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Informationen zum Autor Buzzy Jackson Klappentext "A gripping and timely debut novel by award-winning nonfiction writer Buzzy Jackson based on a true story of the life of the heroic Hannie Schaft: a young Dutch woman who joined the Resistance in Holland during World War II and became one of the Nazis' most lethal adversaries. Hannie Schaft, a young woman living in Nazi-occupied Holland, never intended to be a fighter. Her dream was to finish law school in Amsterdam and join the League of Nations. But when Hannie's two Jewish best friends are in danger, and she crosses paths with Resistance recruiters while doing volunteer work with refugees, she realizes she cannot deny the urgent cause at hand and the changes happening around her. Driven by outrage and a fierce protectiveness for her friends, Hannie quickly becomes a valued member of the Resistance movement. As the simmering menace of Nazi-occupied Holland reaches a boiling point, Hannie becomes ever more daring, assassinating powerful Nazis point blank, blowing up munitions factories, and constantly improvising with last-minute Resistance orders, even getting Hitler's notice who dubs her 'the Girl with Red Hair.' She also falls deeply in love with a dashing fellow resister at a tremendous cost and finds a chosen family with the other women in the resistance. And while humanity falls apart around her, Hannie's greatest weapon is her determination not to become a monster herself: blijf altijd menselijk. Stay human. A mantra that is sorely tested as the war nears its bitter end... To Die Beautiful, taken from a quote of Hannie's, is an unputdownable novel about love (for one's friends, family, and country) and loyalty, but with the emotional resonance of meticulously researched, lived history"-- Leseprobe Chapter 1 Autumn 1940 I wasn't always an only child. Sitting on the chipped sink before me, the silver bird waits, frozen in flight, a silhouette like a bomber plane with two wings outstretched, tail swirling into a flirtatious spiral. A sparrow. I'd tried it on the last time I went to a music concert. Months ago. It was Annie's pin, of course. Father gave it her after the real sparrow flew away. I was young, about four at the time, so Annie was nine. It had been after midnight, and I was asleep when Annie poked me in the arm. “Johanna, look.” Holding a candle in one hand, she pointed with the other to the floor beside the bed we shared. There stood a small brown-and-gray bird, his head cocked to look at us as if listening to Annie’s words. He peeped. I gasped and Annie threw her hand across me. “Shh!” "Let him fly out the window," I said. "I tried," she said. "But he flew right back in." I didn't believe her. Peering over my sister's shoulder, I watched the ball of fluff bob and strut, his tiny claws a whisper on the floorboards. He finally fluttered up to the open window and flung himself outside. "See?" I said. "He's gone." But half a second later the bird was back at the window, flapping against the glass in a zigzag panic before slipping inside, landing, then hopping to his chosen spot on the floor beside our bed. He peeped at us again. "What do we do with him?" I asked. "We keep him," Annie said. Annie always knew the answer. We did keep him, for a while. When he finally flew away for good, Father gave Annie the silver bird pin, a hand-me-down from our oma. I was jealous, but it made sense: Annie was sparrowlike in her energy, her spark, her curiosity. They said Oma had been like that, too. A few months later, Father gave me my own pin: a small silver fox. It was brand-new. "Mijn kleine vos," he said, "for you." My little fox. "But I didn't find a fox," I said, confused. "Annie found a bird." He laughed. "Your red hair, silly." He picked me up and buried his face in my curls. It was the first time I understoo...
