by Neil Maresca
Later that day, Pietr Roosa returned home. He wasted no time, marching into the kitchen where he expected to find Anke dutifully preparing a meal for whenever he chose to return. When she wasn’t there, he shouted out “Anneka!” in anger. When she didn’t appear immediately, he called again, and this time heard the bedroom door open. The sound pleased him. He hoped it meant that the reason his daughter wasn’t in the kitchen was because she and Peter were hard at it upstairs in the bedroom.
“Is he up there?” he asked as Anke descended the stairs.
“No,” she said, adding quickly, “He had to leave early.”
“But he was up there,” Roosa insisted.
“Yes” she whispered.
He was standing at the foot of the stairs, and as she tried to squeeze past him to get into the kitchen, he pushed her into the wall, holding her there with one hand while waving a fist in front of her face.
“I don’t believe you!” he growled.
“I did it!” she cried, “I did what you wanted!”
He squeezed her shoulder hard, waving his fist back and forth in front of her face. “If I find out you’re lying to me….”
“Papa, please, you’re hurting me. I’m telling the truth.” She was so scared she was sobbing and shaking all over.
He studied her for a moment before relaxing his grip and dismissing her with a sneer.
They moved into the kitchen in silence. Roosa sat while Anke placed a bowl in front of him and filled it with hot soup.
Roosa ignored his food. He was staring at his daughter.
“Bitch,” he murmured. “You did what I said,” he mocked her, mimicking her voice and pretending to wipe away tears. “As if you didn’t like it! I’ll bet you gave it to him good, just like your mother—WHORE!”
Roosa rose from his seat and threw the bowl of steaming soup at Anke, but she was quick. She had seen this before and was moving toward the kitchen door even before her father had finished his rant.
Usually she ran up to her bedroom, but this time she kept running—out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of Caeciliastraat, not stopping until she reached the main street, Turfmarkt, and the canal that ran alongside it.
She stopped to catch her breath and wipe the tears from her face. People were staring at her. An elderly woman asked if she needed help, but Anke told her she was alright.
“You should go home before you catch your death,” the lady said, and Anke realized that she had run out without a coat on a very cold winter’s day.
“I will. Thank you,” Anke said, but instead of turning home, she turned to walk along the canal, crossing over the Turfmarkt Bridge and turning into Beestenmarkt, a large open park lined with cafes bordering the canal. She came here often in the warmer months when the park would be filled with her neighbors, who came to let their children run and play while they relaxed at the cafes with a beer and a large plate of French fries.
It was easy to lose oneself here in the summer, among the throngs of people. Nobody paid any attention to a young girl sitting alone beside the canal contemplating suicide. She first came here shortly after her mother had run off, had walked to bridge feeling lonely, abandoned, and worthless. She must be worthless, she had thought, because why else would a mother abandon her child? She was eight when her mother left. Her father, who had never been a kind man, had turned angry and sullen, prone to fits of rage that he usually directed at her. She had planned to throw herself off the bridge into the canal. She couldn’t swim, so the outcome was fairly certain. But she lost her courage when she looked down from the bridge into the dark, swirling water below. So, instead, she walked across the bridge and found a bench facing the canal where she sat and thought about ways to end her life. At that time, she hated her mother. But as time passed, she came to understand what her mother’s life with Pietr Roosa must have been like, and why she did what she did. When Anke came to the Beestenmarkt now, it was to watch the waters of the canal and envy the little bits of debris that occasionally floated past, gently gliding downstream from one canal to another, till they reached the river, then more rapidly till they entered the bay, and from the bay to the sea, to the ocean and—eventually—America. How she envied those little paper cups and other bits of castaway that floated by!
She had passed the qualifying exams for entrance into the University, but her father forbade it, telling her that women had no need of a college education, that she did not belong with the likes of those who went there. She would be better off learning to cook and sew and when she was 18, she could marry ‘one of her own kind.’ She knew that her father had chosen the son of one his co-workers for her, a man with dirty hands and a dirty mind. She had decided to run away, so now she no longer came to the Beestenmarkt to plan her death, but to plan her life, a life far away from Leiden and her father and the memory of her mother’s rejection.
She was watching a paper cup floating by and dreaming of her escape when she heard her name. She looked up in response and saw a young man with an unruly mop of brown hair looking down at her.
“Anke?” he repeated. “Are you alright?”
He looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t instantly recognize him.
“Anke,” he said again. “It’s Lucas Hamilton. We met at the foreign students’ reception a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh yes, of course. I remember now. You are staying with the Janssons. But what are you doing on this side of town? Are you lost?”
“No,” Lucas answered with a small laugh and a broad smile, “I believe I’m found.”
Anke did not understand this, but the young man exuded warmth and friendliness, and so she smiled back.
“You must be cold,” Lucas said, suddenly realizing that she was sitting on the bench with her arms wrapped tightly about herself, shivering. He took off his winter coat and moved behind the bench so he could drape it over her shoulders. She protested, but he insisted. When she continued to protest, he proposed a compromise.
