The Dutch Orphan, page 1
Dedication
To Hannie and Han:
For showing me a new meaning of home
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Part Two
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Part Three
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Part Four
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Part Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Ellen Keith
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Johanna Vos
May 10, 1940
Zierikzee, the Netherlands
They say that if a stork flies overhead on your wedding day, you’ll be blessed with a child within the year. On the day of her wedding, my younger sister rose with the birds and turned her gaze skyward. It was a crisp, spring morning, the type that scatters dew across the dikes. A heavy stillness filled the dawn. Liesbeth perched in the alcove of our childhood bedroom, trying to summon shapes from shadows as the dusty pink glow gave way to sunlight. The neighbor’s cows still crowded in the barn, waiting to be milked, and the sky was empty.
I watched her crane her neck until her nose was pressed to the windowpane. “Let’s hope Maurits isn’t relying on a bird to fill your house with children,” I teased.
Liesbeth blushed. “Any luck helps.”
She stood up and we started to get ready, dusting our cheeks with rouge and molding our chestnut hair into soft waves. While she pinned her barrette, I opened the wardrobe and retrieved the hanger with the wedding dress, lifting the hem and twirling around with it in a circle. “Well, Lies, are you ready?”
The dress was gorgeous, Liesbeth’s own creation. I traced a finger over the folds of satin, the gathers that tapered to a fitted waist. “You’ve outdone yourself. Nobody in Zeeland has had a dress like this. It’s as if you stole it straight from the pages of Libelle magazine!”
“Maybe I ought to parade around town first to make all the other girls a tad jealous,” she said. I knew she’d sat in the back room of the tailor’s shop for evenings on end, sewing on the gown’s covered buttons one by one, fantasizing about the day she would give up the job to become Maurits’s wife.
I paused, listening to the comforting sounds of our aunt, tante Rika, making breakfast downstairs. It felt like it had throughout all those years we’d lived with our aunt and uncle, up until I’d moved to Amsterdam with my husband, Willem. And now, here was Liesbeth, following in my footsteps.
“Are you sure you’re ready to leave Zierikzee?” I asked. “It’s not too late to find a strong farmer who would keep you nice and plump.”
Liesbeth laughed and shimmied out of her nightgown. “I’ll happily trade in this dull life for parties and dress shops and nights at the cinema with the man of my dreams.”
I didn’t respond—I didn’t have to. While I’d tried to bite my tongue in the weeks leading up to their wedding, she could read me better than anyone. And although Willem had known Maurits since their early days at university, a part of me regretted introducing her. In the two years I’d known him, Maurits had changed—he seemed intent on climbing his way up in the world two rungs at a time, regardless of where that ladder was leading. I’d even heard him praise Hitler’s policies in Germany, as if he’d forgotten the dictator was busy terrorizing Poland and silencing his own people. Maurits preached of nationalism and economic prosperity like that rat-faced Goebbels was sitting on his shoulder.
Liesbeth looked down at the floor. “You’ll give him a proper chance, won’t you?”
I nodded, because what else could I do? I didn’t want to dash my sister’s hopes on her wedding day. I forced a smile and pointed to the girdle she was putting on. “Maurits might send you right back if you try to seduce him in that prissy old thing. Tell me that’s not what you’re planning on wearing tonight!”
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. I reached into the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and produced a package wrapped in colored paper. Inside was a light peach chemise that seemed to be made of air. I winked. “Don’t tell tante Rika.”
She thanked me and slipped it over her head. Then I helped her into the dress, looping button after button through the tiny holes. I’d missed this ritual of getting ready together, the coolness of my sister’s skin when I fastened her necklace or adjusted a hatpin. During my first months in Amsterdam, Liesbeth had visited often enough that her absence had felt temporary. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have her there in the city, living only a few minutes away by bicycle.
“Look at you,” I said, guiding her to the mirror. The dress hugged her body in a way that suited her: equally flattering and modest. Lies had always been the girlish one. Perhaps my features were more defined, my cheekbones higher, my hair more eager to curl, but, today, with our mother’s lily-shaped ear baubles and those layers of satin, she looked like a true lady. “You’re radiant,” I said.
Soon, someone knocked at the door. Our brother, Gerrit, poked his head in. “Your beau has arrived.” He looked Liesbeth up and down. “Sorry, I guess I have the wrong room. I’m looking for my sister—lanky as a flagpole, likes to tip cows at night and dumb as a pig’s rear end. You seen her?”
Liesbeth slapped him playfully on the sleeve and took one last look in the mirror to fix her hair. “No more cow tipping for me. From now on, it’s the big-city life.”
He grinned. “I’m proud of you. Maurits is a lucky man.”
