Kenau - A Haarlem Hero

28th of November 1572

Haarlem 

“Kenau?”

She forced one eye open. A slit of stabbing, sickening brightness burned her brain. 

“Come back.” 

She pushed the spit-wet piece of wood out of her mouth with her tongue and croaked the one word she could think of “Shit.” 

“There’s my girl!” Truyd squatted beside her. Streaks of her blonde hair had escaped her white coif, which made her look like some misplaced angel. Grinning that twisted grin that showed the rotting tooth, and offering no help at all. “Well?” 

Kenau heaved one hand up to grip her head. Felt like if she didn’t hold her skull together, it would burst. Shapes still fizzed on the inside of her lids, like the glowing smears when you’ve looked at the sun. Around her, there was the sound of chopping and sawing. At least her workers were not gaping at her. 

“I saw people burning in a church. Dozens of them.” The stench of smoke and burning flesh still filled her nose. “I saw folk being hanged. Rows of them.” She winced at the thought of the rope snapping. Her gut cramped at the memory of swinging bodies, dangling feet. “I saw… a white dove flying away from a field of roses. A lion on a hill watching it go.”

Truyd scoffed, “The Spanish are on their way. Takes no magic to see a siege coming. What else?” 

“I saw Naarden burning.” Kenau pressed her hand to her eyes and moaned. They felt hot. Burning hot.

“Well, we should get ready. A refugee just came in from Amsterdam, and they have aligned with the Crows. They’ll be knocking on our door in just a few days.”

Kenau stood, the world swaying into focus. She was covered in cold mud and sawdust. Making her appear like an overly large chicken. If that was the case, she needed to get ready. “Tell my husband that he won’t need to load the beams. We will need it for when the Spanish arrive.” 

She looked back at Truyd. Her mother’s instinct told her to get her children and flee. But where to? Her entire factory was here. She would have to abandon her life’s work, her employees. A fear crept inside her, but she wasn’t afraid, not for herself.

It stank of sweat and fear. The meeting of the Majors was usually not this full of spectators. Kenau rarely made time for it, and when she came, she was always disturbed by how men did politics. It wasn’t about good old rhyme and reason. It was a dick measuring contest more often than not.

“If we voice our allegiance to Willem of Orange it will be the same as a declaration of war!” Jan, a man with a big jaw but no forehead, said. Kenau often wondered where he kept his brain. He pounding his fist on the table, puffing out his chest. “We have to be realistic about what that means. Maybe we can-” 

“Have you already forgotten what they did to Zutphen and Naarden?” Nicolaas said. The room erupted in a fierce muttering. He looked around the room importantly, happy with the fallback he received. A fat woman next to Kenau mumbled something about exiling the Spanish as soon as possible. Kenau chewed on her lip. If things were to go on like this, the Spanish would waltz through their city before they were done bickering.

A grave voice, the sound of gravel and stone, silenced all the others. “We cannot stand for this. I don’t like it any more than you do.” Major Pieter Adrieanzs looked at Jan and sighed. “We can’t give in. That would be betraying those who died for freedom.” 

“Isn’t there any other way? A few more days might-” Nicolaas peeped from his chair. 

“We need to strengthen our defenses, and there’s barely any time…” Dirk looked at the ceiling. At least one of the men made sense. Kenau never liked Dirk much with his beady eyes and crooked teeth, but now he spoke her language.

“Amsterdam has pledged their loyalty to Alva.” Jan rifled through his papers, desperate for an easy answer written on it somewhere he might have missed. 

“And who are we against them?” Nicolaas interjected, his high voice cracked with fear.

“Wood, stone, maybe we need to get some swords made…” Dirk continued undisturbed. Ticking of the materials on his fingers.

“Can we expect any help?” Jan asked the table who were all talk and not listening to a word anyone else was saying. 

“Maybe some spears, but does anyone know how to use a spear?” Dirk muttered to himself. “Maybe tar… Where do we get tar?”

Kenau walked out. If this was how things were going, she would do it herself.

21st of December 1572

Haarlem 

The Crows arrived on the darkest day of the year. How symbolic. A thick mist had rolled around Haarlem. It brought with it spears, swords, flags, and men. Lots of men. More than Kenau had ever seen in one place. From the wall, they could see them build fires; they littered the surroundings like fireflies. Their voices sang in the morning air, laughing, coughing, spitting. Kenau swore she could smell the unwashed lot from here. You could smell them through the smoke. Sour sweat, metal, and grease.

It was a stark difference from the people of Haarlem standing on the city walls. On this side, you could hear a pin drop. The soldiers had trouble hiding their nerves. The women held their cloaks around them, as though the fabric could protect them against swords and arrows. 

Truyd stood next to her, shivering in the cold. Or was it from fear? The Crows’ drums crashed in a steady rhythm, making Kenau’s heart tremble.

One figure came loose from the crowd. He sat on a horse, a metal helmet dull in the watery sun, a flag in his hand that hung limply. It would make a great cloth to wipe her ass with. 

“Surrender!” He bellowed. Well, that’s what Kenau assumed he said; her Spanish was a little rusty. 

