wartime, and Hannie’s closest friends are no longer safe as fascism insidiously rises in her country. Hiding them is not enough. Hannie may be young but she can’t stand aside as the menace of Nazi evil tightens its grip. Driven by love and moral outrage, Hannie soon becomes an armed member of the Dutch Resistance movement.

Hannie discovers her own untapped ferocity—wearing lipstick and heels to lure powerful Nazis close and assassinate them at point-blank range, and bombing munitions factories. As humanity collapses around her, Hannie finds a chosen family of friends within the Resistance and falls in love with a dashing fellow resister at a tremendous cost. Her greatest weapon is her determination to “stay human” (blijf menselijk) . . . a promise increasingly difficult to keep. 
 
As Hannie is drawn deeper into a web of plots, disguises and assassinations, whispers spread like wildfire among enemy and friend alike. They all know of her, if not her name: she’s “the Girl with Red Hair.” A match for any Nazi soldier. A true threat. And a target.
 
To Die Beautiful is a timely look at how fascism flourishes and what good people do to fight back. Based on real events, To Die Beautiful is told with the drama and emotional resonance of meticulously researched history.”Exquisitely balanced between cloak-and-dagger secrecy, the grinding realities of waiting out your quarry, and the crushing fear of discovery, To Die Beautiful displays the courage and power of a woman committed to doing what is right in a world gone terribly wrong.”
—Booklist

“This isn’t just a brilliant novel, it’s a measuring stick you’ll use determine what lengths you would go to protect those you love. How much would you risk and how much could you possibly endure? The legendary Hannie Schaft set the bar for all of us. We may not make it to her heights, but this inspiring book will expand our awareness of what’s possible, and haunt you in the best possible way.”
—Jamie Ford, New York Times bestselling author of The Many Daughters of Afong Moy

“Count­less books have been writ­ten about the Holo­caust . . . To Die Beau­ti­ful is dif­fer­ent. Buzzy Jackson’s nov­el opens the door to a world in which ordi­nary non-Jews, often in the first flush of youth and promise, risk their lives, refus­ing to let evil con­tin­ue. . . . With razor-sharp authen­tic­i­ty and basic ten­der­ness, Buzzy Jack­son restores our own sense of humanity.”
—Jewish Book Council

“[A] stunning novel.”
—The Denver Post

“[A] made-for-the-big-screen narrative of high stakes and gripping drama.”
—Boulder Weekly

“I wish I’d written To Die Beautiful. Buzzy Jackson is a very talented writer and To Die Beautiful is headed for the best-seller list. So, be the first on your block . . .”
—Alan Furst

“Buzzy Jackson recreates Hannie Schaft’s incendiary life out of a handful of ash and sparks. An unforgettable alloy of death and hope, To Die Beautiful is a heartrending and breathstopping novel of resistance – the more so for being the essence of truth.”            
—Elizabeth Wein, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Code Name Verity

“Yes, To Die Beautiful is inspiring, empowering, and timely, compellingly detailed and impressively researched, but better still, it’s an immersive story of a terrifying warren of history through which our guide is the sort of hero we all need now: relatable and resolute and absolutely right. I am grateful to Buzzy Jackson for the introduction to the indomitable Hannie Schaft, a warrior I know I’ll be thinking about for a long time to come.”
—Laurie Frankel, New York Times bestselling author of This Is How It Always Is

“In To Die Beautiful, Buzzy Jackson has taken the historical facts that are known about the brief, heroic life of Hannie Schaft and transformed them into a captivating novel about a woman who was utterly fearless and totally determined to exact revenge upon certain notorious Nazis and their Dutch collaborators… Let us never forget Hannie.” 
—Journal-News (Ohio)

“This poignant and powerful novel is based on the true story of Hannie (Jannetje) Schaft (1920-1945). . . . At its heart, this is a novel of strength and loyalty that graphically demonstrates how committed single individuals can indeed impact much larger configurations.”
—Historical Novels Society Review

“In this thrilling fictional debut, Buzzy Jackson merges her fascinating historical research about the women of the Dutch resistance with evocative and pacy storytelling. To Die Beautiful is a riveting, moving and important novel about the courage it takes to stand up for what is right. Hannie Schaft is an inspiration.”
—Judy Batalion, New York Times bestselling author of The Light of Days

“To Die Beautiful brings Hannie alive and I finished it in almost one gulp! What an amazing, inspiring, true-life hero she was. Her youth, her red-headed beauty, her innocence and her ferocity. This is a story about a young girl fighting with all her life against fascism. As the first-hand memories of WWII are soon fading, we need story-tellers like Buzzy Jackson to carry them on. There is an urgency at this time to remember and acknowledge how women have stepped up and will step up to the fight. And we need just these kinds of books to give voice to the women who for so long were muted in the official accounts. An engrossing read.”
—Gwen Strauss, The Nine: The True Story of a Band of Women Who Survived the Worst of Nazi Germany
Buzzy Jackson is the award-winning author of three books of nonfiction and has a PhD in history from the University of California, Berkeley. A recent fellow at the Edith Wharton Writers-in-Residence, she is also a member of the National Book Critics Circle. She lives in Colorado.Chapter 1

Autumn 1940

I  wasn’t always an only child.

