The soldiers had come to the farm again, muttering harsh words about haystacks and Jews. Their long rifles were slung across their backs this time. In their hands they carried long poles and pitchforks. Overall they made for the strangest farmers in all of Holland.

The real farmer and his sons stood side by side, the youngest of about six years having been pulled into the lineup simply for trailing behind the rest as he picked up fallen strands of hay and dirt. They watched the soldiers in their dark uniforms, circling a tall golden haystack like vultures. None of them dared breathe. They stood stick-straight, nothing behind them but feeling the pressure of invisible guns aimed at their backs.

The captain prodded a rod into the middle of the haystack. He ground it into the hay as hard as he could. Another soldier rammed a pitchfork into the bottom of the stack. One after another the soldiers inserted pitchfork after pitchfork, pole after pole into the bulky pile of hay, waiting for one of them to pull out his weapon with blood on its tip or a scream following after it.

One of the soldiers climbed onto the top of the stack, jamming a pole into its top straight down the center. He sneezed (for no less than the third time that day, curse his allergies) and wobbled back and forth, clinging onto the pole lodged into the hay for balance. The youngest of the boys hoped that the man would tumble off the top of the stack in some spectacular fashion. It would serve him right. He was, after all, at most a traitor to his country and at the very least mean to the farmer and his sons.

After ten minutes of prodding and digging and sneezing having found nothing, the soldiers gave up. The captain marched up to the farmer. Dictating a stern warning to him that if they ever did find someone hiding on the farm, he would be shot upon the spot for treason, the captain gave the signal to his men to leave. The soldiers left, pitchforks abandoned and replaced with their rifles once again. The youngest boy watched as their retreating black forms marched out the front gate, continuing on their grim procession to their next farm to terrorize that day.

Minutes passed by, tenser than they had when the soldiers were there. The farmer and his sons continued on as usual. The men did not return.

The haystack rustled. Out spilled a man with a beard full with straw, a boy with grass stuffed into his hat and shoes, and a woman clutching onto her young daughter, sleeves filled with hay itching and scratching at her arms. The family, spitting out bits of dirt and grass, breathed for the first time in over a half an hour.

Of course the soldiers were the worst farmers in all of Holland, the young boy thought. Only real Dutch farmers knew how to hide people properly in a haystack.

***
During WWII, my grandfather’s family hid Jews in their haystacks when Nazi soldiers came around their family farm looking for people. The soldiers would only ever poke certain parts of the haystack, meaning that farmers would position people very carefully so that they couldn’t be found. Yes, this did happen. Yes, my grandfather was only about six or seven years old when the war ended. No, I am not knowledgeable about haystacks in the slightest.