Everyone waited for more, a parley, an ultimatum. Nothing came. The people of Haarlem stared awkwardly at the small man on his horse. A classy haired man with a pockmarcked face to Kenau’s left undid his pants and pissed over the wall. His buddies laughed and hollered. It didn’t instill any hope in Kenau, quite the contrary. “Come on. Let’s make these Spanish dogs wish they were back home.”

Kenau whistled a tune. Almost as one, children and women made their way off the wall. Truyd clambered off right behind Kenau, while the young men stood, laughing obscenities at the enemy. Bunch of idiots.

The women had been working hard for the past weeks. Bought tar, sent out messenger pigeons asking anyone they could think of for help, bought extra food, medicine. While the men had trained with swords on wooden dummies.

If Kenau’s plan worked, the Crows wouldn’t get that close. She smiled as she watched the women hurry. Lighting the fire to melt the tar. Double-checking their wooden beams, gravel and whatnot that would be needed as soon as night fell. 

It felt like no time had passed at all and also as if years had passed when the first cannonballs hit the wall. The ground shuddered, stone groaned, and men cried. Animals bolted, birds took wing, oxen kicked, and donkeys screamed. She looked at Truyd. Her eyes shone, but her jaw was set. They would show the Spanish what they were made of.

“Clean that pile over there, put all the rubble in the cart.” Kenau ordered two boys. Their faces flickered in the firelight. Their expressions hard in faces that consisted only of peach fuss and youth. They nodded and got to work. 

“You three, go to my woodshed and get seven, no, ten beams. Use the cart.” 

Three women, with weathered and pockmarked faces, stalked off. Kenau looked at the remaining group. 

“Bring as many planks as you can to the baker's house. I don’t care if he complains, we need reinforcements here before sunup.”

They scuttled off. Kenau sucked on her lip, before she walked up the Haarlem wall. A soldier on watch didn’t look up as she went to stand next to him. The horizon was specked with countless lit fires. Around every fire, there would be at least ten men, maybe more. Kenau’s stomach flipped. The smell of roast meat merged with the scent of dirty bodies and smoke drifted towards her on the icy wind. “Cathrine’s gate is being reinforced.” 

“The entire south wall needs to be patched up if we want to make it much longer.” The gruff voice said. Not dramatic, factual with a hint of exhaustion. The fires danced in his eyes.

“I’ve got planks and beams stationed at the Baker’s house with dozens of people ready to-” 

The soldier sighed. His voice was like poison. “Boys. Old women.” 

“These boys and women will be the difference between death and victory.” Kenau retorted, clenching her hands into fists. “You would do well to respect them.”

2nd of April 1573

Haarlem 

“Kenau?” 

The images sizzled on the back of her eyelids. An orange flag had been heading her way, snapping and clawing through the wind. But it had folded in on itself. Disintegrated into orange dust. Then the desolate streets of the city. Crows pecking at a dead lamb.

“Good news?”

Kenau pressed hard on her eyes. They were hot. She refused to cry. “We need to keep strong.” Her voice was raw and sore from shouting orders from the fumes of tar.

Another cannon hit the wall. This time, not even the rats flinched. However, Kenau hadn’t found any. People had begun to eat them when the rations had been cut down a third time. She felt like her stomach touched her back. Kenau rubbed her sore and blistered hands. But at least she hadn’t been among the dead who had fallen ill. No heroic death, just a lack of medicine.

She got to her feet, swayed, spat the sour taste out of her mouth. “No news.” Truyd looked at her, her skin had tightened from hunger. Hunger and despair. It made her look twenty years older. “Let’s get some food.” 

They trudged to the town hall. For the last weeks, the rations turned from potatoes and meat, to soup. First, the soup had been hearty and filled with sizable chunks. Although rumors about what was in there were better ignored. At the same time, animals disappeared. First, the big ones. Later, the small ones. Not even a pigeon would land in Haarlem anymore. Now, every day, the soup became more like tasteless water. Kenau craved something as simple as carrots. Hell, she’d eat grass if it would grow within the walls.

After the snow had melted, the boats had lessened in frequency. Failing to deliver weapons, food, and medicine. There was one more boat on its way. One. 

Kenau peered into the night, but the river was still. The moon shone on the surface, reflecting like a mirror. A bad omen. If this boat didn’t come, Haarlem would fall. With leaden shoes, she made her way to the wall where women and children were enforcing it. Many cannons had crashed into their wall, but it still stood thanks to them. 

July 12th 1573

“More people will stay alive if we surrender.” 

The words echoed in her ears with every heartbeat. Nobody knew for sure who would be the ones staying alive. It didn’t matter much. Truyd hadn’t made it.

There was warmth in the air. With it came the stench of thousands of corpses. They had tried to bury their dead, but within the walls, there was little room. Then they had burned their dead. Until the wood supplies ran low. The stench of them was the only thing that remained now. 

Kenau watched the gate swing open like a wound. The man with the white flag—nobody knew his name. Maybe that was fitting. They had eaten rats, buried their pride, and now, they were surrendering what was left.

She didn’t cry for Truyd anymore. Or for the children they couldn’t save. The fire had gone out long ago.

But as the Spanish drums rolled like distant thunder and the first soldiers stepped into Haarlem, Kenau whispered to no one:

“You’ll never own this city. Not really. Not while one of us remembers.”