The Dutch Orphan, page 32
I shook my head. So much had changed for Lies since Maurits’s death. The news hadn’t come as a surprise. On so many occasions, I’d pictured him standing behind the fence at Camp Vught, staring up at the barbed wire and feeling very much alone. Secretly, I was proud of Lies for picking herself up and starting over, trying to turn her talents into something she’d always dreamed of. In so many ways, Maurits’s cowardice had freed her. And maybe, it had opened another door for her and me, a chance to reconcile and find our way back to one another as sisters.
Before Willem could push me further, tante Rika came over to say that everyone was here. It was time to begin.
Outside, the rows of chairs were filled all the way back to the magnolia tree, which was in full bloom. Willem sat in the front row, by tante Rika and oom Cor, with Liesbeth and the doctor on the other side, next to Marijke’s husband. Rudi and Aletta had flopped down in the grass with their toy blocks, and our friends and other members of the artists’ Resistance sat in the remaining seats, faces that had been part of our secret circle during the war, and family members of those we’d lost. Some artists had traveled from all over the country to join us on this beautiful spring afternoon. I looked around at all the people, at the line of photographs, and up at the cloud-dotted sky. The sun was shining, and the scent of freshly cut grass filled the air. It was hard to believe that, not so long ago, tanks had rolled down the back street, while bomber planes dived overhead.
Jakob and I took our places to open the concert. I read out the list of names we’d gathered, the people we’d lost—musicians, actors, dancers, poets, patrons of the arts, family, and others who were dear to us. At Ida’s name, I squeezed Jakob’s hand. At Gerrit’s, my gaze fell on the far end of the garden, his old spot along the long table. In the front row, Liesbeth reached for a handkerchief.
It took several minutes to get through the names. When I finished, the audience seemed to let out a collective sigh, and we paused for a moment of silence. Then the music began. First, Jakob and Marijke set up with the other members of a string quintet. I sat down beside Willem as they began to play, Schubert’s String Quintet, the last work Schubert completed before his death. Jakob had adapted it to include his contrabass, and the deep tones of his instrument brought out a quality in the music that was as haunting as it was beautiful. The music was lush, bursting with emotion, joyous one second and dark and somber the next. Like life, I thought, always changing, like rain rolling in with the clouds, only to clear to a bright, promising sky. I peeked at Lies, who sat with her head cocked to the side, a trace of a smile on her lips. The doctor reached, almost imperceptibly, for her hand, and her smile grew. She turned toward me, but I quickly looked away.
Maybe it was all about accepting the change in the weather, the moments and decisions of others that lay beyond your control.
The quintet played on, and we all slipped into the serenity of the music, the comfort of the notes. Even Aletta and Rudi stopped playing and sat still, transfixed by the movement of Marijke’s bow. When the last movement came to a close, we were still, all of us caught in our own memories, until someone remembered to clap.
Then it was my turn. Schubert’s composition had held me in such a close grip that I hadn’t had the time to get nervous, but that feeling returned as I got up and faced the audience, as I faced my sister. She looked up at me with such earnestness, such love, and such sadness, that I almost forgot what I wanted to say. Willem nodded, encouraging me. I thought about the clouds rolling in, the storm that faded into spring sun. We had weathered the storm. Barely, but we had made it. And I wouldn’t have my daughter there beside me if it hadn’t been for Lies. I had rehearsed the songs I’d intended to perform the day I’d found out I was pregnant. But suddenly, I knew what I needed to sing instead.
“I hope I won’t disappoint any Billie Holiday fans out there,” I said, “but I’m going to sing something a little different than what you see in the program.” I turned to Lies. “A song about dreams, about second chances.”
Her expression shifted as my words registered. I began to sing “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Wim smiled and Aletta waved at the sound of my voice and tried to make her way toward me, but he scooped her up and held her close, whispering in her ear. Lies didn’t take her eyes off me. Right then, I knew we would find our way back to one another, one step at a time.
I looked up and closed my eyes and pictured the world I wanted for her and for my daughter. A world without hate, a world in which we tried to find one another, through a little hope and understanding. Maybe that world wasn’t so far away.
When I opened my eyes, something atop one of the nearby buildings caught my attention. It couldn’t be, or was it? I gestured to Lies, and she followed my gaze. A nest, high in the chimney top, the highest spot on the horizon. A stork’s nest. I looked at her and she looked at me and a silent word passed between us: maybe, just maybe.
Historical Note
When we think of the damage inflicted during the Second World War, we tend to think of the ravaged battlefields in Northern France and Russia, of bombed-out buildings in London, of the gas chambers at Auschwitz. But, in May 1940, when Nazi Germany invaded the Netherlands to little resistance, the Dutch people had their hopes for neutrality erased and faced a new reality: occupation.
In the early months of the occupation, the impact on daily life for the average citizen, while notable, was still moderate. Many things carried on as usual. The Nazis were inclined to give preferential treatment to their “Germanic brothers.” In some circles, cooperation with the Nazis evolved into staunch support, as the Dutch National Socialist Party (NSB) gained prominence. But the notion of everyday life faded when the Nazis began restricting more and more personal freedoms, starting with those of the Jewish community.
The Dutch then faced a choice: Do you collaborate, keep your head down, or actively resist? This gray area is what I wanted to explore in The Dutch Orphan. Would you offer shelter to a stranger, even if it meant risking your life? Would you refuse to register your vocation in a show of support for others? What if this meant you could no longer afford to feed your children? Would you do business with the Germans if that led to some well-needed nourishment in return?
