The Dutch Orphan, page 8
Part Two
The Noose Tightens
October 1942–May 1943
Twelve
Liesbeth de Wit
October 26, 1942
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
The sun shone through the Vondelpark, the trees shedding their red leaves like a lady slinking out of her coat after a long night out. Liesbeth tried not to shiver when the breeze caught her skirt. She hadn’t managed to buy a fresh pair of stockings in weeks, and, like many women, she’d taken to tinting her legs and painting a thin seam down the back with her brow pencil to create the illusion of stockings.
She found Johanna by the teahouse in the center of the park. Although the two of them lived only ten minutes apart by bicycle, Liesbeth could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her sister in the past six months. Every visit had felt stiff, afternoon strolls or a quick cup of tea, none of the games or laughter or snuggling under blankets and gossiping she was used to. On the occasions the conversation moved deeper—when she confided in Johanna about how helpless she felt, how frustrated she was at her inability to get pregnant—her sister’s sympathy came laced with remarks about Liesbeth’s poor choice in husband.
Jo waved as Liesbeth approached. She was wearing a pair of slacks, something Liesbeth would never have dared leave the house in. The editor at Libelle had published an editorial about how inappropriate it was for women to wear pants in public, a sign of the degradation of society and to be avoided at all costs.
Liesbeth laughed while she greeted her sister. “Trying something new, are we?”
“Oh, some days I can’t be bothered. Why should men be the only comfortable ones?” She pointed at Liesbeth’s goose-pimpled legs. “I mean, look at you!”
Liesbeth shrugged. “Sometimes keeping up appearances is the only way to trick yourself into carrying on.”
“I thought Maurits was connected,” Johanna said, as they began walking. “Surely the NSB have a whole warehouse of stockings hidden somewhere.”
“Jo, I—”
“I’m kidding. Do try to lighten up.” Johanna was walking at half her normal pace, and deep frown lines formed between her eyebrows.
“I’ll save my favors for more pressing matters,” Liesbeth said. “Now, are you planning on telling me what’s going on, or do I have to coax it out of you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your eyebrows. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Please, spill it. Is it bad news? What is it? Should we go somewhere more private?”
Johanna didn’t reply right away. Around them, birds chirped, and two children ran by, pulling a wagon with a broken wheel that squeaked and zigzagged across the path.
“It’s nothing like that,” Johanna said, “but you’re right, I do have something to tell you. Good news.” She paused. “You see, it’s rather unexpected—”
Liesbeth looked back at the boy steering the wagon and understood the secret her sister was harboring. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
“Lies, I… We weren’t planning for this. We were so careful. It’s the last thing I would have asked for right now.”
The news hit hard, but whether with joy or pain Liesbeth couldn’t tell. She stopped walking. “The last thing you would have asked for?”
“I don’t mean it like that. I know I should be grateful. I am, especially since I know how much you’ve been trying yourself.”
Ashamed that Jo had sensed her jealousy, Liesbeth looked away. “Don’t worry about me. This is about you.” She tried to clear her head and stepped forward, embracing her sister. “I’m happy for you. Thrilled, actually. Jo, this— You know what this means? You’re going to be a mother. And I’ll be an aunt.”
“Tante Lies sounds good on you.”
“Tante Lies, yes. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Oh, this is terrific, beyond terrific. You’re going to be a mother!”
“It’s a wild thought, isn’t it. Me, a mother? You’re the one who knows everything about children.”
“I suppose that’s easy to say until you have a baby in your arms. I don’t know the half of it. Oh, imagine, a mini you to coddle and love. What does Willem think of it all?”
Johanna smiled. “He’s over the moon. He’s been sharing the news with everyone in sight.”
They carried on walking, but Liesbeth was so full of questions she could hardly contain herself. “How long have you known?”
“A few days. I wanted to tell you right away, but I needed some time to process it.”
“Of course you did, I understand,” Liesbeth said, although she didn’t.
“I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I’ve been busy.”
“Well, what matters is that we’re here for one another now.” Liesbeth had hoped for more of an explanation from Johanna but didn’t want to ruin the moment, so instead she changed the subject. “Willem will be a wonderful father.”
“Yes, he will, won’t he?” Johanna paused and turned to face her. “Maurits will make a good father one day, too, you know.”
“I hope so, I really do.”
* * *
In all Liesbeth’s months in Amsterdam, the sun had never quite found its way onto the rear balcony of their apartment, but she liked to sit there, perched on a white wrought iron chair with a cup of tea. Fake tea, of course, brewed with nettles she’d gathered in the park, but if she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was on a balcony in Paris, overlooking the vibrant streets of Montparnasse, dressed in a fine silk dress instead of her ratty old dressing gown and slippers.
At three in the afternoon, she was on her third cup of tea, but she’d spent more time watching the drizzling rain than she had on her work. She’d arranged some fabric scraps and a handmade pattern on the table beside her, next to a notebook and fountain pen. No matter how long she stared at these items, the words wouldn’t come. Her article for Libelle was overdue. The editor had given her an extra day to finish it, but the notepad was still blank. She’d had a wonderful idea for a piece on converting old clothes into maternity wear, but since Jo’s big news, the idea had lost its spark. Instead of writing, she flipped through the latest issue of Libelle. The pages featured drab, wartime colors, navy and maroon, and the models sported dirndls and embroidered cardigans that weren’t available in the Netherlands.
