The Tulip Eaters

by Antoinette van Heugten

  Weariness then hit her so hard that she could no longer think straight about Rose, Nico or her pathetic research at the Instituut. She turned down a narrow dark alley that would take her to the Spui and the tram to Marijke’s. Then there were footsteps behind. When she stopped, they stopped. She walked faster and cast a glance behind her. She saw a large man dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and black pants, his face hidden in the pitch of the alley. Panicked, she began to run, but heard him closing in on her.

  Then she felt a vicious kick to her legs and fell hard to the cobblestones. He towered above, then swiftly yanked her to her feet, twisted her arms behind her and grabbed her wrists with one hand. She started to cry out, but he clamped his other hand over her mouth and thrust her wrists upward. She felt pain rip through her. He shoved her to the ground, grasped her by the neck and started to drag her across the street.

  Finally she was able to scream. “Help me! Someone help me!”

  He jerked her violently, dragging her quickly into an alley. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man run out of a nearby café. “Stop! Let her go!” Next thing she knew, the agonizing grip was released and she saw the dark figure run away down a black alley.

  Gasping, Nora felt arms lift her to her feet. “There—down the alley!” she cried. The man released her and ran off. Sobbing, Nora limped into the café and collapsed onto one of the bar stools. She felt something trickling down her cheek and wiped it off with her fingers. Blood. Must have cut herself when she fell. She felt dizzy.

  A moment later the man returned. “I saw no one—the alley is empty.”

  She must have looked as if she were about to faint, because he poured the remainder of a bottle of dark liquor into a large glass. “Drink,” he commanded.

  She obeyed, but it did nothing to slow the adrenaline that coursed through her body. She could hear the terror in her voice. “Did you see his face?”

  He shook his head. “Probably a drug addict or a kid looking for cash.” He gave her an annoyed look. “You have no business being out alone at night. Don’t you know better?”

  Nora stood and pointed at the telephone. “We should call the police,” she said shakily.

  The man shrugged. “I’ve been a bartender for fifteen years. They get these calls forty times a night. Whoever he was, he’s gone now. You’re just lucky you weren’t hurt.”

  Nora sat, frightened to leave alone. “May I use the telephone?”

  He nodded and turned to the few old men who held up their glasses for a refill, all the while staring at Nora. She felt stung by their bold curiosity. Nora walked to the counter and, with trembling fingers, dialed Marijke’s number. When she heard her voice, she broke down. “Please, please, come and get me!”

  “What happened?”

  “Never mind—I’ll tell you later.”

  Marijke appeared in fifteen minutes and took Nora home by taxi. When she explained what had happened, Marijke scolded her and made her promise never again to wander the streets alone.

  Exhausted, Nora promised and then went straight to bed. What hell would tomorrow bring?

  26

  He had her, he had her! But then she had jerked free, some bastard came from nowhere and Ariel’s fingers grasped only cold air. Then he ran, his lungs on fire, until finally he came to a café kilometers away. Now he sat gasping, peering fearfully up and down the street.

  When the waitress came, she looked at his attire and smiled. Probably thought he had been jogging instead of running for his life. He ordered two Scotches, belting down one after the other.

  He stumbled to the pay phone in the back of the café. He could barely dial, his hands were shaking so. “Peter!”

  “Ariel?”

  Ariel’s words tumbled over one another. “Peter, for God’s sake, come now! I need you!”

  “Where are you? What’s happened?”

  Ariel gave him directions, hung up and collapsed onto a bar stool. By the time Peter rushed in Ariel had calmed somewhat.

  Peter yanked out a seat next to Ariel. “What the fuck is going on? You look like hell! And why are you so far from home?”

  Ariel hung his head, then spoke. “Oh, Peter. You won’t believe what I’ve been through! I told you Isaac was dead, but I didn’t tell you that he murdered someone. And then there’s Jacoba—I mean Rose. I kidnapped her—Amarisa took her—the real mother is—”

  Peter moved his chair closer and shook Ariel’s shoulders. Ariel raised his head and looked into his brother-in-law’s shocked eyes. Just knowing he could tell someone made him sob.

  “What in hell are you talking about? Kidnapping? Murder?”

  Ariel saw the waitress looking at them curiously. He stood and paid. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They went into a dark park across the street. Ariel explained everything. When he finished, Peter just stared at him. “Why didn’t you or Leah tell me about this!”

  “I’m sorry, Peter.” He felt guilty. “We should have, but we’ve been terrified about Rose, the police, everything.”

  “Ariel, this is outrageous! You’ve put everyone in jeopardy, but mostly yourself.”

  “I know, but you’ve got to help me. You’re the only one I can trust!”

  “Christ, Ariel—I’m a teacher, not a detective.” He sat down hard, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this! Give me a minute to take it all in.”

  Ariel felt sick. Telling the story again had made him realize how insane his life now was.

  “And why in hell did you attack that woman in the alleyway?”

  “To scare her off. I was going to tell her to go back to Houston or Rose would be killed.”

  “Have you gone crazy? Beating up women?”

