In spring of nineteen forty-five,
A fragile girl was half alive.
In Velp she lay, too weak to stand,
A shadowed world, a starving land.
Her name was Edda — pale and frail,
Her cheeks were sunken, ghostly pale.
At fifteen years, so close to death,
Each sigh escaped like fleeting breath.
The bombs above in thunder roared,
The Nazis’ boots her town had scored.
Five years of terror, endless pain,
No hope, no food — just war’s refrain.
She once had dreamed of dance and grace,
Of stages, lights, and sweet embrace.
But fate had torn her silken shoes,
And left her bones with war’s cruel bruise.
Her uncle, brave, had dared defy,
The Nazi hand — condemned to die.
That loss lit fire in Edda’s soul,
To fight for good became her goal.
She danced for causes, smuggled news,
Hid souls the soldiers would abuse.
With quiet strength, she took her stand,
A child defying Hitler’s hand.
But soon the rations all ran dry,
And every night she’d pray and cry.
The Dutch were trapped in hunger’s cage,
The world outside a blazing stage.
Her mother held her, whispered near,
“Hold on, my love — the end is near.”
Yet bombs kept falling, skies kept red,
While hope lay faint — and nearly dead.
Then one loud whistling split the air,
A flash! A blast! The world laid bare.
The basement shook — the night went black,
And silence followed the attack.
Days blurred away… then Edda stirred,
Her ears still rang from what she’d heard.
The walls still stood — they’d somehow stayed,
Though death had nearly found its prey.
She strained to listen — all was still,
No guns, no screams, no mortal will.
Her mother rose with trembling grace,
And carried Edda from that place.
Up to the light, through smoke and pain,
They stepped into the world again.
And what they saw made hearts arise —
The Allies’ flags filled Dutch blue skies.
The war was done. The tears ran free.
The starving town could finally see.
The nightmare gone, the streets reborn,
The world had weathered hell and storm.
Edda survived — though frail, though worn,
Her soul reborn, her courage sworn.
Her dreams of dance had slipped away,
But grace still lived in her ballet.
She turned to art, to stage, to screen,
Her poise and calm — a living dream.
From hunger’s cave to Hollywood,
She rose beyond what few souls could.
Eight years from bombs and basement gloom,
She graced the world in royal bloom.
Roman Holiday — her crown, her name,
An Oscar sealed her flight to fame.
Though war had stolen dance and peace,
It carved her strength that would not cease.
For from that girl who’d almost died,
A timeless star was born — with pride.
So when you watch her, soft yet strong,
With every glance, she rights the wrong.
For Audrey’s grace — though calm, refined —
Holds all the fire she left behind.