The Hiding Place

by Corrie ten Boom

It was two weeks later that a small boy delivered a scented envelope to the side door; inside in slanted purple letters was a single line, “Jan is home.” Mrs. Bierens de Haan herself met me at the entrance to her estate. Together we walked up an avenue of ancient oaks meeting above our heads. Rounding the final bend, we saw it, a fifty-six room mansion in the center of a vast lawn. Two elderly gardeners were poking about the flowerbeds. “We’ve let the gardens go,” Mrs. Bierens de Haan said. “But I thought we might put them back in shape. Don’t you think released prisoners might find therapy in growing things?” I didn’t answer. I was staring up at the gabled roof and the leaded windows. Such tall, tall windows. . . . “Are there—” my throat was dry. “Are there inlaid wood floors inside, and a grand gallery around a central hall, and—and bas-relief statues set along the walls?” Mrs. Bierens de Haan looked at me in surprise. “You’ve been here then! I don’t recall—” “No,” I said, “I heard about it from—” I stopped. How could I explain what I did not understand? “From someone who’s been here,” she finished simply, not understanding my perplexity. “Yes,” I said. “From someone who’s been here.”