The Dutch Orphan, page 4
“Have you noticed how many Jewish couples are here tonight?” Willem asked.
“What’s remarkable about that? They’re such patrons of the arts.”
“I don’t think that’s quite it.” He cocked his head, indicating for me to listen. I caught whispers, hushed warnings, dubious glances at the handful of German officers that sipped champagne by the bar.
“You’re right. Something is brewing.”
I spotted Jakob’s wife at the other end of the room, standing with a group of girlfriends. Unlike Jakob, Ida was a Protestant. She was a startlingly tall woman, with the elongated neck and long face of the gray herons that stalked the parks. I tried to catch her attention, but she was engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation, so Willem and I nursed our drinks and debated what had sparked the unsettling mood.
The bell rang, summoning us back to our seats for Beethoven’s Ninth. When the lights dimmed once more and the musicians positioned their bows, we leaned forward in our seats, rapt with anticipation. Again, the hall filled with music. On stage, Jakob curved his shoulders against his contrabass, his face furrowed. He’d invited us to this concert for a reason; he knew something.
I glanced at the Nazis in the front row, the hard lines of their uniforms a blemish against all the elegance. One of them nudged the officer next to him and pointed. A series of cartouches lined the concert hall, each bearing the name of a famous composer. There, beneath the balcony, was Mahler. Farther down, Mendelssohn and Rubinstein. All of them Jewish. Yes, that was it, the reason for the overflowing hall, the energy of the crowd, why Jakob had insisted we take the tickets. For some of these musicians, this would be their final curtain call.
Willem must have registered this at the same time, for his face reflected my thoughts. I leaned back in my chair, feeling deflated. It hadn’t been so long since our disastrous Sunday at Café Alcazar—how would Jakob cope if he lost this, too?
However, the music grew again, enveloping us all, swallowing my thoughts. The musicians played with a ferocity like I’d never seen and the audience responded in kind, enraptured. The choir burst into song, their “Ode to Joy,” their voices magnificent, with the power of a tempest.
Willem whispered into my ear, “Transports you to another world, doesn’t it?”
If there were such a thing as magic, it was right there, suspended in that hall. One minute, I was floating, the next, soaring. Jakob played on, his concentration matched by a fierce passion. The strings built and the timpani boomed, driving the movement to crescendo. Then, with a final, dramatic flourish, the music ceased.
The musicians bowed and the conductor moved like he was about to make a speech, but then he stepped back and gestured to the musicians. We were all on our feet, the enthusiasm deafening. People whistled, waved handkerchiefs, and fell into each other’s embraces, weeping. The noise rose up like a protest. I turned to Willem, my eyes welling with tears. I didn’t know whether to feel elated or utterly discouraged and powerless on behalf of the Jewish musicians. We clapped and we clapped, until the Nazis slunk out of view, the conductor gave up on bowing, and the musicians stepped out of formation. Jakob threw an arm around the cellist next to him, and they stood looking out at all of us, their expressions bewildered, overwhelmed. Grateful.
Six
Liesbeth de Wit
June 14, 1941
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Summer arrived early but without its promised treasures. Like the year before, there would be no holidaying in Belgium with Maurits’s family’s car, driving from château to château, stopping at pubs along the way. There would be no weekend trips to a beach house on the coast, none of the things they had fantasized about on their wedding day. Even visits to Zierikzee were becoming difficult, the trains running less often and on unpredictable schedules.
Liesbeth didn’t mind. Vacations were an extravagance her family had hardly known. Sometimes they had gone cycling and camped somewhere overnight, and once or twice each year they’d visited The Hague, strolling the promenade on the Scheveningen pier, eating lunch on the bustling terraces in the main square. Their grandfather had made a great game of “discovering” peppermints in the children’s ears, and Liesbeth would suck on her mint slowly, savoring the flavor and every moment of those afternoons.
So while Maurits’s talk of travels had enchanted her, she stowed away those dreams for another year. After the war, she thought, as she did with most things. More serious matters filled her days: how to make a meal on the last of the week’s ration coupons, the threat of air strikes at night.
Yet summer was bursting at the seams, and Maurits was determined to celebrate this. On a beautiful Saturday in June, he glanced up from the newspaper as she entered the sitting room. “The weather is expected to turn next week. Let’s make the most of today.” He gave her bottom a squeeze. “Put on that pretty green sundress of yours. I intend to show you off a little.”
Liesbeth did as he told, taking care to style her curls the way he liked and put on his favorite necklace, a slender, teardrop pendant. Then she combed the shelves of the pantry for anything she could dress up as a picnic lunch—the perfect aperitif for a night of romance, the type of night she hoped might lead to a baby.
When she met him in the hallway, he took the basket from her. “Well, what do we have here? The loveliest woman in town, and I have the good fortune to take her out.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and they swayed together side to side. “Oh, can’t we just hole up here, forget everything that’s going on outside for a bit?”
He laughed and ruffled her hair. “Darling, don’t talk nonsense. Let’s go, the sunshine’s waiting.”
