The Dutch Orphan, page 12
“How did you get here?” I asked, my words muffled.
He kissed my forehead. “I’m here now. Everything will be all right.”
Much as I wanted to believe it, the look on everyone’s faces told me this was a lie. Then, finally, after all those delirious hours of fighting and screaming and pushing, the baby left my womb in a rush of blood and tears. My tears and Willem’s. But the baby was quiet. The doctor picked up the child, snipping it free, and bundled it up.
Low whispers, Willem’s concerned voice. The doctor’s hands fluttered around the infant’s face. He dunked the infant in a bowl of water, one and then another.
“What’s going on?” I asked, feeling a pang of panic. “Where’s my baby?”
Willem appeared, clutching my hand. His face was white. “One minute, sweetheart. The doctor is taking care of her.”
“Her?”
“It’s a girl,” he said, but I couldn’t hear any celebration in his voice.
“Let me see her! What’s happening?”
“Darling…”
“Bring her to me now!”
The pause that followed was the longest in my memory. Everything spun around me, all the activity of the night, the doctor’s cool, reassuring touch, the dizzying smell of Ida’s perfume as she leaned over me, the violin, the booming lines of Shakespeare. I repeated myself, demanding to see my daughter. But by the time the doctor came over, by the time I saw Willem’s tearstained cheeks, I knew.
My daughter wasn’t breathing.
Part Three
The Real War
May–September 1943
Eighteen
Johanna Vos
May 2, 1943
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
I had never known grief like that. In those breaking hours of dawn, I lay in a stranger’s bed, inconsolable, tangled in soiled sheets. At first, the tears wouldn’t come. I tossed and gasped for air and clutched the sweat-soaked pillowcase. The convulsions carried on in cruel waves, my body unwilling to accept that it was all over. Wim didn’t leave my side, not once. He intertwined his fingers in mine and didn’t let go.
I wanted to bury myself in the pain, succumb to the anger, the unfairness of it all. But something else lurked there. I couldn’t bear it, but its weight remained there all the same. You did this, I thought, you brought this on yourself.
While Wim held my hand, I fixated on the floor, on the clump of dust that had gathered in the corner, forgotten by the maid, on the object that had fallen beneath the armchair and rolled out of sight—a crayon, a single yellow crayon, its tip dulled from use.
I couldn’t face Wim, afraid he might see the truth, that I’d ignored his pleas. I’d been careless. A better woman—a fit mother—might have thought this fate was God’s will, that she’d done everything in her power to shepherd this child safely into the world. But I knew better: I had failed.
Once, when I was young, Gerrit bet that I couldn’t hold my breath underwater for as long as he could. I dived down to the very bottom of the pond near our house, clutching fronds of pondweed to anchor myself. With every passing second, the water clouded over, the croaking of the frogs and the green of the lily pads fading, until everything around me dimmed to shadows, the sunshine piercing the surface, far above me, impossibly out of reach.
I felt like that now, certain the world was closing in around me. There was no coming back from this. Our daughter was gone.
Once the nighttime curfew had ended and the guests trickled outside, returning to the comfort of their own beds to sleep off the drinks and merriment, Willem went to speak with the doctor. He lowered his voice so I wouldn’t hear, but I could guess what he was saying. Arrangements had to be made: a burial, a certificate of birth or death or both at once.
Footsteps pattered on the stairs, and Ida’s voice appeared, asking if she could interrupt. She pulled Willem away and together they went downstairs. I listened for their return, and as I lay there, the weight of our loss crept in. I tried to picture the baby, every contour of her face, the pinched shape of her tiny nose. I made an effort to sit up, to get myself out of bed. Where had they taken my child? I needed to hold her. Maybe if I cradled her close to my breast, some faint ember of life would ignite.
My hands trembled as my body forced me back down. I blinked, willing the tears to flow, frustrated by my wild desperation. The baby was gone—I had to accept that.
