“I will.”
“And tell him about Rose? That she is his daughter and in terrible danger?”
“No, just that my daughter has been kidnapped and that I need his help to find her. I wouldn’t even ask that of him if I didn’t have to, but I have no choice.” She sighed. “But I worry how bitter he may still be about the breakup.”
“Nora, look at me.”
“What?”
“I have also not been truthful with you. When you asked me never to speak of Nico again after you left, I honored that. Now I have to tell you something, as well.”
Nora felt a sudden dread. “What?” she asked. “Is he sick?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Tell me!”
“He’s married.”
Pain slashed through Nora. “When?”
“Six months ago.”
Nora was stunned. Nico—married? She had never expected that. At least not so soon. How could he—not even two years since he had told her he loved her more than anyone he had ever known? Obviously he hadn’t. A metallic taste filled her mouth, as if she had bitten down on a piece of copper. She looked up at Marijke. “Is he...happy?”
“I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch with him. He avoids me since you left—probably too unpleasant for him. But I do know that he is now the Director of RIOD.” She pointed at the phone. “So call him.”
Nora opened a drawer in the coffee table. After digging around, she found her old address book and flipped through it. Her heart raced when she saw his home number. Probably wasn’t the same now. Or a woman would answer. Could she take that?
No, she would call RIOD. She could reach him there. She prepared herself to be neutral, yet friendly. It didn’t matter how she felt. She had to beg for his help. She looked at her watch. Nine in the morning, 4:00 p.m. in Holland. She placed the call through the overseas operator. It rang twice before a male voice came through.
“Met Leo van Es—RIOD.”
Nora cleared her throat and forced her voice to sound professional. “May I speak with Dr. Nico Meijer, alstublieft?”
She heard a hesitation and the sound of papers rustling. “I am very sorry, Mevrouw, but Dr. Meijer is currently on vacation.”
Nora’s heart leaped, relieved not to have to speak to him, but that feeling vanished as fear replaced it. “When will he be back?”
Another rustling of paper. “Not until next week at the earliest.”
“Do you have a number where he can be reached? It is very important that I speak with him.”
“No, Mevrouw. Dr. Meijer did not leave a contact number.”
She should have known. Nico never left a number when on vacation. Time away was sacrosanct. Besides, the history of Holland during the Second World War could hardly be perceived by anyone as an emergency. Except now, she thought. A vision leaped into her mind—Nico with his new wife in Italy or Greece, laughing, probably staying at the same hotels they had stayed in, making love...
“Mevrouw?”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I have a very urgent research matter I wonder if you could help me with.” She explained that she needed to obtain information about an Abram Rosen, killed near the end of the war, as well as the identities and activities of a few persons living in Amsterdam at the same time. She gave the clerk both names used by her parents.
“And how quickly do you require this information?” Nora heard surprise in his voice. Why is this so urgent? he must be thinking.
“Immediately.”
“I’m afraid not,” he said, finality clear in his voice. “We have only a very small staff here. Are you familiar with how we work?”
“Yes, I know all about that.” She had, after all, lived with Nico for two years. He so often had complained about the problems at the Instituut, from the bickering of the historians who formed the board to the antiquated manner in which the documents had been cataloged.
The clerk’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Of course, if your research is so important, you are always welcome to come here yourself.”
Nora stifled a groan. She had hoped to persuade Nico to order that the research be done quickly so when she arrived in Amsterdam, she could follow up on any leads. “I live in the U.S.,” she said. “Traveling is difficult for me at the moment. Isn’t there any way you can help me?”
“I’m afraid not. Perhaps you could let us know when you can come and I will be happy to set up an appointment for you.”
“If I did come, could I at least depend upon some assistance from your staff?”
“Of course,” he said. “One of our medewerkers would be pleased to help you.”
“Very well. I’ll make my travel plans.”
Marijke shook Nora’s arm. “What are you doing!” she hissed.
Nora held a hand over the mouthpiece. “Not now.”
The clerk was still talking. “So let us know when we can expect you. There is one proviso. Dr. Meijer recently made a new policy for access to the Instituut. You must present proper credentials.”
“What kind of credentials?”
“Graduate students and professors of universities, noted historians and others we approve on a case-by-case basis.”
“My understanding is that the public has open access to RIOD. It is supposed to be an educational tool for those interested in the time period.”
“Yes, it has always been so,” he said, “but now we must carefully monitor those who enter due to the alarming increase by certain factions who are attempting to establish a new Dutch Nazi party.” He cleared his throat. “We have had disturbances, thefts of historical documents, particularly those pertaining to the NSB.” He paused. “Do you know about the NSB?”
“Yes,” said Nora, trying to fight off the image of her mother in her drab NSB uniform cheering at Hitler rallies.
“May I ask if you fall into one of the categories to whom we offer access?” asked the clerk.
“Yes, I do. I am a professor of European Studies from Stanford University, specializing in the Netherlands during the Second World War.” She gave Marijke a sidelong glance and saw shock on her face. She pressed the receiver against her chest. “Marijke—not now,” she whispered. She spoke again into the receiver. “I can be there day after tomorrow. I will most likely arrive at the Instituut before noon.”