When we went downstairs, Maurits was waiting in the entrance. His outfit looked overpriced, with gold links adorning his French cuffs, and every hair on his head was sculpted into place with a perfection that was almost disconcerting. But when he saw Liesbeth, he beamed with such love, so I hoped with everything in my being that I had misjudged him.
* * *
Our relatives arrived at the front gate in a cacophony of bicycle bells. They cheered and whooped and called Liesbeth’s name. A crunch of tires on gravel followed as Maurits’s family pulled up to the house in a shiny automobile.
“City folk,” oom Cor mumbled. He straightened his tie and went to greet the guests. Our uncle was a strange sight in his old suit, the one he normally saved for funerals. It hung long in the sleeves, dwarfing his hands, but perhaps he liked it that way, so the new in-laws couldn’t see the deep lines of yard work that creased his palms.
The wedding ceremony at the town hall was short and simple. We sat on plush chairs in a room with rococo paneling and gilded portraits of Zeeland’s forefathers. Liesbeth clutched her bouquet of pink peonies, and when she said her I do’s, Willem passed me his handkerchief before I knew I needed it. A warm feeling overcame me, but I was also conscious that a small part of me had split off and was floating away.
We returned to the house, where the long table in the garden had been set and reset so many times, soupspoons repolished and the vases of tulips rearranged, that even the cows had begun to stare. They peered wide-eyed over the neighbor’s fence, while tante Rika clanged pans together to chase them away.
Everyone sat down for lunch: roast with buns, a cheese platter, herring from the fisherman down the road. Maurits’s family kept remarking how “lovely” and “quaint” everything was, how it felt like “a departure from reality.” Oom Cor bristled and stared at his shoes.
The sky began to cloud over, and a flock of swallows flew by. Liesbeth’s head shot up, so I winked at her from down the table. No stork, not yet.
Maurits rose, clearing his throat. “I’d like to make a toast,” he said, “to my beautiful bride. I have no doubt we’ll grow old and wise together, with a charming brood of children nestled on our laps.” He raised his glass. “There are great forces at work in the world. May today mark the beginning of a prosperous new stage in our lives together.”
At the behest of the guests, the married couple kissed. Willem pushed up the brim of his horn-rimmed glasses with his middle finger and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “He had to slip in the word prosperous, didn’t he?”
“Let’s hope he puts Liesbeth’s happiness above all that,” I said.
When the toasts finished and the dishes were cleared, my turn came. I felt that familiar
Liesbeth clasped her hands together. “Please tell me you’re going to perform.”
The bassist tuned his instrument and counted us in. I breathed deep into my diaphragm and started to sing. The musicians played beautifully, the sounds carrying on the breeze that rustled the fields. Liesbeth’s eyes brimmed with tears of joy, which gave me a rush of sisterly love. Even if her heart now belonged to someone else, I knew she would always be there for me.
The song came to an end, and Liesbeth jumped to her feet, calling for an encore. We launched into another number.
Then, in the distance, something rumbled, low and loud, like a hornet. My brother looked up, and I followed his gaze. An airplane crossed the sky, heading out over the sea. Another followed, and then another. Liesbeth signaled for the musicians to play louder, unwilling to permit any intrusions on her perfect wedding day. Maurits leaned in to stroke her cheek.
The rumbling grew louder, until I stumbled over the lyrics and the musicians fell out of tune.
“Look!” Gerrit said. One by one, we turned our heads to where he was pointing. There, on the horizon, were those same threatening aircraft, flying in formation. But they were no longer traveling westward, toward the English Channel. No, the planes had turned around. That V that guided their approach pointed eastward, back inland. Straight toward us.
A feeling passed across the garden, like we could see our whole world falling apart. Guests got up from the table, voices raised in alarm. Maurits was the only one who stayed seated, appearing strangely calm. I locked eyes with Lies and moved to stand beside her. The planes roared louder, before passing overhead, black marks against the cloudy sky.
Part One
The Velvet Glove
February 1941–October 1942
One
Johanna Vos
February 9, 1941
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Café Alcazar was full for a Sunday, a crowd with energy that fizzed like a freshly popped soft drink. All the tables were occupied, laughter and flirty remarks bouncing back and forth over fluitjes of beer. I watched from backstage as we got ready for our gig, my nerves feeling equally bouncy.
I turned to my dear friend Jakob Cohen, the bassist who had performed at my sister’s wedding. “Thanks for taking a chance on me,” I said. Jakob had fled Germany with his parents eight years earlier in fear of the changing politics and growing anti-Semitism. Sharp as a razor blade, he spoke perfect Dutch and was a riot. His dark features, with his Groucho eyebrows and slicked-back hair, were the only things that prevented him from seamlessly blending in.
I’d agreed to fill in for the singer in the Rovers, the band Jakob played with when he wasn’t rehearsing with the local orchestra. Their gigs had slowed down in the past month. The Nazis had banned Jews from performing in non-Jewish venues, which would eliminate half the band. Lucky for us, Café Alcazar’s owner was one of the few barmen in Amsterdam who still welcomed all performers.