* * *
The sun was indeed waiting, the sidewalks scorching, but Maurits had taken the heat into consideration and had borrowed a boat from someone he knew. He opened the storage compartment under the seats, retrieving a bottle of white wine from an ice bucket. “Only the best for you, milady.”
Liesbeth beamed at him. It felt like the early weeks of their courtship, when Maurits had been full of surprises. But when she pulled the cushions from the compartment, she spotted a copy of the VoVa—People and Fatherland—the weekly newsletter of the NSB. It was true what Johanna said, that Maurits had an unconventional group of friends, but they were powerful, successful men. If Hitler hadn’t come to power, their political leanings might have gone on unnoticed. The type of men Maurits said would restore Amsterdam to a prime spot on the European map. The type of men who would find a way to provide for their families, no matter the circumstances.
She picked up the newsletter and flipped through it. It contained an article about the pitfalls of modern architecture, a mocking caricature of Stalin, and an advertisement for a new teahouse, some sort of intellectual clubhouse. All relatively harmless, but then there was the section at the end, “A Chapter from the History of Jews,” a critical take on the spread of Jewish influence across the country. Liesbeth folded the newsletter and tucked it away, upset by the words that had popped out at her: infectious, greedy, predatory. She tried not to dwell on it, not on such a beautiful day.
Maurits handed her the bottle of wine while he got the engine running. “You trust me with this?” she asked. “It might be all gone before you’ve turned around!” He chuckled, knowing how clumsy she was with a corkscrew, and sure enough, when he pushed off the quay, she teetered sideways and lost a third of the wine to the bottom of the boat.
“I should have left this to the expert,” she said.
He brushed the dribble of wine from her hand, lifting it to kiss the pulse of her wrist. “At least we’ll never have to worry about you becoming a lush.” His smile hid a seriousness, which made Liesbeth wonder how he would react if she ever did manage to embarrass him. He always dressed his best and knew what to say, so she couldn’t picture him ever losing face. He was like the men she’d seen in Mercedes ads, posing behind the wheel, proud and self-assured.
They exchanged another kiss and Maurits turned the boat down the Prinsengracht. The wooden hull gleamed with a fresh coat of white paint. Around them, gabled houses squished together like paperbacks on a bookshelf. When she’d first visited Amsterdam, the crowded houses had looked different. In the evenings, everyone had left their blinds open, beckoning the world to peer into the rooms of their homes. She’d cycled along the illuminated canals, each window a diorama of a life she’d never know. But now, blackout paper obscured everything after dusk. Even during the day there was a sobriety to the windowsills, fewer plants and ornaments, as if people had removed anything that could make them stand out.
Maurits steered through the maze of canals, past the Seven Bridges and the swans that floated between moored vessels. As he turned the boat out onto the Amstel River, he squinted into the sun, the wind teasing his hair, whipping it back to reveal his rising hairline. The muscles in his forearm flexed while he gripped the tiller. A flicker of heat rose inside her, longing. The only thing that could make the day better would be if there were three or four children between them in the boat, begging their father for a chance to steer.
Fuel was precious, so they only boated a half hour before Maurits found a quiet spot for lunch along a grassy embankment where the river turned. Church bells pealed from the village farther down. Liesbeth pulled out the bread she had packed, the hunk of cheese, an old tin of pâté, and carrot sticks. At the sight of the bread, a flock of ducks came swimming over.
“It isn’t much,” she said. “If I’d known, I could have saved up for something special.”
Maurits poured her a generous glass of wine. “We need to be more resourceful. Plenty of tables in this city are still filled with steaks and champagne.”
“What do you mean?”
“My job is to take care of you, darling. We were supposed to travel and dine like bon vivants, but none of that has happened.”
“This is already a far different life than I knew in Zierikzee.”
He cut a thin slice of cheese and placed it over his bread. “It’s not enough.”
Liesbeth studied him, trying to figure out what was on his mind. “I couldn’t ask anything more of you,” she said, “and I know you’ll be equally good to our children.”
“I want to raise our children in a respectable household. The De Wit name should mean something at the schools they attend.”
Placing her glass on the thwart, Liesbeth drew him toward her. Her lips brushed across his jaw—clean-shaven, like always—and found his mouth. She skimmed her tongue over his teeth, tasting the wine and salted butter on his lips. His hand slid up to grasp the back of her head, to clench her hair, desire in his touch.
He pulled back to look at her. “Let’s go swimming.”
“You know I’m not much of a swimmer. Besides, I don’t have my swimsuit.”
“It’s shallow.” He reached for the buttons at her dress collar. “Nobody is around.”
She held back, in no hurry to get in. Still, she didn’t want to ruin the mood, so she gave him a wicked grin. “As long as my personal lifeguard stays within reach.”
He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his shirt over his head before diving in. Liesbeth undressed piece by piece, her breasts glowing white under the bright sun. She checked to see if anyone was around before shimmying off the side of the boat. The cold water sent a rush of goose pimples up her thighs.
“How’s this for refreshing?” Maurits said.
Liesbeth bit her lip to keep from shivering. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Don’t be cheeky!” He swam toward her with practiced strokes and made a move to grab her. She shrieked, trying to wriggle from his grasp as he tickled her.
