A Whisper From Inside A Hero's Cell

Listening to my Mother's stories brought back to me a memory of a time in High School. I had been given the assignment of writing a report from a significant event in History.
I discussed the assignment with my Mom and she said she knew just the report to give. She disappeared then came back to the living room clutching a well worn sheet of paper. She explained to me that this was a letter written to her older sister from her Fiancé who had been arrested by the Germans and was sitting in a cell, condemned to die.
My Mother's family had hidden Jews in their house. They had been hiding a husband and wife and their little 6 year old daughter for a couple of days. The Germans raided the house. They found the man and lady but did not find the child. They dragged the couple out of the house and arrested my Grandfather, my Uncle Piet and my Aunt Marieke's Fiancé.
My Mother's family searched the house for 2 days for the little girl. They eventually found her. She was curled into a little ball in a crawl space under a cupboard that was the size of a bread box. She was hungry, thirsty and terrified, but alive.
My Grandfather owned a Potato Factory Business that the Germans took over and kept going to help feed the German Army. This saved my Grandfather and Uncle as they were needed to keep the business running so the Germans released them from Jail.
My Aunt Marieke's Fiancé was not so fortunate.
The night before he was to be shot to death, he sat on the floor of his cell and wrote a final letter to his loved ones from a sheet tore out of the back of his Bible.
In it he stated that he was not sorry for hiding Jews. That he despised the Germans for their cruelty to these innocent people. He admonished those still fighting the fight against the Germans to keep strong; to keep fighting. That the War would end someday and once again the Jewish people would live in peace to begin their lives again.
When it came time in class for me to give my report, I brought along my Mom to interpret the letter that this man had written.
In her soft Dutch accented voice she read the letter while I translated it in English for the class.
"To my Mother I leave my Bible. To my Father I leave my bookmark. To my loving Fiancé I leave my comb...Do not cry for me. I would not change what I have done..."
When the early morning sun speared through the bars of his cell, the soldiers came in and walked him to the wall outside the prison and shot him to death.
They handed the letter and Bible to his Fiancée and let his family come take his body for burial.
When my Mom and I finished reading the letter there was not a dry eye in the classroom.
The last words of a simple man, who in the end could only leave his family with the most basic of his possessions, had left a mark on this world worth more then the richest of combined treasure.
I continue to honor him this day by passing on his story to you.
His name was Folkert. He was 21 years old.