My feelings piled up like heavy blankets, stifling and exhausting, so much that I didn’t notice Wim’s return until he was kneeling beside the bed.
“What did Ida say?” I asked. Even forming the question was an effort.
“The violinist wanted to speak to me,” he said, “mevrouw De Graaf.”
That woman, what was her first name? Marijke, yes, coming to offer her condolences. “Oh?”
“It’s better we talk about it later, once you’ve rested.”
“What do you mean?”
Willem faltered. “I don’t want to make this day any more difficult.”
“Tell me.”
“She had an idea, a proposal, but it’s a big ask. A huge ask, actually, especially for you. And frankly, I don’t think we should dig ourselves deeper into all of this, given what’s happened.”
There was something about that woman I admired, a spark of determination. The type of woman I could trust. “She’s one of us, isn’t she?”
Willem nodded. “There’s a baby.” He looked up at the ceiling, like it pained him to say this word, and my body started quivering again.
I took a deep breath. “A Jewish baby. An orphan?”
“Do you remember Jakob telling us about a pregnant woman his friend had taken in?”
I nodded.
“She got sick. She didn’t make it.”
A baby in need, thirsting for a mother’s milk, for love. In the months following my parents’ deaths, I had learned all too well what it was like to need that kind of love. And what better hiding place than amid a caring family? Like the Jews at the zoo, hiding in plain sight.
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “You need time to grieve, we both do. They can find another way.”
He was right: this was no time to be rash. And to try to fill the crater that had opened in my heart—well, that felt wrong. Unthinkable, even. But a baby out there was in danger. If that child was discovered, if they were forced to give it up, it would be sent to the Jewish nursery for deportation. A potential death sentence. Even though I had pushed away from religion, I still believed that for every door that closed, a window opened. This was that window; I was sure of it.
“Is it a boy?” I asked at last.
“A girl. Not one month old.”
“That simplifies things.” I started making mental plans, what to arrange with the doctor, what to tell the hosts of the concert, how much to share with the rest of the Resistance. With my sister.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “you’ve taken on so much already.”
I winced, knowing what he was getting at. Had the dramatist told him I’d tripped and fallen? I wasn’t ready to face that horrible truth—it was my fault the baby had come early, our darling child who hadn’t lived long enough to be given a name. Willem waited for me to speak, but I sat there for a long time, considering it all, weighing the pain, the guilt, my chance for atonement. What would it feel like to rock a stranger’s child to sleep, to call her your own?
“I need to see her,” I said.
“The baby?”
“Ours.”
He looked at me. Somewhere, a clock rang the hour. I tried to make out the time but lost count of the chimes. I waited for him to shake his head, to tell me to get some rest, not to make things harder on myself.
He stood up. “I’ll get her.”
“I can walk.”
Reluctantly, he eased me up and helped me out of bed. I struggled to keep my balance while he guided me down the hallway to a side room, which contained a crib. I hadn’t considered that the hostess might be pregnant herself, but the thought drifted off as I approached the crib. Willem squeezed my shoulder; I was shaking again. I leaned into him and bent over the crib. There she was. A crocheted doily draped over her tiny, bundled body. I reached down and lifted it from our daughter’s face. The pain of seeing her overwhelmed me. Our precious child. Wim helped lift her into my arms, and together we held her close.
For several minutes, we said nothing. I kissed our daughter’s pale cheek, while Willem encircled us with his embrace. At the sound of someone in the hall, we broke apart, turning to find the doctor standing there, his coat and umbrella in hand. I eased my daughter back into the crib. As I did, more pieces of my heart crumbled away.
I turned to Wim with tears in my eyes. “I don’t think there’s any choice in it. We can give our daughter a second chance at life.”
* * *
Willem made all the arrangements, quickly and discreetly, but when our new baby was due on our doorstep the following morning, I found myself alone. His boss at the zoo had called him in for an emergency, a llama in a difficult labor. The irony was not lost on me. I sat there in the sitting room, numb, watching the minute hand tick on the clock. Whenever the minute changed, the hand shuddered and twitched before falling into place. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Twitch, twitch, twitch.