Sitting on the chipped sink before me, the silver bird waits, frozen in flight, a silhouette like a bomber plane with two wings outstretched, tail swirling into a flirtatious spiral. A sparrow. I’d tried it on the last time I went to a music concert. Months ago.

It was Annie’s pin, of course. Father gave it her after the real sparrow flew away. I was young, about four at the time, so Annie was nine. It had been after midnight, and I was asleep when Annie poked me in the arm.

“Johanna, look.” Holding a candle in one hand, she pointed with the other to the floor beside the bed we shared. There stood a small brown-and-gray bird, his head cocked to look at us as if listening to Annie’s words. He peeped. I gasped and Annie threw her hand across me. “Shh!”

“Let him fly out the window,” I said.

“I tried,” she said. “But he flew right back in.”

I didn’t believe her. Peering over my sister’s shoulder, I watched the ball of fluff bob and strut, his tiny claws a whisper on the floorboards. He finally fluttered up to the open window and flung himself outside. “See?” I said. “He’s gone.”

But half a second later the bird was back at the window, flapping against the glass in a zigzag panic before slipping inside, landing, then hopping to his chosen spot on the floor beside our bed. He peeped at us again.

“What do we do with him?” I asked.

“We keep him,” Annie said. Annie always knew the answer.

We did keep him, for a while. When he finally flew away for good, Father gave Annie the silver bird pin, a hand-me-down from our oma. I was jealous, but it made sense: Annie was sparrowlike in her energy, her spark, her curiosity. They said Oma had been like that, too. A few months later, Father gave me my own pin: a small silver fox. It was brand-new.

“Mijn kleine vos,” he said, “for you.” My little fox.

“But I didn’t find a fox,” I said, confused. “Annie found a bird.”

He laughed. “Your red hair, silly.” He picked me up and buried his face in my curls.

It was the first time I understood that there was a difference between who I knew I was, on the inside, and who other people thought I must be.

Just pin the damn thing on. I snatched the sparrow from the edge of the sink and poked its pin through the double-ply wool of my coat’s lapel, instantly piercing my thumb on the other side. “Damn it.”

“This is why they warn innocent young girls about the evil big city,” said Nellie. “She’s swearing like a pirate already.” She and Eva tumbled through the door of the attic apartment we shared, laughing.

“Damn it, damn it.” I’d tried to remove the brooch with my bleeding thumb and now the camel-colored wool was stained. I thrust it under the tap.

“Here, let me,” said Eva, the mother of our group. The three of us had gone through school together in Haarlem, though we hadn’t been close. They’d picked me because they knew me: the shy girl who did as much extra credit work as the teacher would give her; the girl who wore two sweaters on a spring day because her mother was sure she’d die of the common cold. I wasn’t the type to cause trouble.

“My, where did this come from?” Nellie held up the pin, glinting in the low light. “It’s pretty.”

“My sister,” I said, grabbing it back. “Thanks, I’ve got to get going, I’m late.”

“Sorry,” said Nellie.

“It’s fine, I’m just late,” I said, already out on the landing and headed down the narrow stairs. My cheeks flamed and my lashes were wet. Annie had been dead thirteen years now. Stupid sparrow.

I was an expert at being nobody. I’d practiced it for years. So that evening I took my place in the university’s grand ballroom in the spot I always felt safest: the back of the room. I made sure to take a glass of seltzer when it was offered to me, to have something to do with my hands. I sipped it while the room filled with university students, their conversations humming around me. The girls on the entertainment committee of the AVSV, the Amsterdam Female Student Association, flocked by the entrance with their bright dresses and musical voices. They welcomed everyone inside, especially the boys, whose arms and shoulders they touched as they talked. Sometimes they even hugged the boys and kissed them on the cheek. What did it feel like to be so relaxed with boys? Was I supposed to call them men? They seemed so boyish.

“‘Scuse me,” said one now, a male student backing into me as he searched for his companions.

