‘Yes, and she hasn’t heard from her parents in more than two years. Rotten, isn’t it?’
‘Did she come on her own?’
‘No, there’s a sister in Utrecht.’
‘Who works for an NSB-er!’ Ted interrupted.
‘It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t, or she wouldn’t have told me.’
‘Be careful, Adrie,’ Pam said. ‘You’re my family.’
Adrian came around the table and hugged her. ‘My little sister! Thank you for worrying, but there’s no need. Honestly, she’s on our side, I’m sure of it.
‘Sure of it?’
‘Almost!’
He went out and, about to follow him, Ted said, ‘Good night, Pam, and don’t forget we’re going out. I want you to meet some new people.’
That would be good, meeting new people. The other good thing was the job she wanted to apply for. She wasn’t ready to tell them but, when she did, they would approve. When the kitchen was tidy again, she lay on her bed with a book of poems, her notebook and the English dictionary.
The apartment was silent. She would have liked to listen to music, but Ted had traded their windup record player for food. Aunt Rezi and Uncle Abel and the girls had gone away, nobody knew where. Adrian thought they’d bought themselves a reliable guide through Belgium and France. If they could get to Vichy in the south and to one of the ports, they could go on to Lisbon, maybe even to Jerusalem. Uncle Abel had friends, Zionists, who’d lived there for years. She hadn’t seen or thought of Simon in weeks, was he safe somewhere with his horse? Had he left the country too? Where would she want to go? Nowhere, she couldn’t leave the twins.
Since the law that Jews couldn’t go to the parks and museums, to concerts and films, even to shops they’d gone to before, she stayed away from everything that was forbidden. It didn’t matter that she didn’t look Jewish and could get away with it. It was a question of loyalty. She would have done the same if she’d been a Christian.
One morning in the fall, she’d walked into town, taking the roundabout route through the park that she and her mother loved. Just before the Leidseplein, she passed the American Hotel. She liked having tea there, the cake was delicious and the big, elegant Art Deco room was always full of chatter. All the writers went there, and she recognized some of them from their pictures in the paper.
Standing on the steps just outside the revolving doors of the hotel were three girls she knew from the university. One of them was pulling on her gloves, another was straightening a wide-brimmed felt hat over her forehead. Pam was just about to wave when some German officers came out behind them. They linked arms with the girls and started down the stairs, and Pam ran around the corner before they could see her. How could they? What was the matter with them?
She turned a corner and hurried back the way she’d come, though she needed to go up the Leidsestraat. She couldn’t bear to see them again or have them see her. She’d never hated anyone before and knew she shouldn’t. But she did, she did! Walking quickly, trying to breathe deeply and ease the beating of her heart, she asked herself why she had to be ashamed of who she was. It was they who should be ashamed. Was this how it would be from now on, running around corners to avoid people? How could you know who could be trusted?
Months later, that scene came back as clearly as if it were yesterday, the smiles, the linked arms, the hats and gloves, the polished boots and peaked caps and glittering buttons on the uniforms the men wore. Now she stayed away from the square as much as possible. Now anyone coming out of that hotel was a traitor.
She pushed her books to the side of the bed and turned off the lamp. Sometimes she thought her dreams, as strange and uneasy as they were, made more sense than her daytime life. If she didn’t get a job, she’d end up spending her life in bed. Next week she would go to the crèche and ask if she could help. So that was settled. She punched the pillow to fit around her shoulders and closed her eyes. By the time the twins came in, she was asleep and dreaming.
Before the occupation, the Leidsestraat was a popular place to promenade. After the shops were ordered to close at the start of the 6 pm curfew, it was almost deserted at night.
9 Jo, June 1941
There was a closet in the hall on the second floor where Elsie hung out-of-season clothes. If you looked inside, you wouldn't see that the back wall could be opened. Dirk had taken the handle off, and the hinges were on the inside. Behind it, narrow stairs went up to the attic and ended at another door.
