The Tulip Eaters

by Antoinette van Heugten

  “Thee, graag.” Nora followed her into a doll-size kitchen. In a few brisk motions, Henny had filled the kettle, put it on the stove, taken out a teapot with a worn blue cozy and put cookies and gebak—pastries—on a pewter tray. She flapped her hand impatiently at Nora. “Go on, now. I will be in with everything in a moment.”

  Shortly she appeared and handed Nora a cup of hot tea. Sugar cubes were offered and refused. Cream was offered and accepted. Each sipped silently. Nora could feel the woman’s piercing gaze. She put her teacup on the table, careful not to spill on the lace tablecloth. It was now her move. “Please, Mevrouw Rosen...”

  “Henny. As Anneke’s daughter, you may call me by my given name.”

  Nora nodded. “Obviously you knew my mother well. I am very hopeful you can...tell me about her.”

  A white eyebrow raised. “You want me to tell you about your own mother?”

  “When she was young,” Nora stammered. “When she lived in Amsterdam.”

  The woman’s face hardened. “I do not speak of that time. It is why I live in Den Haag.”

  Nora nodded. “Of course, I understand. But can you tell me if Abram knew my mother?”

  A pained look came into Henny’s eyes. “Do you know nothing?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tell me what you know of my brother.”

  “I know that he...died...during the war. I know he was Jewish. I don’t know anything more than that.”

  “Died? He was murdered!”

  “By the Nazis?”

  A harsh laugh erupted from her. “The Nazis our Abram could have escaped. It was a Dutchman who killed him.”

  Nora gasped. So this woman knew. Maybe everything. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you never speak of this with Anneke?”

  “She never talked about the war. I never even heard the name Abram Rosen until a few weeks ago.”

  Henny put down her teacup so hard it rattled in the saucer. “Impossible! Your mother never spoke of the days during the occupation?”

  “No.”

  Henny’s eyes widened. “Of Abram?”

  “No.”

  “Nor of my family?”

  “No.”

  “How did you learn of Abram if your mother never spoke of him? And how did you find me?”

  “That isn’t important now. Could you please tell me how he knew my mother?”

  Henny sat back and regarded her. “You want me to answer your questions, but will not answer mine.”

  “That isn’t true, I assure you. It’s just that I know nothing of my mother’s life during the war. But it has to be related to why my baby was kidnapped.”

  Henny stood and walked slowly to a small table against the wall. She looked at a photograph, picked it up and handed it to Nora. It was a faded image of a tall young man with black curly hair. Nora recognized him as the same man in the photo found on her mother’s killer. Henny rested an index finger lightly on the scalloped edges of the frame, as if asking the boy in the photograph to tell her what to say. She looked at Nora. “It is a long tale.”

  “I have time.”

  Henny sat back on the couch. “It is only because you are Anneke’s daughter that I will tell you. It takes too much out of me. I feel so old these days and speaking of this only makes me older.” Nora poured her another tea. It stood untouched as Henny stared off, as if willing herself back to a time she had vowed to keep sacred between herself and those long gone. Minutes passed before she spoke.

  “Your mother and I went to university together. We were inseparable. I loved Anneke. She was a passionate girl and a fierce, loyal friend.” She tapped a finger against her nose and smiled. “She was never still—I remember that about her. When she walked into a room, the energy seemed—electrified.” She gave Nora an unbearably sad look. “She was light and life. I have never known anyone else like her.”

  Nora felt confused. Who was this woman she was describing? Not her mother. Not the quiet, often depressed woman Nora had known. Not that Anneke ever complained, it was just that Nora had never felt she had understood her mother, as if her feelings were locked tightly inside. But as a child, Nora had seen bursts of the Anneke that Henny described—an overwhelming sense of joy at simply being alive.

  “Surely you know this without my telling you,” said Henny. “Your mother was a remarkable, compassionate and deeply committed woman.” Her glance sharpened. “You know of Anneke’s father? The NSB-er?”

