Lately he had been doing a lot of work mending uniforms for the German soldiers billeted in our town. At first, Tante Mies had begged him not to accept this work. "Close the shop," she pleaded, more than once. "Do not be part of this."
My uncle always answered that he feared for our welfare if he didn't do the work. If he closed the shop he'd have to register for the labor conscription. How would we manage then? There was no reason to disbelieve him—all the men in town were making these compromises. But when I helped him in the shop, cutting cloth in the back room, I could hear him talking with the Germans, and I was shocked at how friendly he sounded. How accommodating.
In the past few months, my aunt had given up the argument. Each piece of war news had extinguished a piece of her spirit until she was a shadow drifting through the days, leaving my uncle more and more the force of our family. At his core he seemed to carry a constant bitterness that leaked out through everything he did or said and hung over us, sullen as smoke. If it hadn't been for Anneke's good spirits, the house would have been unbearable. But now suddenly, with the absence of my uncle, my aunt was back.
Anneke and I awoke to the sound of hammering the first day. We found my aunt in the cellar, fitting boards between two posts to make a hidden shelf. "Gather all the nonperishable food," she ordered. "Hide it here." We did: raisins, boxes of dried peas and beans, the fruit my aunt had canned over the summer, the remainders of the week's sugar and flour rations, bouillon cubes, and even the sad cupful of noodles at the bottom of its jar.
Later that morning, as we went through the newspaper for the week's rationing instructions, she informed us of some new plans. "Each week, we'll take part of our dairy rations as tinned milk. And we'll begin trading. We don't need the cigarette or sweets rations—we'll trade those for extra flour or milk. We'll start using the textile coupons for things we can use for the baby later."
Anneke and I looked at each other. I could tell she wasn't able to picture the time when she would have a child; it was too difficult to even think about being pregnant.
She had chores for us all day. Anneke and I were so amazed at the sudden return of my aunt that we did what she asked without questions. It was good to lose ourselves in this work, a relief to be doing things instead of having things done to us. But there was a trace of desperation in my aunt's frenzy, and it struck me that in these preparations she was seeking some sort of atonement. I wondered where she felt she had failed. Did she think she could have prevented Anneke's situation by being more prepared, more alert?
I always imagined the mother-child bond as a constant river of love and support, and I'd been so absorbed in grieving its absence that I'd never considered the possibility the river might loop back around to its source. That children might sustain their mothers as well. I resolved to watch my aunt more closely, and Anneke, too, after the baby came.
At the sound of my uncle's arrival that evening, my aunt glanced up at Anneke and me and nodded toward the back door. While she greeted him in the living room, we hurried into our sweaters and went outside. We sat together on the brick steps, eating the last of the tomatoes from the yellowing plants and watching a narrow moon rise. The breeze picked up and rustled the drying leaves of the walnut overhead, so we could hear only shredded murmurs drifting from the dining room. But we could tell the conversation was spare and grim.
Anneke pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her trousers. She lit one and offered the packet to me.
I shook my head. "Your father." Anneke had taken up cigarettes when she'd met Karl, but my uncle hated the sight of women smoking in public, so she never smoked at home. Sometimes in the afternoons we would walk to the big warehouse where the barges were unloaded and we would sit on the dock, listening to the men talk as they tossed barrels of nails and tobacco and salted herring. She would share her cigarettes with me, the smoke mingling with the heavy scent of spices and tar.
Now she shrugged and gave a wry smile. I could see her point. I reached over and took a cigarette, and we sat smoking, shoulders hunched against the chilly night, until we heard my uncle leave to return to his shop. I wondered how long we could all go on living in the same house.
The next day a bitter rain sliced down all morning. Anneke didn't go to work again, and with the extra pair of hands the housework was done quickly. She and I put on a record and took out the backgammon set. My aunt walked through the living room carrying the linens the laundryman had just delivered. "We may need to trade them for food when the baby comes," she said, nodding at the ivory playing pieces. "Wrap them and hide them, in case the Germans come again to requisition things. They've had the last they're ever going to get from this house. Oh, and the chess pieces, too. Put them behind the coal bin. And those figurines, and the fireplace tongs...." She looked at the gramophone and frowned, considering. I felt a tiny prick of worry then about my aunt's behavior, and I think Anneke did, too.