From her bed, Jo could see the bell Dirk had hung up to warn them if the police came looking. That gave them time to dress, gather up their clothes and books, strip the beds, blow out the candles, and take everything with them into the narrow space behind a wall under the eaves. They practiced enough times to know they could do all that in a few minutes, arranging everything so neatly that there was room for the three of them lying down against the sloping roof.
She had helped her father dust off an old table and put it under the one window. He sat there with his books all day, and in the late afternoon she did her homework across from him. His suitcase full of books was in the space under the eaves, along with the dishes and silver, safe even if the police came up to look.
On the last day of school, she put on her best dress and polished her patent leather shoes with a cloth and a dab of vaseline. The night before, Elsie had trimmed her hair and given her a ribbon that matched her dress. ‘You look lovely,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t she, Jacoba? One more year, Jo, and then it’ll be your day.’
She and Lysbet were in the choir. They'd been rehearsing a program of French songs for the graduation ceremony, but at the last minute the principal decided French wouldn’t do. France was an enemy. Some of the pupils wanted to sing German songs, Schubert maybe, but then the music teacher said no. In the end they all agreed the Italian madrigals they’d learned the year before would be best, and with two quick rehearsals they were ready.
Nobody knew who the guest of honor was. It had been a famous artist the year before, chosen because he wouldn’t embarrass the school by making a political speech.
When Jo went into the hall in back of the stage, Lysbet handed her a program. ‘We’re going to be on stage all the time,’ she said. ‘We’re to sing before and after the diplomas.’
‘All right,’ Jo said absently, reading the program. ‘Who’s the guest? Oh, here.’ She looked up at Lysbet. ‘Oh, look!’
‘I don’t believe it! Why did they ask him to come?’
Everybody knew who he was. The most important German in Holland was an Austrian who had been loyal to Hitler for many years. He turned up all over the country, especially where there were sporting events for children, or when trains full of Dutch men, NSB-volunteers, left for military training in the fatherland. Almost never in uniform, and with his grandfather-style glasses halfway down his nose, he charmed everybody.
‘I suppose some of the fathers wanted him here,’ Jo said. ‘And the school had to agree.’
‘Well, I don’t!’ Lysbet’s voice was so loud that the music teacher looked over at them and shook her head.
‘Don’t,’ Jo whispered. ‘Don’t say anything, not here.’
The choir was being urged to go on stage and line up in front of the blue velvet curtains. In the hall full of parents and friends, there were enough fathers in NSB uniforms to show them both that Jo was probably right, those people expected to be listened to.
They sang, the audience applauded, whispering to each other that it was Italian, classical, very appropriate.
Then Mr Koster, the principal, came onstage. Above his long, black robe, his face was pale and solemn. Jo could see that his hands, clenched tightly behind his back, were red from the effort. He looked out at the smiling audience, cleared his throat and said, ‘We have a distinguished guest today.’ He looked offstage and then went on, so softly that only the first rows could hear him, ‘High Commissioner Dr Arthur Seyss-Inquart has most graciously offered to address us.’
From the back of the hall they heard somebody ask, ‘What did he say?’ and Mr Koster coughed, raised his head and repeated, ‘Our guest today is High Commissioner Dr Seyss-Inquart.’ Turning to look offstage again, he took a handkerchief from a hidden pocket and wiped it quickly across his forehead.
‘German High Commissioner,’ Lysbet muttered. ‘Why doesn’t he say that?’
Jo glanced sideways at her angry face and squeezed her hand. When she looked down at the audience, searching for the brother and sister who had come as refugees from Germany two years ago. She found them sitting together at the end of the row near the wall. Daniel was staring up at the ceiling, and Rachel's head was bent so that her long hair hid her face.
Striding onto the stage, the guest held out his hand to greet Mr Koster. He was several inches taller, and he smiled down at the principal as if from the great height of his office. Then he motioned him to step aside and turned to face the applause. He had chosen not to wear his uniform, to come in a dark suit with only a small swastika button on his lapel. He was going to be fatherly, tell them how important young people are to the future. He always said that.