  “Yes, just recently.”

  “Not only a Nazi,” spat Henny, “but a horrible, evil man.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Only through your mother. We were Jewish, remember?” She gave a bitter laugh. “She was not allowed to have Jewish friends, much less invite one into her home. But that did not matter. Anneke was part of our family.”

  Nora was afraid to ask but had to. “And...Abram?”

  The older woman’s faded eyes welled with tears and traced a path down her lined cheeks. Her voice was soft as feathers falling. “Ja, ja. My darling Abram. An idealist. A voice of certainty, of strength, in a time of total madness. Also a light in the world.”

  Nora held her breath.

  “A light that was snuffed out in its most beautiful moment. A life that was betrayed.”

  Nora’s voice trembled. “But not by Anneke, not by my mother...”

  Henny’s gnarled hand grasped hers. “No, kindje, never by Anneke. It was that ‘friend’ of hers.” Henny’s eyes turned cold and hateful. “That Hans Moerveld—that murderer. The bastard sent us all to the camps.”

  Nora’s heart throbbed painfully. Then it was true, her father was a murderer. She was relieved she had not told Henny that Hans was her father. “But why?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Nora shook her head. This could be the one stone she wanted to leave unturned.

  “Anneke and Abram were lovers.”

  Nora froze.

  “Lovers such as the world has never seen—before or since.”

  61

  Nora and Henny worked in silent tandem to clear the dining room of their simple lunch: two small kabeljauw, a tender white fish; mashed potatoes with butter, salt and pepper; and boiled green beans. Nora did her best to appear that she enjoyed the meal, but mostly she moved her food around the plate.

  Nora was grateful for the few moments of quiet kitchen work. She was in shock still. Abram and her mother—lovers! What an enormous risk her mother had taken. Any Dutch non-Jew caught having relations with a Jew was treated as if he or she were a Jew—forced to wear the star, arrested along with their husband or lover, sent to the camps with their beloved to be gassed, shot or starved.

  Her mind ran wild with possibilities. So according to Henny, Anneke was not an NSB-er. That relieved her so—her mother, whom she had always loved and admired. But did Henny know for sure? Perhaps Anneke did betray them, but Henny simply chose not to believe it. Nora desperately wanted to believe in Anneke, but she couldn’t get rid of an awful doubt that Anneke had betrayed Abram. Miep’s diary, the tales of Anneke’s NSB activities, bringing Nazi boys home for her father’s approval, marches with the Brown Shirts. Shit, it was too much. Questions led only to more questions. And where did Hans fit into all this? Did he betray Abram or kill him out of jealousy? And if he did kill Abram, why had her mother run off with her father and married him? She wondered if her mother had even loved Hans.

  Nora started to dry the dishes. She thought of the terrible suffering Henny must have endured. Losing her husband, her brother, almost her life. No wonder she had sworn out that complaint. She’d wanted Abram’s murderer hunted down and hung.

  Nora glanced at Henny, who was wiping the sink with brisk efficiency. Henny smiled at her and then made a pot of coffee. They
walked into the living room and sat on the couch. She could see the woman girding herself to tell the rest of her story. All Nora had to do was sit and listen. And pray she would not have to reveal the identity of her father.

  Henny looked at Nora. “I see you wear your mother’s necklace.”

  Nora’s hand went to her neck. The silver felt almost alive, warmed by her body. She felt a different warmth rise in her cheeks, ashamed that she still doubted her mother. “I never take it off.”

  “Abram gave that to her,” she said. “Have you ever opened it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is a locket,” she said simply.

  Nora, her fingers fumbling, opened the catch, took the necklace off and inspected the oval, silver orb. “I’ve never looked at it closely.” She searched for a button or a keyhole, but found nothing.

  Henny gently took it, pressed her fingernail into a small indentation at the bottom, and it sprang open. Sepia-colored snippets of the faces of Abram and Anneke faced each other. Nora thought that they shone—with life, love, their future.

