By Grace MacPherson

“Really, Peter? You’d die for a song?”

My younger brother’s words echo in my ears as I reach for another sheet of music—the prelude to today’s final hymn. The knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the fact that I skipped breakfast this morning, and I take a deep breath as I switch on the correct organ stops.

I’ve known this prelude for years—I hardly need the music. But today, I’m grateful for it as my icy fingers trip over the keys, as I stretch to toe a low note on the pedalboard. Usually, the notes flow as easily as breathing. Today, the frigid air of the stone church balcony is not the only reason goosebumps are rising on my arms and neck.

“Peter?” Kip said yesterday, his voice peaking with desperation. “It’s not worth it. Not for a song.”

I crossed our shared bedroom to pull back a curtain and look down over the snow-frosted roofs of Haarlem. In my mother’s childhood house across the city, my frail grandfather and prim unmarried aunts sheltered seven Jews in a secret closet. Old and defenseless as they were, they risked their lives every day to defy the Nazi regime.

And I went quietly to my classes at the university and avoided stirring up controversy whenever possible.

I let the curtain fall back into place and turned back to Kip.

“It’s not worth it,” he repeated, his face pale.

“That,” I said quietly, “depends on the song.”

Now, as I hold the final chord of the service, I wonder which of us is right. Kip—cautious and clever and eminently skilled at keeping his head down.

Or me, ready to stake my life on a song.

There are Nazi informants in this sanctuary, profaning this holy ground with the German soil on their boots. If I do this, I’ll be arrested before I make it home.

Possibly before I finish the song.

But as I reach for the stops with trembling hands, I find I no longer care. I can’t stand by and watch evil triumph. Maybe nothing I do will make a difference in the end—but I have a voice in this instrument.

I cannot stay silent any longer.

Suddenly, everything around me feels unnaturally clear. My senses attune to the room around me—to the soft whimper of a baby in the pews below, to the scent of incense lingering in the air, to the smooth finish of the wood beneath my fingers as I switch on stop after stop: the deep growl of the brass, the rich throaty tone of reeds, the clear voices of the flutes layered on top.

If this is the last song I ever play, it’s bloody well going to be worth it.

A few heads below have swiveled toward the balcony, including Mother’s. She looks worried—probably wondering if I fell off the organ bench like I did as a kid—and I offer her a small smile as I reach for the first chord.

There isn’t a soul in the church that doesn’t know this prelude, and before I release the second note, half the congregation is on their feet. Tears sting my eyes, and the keys in front of me blur into oblivion.

Good thing I know this song by heart.

Chills run up my arms as my fingers descend in the first chord of the Wilhelmus—our beloved national anthem, outlawed by the Nazis the moment they arrived—and the congregation’s voice rises to meet the notes without hesitation.

It’s not worth it, Kip said yesterday.

That depends on the song.

And, O God, this song is worth dying for.

I rarely sing at the organ—it’s too hard while juggling three keyboards plus the pedals—but today my lips move of their own volition, my throat vibrating to match the tones beneath my fingers and feet.

How could I refrain from singing what could very well be my last song?

The whole balcony is rumbling from the deep harmony of the pedals, but it’s not quite loud enough to mask the first step on the stairs behind me. I don’t turn around, not even as that step turns into a thunder loud enough to rival the growl of the brass pipes trembling in ecstasy above me. Only when the first hand descends on my shoulder do I remove my fingers from the keyboard, lifting my feet so I don’t strike a single note out of harmony as I turn to face the German soldiers surrounding the organ.

For a split second, the voices below us falter. Then Mother’s clear alto begins the next verse, swiftly followed by Grandfather’s wavering tenor.

Mijn Schilt ende betrouwen (My Shield and reliance)

Sijt ghy, o Godt mijn Heer, (are You, O God my Lord,)

Op u soo wil ick bouwen (It is You on whom I want to rely)

Verlaet mij nimmermeer. (Never leave me again.)

“Stoppt sie,” one of the Germans growls, and my eyes flash back toward him.

“No—don’t punish them.” I struggle to straighten—an impossible feat given the two soldiers pinning my arms behind my back. “I started it.”

The German’s blue eyes narrow. “Then stop it.”

And suddenly, insanely, I find myself grinning. “Zu spät,” I whisper. Too late.

My head cracks against the wall of the stairwell before I even realize that he hit me, but the throbbing pain circling my skull feels oddly distant as the soldiers drag me down the stairs.

And somewhere beyond the curses of the soldier behind me as he shoves me to the ground, beyond their heavy breathing in my ears, beyond the creak of the old balcony stairs, a song of freedom rises clear and strong.

Dat ick doch vroom mach blijven (Grant that I may remain brave,)

V dienaer taller stondt, (your servant for always,)

Die Tyranny verdrijven, (and may defeat the tyranny)

Die my mijn hert doorwondt. (which pierces my heart.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Grace MacPherson is the author of the Christian fantasy novels “The King’s Sword” (MG; 2023), “Domitian” (YA; 2024), and “Age of Prophets” (pending 2026). She lives in beautiful Casper, Wyoming, with her family.

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