‘A thousand years ago these lowlands formed part of the German Reich,’ he began. ‘Then, unable to understand the aims of its Germanic folk, foreign rulers encouraged them to revolt. In the 16th century your own poet, Phillip van Marnix, begged his fellow Germans to bring the Dutch provinces back into the heart of the Holy Roman Empire.’
He paused, looked up at the ceiling as if he needed to think how to say what was in his heart. ‘It was not to be!’ he said almost sorrowfully. ‘But the independent political course that your rulers took then did not change the important fact that the Dutch culture remained a Germanic culture.’ His voice was stern, his eyes swept the silent room. ‘A people cannot disown its own racial foundation!’
There was a wave of whispering at that, and here and there the beginning of applause which he cut off with a raised hand. For several minutes he explained how wrong it was that the Dutch had become so dependent on overseas trade and on their friendship with the British. The ruling classes had imposed their will and their ideology on the Dutch people, so that now they could only misunderstand the National Socialist renewal that was lifting all of Europe to greater heights.
Again he paused, looking down at the graduates staring up at him as if they were under a spell. ‘I see the flame of idealism flickering low, no effort being made to live according to the heart’s highest principles and the state’s ultimate demands. I am here, we are here, to support you, the promising youth of a noble Germanic people, as you embrace the struggle between ideal and reality, between soaring spiritual potential and earthbound striving. I look down and search your faces for your courage, your determination, your dedication. Do not disappoint your parents. Do not disappoint your leader.’ He raised his arm in a Nazi salute just higher than the lectern before him, pushed his glasses up his nose and walked offstage.
The applause that began when he saluted stopped as soon as he was out of sight. Jo saw some parents arguing, shaking their heads. How dare the man tell them their forefathers had been wrong and that they had no ideals, no culture of their own! Who did he think he was!
It was time for the diplomas and the prizes. Mr Koster came out with a basket full of rolled-up diplomas, the graduates came up on stage one at a time, hands were shaken, their parents and friends applauded and, when everyone was seated, the choir sang again. The girl with the best grades was given a book, probably one she already had. The boy who was second-best made a short speech thanking the teachers and Mr Koster and their parents, Holland, God, and everybody except the occupying power. It was clever, diplomatic, it had to be, and Mr Koster had seen to it.
‘It’s our turn next year,’ Lysbet whispered.
Before Jo could answer, the doors at the back of the hall opened, and a group of pupils came in, led by one of the boys in their class. He wore a National Youth uniform, blue shirt, black shorts, tie and cap, and carried a long staff which he raised and lowered in time to the music of the little band behind him. Three abreast, six horns and three drums marched down the center aisle.
Jo saw Mr Koster’s back stiffen and his hands grip the sides of the lectern. When the blaring stopped, as suddenly as it had begun, there was a long silence before one of the fathers stood up to applaud. A few others followed, but most of the audience stayed in their seats, too embarrassed to look at each other.
The bandleader stood first on one foot and then the other, waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. When he saw that Mr Koster wasn’t going to help, he turned and waved his staff at the musicians, and they jerked around and went back up the aisle. A few people laughed and were told to shut up and, in the silence, Mr Koster said, ‘Thank you for coming,’ and disappeared.
From the wings, the music teacher motioned the choir to come offstage. The guest speaker was gone, Mr Koster had fled to his office, and down in the hall people were standing up and crowding the aisles.
Jo and Lysbet got out the side door as fast as they could and walked together around the corner. Lysbet took Jo’s hand and pulled her around to look at her. ‘You hated it too, of course you did!’
‘Of course I did, but I was so afraid you were going to get into trouble, Lys. You can’t just say what you think all the time.’
‘Well, maybe you can’t, but I can!’
‘No you can’t! It’s not like that anymore. We don’t hear what’s happening in other countries, but someone told me it’s getting really awful. They don’t want anybody to disagree with them about anything. Not just Jews! They arrest people who disobey even little rules or tell other people to disobey. They say it’s treason. They can do that here too if they want to.’
‘I’ll give them treason! I’m true to my country, not theirs.’
