To celebrate, we built a big fire in the hearth and I made Joop a wonderful dinner of potatoes, meat and vegetables. I don’t know where Joop gets the food or how we always manage to have so much coal, but our German friends never let us want for anything.
The evening was perfect in every respect. Anneke, who is always running around somewhere, surprised us all by bringing a stunning young SS officer with her. Joop was thrilled. She even lifted a glass of wine to congratulate her father. It is the first time in ages I have seen Joop beam at her, congratulating her in turn for her choice of dinner companion. For once we didn’t have arguing at the table—over politics, the war, anything.
I know Joop is not happy that Anneke stopped going to the university, but he knows that she is dedicated to the Fuhrer’s cause and that is all that is important. She really is a good girl at heart—an excellent example of what a young NSB-er should be, even at twenty-two.
After dinner, she excused herself to attend a great athletic competition between two of the German teams. I am certain Anneke will be cheering from the sidelines. With that handsome SS officer, she will be the envy of her friends.
I look forward to tomorrow night, as well. Joop and I are to be the guests of the well-known writer, Dirk van Roessel—a Dutchman who wrote the book The Devil’s Trinity. He is an SS-er now and, with the support of our German friends, has made a name for himself. Maybe it is a sign that Joop will be admitted to the SS soon.
Nora closed the book, desolate. Despite what she had found in the attic, she had so hoped that Anneke was not a Nazi. Feeling fresh grief, she opened the book again. She had to know the whole truth, especially if it led to Rose.
The next entry so transfixed her that the events it described came to her mind’s eye like a grainy black-and-white film.
May 29, 1944
This morning, I hurried to make breakfast for Joop. Last night he brought home two precious eggs and a few slices of ham!
Oh, Anneke! Joop was so displeased when he found out she would not join us for breakfast. She flew out of the house with just a stack of NSB flyers. He should be happy she is so committed, but my brother is a very strict, principled man. He has always had a temper, but never without provocation.
I was so proud when he asked me to move into his house and take care of Anneke when Antonia left. I still wonder what happened to her. Joop forbade us to mention her name. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
I have to write this quickly as Joop wants us to accompany him to the installation of the Kultuurraad in Pulchri at the invitation of the Rijkscommissaris. Apparently Rost van Tonningen will be there—I’m so excited! I know Joop doesn’t care for him, but Mussert had better be careful. He still believes that the Netherlands and Germany have one ideology, but should remain two separate countries. Not a popular view these days.
Now the worst part of the day. Joop fired Margriet, our maid. It was awful. She showed up for work today and Joop wouldn’t let her in. He demanded her house key and told her never to return! I tried to speak, but he silenced me with one of his looks. Margriet begged and pleaded—this is the only money she makes for her four little children—but Joop grabbed the key and gave it to me. “Wash it,” he said. Then he turned and slammed the door in her face. His cheeks were purple, he was so angry. “Vermengde gehuwd. Married to a Jew and failed to report it.” “What about Margriet?” I asked. “She isn’t Jewish.” He was so cold. “It is too late. A pure Dutch woman has lain with a subhuman. She will go with him to the camp, along with their half-Jew mongrels.”
I’m exhausted. I have just enough time to lie down for a short rest before this evening. And maybe Anneke will meet someone tonight!
Nora shut the diary and threw it on the floor. She clasped her hands together, but they were ice. These entries made it all so real. In her mind’s eye, she saw Anneke as she must have been, one of the NSB-ers in the crowd, screaming her fanatic allegiance to Hitler. Nora imagined her mother’s young face, eyes bright, an evangelist for the New Order.
Nora closed her eyes. If she kept her body still, she might not throw up.
33
Amarisa sat in Jacoba’s room, sun streaming in despite the earlier rain clouds. The sweet weight of the tiny body against Amarisa’s breast and the rocking left Amarisa almost breathless. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of Jacoba’s skin after her bath. Now, this moment, Amarisa felt whole, as she once had before the war. She felt tears roll down her cheeks. She marveled at the miracle. How had this baby repaired her heart, her soul?
She laid Jacoba gently into her crib, tucking the pink blanket around her. Jacoba slept so well after her bath. Amarisa straightened and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A smile. On her face. Was it her imagination, or did the purple scar that slashed from lip to ear seem a little lighter? She glanced at her black blouse. She would buy something lighter, more colorful, to match the new woman she had become.
She walked into her bedroom and sat. Time to think. Ariel was a waste. Dirk, although useful in the past, was a drug addict and a bum. Not as stupid as Ariel, but she couldn’t help worrying that he, too, could botch everything. Jacoba had a new mother now and she was not going to be raised by the daughter of a whore, not if Amarisa had anything to do with it.
No, just to frighten that woman would not be enough. She stood and walked to her medicine cabinet. She saw her answer.
34
Nora opened her eyes and stared at the gray walls of the basement. She clutched the green-covered diary and stood, her movements mechanical and awkward. She flipped off the lights and climbed into the dumbwaiter, the diary clutched to her chest.
She rose slowly, the mechanism groaning as before. When she stepped out, all was dark and eerily quiet. She made her way to a lumpy couch at the back of the research room and switched on a small lamp on a side table. She looked at her watch. Midnight.
