by Monica Hesse
“I’ll go.”
She hasn’t let go of my arm. “I don’t think you should. I think I should take you to the principal. You are trespassing.”
My wits are slowly returning. I twist my arm so she’s forced to drop it, and brush past her again. “I need to go.”
“Stop. What’s your name?”
But she won’t report me. Who could she report me to? A Jewish woman wouldn’t want to draw attention to herself for any reason, even to report a crime. She doesn’t have any recourse.
“Stop,” she says again, but it’s halfhearted. I continue toward the exit, and she doesn’t do anything. I can feel her eyes on me, though, watching as I walk out the doors of a building that reminds me too much of things that hurt to remember.
The cold wind slaps my face as I pedal home, brings me back to my senses, makes me furious with myself. All I had to do was find a picture, and I failed. I should have come with my bribery coffee and a well-practiced story. I could have said I was looking in on a girl I used to babysit for, or who used to live next door. I come up with stories every day. I should have done that, but I didn’t, and now I’ve ruined one of the few leads I had. Stupid. Amateur. Careless.
I run a few more errands for Mama, and then when I try to get home, soldiers have blockaded the streets I would normally take. They’re having a march, another one, a chance for rows of them to peacock through the streets in their helmets and black boots. They sing, too. Today it’s “Erika,” a song about German girls and German flowers. It crawls like a maggot into my head and gets stuck, unwelcome lyrics and music playing on a loop.
By the time I finally get to my front door, I can barely stand. A velvety aroma hits me as I walk inside. Mama is making hot chocolate. Why? I’ve told her that the little we have left should be saved for a celebration. Mama isn’t the type of person to think of errant celebrations, at least not anymore.
“Hot chocolate—did I forget someone’s birthday?” I unwind my still-damp scarf and hang it on a hook near the door. If I were younger, I would curl up with the chocolate and tell Mama about my hard day. If I didn’t have to keep this house together, I would tell my parents that I’d been asked to do a job that was too big for me and let my mother pet my hair.
“We have a visitor,” Mama says. I can’t tell if her smile is the real one or the false one she makes because her lips have forgotten how to smile naturally. It looks almost real.
Only then do I notice the figure in the chair seated across from my father—the hair, the freckles, the slightly crooked nose—and my heart jumps and falls at the same time.
Bas.
But of course it’s not. I’m lonely enough to let myself believe that for one second, but I’m not hopeful enough to let myself believe it for any longer. It’s not Bas. It’s Ollie.
SIX
Ollie. Olivier. Laurence Olivier, when Bas was feeling silly, after the English film star. Bas’s serious older brother, who looks almost like him, except his hair is not as red and his eyes are not as blue, and now that I’m seeing him sitting with my father, I’m realizing he doesn’t look very much like Bas at all, actually; it was just a trick of the eyes and the heart.
Ollie was finishing his first year of university when Bas died; now he must be nearly through his studies. They were never close. Bas was quick to laugh, and Ollie took himself so seriously. At their house on Saturday evenings, Ollie would heave dramatic sighs every time he thought Bas and I were disrupting his work. I haven’t seen him since the memorial service, the horrible, body-less memorial service, where Mrs. Van de Kamp clung to Ollie and cried, and I felt sick to my stomach because I wanted to cry, too, but didn’t feel I deserved it. I tried stopping by the Van de Kamp house once, early on, but Mrs. Van de Kamp made it clear that she didn’t want to see me, and honestly I couldn’t blame her.
But here is Ollie Van de Kamp now, sitting in my front room, losing a game of chess to my father. “What brings you here?” I ask as he stands to greet me, kissing me formally on the cheek.
“My mother. She was just wondering about you, and I told her the next time I found myself in your neighborhood, I would stop in and see your family.”
“And a wonderful surprise it is,” my father says, “because Ollie is terrible at chess and he’s agreed to play for money.”