“Excuse you,” I agreed. Like baby giants, these young men, trampling on the world around them.

“Can I have a light?”

I flinched, annoyed. But it was a young woman about my age.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said.

She was taller than me by several inches, which made her about five foot seven, but her presence was so grand she seemed even taller. Glossy brown-black hair fell to her bare shoulders in waves, the midnight darkness of her hair contrasting with the pale blue sky of her crinoline party dress. Her eyes were amber, with long, curled lashes and a surprisingly innocent gaze. Her lips were painted a tropical coral pink. She looked like a movie star. With my beige skirt and plain white blouse, I was surprised she’d even noticed me. She kept smiling. She blinked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t have one.” I really was sorry because I didn’t want her to walk away yet. I’d tried smoking; it made me cough. But now I made a mental note to try again. It might make moments like this easier.

“What, a light?” she said. “Or a cigarette?”

“Either,” I said, then corrected myself: “Neither.”

She laughed, a chiming giggle that was friendly, not mean. “Philine! Over here.” She waved at another dark-haired girl weaving her way through the crowd. This new girl, Philine, was a bit taller than me and slightly less of a spectacle than her friend. She was pretty, but in a more approachable way. Brown hair, brown eyes, a relaxed smile. Her dress looked as if it had been taken in and let out a few times at the hem, following the fashion. Mine had, too. Like her friend, Philine carried herself with a natural confidence. I could picture both of them on a movie screen. I, on the other hand, might be eligible to audition for the heroine’s plain but intelligent friend. The sensible one.

“Why are you hiding back here, Sonja?” Philine asked her friend. “Trying to escape your suitors?”

“Something like that,” Sonja said. “I thought members of the AVSV were supposed to look out for each other, but this one won’t give me a light.” She winked at me. My face flamed with embarrassment. I was twenty; I should have learned how to smoke by now.

Philine smiled at me. “I’m Philine. What’s your name?”

“Hannie,” I said, shocking myself. Everyone had always called me Johanna or Jo, but I had been contemplating giving myself a new identity when I started at the University of Amsterdam a year earlier. I hadn’t actually tried it until now. The name seemed pretentious. Too bold. And I wasn’t sure I’d really earned the right to think of myself as a different person.

“Hannie,” she said, accepting my name without a blink. Like anyone would. Mother always said I thought too much.

Philine shook my hand. “And you’ve already met Princess Sonja.” My eyes widened. “She’s not a real princess,” Philine said, smiling and still clasping my hand.

“Well, I am related to the Habsburgs on my mother’s side,” said Sonja with a hint of pride.

“I’ll believe it when you marry a prince,” said Philine. “What about you? Are you a princess? Or just a normal boring law student like us?”

I beamed back at them. They were so smart and pretty and bursting with energy, and I was desperate to keep talking to them. I’d hoped to make more friends at university than I had in high school, but I was making the same mistakes all over again, turning down invitations for coffee by claiming I had too much homework to do. I didn’t have more than anybody else, but the thought of socializing with strangers made my palms sweat. They were damp now. I was only at this party because I’d made a vow earlier in the week to go and stay for at least thirty minutes. There were eight more to go.

“Just a boring law student,” I said, feeling a bit more relaxed in the sunny presence of these two. How novel. “I’m from Haarlem.”

“Lovely,” said Philine.

“Never been,” said Sonja.

“Sonja!” said Philine.

“What?”

“You’ve been to Paris and Rome, but you’ve never been to Haarlem? It’s ten miles away.”

“Well, Paris has the Louvre and Rome has the Colosseum. What does Haarlem have?”

“Sonja!” Philine slapped her on the hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sonja said, turning to me. “I’m sure it’s lovely. I’ll go this weekend.”

“No, you won’t.” Philine turned to me, too. “You can see why we call her Princess.”

“Princess?” a deep voice interrupted our circle as a tall young blond man in a pressed navy suit approached us. “Sonja? Here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Hair smoothly groomed, a confident smile, he was the kind of handsome that made me nervous. Too good-looking. Too sure of himself. I avoided men like him because how would I ever speak to them? Fortunately, in Sonja’s presence, Philine and I seemed to be invisible.

“Piet!” Sonja cried, draping her elegant arms around him in the same casual yet flirty hug the entertainment committee girls had perfected. She looked so natural. “How have you been?”

Piet’s square jaw softened into a broad smile, relaxed and happy like a boy watching his birthday cake arrive. “I waited for you at the library yesterday,” he said.