‘I know, Lys, but you can’t go around shouting about it.’
‘I wasn’t shouting!’
‘No, not quite.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘There are other things to do that are more important.’
‘Like what?’ When Jo didn’t answer, she said, ‘You think I’m just a big mouth, don’t you? If there’s anything I can do to fight, I’ll do it. So if you know,’ There were things, but she couldn’t talk about them.
Hendrik and Jan went out almost every evening to meetings. They never said where, and Elsie and Dirk never asked. They were in some sort of group fighting secretly against the Germans. Hendrik was as nice to her as if he were her big brother and, though Jan was shy and almost silent, he looked at her as if he liked having her there. Even so, she wasn’t sure she knew them well enough to ask.
‘I do know someone who might know,’ she admitted.
‘Did that someone ask you to help?’ Jo shook her head. ‘Oh Jo, please tell him we want to help and we can be trusted.’
‘I don’t know how it works, what he does, I mean, or how safe it is.’
‘Oh, safe!’
‘Safe is important, Lys! If you get caught doing something against the law, you might get other people into trouble. You can’t just do it for the adventure. Oh, I don’t mean you, honestly. I know you hate them as much as I do.’
‘All right, all right, apology accepted. But Jo, all this year you’ve been avoiding me, except at choir practice. It’s almost as if you think I’m one of those awful National Youth girls. I’m not! I’m not anything like them, and I want to prove it.’
‘You don’t need to prove it to me.’ Jo hugged her. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘No, I’ll walk you.’
‘Oh, it’s too far. We moved, and I live way over on the other side of town now. I’ll ask my parents if you can come visit some time, all right?’
It wouldn’t happen, but it satisfied her, and they walked together as far as the bridge where Lysbet went north and Jo west.
* * *
Elsie was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Lunch was still on the table, plates, c
ups, crumbs, that wasn’t like her.
‘Is everything all right? It’s not the police, is it?’
‘Everything’s all right,’ Elsie said. ‘Everything’s fine. But look at this.’ It was a piece of paper torn off something bigger. It had been folded three times into a small square and pushed through the mail slot in the door. The message was written in thick crooked letters, not somebody's real handwriting.
'I KNOW WHO LIVES IN YOUR HOUSE YOU ROTTEN TRATER. IF I TELL THE POLISE YOU WILL GO TO JAIL ALL OF YOU THE JEWS AND YOU TOO. OR YOU PAY ME AND I KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT. 50 GUILDERS IN POST BOX 104 TOMORROW OR ELSE. YOU DESIDE.'
‘Someone left school too soon,’ Elsie said, laughing.
‘Oh Elsie, how can you laugh? It’s terrible!’
‘Some idiot trying to blackmail us? It’s not terrible, it’s a joke!’
‘But he'll tell the police, and they’ll come and arrest you and Dirk and the boys. We have to go before that happens.’ Go? Go where? She didn’t know, but if that was the only way to save Elsie?
‘You aren’t going anywhere! You just leave this to me. I’m going to walk over to the police station. Don’t look so scared, Jo, I know what I’m doing. Jan has a friend over there, we’ve known him for years. I can guess who wrote this, and Menno will know how to make sure he keeps his mouth shut.’
In the hall she hung up her apron, dashed lipstick over her mouth, smoothed her hair down behind her ears and went out. Jo looked at the clock. It would be hours before Dirk and the boys came home. She couldn’t go upstairs until Elsie came back. She knew Elsie would sort it out, and she wouldn’t need to tell her parents, and Elsie wouldn’t need to tell Dirk. He would be angry if he found out. She looked at the clock again, it was two minutes later.
There were so many families like hers, some still hidden, some taken away by the police and sent to work in Germany. Elsie had done everything she could to keep the neighbors from knowing she was hiding Jews. Then the letter had come, and she laughed as if it were a joke on the collaborators and the Germans, ‘Us against them?’ she said. ‘David and Goliath, isn’t it? And we know how that turned out!’
The Time Between Page 10