This is why I don’t want to be around Ollie. Because it’s not only his looks that are all wrong. Bas would beat the shirt off my father in a game of chess, gleefully teasing him while my father pretended to be upset. Ollie is losing methodically and gracefully. Ollie is like ersatz Bas.
“You made the chocolate.” I return to a safe topic, both for something else to say and because the rude part of me wants to convey that I don’t think Ollie’s visit warrants it.
“She wasn’t going to.” My father playfully jabs the air at my mother. “I told her we should.”
“I told her we shouldn’t,” Ollie offers. “I knew I couldn’t stay long. There’s no point in wasting it on me.” He mustn’t have exerted himself too much in protest. The cup next to him is almost empty.
“Will you stay for dinner, Olivier?” my mother asks. “It’s just spinach and potatoes with the skin.” Across the room, my father grimaces at the description of the food. The Bureau of Nutrition Education has distributed endless flyers encouraging us to eat potato skins, drink skim milk, try cow brains. My mother religiously follows the recipes in these pamphlets as her main acknowledgment of the war. “I’m happy to set another plate. Though we’re eating late tonight; you might not have time to get home before curfew.”
Now I know her smile is forced. It’s barely after six and curfew isn’t until eight. Ollie would have plenty of time to get home. It’s just that inviting Ollie for dinner, even if she likes him, is a step out of the ordinary, and that always makes her worry.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bakker. But I’ve already eaten. Actually, I was hoping Hanneke might come for a little walk with me.” He rubs his neck exaggeratedly. “I’ve been hunched over books studying most of the day. It would be good to have a walk and catch up.” Mama looks at the wall clock. “Just down the street,” he assures her. “I’ll have her back before curfew.” He nods toward the coat I never had a chance to take off. “And look, you’re already dressed for it. Unless you’d rather we just stay in and talk with your parents.”
Something about the final suggestion makes me feel his invitation isn’t one after all. He’s suggesting that we go for a private walk, but if we don’t, he’ll say what he needs to in front of my family.
“I’ll be back soon,” I reassure my mother, and then look to Ollie. “Very soon.”
Even though the rain has stopped, it’s still damp, the kind of frigid humidity that makes you feel icicled and wet all the way through.
Ollie doesn’t bother to offer me his arm. He just places his hands carefully in his pockets and begins to stroll, assuming I’ll follow him, and because I don’t have a choice, I do. “It’s been a long time,” he tells me. “Your hair is longer. You look older.”
“Better than the alternative,” I respond immediately with the joke my father always uses whenever someone tells him he’s looking older. Ollie cocks his head.
“What’s the alternative?” he asks.
And then I don’t know what to say, because the only alternative to growing older is to be dead, and after Bas, Ollie and I don’t make those kinds of jokes anymore.
“Where are we going?” I ask instead of answering.
He shrugs as if he hasn’t really thought about it. “Het Rembrandtplein?”
It’s one of my favorite squares in Amsterdam, with a statue of the painter in the middle and cafés around the border, where Mama used to take me for special treats. Coffee for her, hot anise milk for me. I haven’t been able to stand the taste of anise milk for two and a half years. I was drinking it when I heard the radio broadcast that the Dutch had surrendered.
Ollie asks me about my job, and I ask him about his studies, a
nd he says he’s moved out of his parents’ home to live with a roommate closer to the university. But I can tell both of us are only half listening, and by the time we reach the corner, I drop the pretense. “Why are you really here, Ollie? I don’t think your mother just thought of me.”
“I would bet that my mother thinks of you every day,” he says, “since you’re a connection to Bas.”
I can’t tell if he’s meant that to be as painful as it is.
“But you’re right,” he continues. “That’s not why I’m here.” Ahead of us, another couple walks slowly, heads tilted toward each other the way people do when they’re newly in love. Ollie stops, pretending to read a plaque on a wall, but I’ve used this trick myself enough to recognize he’s creating distance so the other couple won’t hear him. “What did you want at the Jewish Lyceum, Hanneke?”
“The what?”
He repeats his question.
I swallow. “Why would I go to the Jewish high school?”
