by Monica Hesse
Then I will have failed her.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks me.
“Nothing,” I say. “What are you thinking about?”
He turns away slightly, and in the shadows of the night, it’s enough to mask his expression. “I’m thinking about Bas.”
“You are?”
“Aren’t you, too?”
I am, too. I am, always. Bas ice-skating with my mother. Bas bringing me cake. Bas driving me crazy. Bas alive. Bas dead.
“Tonight I’m thinking about…” He stops and swallows. “I’m thinking about, what was going through Bas’s mind in the invasion, when he realized he was probably going to die?”
“Was he just thinking about how scared he was?” I say, and it’s easy for me to finish Ollie’s thought because I’ve had it so many times myself. “How scared he was and how much he wished he could be at home?”
“Was he in pain?” Ollie asks.
“Angry?” I say.
“Or was he just alone?”
“It was my fault,” I whisper. The words fall, breaking in front of me for both of us to see. “It’s my fault that Bas is dead.”
His face in the shadows is impossible to read. “What did you say?” he asks.
“Bas. It’s my fault that Bas is dead.”
The most terrible thing, and now I’ve said it out loud, and the enormity of that makes me gasp. When you say a terrible thing, it should be like a weight lifted off your chest, but giving voice to this thought has only made the weight heavier.
“What are you talking about? What happened to Bas wasn’t your fault. You were miles away. You didn’t pull a trigger. You didn’t release a bomb.”
“I know I didn’t pull a trigger.” It’s the same thing my parents told me after he died. That I wasn’t there. That I didn’t shoot him, or bomb him, or drown him, or do whatever it was, precisely, that caused Bas to no longer exist. “But I sent him. I told him to join.”
“Hanneke, you knew Bas. You knew him as well as I did. Do you honestly think he didn’t want to go? Do you honestly think he would have enlisted if, deep down, he didn’t really want to?”
He’s trying to make me feel better, but I only feel worse. I’m about to tell Ollie the secret that I never wanted to tell.
“He told me he didn’t want to,” I say. “During his party. I left, and he chased after me, and he told me he didn’t want to go, and I said he had to. I said it was his duty to. And he gave me a letter to read in case he died, but I didn’t. I took it home and threw it away because I was so sure he would come back, and I was so wrong, because he didn’t come back. Do you understand, Ollie? I made him go.”
My throat is sore, like the words themselves caused physical pain coming out of my mouth. Now I’ve said it all. I can’t look at Ollie, because I’m so filled with shame. He’s standing very still, but I can hear him swallowing back lumps in his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is thick.
“My last conversation with Bas was after the party, too. It was late. Everyone had left. He came into my room, and I asked why he wasn’t in bed, since he had to get up so early for training.”
“You talked to him after I talked to him?” I don’t know why this never occurred to me. Obviously Bas’s family would have talked to him—he lived with them. In my mind, though, I was the last person. I talked to him and then he died. That’s what I picture, and what keeps me awake at nights.
“Several hours after. The sun was about to come up.”
I don’t dare breathe. “What did you talk about?”
“I asked him how he was feeling. I asked him if he was scared. I said I wouldn’t judge him if he was, that I would be, too, in his position. He admitted he was scared—but he said that if he weren’t, it wouldn’t truly count as bravery, would it? And he called me a delicate flower for not volunteering. And I asked what kind of flower. And he said definitely not a tulip, because no one with two lips was going to want to kiss such a wimp.”
And now Ollie is smiling, at this memory of bold, silly Bas, and, amazingly, I’m smiling, too, even as we’re both so sad.
“And he gave me a letter, also.”
I freeze. Ollie reaches into his trousers pocket. The letter he pulls out is on notebook paper, the kind schoolchildren use for grammar exercises, the kind that Elsbeth and I, and Amalia and Mirjam, and young people everywhere use to share secrets. He holds it out. “Go ahead.”
It’s been folded many times over, carried in so many pockets, that the creases are soft and tattered. In the dark I have to hold it centimeters from my nose, laboring over every letter.