She flipped through the dagboek again, her eyes taking in line after line of cramped, scrawled words. So many, many pages to read! She lay down on the couch. If she had just a few more hours she would be able to finish it, maybe take some notes and leave it here. She wanted to take it with her, but the receptionist had Marijke’s address. If they discovered it was missing, they would find her and make trouble.
She walked out to the lobby and pushed against the glass doors. That was futile and she knew it. Wasn’t there some way she could get out of here? She felt panic rise as she scanned the walls on either side of the doors, hoping for an emergency exit button. Nothing. She walked over to the medewerkers’ workstation. Locked, of course.
She groaned and walked back to her sofa at the back of the research room. She read a few more pages of Miep’s diary and then felt herself get drowsy. She stood up and stretched, not bothering with the coffee machine. She knew it had been emptied at five. She lay back down and decided to close her weary eyes for just a few minutes.
When the dagboek fell from her chest onto the marble floor, she awoke. She started and looked at her watch. Three in the morning! She stood and walked around, her body stiff and achy from her nap, her mind racing with thoughts and memories.
Anneke, laughing in her beloved garden as she held up a handful of weeds and shook the dirt free from her precious roses. Nora as a young girl, her head in her mother’s lap as she felt the delicate, loving stroke of Anneke’s cool hands through her hair and the soft kiss on her cheek before she fell asleep.
Then, staring into the darkness, another scene played in her mind—black and terrifying. Fourteen, yes, she was fourteen, had just started menstruating. It played before her eyes as if it were happening all over again.
* * *
Midnight. Nora slept that narcotic sleep of a teenager, deep and full, after a day in the surf in Galveston, her parents sleeping in their bedroom down the long hallway.
Suddenly her over
head light flashed on. She raised her hands to cover her eyes, blinded. Something must be wrong, she thought, if Mama and Papa were waking her in the middle of the night.
Soon her eyes adjusted to the glare and she saw him standing there. A lean young man in a ripped T-shirt and frayed jeans. His eyes seemed crazed—what was it? She felt a slicing terror. As he leaned over her, his sweat smelled foul and sour like an animal cornered, yet attacking, holding a handgun inches from her face. She in her flimsy pajamas, feeling naked. Her eyes fixed desperately on the door.
He shook his head. Don’t scream, he whispered. You scream and I’ll kill you.
Nora felt vomit come up. She forced it back.
Tell me where the money is, he hissed.
Nora shook her head. All she had were a few dollars from babysitting. But looking into his wild eyes, she could tell he thought she was refusing him. His eyes bulged as if bursting. He brought the gun closer, almost touching her forehead, but something inside made her stay perfectly still.
She was transfixed by his eyes. Especially the whites. The whites were what she would always remember—stretched, red lined, crazed. She remembered thinking: These are the last eyes I will ever see.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed and the whites retracted, as if some thought caused him to lower the gun a fraction. She felt him take in her long tanned legs, her powder-blue pajamas, her small breasts. He laid the gun on the floor next to the bed, unzipped his pants and dropped them. She could not move her eyes from his and saw him do those things with only her peripheral vision. His stink and animal intent made her choke. She couldn’t breathe.
Hardly thinking, she raised her leg, bent her knee and kicked him in the groin with all her force. When he fell backward, howling, she struggled to get up. Run! Run! Just make it to the door!
But he had the lightning instincts of all evil men. He kicked free of his pants and grabbed her leg before she could get a foot on the floor. And then Nora found her voice. Her scream pierced the silence.
Suddenly, Anneke was at the door, silent, eyes hard, black stones. Her right foot was planted apart and forward of her left, her right arm straight out, her wrist supported by her left hand. She held a black gun with something red on the handle. Nora took all this in while seconds crawled like days.
The man grabbed his gun from the floor, yanked Nora up and out of the bed and held her in front of him, a human shield. Again there was this rank odor, her skin scraped by his stubble. His fist clutched around her throat, the gun shoved against her temple. His hiss slit the air. Drop it or she’s dead.
Anneke’s face was flint. She did not speak, nor look at Nora. Only the flicker of her eyes on his, a quick half step to the right and the deafening, sickening sound in Nora’s ear as the bullet slammed into him. It was as if his entire head exploded, covering Nora with hot blood, shards of bone, scraps of flesh.
The last thing she remembered was her mother’s black eyes. They hadn’t moved.
When she awakened, she was in her mother’s bed. Anneke was by her side, calmly stroking Nora’s hand. Sounds filtered up from the living room. She heard her father’s voice and then a deep, strange one. The police, she thought.
“What happened?” asked the deep voice.
“I told you.” Hans’s accent sounded more pronounced by the terseness of his tone. “This man tried to rape my daughter. I shot him. He’s dead.”
“What about the gun?” he asked. What is this, anyway—a Luger? And this swastika, what are you—German?”
“Absolutely not.” Nora heard the anger in his voice. “I am an American.”
“But where are you from? That accent, I mean.”
“From the Netherlands.”