“Do you think you have to lie to me?”
“I already graduated from school. Not with marks like yours, but they gave me a diploma and everything.”
“Hanneke, stop playing dumb. I’m not the one whose mother is waiting for her at home, worried about curfew. I can have this conversation until dawn or we’re arrested. Whichever you prefer.”
He smiles tightly, and I give up. “If I was there, how would you have found out about it?”
“My friend Judith is the school secretary. She visited me just an hour ago because she wanted to tell me about a strange thing that happened.”
Judith. That must be the Jewish girl with the sharp eyes and messy bun.
“Judith said a girl had come by and claimed to be looking for pictures of a boy named Bas, whom she loved and who was dead. It scared her. She thought it might be a Nazi scout, and she came to me because she was terrified.”
The couple in front of us has stopped, too. The woman looks angry. So this isn’t a first date, as I thought, but people who have known each other long enough to fight. “But how did you know it was me?” I ask.
“I asked Judith to describe the person who visited her, and she said it was a tall girl, about eighteen, with honey-colored hair and angry-looking green eyes. She said she was—let me make sure I get this right—‘the girl Hitler is dreaming of to put on his Aryan posters.’” He pauses, giving me a chance to deny it. I don’t bother. There are photographs of me in the Van de Kamps’ home. He could easily show one to Judith, at which point she would confirm that it was me she had seen.
We’ve reached the statue, in the middle of the plaza. Ollie pulls on my sleeve, turning me to face him, and leans in close under the shadow of Rembrandt. “So what were you doing there?”
“I was looking for something. That’s all.”
“I know that. But it obviously wasn’t a picture of Bas, who wasn’t Jewish and didn’t go to that school.”
“I can’t tell you.”
He rolls his eyes, as if I’m being a difficult little girl. “You can’t tell me? Do you think it would be too hard for me to understand?”
It’s the voice I used with Mrs. Janssen, to chastise her for writing down Mirjam’s story, and I’m irritated that Ollie is using it on me. What would he know about understanding? I might be three years younger, but he’s the one who is tucked away in a university. He knows nothing of the real world.
“Unless—” he starts again, and his eyes flicker. “Hanneke, you weren’t there on behalf of the NSB, were you? I heard through a few people that you were involved in the black market, but is the NSB the side you’re on?”
The smart answer would be to tell him yes. Because then he would leave me alone. He’d ask no more questions, and I’d never have to see him again. But my pride gets in the way of agreeing to such a grotesque lie. “Of course not.”
“Then what? Tell me. I won’t be angry. I promise.”
I look into his not-quite-as-blue-as-Bas’s eyes. The Jewish Lyceum is the only lead I’ve been able to think of. “Can you introduce me to Judith properly?” I ask. “Can you ask her to meet with me?”
“It’s Judith you’re interested in?”
“No. I’m just—I’m looking for someone, and I think Judith might be able to tell me more about them.”
He’s turned away from me now, toward the base of the Rembrandt statue, pretending to read the inscription but looking at it for much longer than he would need. When he finally speaks, it’s very quiet. “Are you asking about het verzet?”
“No, Ollie, I’m not insane.” I’m surprised Ollie would even bring up the resistance. He’s never been a rule breaker. “It’s something else.”
“Hanneke, I’m not going to help you if you don’t tell me why you want my help.”
“It’s nothing bad, Ollie. But I won’t tell you, because it’s too d—” I cut myself off. I almost said it was too dangerous, but that word would only make him less likely to help me. “Because it’s dishonorable. I promised someone I wouldn’t tell.”
“Because it’s too dangerous? Is that what you were going to say?”
I press my lips and look away.
“Hanneke.” He’s speaking so softly I can barely hear him. I’m watching his lips move more than listening. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. Stop now.”
“Please take me to Judith. Tell her I just need a few minutes. I won’t get her in trouble.”
“Time to go home, Hannie. Your mother will be worried about curfew.”