“Did you?” Sonja whispered something into his ear, and his eyes went wide with delight. I tried to imagine what one could say to get that effect but came up with nothing. She pulled herself away from his arms and introduced us. “Piet, you know Philine.”

He nodded and took Philine’s hand and kissed it with exaggerated formality. She curtsied, playing along.

“And this is our friend Hannah.”

“Hannie,” Philine corrected her.

“Hannie.” Piet reached for my hand and I jerked it back, afraid he would kiss it, too. He looked abashed.

“Sorry,” he said, checking to see if he’d offended Sonja.

“No, I am,” I said, embarrassed and irritated at myself.

“What have you done to the poor girl?” Sonja said, teasing him. I knew it was all a joke, yet I felt a stab of gratification, watching her defend me. “Do you know, Piet, we were just about to leave,” Sonja said. “But I’m so glad I saw you before we did.” She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a perfect pink rosebud, and then grabbed one of Philine’s hands and one of mine. “We have to get Hannie home,” she said, pulling us toward the exit. “She’s got a big day tomorrow. She’s being honored by the queen.”

Piet’s confidence faded. “But the dance just started,” he said.

“I know, but . . .” Sonja skipped faster, as if pulled by gravity toward the door against her will. “It’s the queen.” She blew him a kiss and dragged us past the AVSV girls ringing the doorway, who stared at her as she left, not entirely sorry to see this starlet go.

“Coats!” said Philine, turning and pulling us with her with a crack-the-whip effect. Sonja shrieked and I went sliding across the tiled floor to the coat check. We scurried out the door and to the courtyard and finally stopped, laughing at our silly adventure.

“Who was that?” Philine said.

Sonja rolled her eyes. “Pieter Hauer. I’ve been avoiding him for weeks.”

“He seems nice,” said Philine. “And good-looking.”

Sonja looked at me. “What did you think?”

I tried to think of a clever thing to say about her suitor but failed. It was easier to just tell the truth. “I didn’t like him much.”

“Ha!” Sonja hugged me. “I knew you were a good one,” she said. “Even if you won’t give me a light.”

“What’s that?” Philine watched me fussing with my coat. I’d pinned Annie’s brooch on top. “Pretty,” she said, leaning in. “Is it a starling?”

“A sparrow,” I said.

“Just like you,” said Sonja with a generous smile, “sweet and plucky. See, this is what I was saying the other day,” she said to Philine. “I’m so bored by these social mixers. We need to expand our circle. I was just saying that! And then Hannie appeared. Like a little sparrow.”

I stood between them, mute with shock but encouraged. Sonja touched a lock of my hair, petting me. “I would die for hair like this.”

“This?” I put my hand to my head and pulled a strand of my bright red hair straight. It bounced back into a curl when I let it go. My father’s kleine vos-and my curse. Just ask any of the kids who teased me about the color growing up.

“Remember when you peroxided your hair?” said Philine to Sonja with a grimace.

“Ugh, cockroach brown. But this,” Sonja said, rearranging one of my ringlets so it fell across one eye, “you have to be born with it. It’s your glory.”

I’d received more compliments in the past ten minutes than in the previous twenty years of my life, or at least it felt that way. I always blushed easily, and now my face was bright pink with embarrassment. And happiness.

“Let’s go to your house and listen to records,” Philine said to Sonja.

“Don’t believe her,” said Sonja, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We go to my house to tune in to Radio Oranje and drink wine.”

Me, go with them, two glamorous big-city girls listening to Resistance radio from London? I thought Nellie and I were the only students who regularly tuned in for our exiled queen’s nightly update. And drinking?

I wasn’t sure how it happened, but these girls were interested in me. They didn’t know I was a timid little fox who spent her nights alone, thinking and dreaming. They thought I was a sparrow, bold and “plucky.” Best of all, to them I was simply Hannie.

And thanks to Sonja and Philine, all those things became true.US

Additional information

Dimensions	0.9063 × 5.1875 × 8.0000 in
Imprint	Dutton
ISBN-13	09780593187234
ISBN-10	0593187237
Author	Buzzy Jackson
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC019000, FIC041000
Subjects	books historical fiction, alternate history, amsterdam, WWII books, fiction books, books fiction, historical novels, historical fiction books, realistic fiction books, literary fiction, historical fiction novels, ww2 historical fiction, FIC041000, world war 2 historical fiction, wwii historical fiction, world war 2 fiction, world war ii fiction, ww2 novels, WWII, Literature, feminist, historical, fiction, FIC019000, book club books, true story, novels, world war 2, WW2, world war ii, allyship, espionage, historical fiction, Holland, world war two
Format	General Trade