Laurence,
I’m sorry for being such a twit. You were a good big brother. Tell Mama she got to keep the good son, even though she won’t believe it at first (who would blame her?). There’s a little bit of money under my mattress, and you can have it. But I told Pia the same thing, so you’ll have to see which one of you is quicker. Tell Hanneke I love her. And to move on. Not too fast. Maybe after two or three months.
—B.
Now I really am laughing, covering my mouth with my hand, because it’s such an unsatisfactory letter, which in turn makes it so much like Bas: solemn one minute and ridiculous the next. Self-deprecating and sweet. “Why didn’t you ever show me this before?”
“Because I assumed you had your own letter. And because you never came to visit, after the memorial. I thought you didn’t want anything to do with my family.”
“I thought you all hated me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Ollie,” I say. “Do you think he meant what he said to you, about how he was scared but glad he was going?”
“Do you think he meant what he said to you, about not wanting to go at all?”
I don’t know. For two and a half years, I thought I knew. “I’m not sure.”
“Maybe Bas wasn’t sure, either,” Ollie says. “Maybe he wanted to go one minute and wanted to stay another.”
Tell her to move on, Bas said. Another thing I haven’t been able to give him.
Ollie puts his arms around me. His cheek presses against my forehead. His breath is in my hair, and on my neck, and before I can really think about what I’m doing, I tilt my face up so that I’m looking directly into his eyes. He smiles at me, and I move my lips toward his. It’s not even that I want Ollie. It’s more that I finally feel, for the first time in more than two years, liberated from some of the guilt I’ve forced upon myself. My lips brush against his and—
“Hanneke, what are you doing?” Ollie lurches back, holding his palms up to stop me from coming closer.
My hand flies up to my mouth. “I’m sorry, Ollie. I—I misinterpreted the situation.”
He shakes his head quickly; I can almost see him blushing even in the dark. “It’s just, I don’t think of you like that, Hanneke.”
“No. Of course you don’t. You were just being nice. I’m your brother’s girlfriend.”
“It’s not that.” He looks pained. “I love someone else.”
I’m hideously ashamed. Ollie, who has been kind to me a dozen times in the past week—I just betrayed that kindness by trying to kiss him, and he’s in love with someone else. Why didn’t he tell me earlier? “Judith?” I guess. “You love Judith?”
“Judith? No.” Ollie shakes his head. “I don’t love Judith.”
“Then who?”
He sighs. “How can I explain? It’s like this: You helped the resistance because of one person, Hanneke. I joined because of one person, too.… Because Jews aren’t the only ones who suffer because of the Nazis. I don’t love Judith. I love Willem.”
“You love… Willem?” My brain trips over the concept. “You love Willem?”
“No one else knows.”
I try to gather my thoughts. I know the Nazis have rounded up homosexuals and political prisoners. But I’ve never known anyone who was that way. “Are you sure?” I blurt out. “You kissed me, just a few days ago, in front of the Green Police.”
“I did kiss you. And after I did it, you told me then that I was a good actor. I am. Better than you, probably. You pretend for the Germans, during the war. I pretend for everyone, every day. I haven’t told anyone else. I’m an onderduiker, too. The world is my underground.”
“But I don’t understand. How did you know? How did you know that you—with Willem?”
“How did you know you loved Bas?”
“Because I did,” I say.
“I know because I do. I’ve known for a long time.”
“Are you in danger?” I ask, because I’m too stunned to think of the other dozen questions I’m sure I have.
“Will you tell anyone else?”
“Of course not.”
“Then no. As long as nobody knows.” His body stiffens. “The transport. It’s here.”
TWENTY-SIX
The sound of rows and rows of footsteps. It’s loud, especially when you’re tying your life to it. The thought of Ollie here with me comforts and then frightens me. So many people are putting themselves at risk. Willem in the shadows. Mrs. de Vries with Mina, waiting to take in Mirjam until we can get her to Mrs. Janssen’s. Mrs. Janssen, praying back at her house.