"They wouldn't want it," she assured her mother. "Besides, it's too big to hide."
"Of course." My aunt smiled. But the faint scent of anxiety that had entered the house did not dissipate, and by the time the rain stopped in the afternoon, both Anneke and I were desperate to go outside.
We cycled to the park beside the canal. It was cool, but the sun was brilliant after the rain and I worried that the sky, so fiercely blue against the white clouds, would remind Anneke of Karl's eyes. I wanted her to have one afternoon free of thinking about her problem, but of course this wasn't possible. We passed a couple leaning into each other on a bench, and I saw her think, Karl deserted me. Children too young for school were out in the fine weather with their mothers, playing marbles and hopscotch, running and tripping in front of us, and the thought stabbed her, I'm pregnant and he deserted me. The smallest things stung: two pigeons fighting over a crust of bread, an old woman trying to keep her skirt from blowing up in the breeze, a flock of geese arrowing through slanted bars of sunlight—these made us smile, but each time Anneke caught herself, and I knew she was thinking, Wait, no. I'm not happy.
I watched her face cloud and her lower lip begin to tremble for the hundredth time. "Do you want to keep the baby?"
We had reached a bridge. Anneke stared down at the canal glinting green and peaceful, but reflecting her own truth back at her. You couldn't escape yourself for very long with so many mirrors snaking though the land. Holland was cruel that way. I picked up a stone and tossed it in, breaking the surface, and An-neke turned.
"I wish I weren't pregnant. Since I am, I wish Karl were with me. But that's as far as I can think. I know I'll have to make some choices soon. I know I don't have to keep the baby. I know I don't even have to have the baby; Gera's aunt says there are ways.... But when I try to think past that, I just can't." She lifted her hands, then clasped them across her belly in a gesture that was already becoming familiar.
"What if we moved away, got a place together? Leisje and Frannie went to Amsterdam last year, remember? They both got jobs in a bank. Diet de Jonge moved to Utrecht by herself. It would be a fresh start. I probably have to leave soon, anyway—your father doesn't want me here.... "
Anneke waved her fingers in that way she had, as if my problems were only words she had to brush away. "I wish I weren't pregnant ... but I am. Who knows how long I can work? And if I have a baby, what ... you'll support all three of us?" She leaned her head on my shoulder. "I'd be so lonely now without you, katje."
I stepped away and took her by the elbows—carefully, because I suddenly wanted to shake her, hard. "Then you will be lonely if you don't leave with me," I told her. "Because I don't think your father's going to let me stay. Can't you see how it is now?"
"You should talk to him. It's your home, too."
"No, it isn't. I understand that now. When I came here, he allowed me into your house. That's all. Not into your home, not into your family. And I certainly didn't walk into your easy life, where all you have to do is pout and someone will come running over to make you
happy again."
"My easy life?" Anneke shrank away from me, stung. But I didn't take my words back. "My easy life?" She spread her hands over her belly and stared at me. "Would you like to walk into my easy life now, Cyrla?"
I pressed my lips together and looked away. Because my answer was Yes.
From the east came a familiar droning buzz and three planes appeared above the trees. Silence fell and all of us in the park raised our heads. We still did this every time, although we no longer ran like mice fleeing a circling hawk. The shadow of the closest plane rippled over the canal, darkened the grass, and swept over Anneke and me. I shivered and Anneke straightened and nodded to herself. "Well," she said. "It's getting late. We can't hide from Father forever."
But we should have.
SEVEN
He was already home when we got there, setting up a new stove in the parlor. He didn't look at us when we walked past him into the kitchen to help my aunt with supper.
"New fuel restrictions," she explained, frowning. "We'll be tending that thing every hour. And the dust!" She handed me four potatoes and an apron.