I tried to picture the baby. My own. This new one. A stranger’s child. An unfamiliar face. Would she resemble anyone I knew, a face I’d once passed in the park or in a shop? I cradled my head in my hands, the air drawn out from me in a long, hissing breath. What were we thinking, taking her in right then?
Over the next half hour, I worked myself into a frantic state. One minute, I felt nothing. Hollow. The next minute, the sharp pang of grief. I was depressed, then anxious, excited, then everything over again.
Footsteps approached on the sidewalk outside. I got up and smoothed the wrinkles from my dress, telling myself everything was fine, that nobody was being replaced or forgotten about. My heart had room for another child. I tried to remember the code phrase Willem had given me, in case I didn’t recognize mevrouw De Graaf. Something about flower beds. Silly—didn’t Willem know that the only flower beds belonged to our ground-floor neighbor? When I reached for the door, I glanced in the hallway mirror and saw puffy red eyes.
Outside, a couple stood in front of the house with a baby carriage. They stared at me. I stared back.
“Hello?” the woman said.
I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the words. I paused, looking at the baby carriage. “Have you come to see my new flower beds?”
“Yes,” the woman said, “the ones you have out back.”
Yes, it was the same woman from the house concert, the violinist. Mevrouw De Graaf. She and her husband made a dashing couple. I blinked, told myself to sharpen up, stop gawking at the baby carriage, and invite them in.
The De Graafs carried the baby carriage up the stairs to the landing, while I tried to get a glimpse of the baby. Once we were all inside, I leaned over to take a good look. The baby lay tucked under a thick blanket, her eyelids fluttering like she was half-asleep. I admired every crease, every curve of the child’s face, which was fuller than our daughter’s had been. She had a big head of hair, that looked prone to curl, and while there was something angelic in the way she slept, she was still a baby, a stranger’s baby. I looked at her and saw my own little one, and that ache in my chest resurfaced.
“Please, come sit down,” I said, when I looked up. “I’ll put on the kettle.”
“We can’t stay, I’m afraid.” Mevrouw De Graaf took a few steps down the hall. I watched her peer into the sitting room, as if she were trying to assess what type of family she was leaving the baby with. Aletta, that was the baby’s name—Willem had told me that much. A perfectly fine name, nothing suspicious about it. Still, it was only a name to me. Baby Aletta, this stranger’s baby, who was suddenly my own to care for and love.
I waited for mevrouw De Graaf to say more. Part of me wanted the couple to leave, to grant me some privacy to deal with my grief. But the sooner they left, the sooner I would be all alone with Aletta. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“We’re so sorry about your loss, mevrouw,” the violinist said.
The baby stirred, fidgeting as she woke. I bent down again and lifted her out of the carriage, gazing down at her. How strange it felt to hold her, knowing I’d agreed to mother her. “It’s a dreadful time to bring a child into the world, isn’t it?”
The couple exchanged a glance. For a moment, I wondered what they were like, if they, too, were trying to conceive. Neither of them said anything, so I spoke to fill the silence. “Well, at least I can still be of use to another young life.” I started to tear up and fumbled in my pocket for my handkerchief. I didn’t want these people to see me cry, to start questioning my strength and ability to care for the child. “Such light hair, for a Jew. What happened to her mother?”
“Pneumonia,” meneer De Graaf replied. “By the time we found a doctor who would come, it was too late.” He checked the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, we need to get going. We can’t thank you enough, mevrouw. Please hide the carriage well. Your husband knows what to do with its contents.”
The carriage—yes, Willem had mentioned something about that. A false bottom, supplies for the Resistance. Weapons, most likely, or ration cards. The idea of a gun sitting right underneath an innocent baby made me uneasy.
“Of course,” I said, fumbling for what to say. “You must be very busy. Thank you for taking the time to bring her—Aletta—all the way here. You can rest assured that my husband and I will give her everything she needs.”