If inspiration was a well, hers was as dry as a cove at low tide. Fabric was getting harder and harder to come by. She’d heard of women fashioning skirts out of potato sacks, of sweaters knit with fur from the family dog. Yet, with the Nazis in control of the editorial calendar, she had to pretend there was no such thing as poverty or scarcity, that Berlin was the pinnacle of fashion, rather than Paris or New York. Her editor had advised her to title a new piece “Razzia in Your Closet.” She’d written back with a flat no, stunned by his gall. Did he think the fate of the Jews was some twisted joke?
Normally she could count on Johanna to pull her out of her uninventive slump. After all, Jo was the one who had a way with words. But her sister had been suffering from terrible morning sickness all week, so Liesbeth didn’t want to bother her with her problems. Besides, Jo hadn’t shown much interest in her recent articles. Liesbeth wasn’t sure if she was keeping up with them.
As Liesbeth stared out at the rain, Maurits came home, his shoes clacking against the loose floorboards. He stepped out onto the balcony and gave her an appraising look. “Awfully cold to be dressed like that, isn’t it?”
“You’re just worried what the neighbors might think,” she said listlessly.
“And rightfully so. You look the same as when I left this morning.”
“I’ve been busy. You’re not the only one who is putting bread on the table these days.”
He pointed to the blank notepad with a smirk. “Working hard or hardly working? Now, are you going to ask why I’m home early?”
“Bad day at work?”
“The opposite. I thought we could have a celebratory drink.”
“Oh? And how do you keep getting your hands on more alcohol when the shop shelves are bare?”
“Things are picking up,” he said. “You wouldn’t guess it, but there’s good money to be made in my line of work.”
“Is that so?” She thought of the German soldiers, lining up at the pharmacy at the day’s close, the cash Maurits slipped straight into his pocket.
“It’s a matter of supply and demand, my dear. And when it comes to the Germans getting their fix, I’m their man.”
He opened his cigarette case and withdrew a cigarette, spinning it between his fingers. She had an urge to flick it from his hand. Why must he speak to her like she was a child, like everything needed explaining? “If you want to worry about what the neighbors are thinking,” she said, “maybe you ought to look in the mirror.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What are you being so sassy about?”
“I told you, I’m working. And you can leave me out of the ‘finer details’ of your work. I don’t want to know.”
“Be glad I’m clever enough to turn a profit in this war. It’s the only way you can afford to mope around all day in your undergarments!”
She balled the trim of her dressing gown into her fist and reached for her pen, her irritation growing. “Please, I need to focus.”
“So you won’t join me for a drink? What’s so important, anyway?”
“I said leave me alone, Godverdomme!”
Maurits stepped back. She’d never sworn at him before, but the word landed with a satisfying sizzle. Maurits swiped the notepad aside and examined the pattern she’d cut out with its label at the top: maternity dress. “So that’s what’s gotten you all wound up. You’re still sulking about your sister’s news.”
Liesbeth stiffened. After a moment, she said, “I don’t want to just be ‘the fun aunt.’”
“Look, it’s not fair. Johanna can barely cook a decent meal—Lord knows how she’ll take care of a child. But being moody about it doesn’t help anything. You’re making me miserable.”
“Maybe if we spent a little more time making a conscious effort ourselves, we’d have more success. The doctor said we should use a calendar to track my cycle.”
“Well, the lack of interest you’ve shown lately isn’t helping. How can you expect us to conceive a child under such circumstances?” He paused. “I’ve given this some thought, and I think it would be advisable for you to start a treatment program.”
“A treatment program?”
“To boost your mood, soften your temperament.” He went into the apartment and returned with his briefcase. He opened the latch and pulled out an orange-and-blue tube. It was the same drug he’d given the soldiers: Pervitin.
Liesbeth scowled. “Don’t try to play doctor.”
“I’ve seen countless women come in complaining of a low libido and this always does the trick. We’ll start you off slowly.”
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable—”
“And I don’t feel comfortable coming home to an unhappy wife. Come on, darling, it’s for the both of us. Trust me. You’ll feel better in no time.”
He removed the cap of the tube and held out a tablet in his open palm. She stared at it. What was the use getting mad over something she couldn’t control? Perhaps it could help. And if it was as safe as a box of chocolates, what was the harm in trying? At least this way, he couldn’t pin all of the blame on her. She reached out and took it, turning it over once in her hand before popping it into her mouth. The bitter taste sat on her tongue long after she swallowed.
Maurits squeezed her shoulder. “Good girl. Now, why don’t you put on some clothes and finish up here? I’ll be in the sitting room with a glass of wine when you’re done.”
He went back into the apartment, and a minute later, a cork popped. She shivered and adjusted her robe, trying not to think about Johanna, about the joy of anticipation that she also longed to feel. She traced a finger over the edge of the sewing pattern and picked up the fountain pen. If inspiration refused to appear, she would have to seek it out herself.