  “Oh, my God,” whispered Nora. But she felt so bereft as she fastened the locket back around her neck, feeling it swing gently into place as it had on that terrible day. So much time already! Oh, Rose. Will I be too late?

  But then other thoughts came. How had her mother survived after losing the man she loved? How could she have married Hans, carried his child?

  She looked at Henny. She seemed agitated, staring across the room as if communing with ghosts. More questions raced through Nora’s mind. If Anneke had married Hans out of guilt for her unwitting role in Abram’s murder, had it been enough guilt to make her bear him a child? Nora felt nauseous. She was that child—the result of a loveless union. Heartsick, she looked out. The afternoon was waning.

  Henny caught her glance and patted her arm. “I will tell you the rest now, as much as I know.” She took a sip of tea. “We were all students at the same level—Anneke, Abram and I. Anneke was determined to be a teacher, Abram a professor. I had no idea what I was going to be.” She gave Nora a crooked smile. “But that question answered itself when Hitler invaded and Seyss-Inquart took over. Do you know who he was?” Nora nodded.

  “Each student was required to swear allegiance to Hitler, to the Third Reich.” She grunted. “All three of us stopped our studies that very day, but we still had our freedom. It was strange. In those first years the restrictions on us seemed marginal.”

  She shook her head. “But Seyss-Inquart was smart. He wanted to win over the Dutch. Not us—he cared nothing for us—but he did not want to begin by alienating Dutch citizens who worked with Jews and had Jewish friends. Gradually, gradually—that was his game.

  “And we were gullible. We hoped that the war would be over before anything dreadful happened to us. We heard rumors from other occupied countries—terrible rumors—but we hid our heads like ostriches.” Nora saw her hands tremble as she put down her teacup. “My father was a diamond merchant in Amsterdam. He had worked with many Germans. He refused to believe that real harm would come to us. Abram—oh, Abram was a different story entirely.”

  “How?”

  Henny smiled sadly. “He knew what was coming. He knew we would be slaughtered like all the rest.” She walked over to the small table and selected another photo and handed it to Nora. It was a faded portrait of a younger Henny, a handsome Abram. Nora took a close look at this man whom her mother was said to have loved. He smiled into the camera with fearless, dark eyes, his arm around Henny’s shoulder. He had a long, handsome face and stood far taller than Henny. His curly hair looked as if it had fought the comb that had been run through it before the photo was taken, if indeed it had seen a comb at all. His expression crackled with energy. It was a face that would be so easy to love, thought Nora.

  Henny held up another blurred photograph. Nora looked up. Henny nodded. “My mother, father, aunt, uncle, cousins. Dead, all dead.” She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse and showed Nora the faint numbers on the inside of her arm. “Westerbork, the Dutch ‘labor camp.’ Then Theresienstadt, Tsjecho-Slowakije.” She pointed back at the portrait. “My mother, father and two of my cousins were in one of the hundred and three trains that left Westerbork for Auschwitz. The rest died in Sobibor.”

  “I’m...so very sorry.”

  Henny tugged her sleeve until it covered the ugly brand. “There is nothing to say. It was evil, pure evil.”

  “And you?” asked Nora. “How did you survive?”

  She shrugged, her brown eyes indifferent. “I was beautiful in those days. An SS guard took a liking to me. He left food scraps under my mattress.” A bitter sound came from her throat. “He kept me alive so he could brutalize me daily.” Then her eyes dimmed. “How did I survive? I pretended I was already dead.”

  Nora put her hand on Henny’s arm. She pulled away.

  “Enough of me. You came to hear of Abram and your mother. I have something else to show you.” She went to a small cabinet and turned a tiny key that was already in the lock. It seemed to be a practiced motion. She pulled out a large leather box and put it on the coffee table. “Maybe God has kept me alive long enough to give this to you. He certainly has never shown me another reason why I am still here.”