“Blue coat,” I whisper, as if I need the reminder. “I need to look for the blue coat.”
What if she’s not wearing it? What if she thinks the night is too warm, or she gave it away, or someone stole it? And the carriage—what if the carriage isn’t even on this transport? What if it was left behind, in the theater? Ollie can’t wear a Gestapo uniform indefinitely, to stop every transport. All the contingencies we couldn’t anticipate are running through my head as I think of how slender the plan is that we’ve rested all our hopes on.
Two guards bookend the prisoners, the same as the transport yesterday: The older man with the craggy, deep-lined features who looks like my uncle is in front, and the young one follows the prisoners. Line after line of them. My heart sinks. I don’t see her; it’s hard to see anyone who isn’t in the column closest to me. Beyond that, everyone is packed together, and their faces are visible only by the light of the full moon.
But in one of the rear rows, big and obvious and making noises as it rolls over the cobblestones: a baby carriage. And in the row behind it, another one.
Two. Which one is Mina’s? I could tell if I were closer; I’ve seen it before. But Ollie never has. What will he do? Should I try to whisper a description to him? Before I can do that, he’s gone, the heels of his boots clicking sharply across stones.
“Wait,” he calls out in his perfect German accent. The young soldier hears him and looks around, confused, for the source of this disruption. “Wait,” Ollie says again, crisply waving the papers Willem organized with his fake order on it. “There is a problem with this transport.”
“Halt!” the older soldier calls out. His prisoners come to an uncertain stop in the middle of the street as the soldier sweeps a flashlight in Ollie’s direction. “We didn’t hear of a problem,” he calls to Ollie.
“I don’t think the Gestapo is in the business of telling theater guards about our intelligence operations,” he snaps. “This order comes straight from Schreieder.”
At the mention of the top Gestapo official, the soldiers exchange a quick look with each other and hurry toward Ollie. “Don’t touch them,” Ollie snaps as one reaches for his papers. “Do you think I want you smudging up my work orders?”
My eyes grasp at the prisoners corralled behind the soldiers, locking on each row, desperately scanning for sky-colored material. Now both soldiers are looking at Ollie’s fake work order. Neither of them are looking toward me. I run.
I run straight into the Nazi transport.
I squeeze into the back, next to a woman who flinches when I press against her shoulder. “Mirjam Roodveldt,” I mutter without moving my lips. “Blue coat?” She shakes her head as I push ahead to the next row. “Fifteen-year-old girl? Dark hair.”
I edge up to the next line, repeating the name again. Most people ignore me. “Mirjam Roodveldt?” A few people shake their heads stiffly, begging me with their eyes to stop drawing attention to their vicinity.
“Mama, does this mean we get to go home now?” a young boy a few people over calls out, tugging on his mother’s coat. “If that man said there’s a problem? Can we go?”
“Silence!” the older soldier calls, breaking his conversation with Ollie without looking up. “Quiet the child, or I’ll quiet him.”
He’s just joking, the terrified woman mouths to her son, even as she covers his mouth with her hand.
“Mirjam?” I whisper, moving to the next row. The mother looks at me now. Stop, she mouths.
Over by Ollie, the soldiers are having a disagreement. One of them wants to listen to Ollie; the other says they should go back to the theater and get confirmation. A flash of blue—brilliant cerulean blue. I see it and then immediately lose it again in the dark. It was after the woman with the rose-colored hat. It was before the family with the stoic father carrying the sleepy girl.
“Mirjam?” I whisper. “Mirjam!” a little more loudly.
“Please be quiet,” whispers the woman with the hat.
“You’ll get us all killed,” the man next to her begs, his voice trembling.
“Silence,” the older soldier calls again. “Kurt,” he instructs the younger soldier standing next to him. “Shoot the next one who you hear talking.”
All the prisoners freeze in place, their breath cold and white against the night.