“Perfect.” Nora could hear the relief in his voice. He was ready to get rid of her. “Your name, please?”
“Professor Aantje van Doren.”
“Tot gauw, Dr. van Doren.”
“Yes.” She heard flatness in her voice. “Until then.”
14
“You’re going where?”
“Amsterdam.”
“Why?”
Nora explained her plan.
“That’s crazy!” Richards’s voice blasted through the receiver. “You’re chasing ghosts!”
“No, I’m not. There has to be a connection and I’m going to find it.”
“Nora, the investigation is here, not in Holland. You have to be patient, not run off halfway around the world. I know you’re afraid—”
“You’re damned right I’m afraid. I’m not going to sit here doing nothing while the only lead we’ve got is to find Abram Rosen and why this madness happened!”
“At best all you’ll learn is if your parents were Nazis. It won’t get us any closer to finding Rose!”
“But you haven’t come up with anything.”
“You have to give me time,” he said. “I’ve put the investigation at the top of my list. The goddamned FBI is coordinating with the Dutch. What can you possibly find that they can’t?”
“I have to do this,” she said softly. “What if it were your daughter?”
He didn’t miss
a beat. “Then I would do exactly what I’m telling you now. And what if the kidnapper calls? Are you at least leaving your friend here to handle that?”
“No, she has to go back to work. One of your female officers can respond to the tapped line.”
“And if something happens here?”
“I can be home in ten hours.”
“Damn it, at least leave me a number where I can reach you.”
“I will. Please don’t be angry.” All she heard was a dial tone.
She hung up and turned to Marijke. “Let’s go.”
15
When Ariel finally emerged from Customs, juggling his carry-on and Rose, he saw Leah and smiled. Leah waved and rushed toward him. Then she saw the baby and stood rooted, a hand clapped to her mouth. Ariel walked over and placed Rose in her arms.
“Ariel!” she gasped. “Whose baby is this?”
Ariel put his arm around her, kissed her and then Rose. “She’s ours.”
Holding the baby awkwardly but tightly, Leah collapsed onto a chair. She pushed the yellow blanket back and stared at Rose, then Ariel, then Rose again. The baby began to cry. Leah cooed and kissed her until Rose nestled into her arms. When Leah looked up, tears fell like prisms from her eyes. Ariel sat next to her and told the bizarre story, the brutal murder, Isaac’s death and his last wish.
When he finished, Leah shook her head. “Ariel, we have to give her back! We can’t steal another woman’s child!” She kissed Rose on the forehead. “Oh, God, I wish we could.”
Ariel cringed at the naked longing in her voice. She shook her head. “We have to go to the police.”
“We can’t, sweetheart. Do you want them to arrest and deport me? Throw me in jail for the rest of my life?”
“Of course not!” she cried. “But you have to find a way to give her back to her mother. It isn’t right.”
“Okay, we’ll talk about it later. All I want now is to go home. I can barely stand up.” He grasped Leah’s elbow as they walked outside to the taxis.
“But what about Amarisa?” asked Leah. “She’s waiting at the apartment. What will you tell her?”
“I’ll worry about that when we get there.” Ariel hailed a cab and they got in. He roused himself a bit as the taxi whizzed through the narrow cobblestone streets. When they approached their apartment, a different dread filled him. Oh, God. Amarisa. How do I tell her?
He paid the taxi, got his luggage and looked at Leah. Rose was sleeping. “I want you to take the baby and leave for half an hour.”
“But why? I need to take care of her.”
“Because of Amarisa. When I tell her that Papa is dead, she’ll go berserk.”
Leah jiggled Rose and shook her head. “But where will I go?”
“To the Bijenkorf. Buy her what she needs—clothes, blankets, anything I’ve forgotten.”
“All right,” she said uncertainly.
Ariel kissed her and touched Rose lightly on her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” He watched Leah amble down the street like any mother out with her baby for a morning walk, except she had no stroller. He took a deep breath, unlocked the door and went inside.
“Isaac?” His aunt ran into the foyer, pushed Ariel aside, flung open the door and looked frantically down the street. “Isaac! Where are you?” She whirled back to Ariel, her dyed black hair wild around her face. “Where is he? Where’s your father!”
“Please, Amarisa, come and sit in the living room. We have to talk.”
“Talk to me here!”
Ariel hung his head. “Papa is...dead.”
“Dead!” She clutched her throat and staggered. “That’s impossible!”
“Oh, God, Amarisa, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this way.”
She backed up against the wall, her face ground chalk. Even her grotesque scar seemed whitewashed. “No, no, no—”
He gently grasped her arm. She twisted away. “Don’t touch me!” Suddenly her legs buckled and she sank to the floor, wailing. Ariel knelt next to her and put his arms around her. She kicked him away and then struggled to her feet, shaking. Ariel couldn’t tell if she was driven by grief or rage.