  Nora looked at the box. It was covered with finely grained leather and embossed with a large A in beautiful script. Nora waited. She knew Henny would reveal all in her own time.

  “First I must explain about Abram and Anneke. They were not lovers until almost 1943. Children of our generation did not jump from bed to bed as they do now. Sex was not what we did until marriage. But then the war came and everything changed, accelerated things somehow. We feared for our very lives. Yes, the Jews were more afraid, but non-Jews were, as well.” She gave Nora a wry look. “The Dutch do not like to be told what to do, much less when and how to do it.”

  “It must be genetic,” Nora muttered.

  “All of us then felt a desperate kind of wildness. We doubted we would survive the war. In the beginning, we could not comprehend that the Nazis would win, but there they were running our country after only five days! It was unthinkable.”

  She took a lace handkerchief from her bosom and twisted it. “But it was real. When the Nazis occupied Holland, Anneke felt a deep shame about her father. She hated his Nazi ideals, was embarrassed by his position with the NSB and argued with him constantly about his hatred of the Jews.”

  Nora felt confused. “But I read her aunt’s diary. It said that my mother took part in NSB activities.”

  “Which aunt?”

  “Miep.”

  Henny grunted. “She was an idiot, always toadying up to that brother of hers. Anneke did those things to cover up what she was doing behind Joop’s back. She stole coal and food from his house, searched his office for information about upcoming razzias and warned those who were in imminent danger.”

  “But then how could my mother still see you and Abram?”

  “At first it was not so difficult. When they made us wear the yellow star, many Dutchmen did the same in protest.” She smiled at Nora. “Anneke sewed hers into the inside of her jacket. She said that way it was closer to her heart.” Henny’s eyes darkened. “But by 1942, the Nazis became more brutal and Anneke knew she was risking her life by being seen with us, by even knowing us.” She looked off in the distance, beyond her windows, deep into the past.

  “So my mother kept on being an NSB-er, but helped your family on the side?”

  Henny fixed Nora with a piercing gaze. “She was a hero. That’s what she was.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe she never told you this! Why would a mother hide such a thing from her own child?”

  Because of Hans. The question remained. Why would her mother have left Holland and immigrated with Abram’s killer?

  The woman patted her hand as if
Nora’s silence was acceptance of her praise of Anneke. “Well, I will tell you about your mother. She was a very clever girl. She knew that open defiance of her father would only make him order her to stay home.

  “So Anneke did the public things Joop wanted her to do. She went to Seyss-Inquart’s speeches with him, entertained NSB and Nazi guests when they came to Joop’s home, wore her uniform around town. She hated every minute of it, but she endured it to work secretly the rest of the time. So the neighbors and Miep thought she was as rabid a Nazi as her father.”

  Nora now felt pain for her mother—and admiration. How brave she had been!

  “Joop,” said Henny, “was marched down the street in handcuffs on Liberation Day. The crowds filled the street, jeering and throwing rocks at him. He served a few months in prison, unlike most of the NSB-ers,” she said bitterly. “In any event, I always suspected that all this hatred of Joop was one reason Anneke left so soon after the war. Besides, her neighbors believed she was a Nazi whore. She would have suffered terrible reprisals.”

  “Oh, God, I never really knew her at all.”

  Henny put her hand under Nora’s chin and looked into her eyes. “You must believe it, child. It is the truth. I’ve wondered so often what happened to your mother after she left Holland. I never suspected the answer would come from her daughter.” She lowered her hand and sighed.

  “In any event, your mother was a hero, working with a small resistance cell in Amsterdam. She was a courier, hid microfilm, smuggled food to us and other Jews, helped Jews escape Holland and found them places to hide when they could no longer leave. Oh, Anneke was a wild one. Her father never knew what he had living right under his nose. She gave away so many food coupons, I sometimes wondered if she ever ate herself. She was terribly thin, but she had the biggest heart. She could never stand to see anyone in pain or go hungry, especially the little ones.”