The Dutch Orphan, page 10
Dirk dipped in a mock bow and made his way to the bar. Maurits pulled her close. “I love you,” he said.
That familiar streak of warmth ran through her, the way a single phrase could bandage the evening’s loneliness, as it had bandaged so many things he’d said and done before. She nestled her cheek against his as he guided her around the dance floor. Dirk was more of a bouncer, she thought, her husband a glider, like he moved through everything in life.
Maurits kissed her on the forehead. “Are you enjoying yourself, darling?”
Liesbeth looked over his shoulder, at the swastikas that glared at her from every corner of the room, the framed photos of Hitler and Mussert, the head of the NSB, on the wall. Then, she felt the pleasant fullness of a proper meal, the energy it brought. Her eyes fell on Dirk as he leaned against the bar, which was stacked with bottles that had long been sold out in shops across the city. She watched as he tipped his glass to the barman and drank it down in one fell swoop.
Liesbeth looked up at Maurits. “Yes,” she said. “Actually, I am.”
Fifteen
Johanna Vos
March 4, 1943
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
The instructions were to meet next to the flamingo lagoon at the zoo. Sure, Willem had intended the instructions for someone else, but I was the one waiting there, checking the time and clasping a protective hand over my belly. Part of the belly was phony: false identity cards and ration coupons padding my maternity corset, but beneath the papers, a life was forming. Our baby.
As I sat there, I tried to imagine myself one year later, pushing a baby carriage across the cobblestones, lifting up the infant to admire the pink plumage of the flamingos, the cerulean blue of the peacocks. I took a deep breath and sat up straighter as that sour taste of heartburn returned to my throat. One of the many joys of pregnancy, I was learning.
“Not exactly the courier I was expecting.”
I turned to find Willem standing behind me, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. I kissed him on the cheek, and then he led me to a secluded garden, which bloomed with flowers in the warmer months but was now little more than hedges. He rested a hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come. It’s far too risky in your state.”
“I don’t see any flying bullets. I’m paying my husband a visit at work. It’s hardly suspicious.”
“Johanna…”
“You know I can’t sit around at home for months on end.”
“Why don’t we have a night on the town? I heard there’s dancing on the Van Baerlestraat on Thursdays.”
“That NSB breeding ground? I wouldn’t be caught dead there.” At the sight of the worry in Willem’s gaze, my voice softened. “I’ll be careful, I promise. I’ve brought the supplies you needed, nothing more.”
His face relaxed and he pinched my cheek. “I thought you’d gotten a lot rounder since this morning. Come, let’s go inside.”
I began to follow him. “May I meet them?”
“What?” he asked, but he knew what I meant. The Jewish people at the zoo, the ones hiding in plain sight. He gave me a warning look. “One of the macaques just gave birth,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He led me to the monkey rock, a big complex partitioned off by a moat, a structure with tufted peaks like meringues. It had opened shortly after the occupation began. Artis Zoo, so popular with the German soldiers, was one of the few establishments that seemed to be still expanding during the occupation. I sometimes wondered why long queues of people would still spend their precious pocket money on a day at the zoo, but they probably liked to lose themselves in the gardens and their imagination for a few hours. An oasis in a war-torn city.
“Look.” Willem pointed to a macaque who carried a baby against her chest. “Just a few weeks old.”
I directed my focus at what I wanted to see, yet what I hoped was impossible to see. The look in Willem’s eyes told me there were people hiding somewhere in the complex. The macaques scrambled about, dipping into enclaves and out of sight. The rock must have been hollow, so the monkeys could sleep inside it. And now humans as well. I pictured them there, huddling between the cages, trying to get some peace and rest.
My mind flooded with questions: Was it overcrowded? How did they hustle the Jews inside during a razzia? There must have been a plank or something they used to cross over the moat. As I pondered this, I noticed that Willem’s attention had strayed. He was watching a young lady who sat on a bench with a sketchbook while she chatted with some German soldiers. They cracked a joke, and she made a show of laughing at it. I frowned. Another Dutch girl fraternizing with the enemy. The soldiers got up and left, and I was tempted to go over and give her a piece of my mind.