According to Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center, more than three-quarters of Dutch Jews were murdered during the Holocaust, higher than in any other Western European country. This was in part due to the efficient bureaucracy set up by the Germans in the Netherlands and the relative independence of the German police there. Another important factor was the swift reprisals for the general strike that was held in protest of the first major razzia. Fear of more reprisals contributed to the delayed setup of organized resistance.
Another thing that struck me when researching the persecution of Jews in the Netherlands was the introduction of bounty hunters. These Dutch men were paid a bonus for every Jew they managed to arrest. Incentives like these in desperate times were one of the countless reasons that certain citizens struggled with their expressions of loyalty and trust. Does the wrong choice become the right choice if you’re fighting to support your family?
Many of the events that happen in this book are inspired by true occurrences. As in other countries, the zoo in Amsterdam offered refuge to people in need throughout much of the war. The house concerts in the novel were actually held throughout the Netherlands and featured some of the country’s best artists. Johanna’s initial performance at Café Alcazar was inspired by the performance of Jewish trumpetist Clara de Vries, who was later arrested and murdered at Auschwitz. Similarly, the stories surrounding the children at the Jewish nursery are a nod to the many children who were rescued by nursery staff and other members of the Resistance. Finally, the traumatic incident in the bunker building at Camp Vught is also based on real events, a reminder that the horrific torture in concentration camps extended beyond the gas chambers and crematoria of our common narrative.
Writing this novel while living in Amsterdam has reminded me of the many small signs of the occupation that remain to this day, like the brass stumbling stones that mark the former homes of Holocaust victims; the test blast of the city air sirens; and the 1940s newspapers and hiding place that were discovered in the renovation of my old apartment. I’m grateful to the many friends and loved ones who’ve shared stories of their families’ experiences during the war, and to the countless people who have taken the time to preserve their stories and diaries in the Dutch archives.
In some cases, I’ve played with the timeline of events to better fit the narrative. For example, I condensed the February Strike to play out over one day instead of two and changed the dates of a subsequent razzia. Similarly, I show word of the German invasion reaching Johanna and Liesbeth during the afternoon of their wedding party, whereas they likely would have woken up to the news.
To list all the books and archival resources that helped me give life to this story would require a great many pages. A few titles that proved indispensable include: Hitler’s Bounty Hunters: the Betrayal of the Jews by Ad van Liempt; Hier Woont een NSB’er by Josje Damsma and Erik Schumacher; Blitzed: Drugs in Nazi Germany by Norman Ohler; and Muziek in de Schaduw van het Derde Rijk by Pauline Micheels.
Acknowledgments
I wrote this novel during those dreary days of lockdown, a process that brought new meaning to the idea of the solitary writer and came with its own set of challenges. This process reminded me that writing a novel takes a village, and I am so grateful for all the advice and support I received along the way.
I’m deeply grateful to my first editor, Patrick Crean, for believing in me like no other and helping me find my voice. An enormous thank-you as well to Janice Zawerbny, for later picking up this project with enthusiasm and keen perception, and to Erika Imranyi for such thoughtful feedback and ongoing support. To the rest of the teams at HarperCollins Canada and Park Row Books—including Iris Tupholme, Nicole Luongo, Greg Stephenson, and many more—thank you for your hard work in bringing this book to life.
Thank you to Rachel Letofsky and everyone at CookeMcDermid Agency for always being there with ideas and a listening ear.
When it comes to the research, I spent many a comforting hour between the archival stacks at the NIOD Institute for War, Holocaust and Genocide Studies in Amsterdam.
I also appreciate all the writers of the London Writers’ Salon, who bring sunshine to my writing days. To the International Writers’ Collective, thank you for giving me a space to continue learning about this craft. And to the faculty at the University of British Columbia’s MFA program, who have taught me so much along the way.
Thank you to Julie Hartley, Laura Nicol, Jill Goldberg, and Sarah Richards for always helping and cheering for me from afar. To Jen Gryzenhout and Melanie Veenstra, for the friendship that started with a cheese platter and a blank page and has turned into something much deeper.
Thank you also to the many friends who offered encouragement and ideas along the way, especially to Dyon Vocking, Wilco van Bokhorst, Andrea Spithoff, Lauren Titus, Lisa Süss, and Lauren Tan.
To Nita Pronovost and Matthew Lawson—despite being continents apart, a special friendship has taken root. Matt, your feedback and words of motivation were integral to helping this story take shape.
Finally, to family: thank you to my grandmother, Harmien Deys, whose own experiences in the war inspired many moments in this novel. To Hannie de Vries and Han Kooistra, for always being there. And to my brother, Peter, and my parents, Rod and Evelyn Keith, for the constant love and support.
In many ways, writing this novel while so much of daily life was on pause reminded me how small the world really is, and how stories continue to bind us together.
About the Author
ELLEN KEITH is the author of the bestselling novel The Dutch Wife, which won the 2016 HarperCollinsPublishersLtd/UBC Prize for Best New Fiction. She is originally from St. Albert, Canada, and currently lives in Amsterdam, the Netherlands.
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Also by Ellen Keith
The Dutch Wife
Copyright
The Dutch Orphan
Copyright © 2023 by Ellen Keith.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Cover photography by Magdalena Russocka / Trevillion Images (buildings), Alamy (woman with stroller), and Shutterstock (texture)
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
First Canadian edition
EPUB Edition APRIL 2023 EPUB ISBN: 978-1-4434-6436-9
Version 03112023
Print ISBN: 978-1-4434-6435-2
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The Dutch orphan : a novel / Ellen Keith.
Names: Keith, Ellen, 1989- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220472890 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220472912 | ISBN 9781443464352 (softcover) | ISBN 9781443464369 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8621.E385 D87 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
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Ellen Keith, The Dutch Orphan