But I saw something. A movement, the last time I called her name. A few rows ahead of me, a girl turned her head just a fraction of an inch. Even in the dark, her coat is the color of the sky. Blood rushes in my ears as I ease up another row. One more line, and now I’m right behind her. My heart is pounding so fast, and this time not only in fear but in exhilaration for what I’ve almost done. I’ve found her. She’s going to be safe.
To my left, another movement. The soldiers have settled their disagreement over Ollie’s papers, and now the three of them are walking purposefully toward the first woman with the carriage. They gesture for her to remove the child, do it quickly. While their flashlights are pointed at her, Ollie looks up, searches for me frantically in the crowd. Go, he mouths when he catches my eye. Hurry.
I touch the back of Mirjam’s coat, and she swivels to look at me.
“Mirjam.” I’m barely moving my lips. “Come with me.”
Mirjam recoils, shaking her head in fear. Meters away, Ollie tells the guards that this isn’t the right carriage; he needs to see the other one. I can hear his shoes clipping on the stones, and I can tell he’s trying to walk slowly enough to buy me a few extra seconds. Thank you, Ollie.
“Mirjam, it’s okay. I know who you are.”
No, she mouths.
Over by Ollie, the woman pushing the second carriage takes her baby out of it. The baby starts to cry, a thin, piercing wail, but the sound provides enough cover that I can mutter instructions to Mirjam.
“We have to run. Follow me. People are waiting.” I reach down and lace my fingers through Mirjam’s. Her hand feels small and bird-fragile in mine. She’s so young.
Ollie has the camera and the film, the camera that represents hundreds of lives. He’s walking it past us, and in the moonlight his face is filled with terror, begging me silently to run, run now, leave Mirjam behind if she won’t follow me. I can’t. I’ve come too far. I’m holding her hand.
“Now,” I hiss. I tug Mirjam’s hand, pulling her to the side. Mirjam resists. “Now,” I plead.
The soldiers take their places again. “Hurry,” one says. “Move.”
And now everyone is marching again, and I’m marching with them. What have I done? Why didn’t Mirjam listen to me? Ollie is receding, back farther in the shadows with the precious cargo he came for, and I’m getting closer to the bridge, with its wide-open, deadly spaces. If we get all the way to the train station, they might make me board. We have to try runn
ing.
Forty more steps until the bridge. Thirty-five. We’re coming upon the final alley, the last place we could run before the bridge. I start pulling Mirjam toward it. Why won’t Mirjam follow me? Something’s wrong. Her hand twists in mine, struggles, breaks away.
She’s running, but not in the direction I am. She’s running directly onto the open bridge. Oh God, oh God, what is she doing? It’s the worst direction she could have run in. Her blue coat flies behind her, flapping in the cold, running, running away from me.
“Stop!” I cry out at the same time a soldier yells, “Halt.”
“Halt,” he calls out again, his boots clattering against the cobblestones. What should I do? Try to distract them? Run after her? Tell everyone else in this transport to run, too?
“Stop,” I start to say again, halfway between the alley and the transport.
Suddenly, the wind is knocked out of me as a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist and drag me back toward the alley.
“Let me go!”
“Let you go?” Ollie growls in a loud, ferocious voice. “I don’t think so. I saw you try to escape.”
Mirjam is still running along the cobblestoned street, then onto the bridge with its thick iron rails. Her legs are spindly. Her shoes clatter against the wooden planks faintly, under the heavier sound of soldiers’ boots. I claw at Ollie’s hands around my waist, trying to pry them loose. The camera digs into my hip, and he holds me tighter.
“I am overruling these guards on this matter! You are obviously a part of this—of this conspiracy plot. I’m taking you in for questioning immediately!”
“Please,” I say, and I’ve never heard my voice sound so desperate.
“No,” he whispers, and this time it’s real Ollie, talking to me, and not the Ollie pretending to be a soldier. “You can’t.”
“Please,” I beg Ollie. “They’re going to—”
Bang.
And they do. They shoot her. In the middle of the bridge, in the back of the neck so that blood bursts from her throat, slick and shining in the moonlight.