“Don’t say anything,” Willem said. He could read me almost as well as Liesbeth.
“Why not? She’s causing a scene.”
Willem grabbed my arm, holding me in place. That concerned expression was back, but it wasn’t directed toward me. I stopped and took another good look at the lady as she returned to her drawing. From where I was, I could see that detailed drawings of the monkeys filled the open pages of her sketchbook, as if she’d been sitting on that bench for hours. And her blond hair showed a hint of darkness at the roots.
“Don’t meddle in things you know nothing about,” Willem said. “Come on, this way.”
As I followed him away from the main enclosures, I glanced back at her, at the loneliness on her face, and I understood my mistake. She wasn’t trying to flirt. She was protecting herself, hiding in plain sight.
At the far end of the zoo, Willem opened a door and led me into a dimly lit storage room that smelled of damp feed. He checked around to ensure we were alone. Then he glared at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“Get ahold of yourself, Johanna. You can’t just show up here acting all righteous. You’re too quick to judge. Imagine what could have happened if you started telling her off. Talk about creating a scene.”
“I said I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I didn’t realize they’d be milling around in the open.”
“Only when it’s safe. We can’t ask them to stay holed up in the enclosures all the time. There’s no humanity in that.” He paused. “Sometimes it’s easier than others. One of the men has been given a wheelbarrow of meat to distribute to some of the carnivores during the day. You wouldn’t know he was Jewish if you saw him.”
I wanted to ask more, wanted to hear everything, but it was not the time or the place. I reached under the waistband of my skirt and loosened the maternity corset to extract the ration cards and coupons, enough to feed a few more people for a couple of months at least. The list of demands for supplies was bound to keep growing, and I wanted to help as much as possible.
Willem stuffed the bundle into the hole behind a loose brick in the wall. He gave me another look. This unfamiliar, serious side of him surprised me.
“You need to go home,” he said. “We’ll talk about this later, but you need to think about the risks you’re taking.”
I didn’t like being chastised, but he was right. We left the storage area and returned to the main path of the zoo. He accompanied me to the gate, where he kissed me goodbye. “Please,” he said once more. “Think about the baby.”
* * *
In an alley connecting the canals, which encircled the city like bands of pearls, was an old wooden door. The forest green paint was chipped in the corners, the latch on the door rusted and hanging lopsided. I checked the alley for prying eyes. Then, I rapped out the code Jakob had given me, and when the door opened, I slipped inside.
The space had once served as part of an old brewery: dirty glass bottles stood next to rusted machinery, and piping covered the walls. In the corner, someone was pedaling a stationary bicycle hooked up to a small generator to power the electric lights. An array of documents was spread out between huge vats. A few Resistance members I recognized sat organizing them into stacks, while two I didn’t cranked out copies of an illegal newspaper on a hand press.
As I bent to pick up a handful of newspapers, I spotted Jakob sitting on a plank, which lay on overturned buckets to form a bench. A yellow star was pinned to his sweater. He waved and shuffled over to make room, leaving a wide gap to accommodate me and my enormous belly.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, patting me on the wrist. “Is Wim joining us?”
I told him Willem was on his way, then held up the newspapers. The wet ink from the top sheet had smudged my skin. “Let’s hand these out at the next zwarte avond.”
“Smart thinking.” Although we’d been organizing the zwarte avonden for almost a year, the latest razzias had made everything more treacherous. With so many Jews going into hiding, our concerts had to evolve, as it became riskier for them to perform. For now, Jakob was still protected, because Jews in mixed marriages had been exempted from deportation, but with every passing day, life grew more dangerous for him as well.
“Where’s Ida?” I asked.
“She went to see a doctor.”
“Is that so? Are congratulations in order?”