“Listen,” he said, “why don’t we go into a café where we can both be warm. What do you say? The warme chocolademelk is on me.”
Anke gave in. He had won her over when he mentioned chocolademelk. She realized that she really was very cold, and the idea of a heated café and a steaming cup of hot chocolate was too tempting to pass up.
Lucas studied Anke as she sat across from him, still wrapped in his heavy winter coat, her hands cupped around the steaming bowl of hot chocolate. Aside from her hazel eyes, which continued to fascinate him, she looked different than he had remembered her—different even than the girl of his dreams. She was younger, much younger. In his memory and fantasies, she was older, more seductive, but the girl (and she was a girl, not a woman) sitting across from him did not look seductive. She looked scared and vulnerable. She was pretty, but not in a sophisticated way. Kate, Lucas thought, was better looking in an American, cover-girl kind of way, impeccably dressed, with perfect hair, perfect skin, and perfectly-applied make-up. Anke, on the other hand, was dressed plainly, and wore no make-up. Lucas felt a seismic shift in his emotions. Before, when he thought of Anke, he desired her passionately, physically. Now, he was almost ashamed of those feelings. He was convinced, now more than ever, of the strength of the affection he felt for Anke, but he was calmer, his feelings more tender, more compassionate and, in light of her youth and vulnerability, more protective.
“You’re staring at me.” Anke said. “Is there something wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Lucas responded, somewhat embarrassed, “but you look like you might be in trouble, and if you are, I would like to help.”
“Why would you want to help me?”
Lucas fidgeted a bit as he considered his options. He decided to be truthful.
“I have a confession to make.”
“What is that?”
“I like you. I liked you the minute I saw you at the reception, and I have been looking for you ever since. You asked me earlier if I were lost, and I didn’t answer you di
rectly. I know that you live in this neighborhood, so every day, I walk here, hoping to meet you, and today I did.”
“I know,” he added quickly. “I know it sounds strange, maybe even a little scary, but I like you a lot, and I think we could be very good friends.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“Then tell me about you.”
It was Anke’s turn to study Lucas before responding.
“Are all Americans so big and so friendly?” she asked.
“No, not all, but a good many are.”
Anke decided she liked him, so she began, “Well,” she said, “There’s not much to tell.” But it turned out there was a good deal to tell, and Anke, once she started talking, found she couldn’t stop. She told Lucas everything, all her feelings about herself, her mother, her father, even her father’s plans to marry her off. The only thing she left out—because she was ashamed of it—was her botched seduction of Peter, and the cause of her father’s latest eruption.
Lucas was a good listener. He seemed to know intuitively when to encourage, when to empathize, and when to say nothing.
By the time Anke was finished talking, the chocolate was cold, and the day, always short at this time of year, was growing dark. Anke looked at Lucas, half-expecting him to laugh at her, or make some light dismissive remark. She had never unburdened her soul like that before, and she had no idea what Lucas would think of her. But all Lucas said was, “It’s getting late, do you have to be home?”
Anke looked around in a panic. She had forgotten all about home. Her father would be furious. “Yes,” she replied anxiously, “I do. I have to go right away. I’m sorry.”
“Can I walk you home? You can give me my coat back when you get there.”
Anke laughed. She hadn’t even realized that she had gotten up to leave still wearing Lucas’ winter coat.
“You’ll be cold,” she said, and started to remove the coat, but Lucas rose quickly and stopped her.
“Please,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep the coat in place, “Let me help you, wear the coat at least until you get home.”
Anke liked the warmth of the coat, and the firmness of Lucas’ touch. “OK,” she said, and she walked with Lucas, wrapped in his coat, feeling safe and happy for the first time since before her mother left.
Chapter 39
February 5, 1957
Lecture Hall at Leiden University
Leiden, the Netherlands
Peter was, as usual, the last to arrive, stepping through the door as the university church bell struck 11.
“Well,” Strickland said, “Now that we are all here, we can begin.” He was standing at the podium in the front of the hall. Behind him was a small, pull-down projection screen.
Peter took a seat next to Lucas in the first row of the lecture hall. Professor De Groot sat in the front on the room, alongside two other elderly men, facing the audience. In addition to Peter and Lucas, six other young other men and women sat in the front row. The rest of the audience was scattered about. Kate recognized Miss Hall, sitting in the back along with two other equally-fearsome looking women, all brandishing notepads. She also noticed the other Sector One Student Ambassadors, and Mrs. Van der Alte off in a corner, tending to the coffee urn and straightening out the remains of cakes and cookies. Another two dozen or so people that she had never seen were scattered about the room. Most looked quite ordinary.
Kate had not been briefed on the meeting, and had, in fact, only been invited at the last minute, Strickland had called her at her hotel room as she was preparing to return to The Hague, and told her to show up here without any further instruction other than that she should “keep her eyes and ears open.” Kate knew what that meant. She was to scrutinize everything and everybody and report her observations to Strickland the next day—and God help her if she missed anything.