Although petite, she grabbed his arm with her talons, shoved him into the living room and pushed him onto the sofa. “Tell me—tell me what happened!”
Ariel felt the terror she always incited in him, like a small child who knew he was to be beaten just for being alive. “He tortured that Brouwer woman and then killed her!”
Her eyes were cruel slits, her voice hissing coal. “I knew he would kill her.”
“But then he had a heart attack...” He choked up.
She slapped him—hard. “You little son of a bitch! How could you let this happen?”
Ariel rubbed his stinging cheek. “Please, Amarisa, listen to me. There’s more.”
She sat down, took a cigarette out of a silver case studded with diamonds, lit it and inhaled deeply. “Speak.”
He saw Amarisa staring at him like a judge at Nuremberg. The tears on her face had dried, the ropy scar back to its hideous purple. While he talked, she stubbed out her cigarette and paced from one end of the sofa to the other.
When he finished, he stood and tried to put his arms around her again. But she came at him with her fists, punching his chest, his face. “You should have done something! Given him his nitro—it’s always in his pocket—taken him to the hospital!”
He pulled back. “Stop! It won’t help. He’s dead and there’s no way we can bring him back.”
Amarisa collapsed on the nearest chair, her head in her hands, and wailed. Ariel had never heard such sounds, as if she were being eviscerated before his very eyes. He did not try to approach her again. After what seemed like hours, her sobs subsided. Her dark eyes smoldered. “But he killed that bitch?” Ariel nodded. “Well, I’m glad for that. I only wish I’d done it myself!”
Ariel sat on the couch. “There’s more.”
“More!”
“Yes. There’s the baby—Anneke’s grandchild.”
A harsh laugh. “Why would I give a damn about the spawn of that traitorous bitch?”
“Because.” His voice was a hoarse croak. “She is Abram’s granddaughter.”
Amarisa was speechless. Her dark eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Red rage flooded her face. “That lying whore! She ran off with that sniveling Nazi boyfriend of hers.” She stood and grabbed her purse. “Whoever the father was, it wasn’t Abram.”
“Isaac thought it was,” he whispered.
She stomped over to him. “What do you mean?”
He screwed up the courage to stare into the molten hatred of her eyes. “Papa made me promise to take the baby with me, to raise her as a Jew. It was his final wish.”
She turned away, her body sagging. “This is too much...too much.”
Ariel cringed at her grief and the frailty of her thin shoulders as she sobbed. He waited for her to stop. “Amarisa.”
When she finally turned, she seemed to have aged twenty years. Her eyes were flat, her spine stooped. Ariel thought of an old, sick lion, abandoned by its pride to perish alone. “So what more do you want from me?”
“I have the child,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Leah is bringing her home soon. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“But how did you—”
“Never mind.”
Something like hope flickered now in her eyes. “What is her name?”
“Jacoba.”
16
“Wilt U iets drinken of eten, mevrouw?”
“Nee, dank U wel.” There was no way she could eat a bite. Groggy from the ten-hour plane ride amid intermittent and frightening dreams, Nora managed a smile for the eng
aging blonde stewardess offering orange juice and coffee, a good Dutch broodje and a cold slab of Dutch butter. She glanced at the headlines of the paper the stewardess had handed her. Americans Taken Hostage in Tehran! Carter Holds First Press Conference. Vows To Bring Them Home. She couldn’t read any further. It should be Rose’s disappearance that was sprawled across every headline! She lifted the window shade and stared down at the gray dawn breaking over the land. She felt her gloom lift.
It was how she always felt during the approach to Schiphol. Holland, even from the air, felt like home. Small squares of land, each centimeter of fertile polder put to purpose. Fields of green, flowers ripening under the rich earth and white-and-black cows lying together in the deep, green grass—looking like a swirl of chocolate-and-vanilla ice cream from the sky.
They dropped toward the runway at Schiphol Airport. She heard the wheels descend and then felt the satisfying bump as they landed. It was dark and rainy. Nora thought that the most boring job in the Netherlands was to be a weatherman. The forecast always the same. Rain, rain and more rain.
She turned to Marijke, who was still sleeping in the seat across from her, and tapped her shoulder. “Wake up, we’re here,” she whispered.
Marijke, her blond hair tousled, opened one eye and looked at her. “You know I always wanted you to come back and visit, but this isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Not my plan, either.” Nora smiled. “But we’re here now and I have the feeling we’re going to find something. You think so, too, don’t you?”
Marijke did not respond, suddenly busy putting her books and papers into her carry-on. Nora felt a sudden keening. Where was Rose? Why wasn’t she in her arms so she could wrap her more tightly in her blanket when she cried or plant soft kisses on her velvet cheeks? No, no. She had to avoid such forays into her hyperactive imagination. They paralyzed her ability to think keenly, and that she couldn’t afford. Most important, her fantasies didn’t help Rose and Nora’s instinct told her that only she could help her baby now.
She had called Bates from the Houston airport. He had reluctantly extended her leave for another week. The intimation was that she better be back by then or he would have to let her go.
The Tulip Eaters Page 11