Willem appeared beside us and squeezed my waist affectionately. “She’s been wearing out her lungs all week for this.”
“Oh, hush, you.” I swatted at him and took a big sip of water to soothe the tickle in my throat. I probably had overdone it with the practicing.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” Willem said. “Just don’t make it too good.” His gaze swept across the bar.
Jakob came over and wrapped his arms around both of us. “Don’t worry—no Nazis yet, but if they come, they come. I know you won’t let us down, Jo.”
“Aren’t you two a pair of good-luck charms? Don’t make me more nervous than I already am.”
“I’m teasing,” Willem replied. “You’ll be front and center. You always are.” He gave me a kiss. “Good luck. I’m going to check if Lies and Maurits have turned up.”
I took a second to admire my Wim’s retreating back, his easy confidence, his shoulders broad and masculine despite his slim frame. Then, Jakob assembled the rest of the band to warm up. I ran through a few vocal exercises with the backup singer until the butterflies settled down.
“It’s time,” Jakob said. “Feeling ready?”
Before I could reply, the bar owner called us up. We filed on stage, the lights bright and blinding. I squinted and saw Willem sitting next to Liesbeth and Maurits. I wondered how Liesbeth had convinced Maurits to tag along. If he found out half the band was Jewish, he would think twice about coming to watch me again.
Jakob started playing, and then the pianist kicked in. That was my cue. The second I began to sing, my nerves disappeared. I took it all in. The lights. The jaunty kick of the trumpet. The sparkle of my sapphire-blue gown and my long white gloves. Everything felt bright, like my lungs were bursting with joy. The feeling washed away everything else, everything that was happening in the world outside that bar.
We finished the number to wild applause. In the audience, several couples rose to dance as we started the next song. I twirled, turning to flirt with the crowd. Willem winked at me, and I blew him a kiss. Behind me, the saxophonist bobbed and twisted while he played.
During the third song, the door to the bar swung open with the rowdy noise of drunken men. A trio of German soldiers settled at a table at the front, next to the bar. Jakob caught my eye. We were both thinking the same thing: trouble.
“Beers! Now!” one of the soldiers called. He looked around and spotted Jakob. “Oi!”
The soldier to his right nudged him. “Sit down, Helmut.”
“We’re not in Hamburg anymore. I’ll do what I want.”
The third soldier interrupted. “Boys. Do you smell pork in here?” He pointed to the stage. “I smell sweat.”
“Stink, don’t they? Oink! Oink!”
I watched them in disgust, forgetting my place in the song and stumbling on the lyrics. Jakob leaned toward me, his voice barely audible above the music and their shouting. “Keep going.”
The oinking soldier, his hair white as clotted cream, sat up straighter. “Play something for the Führer, you useless fucks!”
On stage, we turned to one another, trying to improvise. I waited for some cue from Jakob, but he stood there, looking half his size. I hesitated only a second. Then, grabbing the microphone, I gestured for the others to follow my lead and broke into a German cabaret number Marlene Dietrich performed, one of the few I knew by heart.
I kept singing, determined not to let the soldiers see the cracks in my confidence, not even when Maurits stood up and guided Liesbeth toward the exit. Behind me, Jakob and the others picked up the notes and joined in. I focused on the crowd, and when the ruckus died down, I turned to face the soldiers. They were quiet. As the song came to a close, I prepared to transition into another, but Jakob signaled to me. The owner of the bar was standing at the side of the stage. I moved aside to give him the microphone. “A big thank-you to the Rovers, thank you.”
“But we had another twenty minutes,” I whispered to Jakob.
He shook his head. “Better for us and him we don’t.”
Sure enough, the soldiers waved the barman over for another round, slapping a handful of coins on the table.
The owner addressed us in a low voice. “Let’s give it a half hour. You’re welcome to go back on once the fog has lifted.”
By the bar, the white-blond soldier was making a commotion. “Who’s the pretty one?” He pointed with his chin toward the stage, toward me.
The barman tried to give the soldier his change and move on, but the soldier wouldn’t let him leave. “I’m talking to you,” he said. He made a grab for the barman and missed, his two mates hauling him back to his seat.
“Let’s go,” said another soldier.
“Lady. Lady!”
Jakob lay a protective hand on my arm. I didn’t dare look across the bar at Willem. Hopefully he had the sense to stay out of it.
The soldier pulled out a fistful of bills and slapped them on the table. “I’d give you all this for…ten minutes.”
“This is a music hall not a whorehouse,” I said.
The other loud one chimed in. “Dame’s got a fine mouth on her.”
“Out!” The third soldier grabbed his two companions by the scruff of their uniforms and marched them toward the exit.