  “If I’d had one more minute, everything might have been fine.” He heard the stubbornness in his voice. “And I’ll try again. I’m not going to lose Rose.”

  Peter’s eyes darted around. “The first thing you need to do is to go home and stay there. You’re nuts chasing this woman around, exposing yourself in public. You’ll get caught and then what will happen to Leah and the baby?”

  “But Amarisa—”

  “Fuck Amarisa. She’s using you to protect herself.”

  “But Rose—we can’t lose her, Peter. Leah will be devastated.”

  “Buddy, you’ve lost her already. That bitch has had her hooks into you for years and she won’t be happy until she has your balls.”

  Ariel nodded. Peter was right, but all he saw in his mind’s eye was Rose ripped from Leah’s arms. No! He couldn’t bear it. He would handle Amarisa, outsmart her somehow. She took him for an idiot. He would prove her wrong.

  When they stood, Peter gave him a strong parting embrace. Ariel hung on longer than usual, so grateful for his friend, so relieved to have told someone. Now he didn’t feel completely alone.

  After he watched Peter walk away, Ariel stood a moment in the dark, wet night. He felt exhausted. He trudged slowly toward his flat. But what about the money? Amarisa could ruin them. He had asked his boss for a leave but had been given only a week.

  Fuck them all. He would find another way.

  27

  Amarisa watched Rose sleep peacefully in the new crib she had bought. It was perfect, top-of-the-line. With its white gleaming wood and colorful mobile, Rose seemed happy nestled in the embroidered sheets, the thick comforter and her stuffed animals.

  Amarisa had converted a guest room into an elaborate nursery with an antique rocking chair and a dresser full of diapers, blankets and crib sheets. The closet held neat rows of baby clothes made from soft flannel and fine linens. Amarisa surveyed the room and, satisfied, walked into her living room that overlooked the Singel canal, one of the stately neighborhoods in Amsterdam.

  She sat on her couch and thought about Rose’s
mother, that Nora woman, now in Amsterdam. What could she have discovered that had led her here? Whatever the reason, Amarisa had to make sure Nora didn’t find out that Rose was in the city.

  The phone rang.

  “Amarisa, it’s Ariel.”

  She heard him take a deep breath. “Well, what is it?”

  “I tried to scare her in an alleyway last night, but she got away—”

  “You imbecile! Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so, but she ran into a café and I took off down the street—”

  “Shut up and let me think.” Her mind whirred, clicking off possibilities. “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do. Stay home, don’t go out and I’ll get you out of town.”

  “No. I’m going to get this handled—”

  “So you can screw it up again? Not on your life.”

  “What will you do?”

  “None of your business!” she snapped. “Do what I tell you or the next thing you’ll see is the police at your door. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But I can do this. I need more time.”

  “No ‘buts.’ I’m hiring a professional.”

  “Amarisa, I said I’m going to handle it and I will!”

  “You listen to me. Simple commands. Home. Stay. Good boy. Got it?”

  She slammed down the receiver. What a cretin. Some part of her must have known this would happen. Yesterday she had bought two one-way tickets to Geneva, where she owned a second home Ariel knew nothing about. If that woman was close to finding Ariel—and who knew what clues that moron had left—then she’d take Rose and start a new life. Efram Hertz, her partner, could look after the routine aspects of the business and she could oversee anything important from Geneva.

  But this was not what she wanted, to leave Amsterdam and her business and start over in a strange country. She was too damned old for a new life, especially with a baby. No, she’d be damned if she’d let anyone shove her around. The Nazis had done it once. She had sworn it would never happen again.

  But now Rose was all she had. She had to make sure no one separated them. And there was someone who could do the job. She stubbed out her cigarette and opened her address book.

  28

  Nora sat in the tram to the Instituut the next morning, trying to blot last night out of her mind, but she couldn’t help reliving the panic and terror. Not to mention the throbbing pain she still felt in her neck and wrists. Was he really some druggie looking for cash?

  She got off the tram and walked into the Instituut, where the guard waved her through. She pushed the glass door open, put her things in a locker and sat in her antiseptic carrel.

  She looked at the stack of index cards and couldn’t bear to begin. She set about trying to focus on an article the medewerker had given her about the NSB, a summary of its history. Most of it she already knew from her time with Nico. What she hadn’t known was that during the occupation, the Dutch Nazi Party swelled from less than 20,000 to over 300,000. Why had so many Dutchmen jumped to the Nazi call? Was it a question of survival or principle? She hoped to God that it was survival in her mother’s case, but still felt her cheeks flush in shame.

  Obviously it was not a topic bandied about by the Dutch after the war, nor was it what the world remembered. What flashed in the collective consciousness was Anne Frank, resistance fighters, heroes. But the dark underbelly, the truth, was that in many families, it was not unheard of for one brother to be a resistance fighter and another an NSB-er.

  She felt sick. What had her mother done? For the first time since that hideous day, she felt anger toward Anneke. Whatever it was, Nora was now paying the goddamned price, just as Anneke had. Except Nora’s price was Rose.