She sat off to the side, about mid-way in the hall where she could see everybody without having to turn completely around. Her heart did a little jump when Peter entered the room, but seeing him was less traumatic than she thought it would be. She forced herself to focus on the job at hand. She was new to this CIA spy business, but she knew enough about Strickland to understand that something important was happening, and he needed another set of eyes and ears. But what exactly was she supposed to be seeing and hearing?
Strickland, in his usual crisp, no-nonsense style, laid out the purpose of the meeting, which was to announce a first-ever exchange of visits between students from East Germany and students the former allies, Britain, France and the United States. He spent a little time paying homage to Eisenhower and his creation of the Student Ambassadors program which had been adopted by Britain and France whose representatives were also present. He then introduced Professor De Groot, “the man who made this historic exchange possible.”
Strickland walked over to where De Groot was sitting and extended his hand to help him up, but the professor waved him off, and bending his body almost in half, his entire weight resting on the two canes that sustained him, dragged his twisted, almost-useless legs to the podium, where with great care, he placed the canes aside, and gripped the podium.
Kate knew his story, knew that he had been tortured by the Nazis, but watching him, she could not comprehend the pain he must have endured. She had strained an MCL playing soccer in high school and thought the pain excruciating. She could hardly bear to watch him.
De Groot delivered a too-long speech about the need for world peace and the importance of the student exchange. Kate lost interest quickly, and looked around to find that she was not alone. Most of the others looked bored. A few people, who she took to be reporters, were taking notes, but most looked as bored as she. She scoured them all for tell-tale signs and idiosyncrasies. None looked like spies, although Kate had never seen a spy outside the movies, and had no idea how she was supposed to recognize one—if that’s was she was supposed to do. Then she realized that, technically, as a member of the CIA, she was a spy, and she almost wept when she realized that any one of these nondescript, normal-looking people could be a spy, and she would have absolutely no way to know. One man, however, stood out—a smallish, professorial man sporting a flamboyant polka-dot bow tie. He sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, and unlike most of the others, seemed to be paying attention to what De Groot had to say.
De Groot finished to polite applause, and made his slow way back to his chair. Strickland reclaimed the podium, and introduced the British representative, who made a similar, but much shorter speech, after which he introduced the two British student ambassadors who would be participating in the program, one well-groomed, bespectacled and frail-looking male who made an embarrassed little bow, and a chubby, red-haired young woman who bounced out of her seat and waved energetically to the audience when her name was called. The British contingent was followed by the French—two males, both rigidly formal.
Strickland returned to the stage and introduced Peter and Lucas, the American students who would be participating. Kate was not surprised by their selection, but she was surprised to learn that Peter spoke fluent German, ostensibly the reason for his selection. Lucas, it seemed, had been selected for no other reason than he was an outstanding candidate.
With all the introductions and speeches out of the way, Strickland got down to the nuts and bolts of the program. On the surface, it was simple enough: Six students from the Allied countries would spend a week touring East Germany and observing its educational and economic systems, while six students from East Germany would visit the Netherlands to gain an exposure to capitalism. In actuality, it had taken six months of delicate negotiations to work out the details. As Strickland described the program in detail, using slides to show where the Student Ambassadors would go, and what they would do, Kate studied the crowd, and tried to decide what Strickland wanted her to see. She eliminated the administrators, Mrs. Van der Alte, and—for the time being—the Ambassadors. She concentrated her attention on the audien
ce, eliminating the other American Student Ambassadors, and a half-dozen people who, she decided, were obviously reporters because they were the only ones paying attention and taking notes.
This narrowed the field considerably, leaving only the three harpies in the back—Miss Hall and, Kate assumed, her French and British counterparts. And about a half-dozen men in the audience, of which the most interesting by far was the polka-dot bow tie.
Strickland completed his presentation, and the meeting dissolved into a series of small-group discussions. Reporters, probably from the university P.R. departments, interviewed the student ambassadors and college officials. Kate wandered randomly through the crowd, trying to pick up snippets of conversation, but it all seemed very straightforward to her. She did notice, however, that the polka-dot bow tie seemed to know everybody. He moved through the crowd, smiling pleasantly and greeting everyone, including Peter and Lucas, by their first names.
Miss Hall and her two colleagues clung close to their respective bosses, dutifully awaiting the call to fulfill whatever service might be needed. Kate had the horrible thought that she was nothing more than a junior version of Miss hall, snapping to attention anytime Strickland stepped into the room. Good God! Was she looking at her future? The thought so unnerved her that she forgot what she was supposed to be doing, and was therefore startled when she felt a body press close to hers, and heard Peter’s voice whispering her name.
“We have to talk.”
Kate was stunned into silence. She had practiced what she would say and how she would act when she met Peter, but now that he was here, she had forgotten everything she had rehearsed.
“I feel I owe you an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she replied, hoping that it didn’t sound cold and dismissive. She wanted it to sound friendly and non-judgmental.