He’s businesslike again; I’m losing him. Finally, I make a calculated decision because I don’t see any other options. Because Mirjam has been missing for almost twenty-four hours already. Because Ollie might be pedantic and boring, but he could never be a Nazi. “Ollie. I need to talk to Judith because I’m looking for a girl. Named Mirjam. She’s just fifteen. Just Pia’s age.”
It was manipulative to bring up Pia, Ollie and Bas’s little sister. The whole family loves Pia. I loved her, and the way she used to tell me she couldn’t wait until I married her brother and became her sister for real. He’ll propose after he finishes university, she assured me. He’s crazy in love with you.
“You’re bringing Pia into this?” His pale eyes are flashing. Let him be angry. I’ve said worse things to get what I want. I’ll probably say worse things yet before this war is over. What I said worked, from the way he’s clenching and unclenching his jaw.
“Ten minutes,” I say. “I only need to talk to Judith for ten minutes. I can go back to the school to find her if I need to, but I don’t think she wants that. It’s a good thing I’m doing, Ollie. I promise.”
He turns away and rakes his hand through his thick strawberry-blond hair. When he turns back and speaks again, his voice is a little louder, almost normal. “It’s too bad you didn’t come to university, Hanneke. You meet very nice people. I joined the student supper club. That’s where I met Judith; we get together a couple of times a week.”
“When?”
“The next meeting is tomorrow.”
“Where?”
Before he can answer, a loud, throaty chuckle interrupts. German soldiers, two of them. I catch enough of the conversation to realize that, bizarrely, they’re talking about Rembrandt. One of them is telling the others that his favorite painting is The Night Watch. Too bad for the soldier that when the war broke out, curators removed The Night Watch from Het Rijksmuseum, rolling up the canvas and trucking it to a castle in the country somewhere.
“Rembrandt.” The art fan points at the statue and then at us. “A good painter,” he continues in mangled Dutch. “Rembrandt.”
This soldier is older. Around him, I should behave like a daughter, not a girlfriend. I’m preparing to compliment his taste, but Ollie answers before I need to. “Rembrandt! One of our best painters,” he responds in German. He sounds calm, his accent is impeccable. “Do you know Van Gogh?”
The soldier holds his nose and waves away an imaginary smell, making it clear he doesn
’t think much of Van Gogh. His friend laughs, and Ollie laughs, too. “No Van Gogh!” he jokes.
It’s nice to have someone else do the talking for once, to not have to summon the energy for another false conversation. After a few minutes, Ollie places his hand on the small of my back and steers me away from the statue. “Good night,” he tells the soldiers, who wave back cheerfully.
Once we’ve left the square, he doesn’t speak again the rest of the walk, and neither do I.
My life now is filled with guilt, often; anger, frequently; fear, usually. But it’s not normally filled with self-doubt. I’ve constructed this new life carefully enough to feel that I’m protecting myself and my family as best I can. But in the past twelve hours, I’ve accepted a dangerous assignment. I’ve lost my composure in front of a stranger, and ripped open the sutures of my Bas-shaped wound, all over again, because they never seem to heal. And now I’m filled with nothing but doubt. Am I doing the right thing?
It’s only after Ollie leaves me at home, after finishing the hot chocolate at Mama’s insistence, that I realize he never told me where it was, this meeting of his student group. But that night, when I’m getting ready for bed, I find Ollie’s hot chocolate napkin in my coat pocket, scrawled with an address near the campus of the Municipal University of Amsterdam.
The first time I met Bas:
He was fifteen, I was fourteen. I’d seen him at school and I liked his curious kitten eyes and the way one curl fell over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed it back. Elsbeth was a year older than me, so she was in the same class as him already. She knew his two friends, and one day we walked out of the building and his brown-haired friend called out to Elsbeth and asked her if she could settle something. “Which do girls prefer?” he asked. “Blonds or brunets?” Elsbeth laughed, and because she didn’t want to give up her opportunity to flirt with either boy, she told them she liked both equally well.