  She put her head down on the desk, not caring if anyone saw her. She had nothing! Only a crazy puzzle that led nowhere. “I will never find Rose,” she whispered. Hearing those words out loud made Nora feel they were true. Her anguish felt unbearable. How much could her heart take?

  Nora spent the rest of the day plowing through the Amsterdam index cards. During her lunch break, she used the Instituut’s phone book to mark every “Rosen” in Amsterdam. There were so many she had no idea where to start. She went to the receptionist for change and simply began. After the fifteenth Rosen, she stopped to assess. None of the people who’d answered had had any idea who Abram Rosen was. The remaining five refused to speak to her. The Dutch valued their privacy. Besides, she reasoned, wasn’t she asking for the impossible? Who would know about this after thirty years? Maybe his family had been sent to the camps and were all dead.

  She returned to sifting through the interminable stack of cards. Hours later, she looked up. Five o’clock. The whole day had passed her by and she had nothing to show for it. She stared blankly at the stack of cards. She heard a rustling at her elbow.

  “Dr. van Doren?” It was Dijkstra, the medewerker.

  “Yes?”

  “I believe I have finally found something about a member of Anneke Brouwer’s family.” He held a slim green volume.

  “Who? Who is it?”

  The medewerker shook his head. “I regret that I cannot disclose that. The information is classified.”

  Nora felt hot blood rise in her. “What do you mean, ‘classified’?”

  The medewerker shrugged. “This relative of Mevrouw Brouwer was a van Tonningen follower.”

  “A what?”

  “Rost van Tonningen. Do you not know this name?”

  Nora felt her face redden. She was supposed to be Aantje van Doren, the Dutch war history expert. “Well, of course, but...”

  “Then you know what I mean.” His eyes narrowed when she did not answer. “Dr. van Doren, you are aware of the movement of which I speak?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded but seemed unconvinced. “Then perhaps you are also aware that all documents and information relating to NSB-ers are now kept in a separate archive that is not open to the general public?”

  Nora’s heart sank, but she took an aggressive tone. “As my letter states, Dr. Meijer and I have been colleagues for many years. Surely that prohibition does not apply to me?” The medewerker stared at the floor. She went on. “Must I remind you that this may be critical information in a murder investigation?”

  “I am truly sorry. But by order of the Dutch government, all NSB-related documents, dagboeken, uniforms, medals—everything has been sequestered and I cannot make an exception, even in your case.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Now she wanted to smack him. To have come halfway around the world to find nothing and now, when there was something, she would not be allowed to read it. “I am going to have to insist that you give me that book. If not, I will have to report your noncompliance to Dr. Meijer and he will not be pleased, as I am sure you know.”

  “Doktor, please—I am only doing my job. Dr. Meijer would fire me if I gave you this volume.” Nora saw the pleading look in his eyes, but felt no sympathy. He went on. “This rule was put into effect not only to provide privacy and protection to the children and relatives of the NSB-ers, but to inhibit any rebirth or development of such a movement in the Netherlands.”

  Nora knew when she was losing. Damn Nico—where was he? Surely he had to come back soon. But as soon as she posed the question, she knew. He’d always taken long vacations with her, why not with his new wife? “Isn’t there something I can do?”

  The medewerker smiled for the first time. “Yes. You may make a formal application to the Ministerie van Justitie. If approved, we will be pleased to give you access to the NSB archives.”

  “Wonderful. Do you have the form?”

  “Yes, I will get one for you.” He started to turn away.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “How long will such an application take to be considered? I leave for America in a matt
er of days.”

  “That is impossible. Such an application would require a lengthy written essay and an interview—”

  “I don’t have time for all that!” Now she saw people were staring at her. The medewerker crossed his arms and gave her a studied look. She knew he must see the black circles under her eyes, the desperate look on her face. She was about to blow this completely. She took a deep breath. “Please accept my apology. I am very tired.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps I have a solution. I learned this morning that Dr. Meijer may be returning at the end of this week. I believe he might be willing to assist you. In the past, such requests have been known to be granted in twenty-four hours.”

  Nora sighed. “Is there nothing you can tell me about this dagboek?”

  “No,” he said, “although I am still searching for living relatives of Hans Moerveld.”

  She smiled tightly. “Thank you for all your help.”

  He gave her a slight bow. Before he left, she saw him give her that odd, confused look again.

  She got up and took her key to her locker. Then she shoved some coins into the machine and watched as the thick, dark coffee filled a foam cup. Armed with her cigarettes and jacket, she walked out and sat on a bench overlooking the Herengracht. The canal’s water seemed ugly today, a murky brown. She tried to think. Who in the hell was Rost van Tonningen? She thought she remembered vague references Nico had made about certain NSB-ers, but for the life of her she could not recall anything specific. She had wanted to blot out everything to do with Nico.

  She stood and ground the cigarette butt under her heel. She had to get that diary. The air was brisk as she looked out over the canal. Small waves pushed against the concrete sides as a few gray ducks swam downstream. The coffee warmed her hands and cleared her head. She had to approach this as she would one of her surgeries—with a clear mind and confidence. There had to be a solution, a way of getting what she needed.