Mevrouw De Graaf bent over the baby. She kissed Aletta’s forehead and reached out to take my hand. “Please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s any way we can help.”
They moved to leave, but meneer De Graaf paused at the door. “It warms my heart to see how willing you are to care for a child that’s not your own.”
I nodded, without taking my eyes off the baby. I was sure if I looked up, I might reach out in panic, wondering if I’d made the wrong decision, if I were the best person to care for this child. I couldn’t let them see my worry. “Goodbye,” I said.
The door closed with a click behind them before their footsteps receded down the stairs and onto the sidewalk outside. Then, I was left alone with her, this stranger I was to call my daughter.
* * *
The next day, I perched on the windowsill, staring out at the street. There was a queer air to the morning. A thick coat of mist hung over the cobblestones, casting the trees in gray light. Next to me, the baby cried. I glanced down at the cradle, rocked it absently, and looked outside again. A group of workers bent over the road, fixing the paving. They jiggled out the worn bricks and filled the gap with fresh ones, aligning them one by one until they formed a snug row. I watched them while they worked, observing the efficiency of it all, the smudged dirt on their hands.
The crying beside me persisted. Baby Aletta. Our baby now. The child’s face was scrunched, prune-like. I reached out a hand, knowing I ought to soothe the baby, feed her. Do something. Aletta latched on to my index finger with a curled fist, and looked up at me. No matter what I might want to see in those eyes—love, a trace of myself, of Wim—there was nothing, just a vacant, squinting stare.
The workers were still busy outside. One man lifted a spade, striking earth. He jimmied some pebbles free, used the flat back of the spade to pat the ground flat, but all I saw in that movement was the gravedigger, the upward swing of his arm as he dug deep into the ground to bury my daughter.
Not that I had been there—everything had happened in the secrecy of night, off the record. Our poor little one lost in the dark. I couldn’t push the thought away: that wooden casket, hardly bigger than a shoebox. My baby girl, meters underground, growing a little garden on her belly.
Aletta’s cries pierced the silence. I rubbed my temples, fearing another headache, while her wailing grew, her mouth puckering in need. I tried to picture the baby’s mother, this stranger who had died in hiding in the De Graafs’ attic. She, too, had slipped into a covert grave, leaving the baby with nothing more than a worn blanket and a name.
I thought of everyone else I knew through the Resistance. The worried, frightened faces. The many names of Jews searching for hiding places, desperate for ration coupons, people they could trust, their lives teetering like acrobats on a wire. They told me what they needed, and I helped. But this baby’s cries made me feel nothing aside from a dull, numbing ache.
While the workers packed up, a tall, elegant bird picked its way over the cobblestones toward them. A stork. It lifted its neck and turned its head to observe the workers with a beady eye. No, I was mistaken; it was only a gray heron.
I rubbed my temples and looked at the baby, at the wet streaks on her cheeks. The cries softened when I lifted her from the cradle. I pushed my chair back from the window and lowered the bodice of my dress. The baby shrank away from me. I tried nudging my breast toward the child, but still she wouldn’t nurse. She squirmed, and I shifted my arms, struggling to find a comfortable position. How did women make this look so natural? I wished the midwife was still present, or my sister. I tried moving her around, but she kept fussing, no matter what I tried.
“For God’s sake!” My harsh tone provoked more tears. I took a slow breath, trying to summon some compassion. “Come now, Aletta, you need to eat.” I sucked in a breath through my teeth, trying not to lose my patience, but I felt like a failure. Here I had vowed to take care of another woman’s daughter, and yet I couldn’t even get her to eat.
I rubbed away my tears of frustration and told myself I could do this, that I would find a way to fill this role, to protect this child as I’d promised. I tried again, positioning her and softening my tone. “There, there, Aletta, everything is going to be fine.” For a moment, the baby stopped moving. I repeated the words, repeated her name until she wriggled and latched on.