“Weren’t you afraid you would hit your daughter—kill her instead?”
He paused and then answered. “No. I was in the war.”
Nora looked up at Anneke. She sat perfectly still on the side of the bed, her hands folded in her lap.
“How did you know he wouldn’t...kill me first?” Nora’s words were a throttled whisper.
Anneke looked at her. Her face was still hard. “His gun wasn’t cocked. Mine was.”
* * *
After the police left, Hans explained to Nora that the rapist’s gun was a single-action weapon. In other words, it had to be cocked before it would fire. Anneke’s Luger was a double-action semiautomatic. Anneke could either cock it or simply squeeze the trigger. After this brief explanation, her parents told her that they should never speak of this again.
Now in the darkness that enveloped her in the Instituut, Nora had her mind on another track. Anneke obviously knew guns. She must have had extensive training to do what she did without a moment’s pause. Had she killed before? She thought of her mother’s stone expression when she killed the man and her impassivity afterward.
And how did she happen to have a Luger with a swastika on the handle, a gun she knew how to shoot as easily as she would flick a fly from her hand? And why had Hans taken responsibility? Another thought gripped her. Could her mother have shot Abram? And had Hans taken responsibility for that, hoping to protect her?
She thought of her gentle father, a mild-mannered, quiet intellectual, taking Anneke and fleeing the Netherlands. Changing their names and making certain that he led a carefully orchestrated, low-profile life as a classics professor at St. Thomas University. Nora wondered if that was why they had had so few friends and cut off all contact with their families. It must have been always in the back of Hans’s mind, that he might be discovered, deported and stand trial for war crimes.
And be hanged by the neck until dead.
35
Amarisa drew out a brown vial from her medicine chest and examined the label. Levorphanol Tartrat, ten milligrams. Van Brunt had prescribed it for her ten years ago to allay the awful pain she still suffered from the steel bar that Nazi bastard had cracked against her leg. For taking too long in the soup line.
It was a dangerous opioid, he had warned her, eight times as strong as morphine and highly addictive. She was to use it only when the pain was unbearable. He had given her the option to take it in pill form, although the injection would bring her speedier relief. Amarisa had chosen the injections. Even now when the agony hit, it brought her to her knees, screaming. But she had not abused the drug. And after so many years, he was convinced that she was trustworthy in its use.
The vial glinted in the sunlight. Amarisa drew a syringe from the package in the medicine cabinet, inserted the needle into the rubber top and drew all of its contents into the needle. A vial lasted her almost a year, if she used it a few times a month. She then set aside the syringe and withdrew another prescription bottle. Vicodin. Prescribed for lesser pain.
She went into the kitchen and removed the porcelain mortar and pestle she used to grind herbs. Its heft felt cool, purposeful. She examined the Vicodin bottle. She then ground a full bottle of pills into dust. To that she added grain alcohol, making it a deadly mixture. By the time she had drawn the rest of her potion into the syringe, she knew there was no way that woman could survive.
Ha! Overkill. She laughed at her own joke. Just what the doctor ordered.
36
Nora put her head in her hands. How could she have so repressed that terrible event? She must have been traumatized. And they never did speak of it again, as if it never happened.
One thing now seemed certain. Anneke must somehow have managed to grab her Luger from wherever she had it hidden. And Rose, had the killer hurt her in front of Anneke? Nora’s heart slammed. She knew if Anneke was in a situation in which Rose’s safety was threatened Anneke would have offered herself up. Just the sight of those men closing in on her granddaughter— No, Nora could not go there. All she could do now was keep trying to find Rose and bring an end to this hideous nightmare. She willed herself to br
eathe.
The next thing she heard was the sloshing of a mop and clanking of a pail. She looked at her watch. Eight-thirty! The cleaning staff was here before the Instituut opened. She grabbed the dagboek and crept behind the medewerkers’ station, praying that the cleaning person wouldn’t start there. Her breath quickened. Shit, the receptionist. Surely he was there already, preparing to open the doors. How in hell could she escape?
Then she heard the clanking move upstairs, thank God. Now! She tiptoed to the wall and peeked around. The receptionist was leaning down, putting his belongings underneath the kiosk. She clutched the dagboek and her purse in one hand and darted toward the front door. At that moment, he straightened and his shocked eyes met hers.
“Dr. van Doren!” he demanded. “What are you doing here?” Nora ran for the door as he darted to intercept her. “Stop!” he shouted. “Right now!”
Breathless, Nora grabbed the icy metal handle of the glass door, pushed against it with all her strength, burst through the entrance and slammed into a man’s chest. He reeled backward. For an instant their eyes locked. Then she pushed past him and ran.
All she could feel was her heart clawing at her throat, a desperate bird whose wings beat against its prison. She ran through a gray side street into a wet and miserable alley. The cold now joined with a biting rain that pierced her face with what felt like shards of ice. The wet cobblestones seemed to shudder up her body with each step. In a cramped side street, she collapsed against a rough wall and gasped for breath, eyes shut, the diary clutched in her hands. Slowly, her shaking became a mild trembling and her lungs stopped searing. And then it hit her.
The Tulip Eaters Page 17