“On paper, at least. The doctor’s promised to sign a statement for us, claiming she’s pregnant. One more bulwark against the cattle cars.”
I took his hand. “She’s an inspiration, Jakob.”
“Yes,” he said. “She’s the world as it should be.” His eyes dropped to his lap. “And the reason I’m still here.”
The brewery door opened again and someone ducked inside. Willem. He was carrying his veterinary bag and his hair flopped forward in that boyish, handsome way of his.
Piet, who had organized the Resistance meeting, went to the front of the room and the others stopped the printer and gathered around. Willem hopped up and sat on a keg beside us.
“Let’s get started,” Piet said. “The Nazis are tightening the noose across the country, showing us what they have in store. Who here knows someone who was rounded up in the last razzia?”
Hands went up around the room. I thought of the woman I’d seen pulling the pregnant mother off the street and I glanced at Jakob, who continued to hear of more friends and family members who had been arrested.
“We’ve all witnessed the risks of taking a stand: the reprisals, the executions. But still, we must ask ourselves—how did things get this bad?” A murmur passed through the group, men and women from various Resistance cells. “The time has come to strengthen our approach. And fortunately, the British SOE has sent us a gift to do just that.”
He stepped aside and unfolded the blanket that lay across a long worktable to expose a bunch of weapons. Revolvers, grenades, a pinched Luger. Several people cheered. I bit my lip, and Willem looked over at me, uneasy.
“Now, I know certain Resistance cells are better equipped for these types of actions,” he said, “but there are those among you who feel it’s time for a more aggressive approach. The question is what to do with these weapons.”
Someone spoke up in the back. “Give them to those of us who are out on active missions. No use having them gather dust in here.”
I interjected. “The artists’ Resistance has a whole network of people who are sheltering Jews. Many of them would feel safer with an extra layer of protection.”
“She’s just grumpy and uncomfortable,” he said, waving his hand. He shot me a warning glance. “We should move very carefully,” he said to the group. “Never open a battle we can’t win.”
“What do you think, Jakob?” Piet asked.
Jakob looked at me. “Johanna has a point. We have innocent citizens at the mercy of the Gestapo. Still, we need to be strategic. Where can we inflict the most damage?”
People began whispering among themselves. Willem hopped down from the keg. “As a group, we’re untrained, unfit to carry out tactical missions. Let’s pass on the weapons to the cells that are prepared.”
With some effort, I also got up onto my feet. The others were still arguing, everyone hurling ideas to and fro. I raised my voice. “What good will it do shooting up warehouses and train depots if a whole community is wiped out in the meantime? Let’s stop the traitors who keep betraying our friends and neighbors.”
Everyone turned to me, and I realized what an odd sight I must have been. Keeled backward to balance my weight, my calves swollen as I tried to make my case. “I’m carrying a child into this world, a world I want to fight for, but we need to all act as one.”
A smattering of cheers followed, before other voices arose, urging for caution. Willem reached out to me. “I know your intentions are good,” he said gently, “but we simply cannot arm a bunch of old men and housewives. People are doing everything they can to keep those families safe. You must trust that.”
At the front of the room, Piet called for a vote. I didn’t have to watch to know I was outnumbered. I leaned back to steady myself, breathless from the strain of exertion. Then I wrapped a protective arm around my belly and whispered to my unborn baby, “I will be strong for you; I’ll do everything in my power to bring you into a world that’s safe and loving.”
Sixteen
Liesbeth de Wit
April 12, 1943
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Liesbeth stood outside the pharmacy, studying her reflection in the window. If she angled her body and leaned back, her coat appeared to slope downward in a healthy, motherly bump. She placed a hand on her navel, trying to imagine how her sister must feel, but the bulge of fabric flattened and her reflection shrank until it was just her again. With a wistful sigh, she went inside.
Maurits stood near the cash register, writing out instructions for a prescription. Beside him was a brown glass bottle, one of the many that lined the wooden shelves framing the counter.