I took a paring knife from the drawer, sat at the table, and began to peel. A few minutes later, my uncle came into the kitchen, a newspaper tucked under his elbow.
"You'll be at dinner tonight," he informed Anneke. I could read nothing at all in his face, and nothing at all in hers.
He crossed to the table, dropped his newspaper in front of me, and reached over to wipe his hands on a dish towel. Then he left the room.
On the page facing me was a large notice: a "short summary" of all the places Jews were not allowed. The paring knife fell from my hand. Joden Verboden. All restaurants, all shops, all cinemas. Schools. Parks. Public beaches, public transportation. It would have been shorter, I thought, to list the places they were allowed.
The places I was allowed. There was no mistaking my uncle's message—it had just come sooner than I'd expected.
I folded the paper and tried to slip it under the pail of potato peelings, but Anneke saw. She took it and read it, not understanding. And then understanding.
She passed the notice to my aunt. My aunt came over and put her arm around my shoulder. "Oom Pieter ... this has been a difficult time. He doesn't mean—"
"He does." I got up and closed the kitchen door. "Do you worry about this?" I asked quietly so my uncle wouldn't hear, looking from my aunt to my cousin. "About me?"
"No," Anneke said, "I never do. Cyrla, do you want me to?"
"I don't know."
It was a good question. In the spring, when the signs had first gone up in the shops and restaurants, the words didn't actually bar Jews. JODEN NIET GEWENST, JEWS NOT WELCOME, they said, in harsh black against white. I was in the greengrocer with my aunt the first time we saw one.
My aunt had been incredulous, outraged. "What does this mean?" she demanded of Mr. Kuyper, whom she'd known all her life. "You have customers who are Jewish! Friends!"
My fingers tightened around the apples I was holding. Part of me wanted her to say, "This is my niece, she's half-Jewish. Is she no longer welcome here?" But if she did, what would happen? In that instant, I saw that my life was built on sand, and that a single wave would wash everything away.
"Mrs. Abraham? Mrs. Levie?" my aunt asked. "Suddenly, after all these years, you don't want their business?"
I was washed in relief that my aunt took no offense for me at these signs. I was ashamed of my relief. I was angry also; indignant for my father and brothers, for Isaak. But mostly relieved at this settling of things; with this exchange my aunt told me clearly what I had sensed since I had arrived: Here in the Netherlands, I wasn't Jewish. She must know best.
"I don't know," I repeated. I began to slice the potatoes into even wedges. "I never want to think about it. But Isaak says—" I paused, imagining what Isaak might say about what my uncle had just done, then quickly pushing him from my mind. "As long as no one knows, it doesn't matter."
I turned to my aunt. "Did you ever say anything to Mrs. Bakker?" I explained what had happened the other morning.
"No, of course not. It's just her way. She's harmless. We've never told anyone—it was what your father asked when he sent you here."
I hadn't known this. I was only fourteen when I had come, and it hadn't occurred to me to question anything. Or perhaps it had frightened me too much.
"Well, then. Good. No one knows, and maybe you're right—maybe Oom Pieter is only upset." And maybe I wouldn't have to mention any of this to Isaak.
I went to the stove and slid the potato slices into the hot skillet. Anneke put down the spoon she was stirring the gravy with and touched my arm.
"Cyrla," she said. "Karl knows."
"Anneke!" my aunt cried.
I was speechless.
"It's all right," Anneke said quickly. "He hates the Nazis. You would like Karl; you would trust him."
You trusted him and look what happened! I wanted to shout. Did she still think she knew him? But I could see she was already asking herself this.
"Never mind," I said. "He's gone, so it doesn't matter."
But of course it did. Here was the wave I had been dreading, come from the direction Isaak had told me to watch. Everything would collapse soon, was already starting to crumble. I knew it, but I couldn't take it in right now. Not with Anneke and Tante Mies watching me. Not with Oom Pieter waiting for Anneke at the table. I made my face firm with resolve as we finished preparing the food and brought it out to the dining room. There was meat tonight; not just bits flavoring a soup, but a whole piece of beef—a week's worth—roasted in a covered pot with onions. My aunt was trying to soothe my uncle again.