Thirteen
Johanna Vos
January 19, 1943
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
The baby elephant at Artis Zoo let out a loud trumpet and tripped over its back feet as it bolted away from the fence. I laughed and called out to it, while Willem pushed up the bridge of his glasses with his middle finger and jotted a note on his clipboard. “Strange,” he said. “Something must have spooked her.”
I rested a hand on the growing bump at my belly. “Maybe our little one is sending out battle cries.”
“She’s already as feisty as her mother.”
“She?”
He winked and gave me a kiss. “See you tonight. I can’t wait for dinner.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that he was more fed up with our meager diet of potatoes and green beans than I was. He headed off toward the petting zoo, where an overweight sow needed its medication.
Once he was out of sight, I turned to leave, thinking about what he had said, whether the baby would have my spirit, or his looks, or my build. These early months of pregnancy had toyed with my mood, creating ebbs and flows. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a child. I’d looked forward to the years ahead of coddling a little one, of taking my son for ice cream on sweltering days, introducing my daughter to the world of books. I knew I should count my blessings, but why did it have to happen now? People everywhere were dying, and it felt selfish to bring new life into the midst of such darkness. I was already needed elsewhere.
As I made my way toward the zoo’s exit, I noticed that a peculiar restlessness had descended on the animals. The wildcats were pacing their enclosures, throwing their heads to the sky, and the penguins brayed and flapped about. By the time I reached the gate, it was obvious that something was wrong.
Then I heard the shouting.
“Schnell, schnell!” German commands, harsh on the tongue. Armed Order Police charged down the street like seething bulls. I stiffened as the metal turnstile clicked shut against the back of my thighs. It was too late to turn back.
Across the road, the front door of one of the gabled houses swung open. A family stumbled down the steps and onto the street. Yellow stars pinned to their jackets, rumpled bundles heaped in their arms, and soldiers pointing guns at their backs.
As I tried to process everything around me, the sounds and colors grew sharp and harsh and bright. My body tensed up, like a heavy weight had fallen on my chest. It was happening again—another razzia.
I glanced around for an escape. Looking for shadows, I inched along the gated wall, edging out of the sun. The street was barricaded. Men and women ran around me, crying out in protest, screaming as batons bashed against their shoulders, their legs. The soldiers chased the Jews from all directions, driving them onto the street. Frightened children called out for their parents as they were pushed into the middle of the intersection. And there, kneeling on the cobblestones of the tram tracks, were rows of men, their hands above their heads, their winter scarves fluttering in the wind. From where I stood, I could see their faces: the fear in their eyes, their skin drained of color.
My stomach turned. Where were the Nazis taking them? What cruel fate awaited these people? They were good Dutch men and women, our neighbors. And these vile Order Police were tearing them from their homes, trying to play God.
A truck with canvas siding pulled into the intersection, carrying more Jews. “Out!” the Order Policemen yelled.
A young man protested and doubled over as a soldier kicked him behind the knees. He curled up on the ground, recoiling as the kicks landed again and again.
I watched in horror, feeling helpless. I turned back to the walled gate of the zoo and willed Wim to appear, to open the gates and usher some of these people to safety. Nobody came.
On the opposite end of the road, a handful of onlookers gathered, gentiles, like me, all of us caught near the Jewish quarter at the wrong moment.
A woman with a yellow star emerged between the onlookers, calling frantically for her husband. She was pregnant, the bulge under her coat bigger than my own. I felt a pang of dread, of compassion, and wrapped a hand around my own belly, like that could shade my child from the hatred that had overtaken our city. The pregnant woman spotted someone on the tram tracks and lunged forward. I stepped into the street, shouting “No!” but an arm reached out to block me.
“Ausweis,” the policeman said, holding out his hand. He had a boyish face but a set jaw, like he wanted to prove himself. Fiddling with the latch on my purse while looking over his shoulder, I searched for my identification card. Surely this woman had heard the rumors, the dark fate that might await her and her unborn child if she got deported.
The policeman snatched my identification from me and opened it. No J for Jew on my card. He frowned.
“Am I free to go?” I had to find the woman before she did something foolish.
He pointed to a space between some parked bicycles. “Stay here until we’ve cleared the area. Unless you want to wind up with this lot.”
I cursed him under my breath and looked around for the pregnant woman. She had disappeared.
“Where are you taking them?” I asked.
He ignored me but pulled another gentile from the crowd and shoved him in my direction. The two of us had no choice but to stand and watch. A feeling of impotent rage washed over me when I realized there was nothing we could do as our neighbors were herded like livestock for auction.
I scanned the crowd for the woman. She wasn’t with her husband, nor was she among the women huddled off to the side, with children wailing in their arms.
I could feel my anxiety building at the sight of those mothers who were struggling to soothe their children, to convince them everything would be all right. My heart was beating in my ears. A man in the back row leaped up. He was trying to make a run for it. The Order Police fired at him, one, two, three, four shots. The man screamed in agony while the force of the gunshots reverberated under my feet. For a second, there was silence. A soldier grabbed the man from where he lay and dragged him to his feet. Blood soaked his pant leg.