“‘Chloral hydrate,’” she read, examining the bottle’s label with its accompanying skull and crossbones.
“Knockout drops,” Maurits said, “for insomnia. Gotta be careful with this solution. If you overdo it, you won’t wake up.” He finished what he was doing before coming over to kiss her. She handed him a bag containing his favorite necktie.
“Thank you, darling,” he said. “You managed to patch it?”
“Well, with a scrap from an old handkerchief, but as long as you’re not nose to nose with your suppliers this evening, nobody will notice the difference.” She paused. “What time will you be home?”
The bell at the door interrupted his reply, and he moved to help the new customer. Part of her was curious about his meeting with the pharmaceutical suppliers, but she sensed she wouldn’t want to hear the details. Still, she pocketed all the extra ration coupons and the Germans’ cash he came home with in quiet resignation. If his little side gig kept food on their table when so many others were struggling, she couldn’t complain.
“Can you keep an eye on the door for me?” Maurits asked. “Meneer Van Duin is supposed to come by any minute.”
As Maurits disappeared into the back room, she lifted a hand to check her hair, surprised by the little jolt she got at the mention of the man’s name. She told herself it meant nothing, but she couldn’t help but think back on the fuzzy feeling he’d given her at the dinner party, how he’d made her feel seen.
The bell jingled again. It was Dirk. He wore a smart knit vest with a red houndstooth necktie, but his shoes had scuff marks and his fedora sat askew. “Liesbeth,” he said, “what a surprise.”
“A pleasant one, I hope.”
“Like cordial on a hot summer’s day.”
She smiled. “Quiet day at the bank?”
“Oh no,” he said, after a slight pause, “but I like my long lunches at Café Ruysdael. I go there most days, helps me clear my head.”
Maurits emerged from the back. “Ah, there you are, my friend, right on time. Shall we?”
Dirk opened the panel door and stepped behind the counter before following Maurits into the back room. Liesbeth strained to hear their hushed voices, wondering what business Dirk had with Maurits. He looked disheveled, and she thought she’d caught a whiff of alcohol when he’d passed—jenever—a strong choice for the lunch hour, but it was the same thing she reached for when she was home alone late into the night, when Maurits was caught up at one NSB event or another.
Another customer walked into the pharmacy, a young pregnant woman complaining of aching feet, for which Liesbeth advised a peppermint salve. Maurits used it for his dry hands after long days at the pharmacy, and he came home smelling of peppermint and antiseptic. She admired the customer’s rosy glow with a flicker of jealousy. The woman must have only been a few weeks behind Johanna, who was growing out of her maternity clothes faster than Liesbeth could adjust them.
As the woman left the shop, the bell jingled yet again, and someone familiar came in. Liesbeth had only met Ida Cohen once or twice, but she knew Johanna was close with her husband. The two of them made a funny pair, Ida towering above Jakob.
“Why, hello, Ida. I didn’t know you came here.”
Ida greeted her with three kisses on the cheeks. Her dress had a high, starched collar and she wore long, mauve gloves. “Johanna mentioned your husband was a pharmacist.”
Liesbeth studied Ida, searching for some hint of bitterness. She doubted her sister would intentionally solicit business for Maurits. How much had Johanna told Ida about how he’d come to own the pharmacy? “How very kind of you to think of coming here,” she said.
The two men emerged from the back room, and Dirk slipped something into his pocket. She recognized the telltale orange-and-blue Pervitin packaging. Aha, she thought, he has you hooked as well.
Liesbeth gestured to Ida. “This is mevrouw Cohen, an acquaintance of my sister’s.”
Hearing the Jewish surname, Maurits hesitated, glancing at Dirk before he reached out to shake Ida’s waiting hand. Dirk, in contrast, perked up at the sight of Ida, regarding her from head to toe in a way that made Liesbeth’s skin prickle.
He tipped his hat to her. “Mevrouw Cohen—it’s been too long. How are you and your husband? Dare I ask, is he still around?”