We sat in our usual seats, but because Anneke and I hadn't been there for two nights, everything felt strange.
My uncle blessed the food, began to eat. He looked up. "Eat."
We took up our forks and tried to swallow.
My uncle talked about the weather, the coming winter, the new way we would heat our house. "Half anthracite and half coke," he mused. "That's the best we can hope for, I suppose." As if anyone at the table were interested in coal.
He told us one of his machines had broken down and needed a part. Such bad timing with the big blanket order. And he needed to hire two seamstresses; this shouldn't be difficult with so many people out of work
A vein rose at Anneke's temple. Her skin was stretched brittle as glass, and I thought she might shatter at the slightest tremor. I wished I could think of something to say that would hurry my uncle along without angering him. The meal took hours. Hours. Finally he put down his fork and looked at each of us to see that he had our attention.
"I have found a solution," he said. "A maternity home."
"Anneke doesn't need a maternity home," my aunt said reasonably. "She'll be here, with us."
"No, not here with us. That I won't have." He cut a piece of meat and ate it, drank some beer, and didn't look at us. We waited.
"It's a decent thing they're doing. Very progressive. She'll be treated well. They're not all evil, you know."
"Who're not all evil?" my aunt asked.
"The Germans. They've set up these homes wherever their soldiers are. They're very modern. All the best facilities. They're taking care of this problem all over."
We stared at my uncle. Only my aunt could form the questions.
"What problem? What do the Germans have to do with us?"
"Anneke's not the only one. They're taking care of the girls who've gotten in trouble this way. They're taking responsibility, even if their soldiers aren't."
"How did you learn about this?" I asked. I saw my uncle's jaw stiffen, but I had to go on. "Who told you? Who did you tell about Anneke?"
He didn't answer. But he didn't need to.
"You told them?" Anneke whispered. "You told the Germans in the shop?"
"You shamed me." My uncle's voice rose. "I have found a solution."
"Pieter, what have you done?" My aunt's eyes were
fierce.
"Anneke has an appointment tomorrow. An interview and some tests. I'll take her. I can't work anyway, until I get that part."
"What kind of tests?" I asked.
My uncle looked at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed behind the steel rims of his glasses. I couldn't tell if he was considering his answer, or deciding whether or not to speak to me.
"A formality," he said at last. "Medical records, documents." He was lying.
"Nee. I do not allow this," my aunt said.
She had never before defied my uncle directly. All of us at the table knew that some axis had shifted, and everything from now on would need to find a new balance.
My uncle's face flushed and his scalp showed dark red through his light hair. "Our daughter shamed us. I've found a way to take some honor from this shame."
"What honor, Pieter?" my aunt cried. "What honor?"
I got up and stood behind Anneke, my hands on her shoulders. "What shame?" I asked. "She loved a man. Love is the opposite of shame. Don't send her away!"
My uncle shoved his chair back and rose. "Anneke, be ready to travel in the morning. We will be back Sunday."
My aunt rose also. "Nee," she repeated. "I will not allow it."
Anneke fell limp under my hands. "Stop," she said. "Please stop. I'll go."
Afterward, she hadn't wanted to talk about her decision. As we got ready for bed, she would only say, "Have you thought about what it would be like for me here?"
I hadn't. When I did, I could see it would be difficult. Everyone would hold it against her that Karl was a German soldier.
They would be wrong. I thought about Isaak. His citizenship had nothing to do with the way my heart caught whenever he came into view, as if it were too stunned to beat. His politics had nothing to do with the way my thigh burned if it brushed against his. It didn't matter that Karl was German. Goethe was German, and Schiller, who wrote about freedom. Rilke. Beethoven, Bach, Brahms. Bakers and teachers and painters and nurses; men and women who loved their families and led good lives. It was the Nazis we hated, and I believed Anneke that Karl was not a Nazi. That she loved him in spite of the army that had conscripted him only showed how large her heart was. She had misjudged his character, but she hadn't violated any standard of behavior by loving him—she had risen above one.