“Uh-oh.” He pointed to the bend in the river ahead. “Better watch out, we’ve got company!”
She dived for cover between the reeds, but there was no boat in sight.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast,” Maurits said.
“You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” She cupped her hand to flick some water at him.
“Watch now,” he said, “or you might find yourself stranded here, all alone in the reeds.” He pulled her close and she wrapped her legs around his waist. They floated there together, intertwined in the shallows. For once, she wasn’t nervous in the water. She traced a finger over the droplets that trickled down his cheek, admiring the defined angles of his face, the way his chin protruded to form a little ledge. She kissed that spot, and he kissed her back hard. His hands found her breasts. Then, a sailboat glided by. Liesbeth broke away from him and dipped down until the water reached her neck, but the pair of men on board barely looked up while they prepared to tack. Once they were gone, Liesbeth reached for Maurits again, and they began to make love.
Afterward, they lay on the thwart boards, drying off in the sun. Overhead, fluffy clouds drifted into shapes: a horse, a tiger, a woman in a gown—all the makings of a circus.
“Imagine,” Liesbeth said, “when all of this is over, we can take the little ones out when the circus comes to town. Wouldn’t they love it?”
“Of course they would. Popcorn, twinkling lights, a spectacle they’d never forget.” He straightened up. “I have something to tell you, some news.”
“What sort of news?”
“Good news. Good for us and our future children.” He paused for effect, like he’d been waiting all day to make the announcement.
She sat up. “Go on.”
“I’ve been granted a business opportunity, the chance to take over the pharmacy.”
“What? That’s brilliant!” she said. “Starting when? How did this come about?”
Maurits squeezed her hand. “You needn’t concern yourself with the details. What it means is a big jump up and a secure income for the coming years. No need to pinch those ration coupons anymore.”
An uncomfortable feeling settled in her gut, but she didn’t know why. “How did you manage to keep that in all afternoon? Is there any more wine? We should be celebrating your success!”
Maurits topped them both up with the last of the bottle. She kissed him on the cheek as they raised their glasses. “Here’s to you, my love, and your new pharmacy.”
After a few sips, curiosity got the better of her. She ran her finger over the rim of the glass and looked at him. “So meneer Katz has decided to retire? I wouldn’t have pegged him for a day over fifty.”
Seven
Johanna Vos
June 28, 1941
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
“You’re doing it again,” Liesbeth said, tugging at the quilt we’d slung over our shoulders while we curled up on my bed.
I laughed. “Old habits.” For most of our lives, we had slept side by side in the bedroom we shared with our brother, Gerrit, he in one bed and she and I in the other, and she’d often complained of me stealing the blankets at night. Lately, it was Willem who accused me of this, but he was visiting the zoo in Rotterdam for a couple of days, so I’d invited Lies to sleep over, a night for us to catch up on sisterly things.
I offered up more of the blanket and started flipping through the latest edition of Libelle. I found Lies’s latest article and held it up. She’d written a piece on how to fashion a raincoat out of old bedsheets, including instructions on what mixture to soak the sheets in to make them waterproof.
She perked up. “Have you read it?”
“It was brilliant. Come autumn, your raincoats will be popping up all over Amsterdam.”
She blushed, but I could tell she was pleased. “For my next piece, I thought I’d come up with a way to fashion a baby romper from a worn apron.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet. We keep trying, but still no luck.” She sighed. Then she pointed to my fingernails. “You know, if you plan to perform more often, you ought to take better care of yourself. These are hardly the hands of a star.” She began filing my nails with an emery board from her handbag, trying to smooth the ragged, chewed ends into a suitable shape.
“I have no intentions of becoming a star,” I said.
“You could if you wanted to. I’d listen to you sing all day long.”
“Thanks, but if I get some smiles or a smattering of applause from the odd show, that’s enough for me.”
“That shouldn’t be hard. Everyone is looking for a reason to smile these days.” She held out my left hand for inspection. “Beautiful.”
“Some people are finding that more difficult than others,” I said. “You know my friend Jakob? The orchestra fired him, along with all the other Jews.”
“Oh no. How will he and his wife get by?” Liesbeth stared at my nails, but she didn’t pick up the emery board again. Instead she fiddled with the fabric of the quilt, pleating it between her fingers.
“What’s eating at you?” I asked.
“Maurits has been promoted.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been granted ownership of the pharmacy,” she said, still avoiding my gaze.
I thought of the owner, who I’d seen on the few visits I’d paid to the pharmacy—a cheerful man who greeted every customer by name and kept his shop counter polished to a shine. “So, another Jew gets his livelihood stolen for the benefit of a fine Aryan specimen.” I pulled my hand away from her. “That’s horrible. I hope you told him that.”
“It is awful, but he couldn’t have stopped it from happening.”
I shrugged off the quilt, feeling hot and uncomfortable. It wasn’t her fault any more than Jakob losing his job was the fault of the orchestra conductor, but her news was more kindling for the fire. I wished I could do something, anything.
“He should have refused the offer,” I said.
“If he had, they would have shut down the pharmacy. At least this way, meneer Katz might have something to come back to once the war ends.”
