“What can I get you? Would you like today’s special?”
“Yes, please.”
The questions stopped. He was tired and very hungry, and happily settled into his plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes served by the pretty blonde. She watched him eat until the service bell rang.
Moments later his plate was empty. He had inhaled his food, and looked up and down the counter, trying to figure out what to do next. She came back to him after a few customers left and pointed toward the glass cabinet full of desserts.
“Would you like a dessert? A sweet?”
A caramel and honey ice cream sundae, he thought, but he pointed to a piece of cherry pie. “Please.” She set the coffeepot down and began a conversation in German.
“Oh, I bet your family misses you.”
“No, my brother and sister do not miss me. I have my own life.”
Searching his face for a clue, she asked, “Did you leave someone behind?”
“Do you mean, a girlfriend? No, I did not have a girlfriend.”
“At least you’re not brokenhearted then.”
He appeared at Woolworth’s lunch counter every day for the next week.
Chapter Five
Amsterdam, Holland
Friday, May 17, 1940
“Holland, Belgium and Luxemburg Invaded; Britain and France Send Help”
~ The Star (London) May 10-14, 1940
Esther put her pen down and carefully capped the ink. God it was warm in here. Her light sweater itched and she didn’t have a way to scratch, unless she went to the bricks out in the courtyard and rubbed herself like a cat. She hated this sweater. Her new skirt pulled on her waist. Even her breasts wanted out of their bindings. Maybe she should just take all the irritating clothes off. Not a good thought. But her chest felt sore, swollen and inflamed. She examined her arm for an allergic rash. Nothing, but who ever heard of “sweater sickness?”
Fresh tulips were appearing in sunny window boxes. She thought about her last birthday, the awful afternoon when her brother Hans had taken her to tea. Well, that was in the past. He was wrong. Amsterdam was lovely and the peaceful canals and old buildings had not faced any crisis. The thing to do with news reports was to ignore them. People made news so they could feel important. Once they had made their statement, others would make sure that the status quo would return. It was just like Hans to make too much of everything around him. He was too sensitive, but being sensitive at the wrong times and for the wrong reasons would not help him much. Good luck, wherever he was.
Enough, she had to return to the proclamation for the Lord Mayor. The Assistant to the General Manager had been very insistent that special inks on vellum would be used. It was supposed to be done in a simplified Gothic style, elaborate but legible, and God help her if she misspelled any of the Latin text. One letter at a time appeared in perfectly formed lines and serifs. Once the text was done, she could draw. Patrons requested her drawings, especially when she wove animals into the never ending curls and embellishments. She sometimes liked to add rare flowers, poisonous ones if she didn’t like the message. “Oh how pretty!” And to herself she would think, “Yes, and three centimeters of that lovely lacy hemlock will stop your heart – if you have one.” Her lithe animals carried secret meanings – like the hidden leopards and tigers peeking out, Do I eat him or does he eat me? Which is it? They watched the viewer, waiting to pounce and attack. Oh well, the drawings were for customers, and father had told her “Never, ever, be rude with customers.” No one said she couldn’t enjoy a little joke here and there.
The shop bell rang, and a tweed-coated gentleman hurried through the door.
“Guten Tag…ich möchte...”
Heer Bolsman corrected him, “Sir, you are in Holland.”
“Not as of two days ago. Your queen has surrendered. Heil Hitler!”
Bolsman turned to Esther, “You speak German, yes? Your mother is German. Find out what this man wants.” He turned on his heels and strode to the back of the shop. Esther stared at the man, customer or imposter? She wasn’t sure.
The intruder looked down at her. “We need a proclamation.”
“What kind, sir? Shall I show you our style book?”
“I am not looking for artwork. We need a prominent document to post on the palace, and three large copies to post in the Damplatz. This is a very nice contract for your shop. If you can help us design the poster, we will remember you. All our artists live in Berlin. Your proprietor should be very pleased. Perhaps he is available to talk now?”
“Heer Bolsman!” She wandered slowly to the back. Bolsman looked at her, and nervously set down his freshly brewed cup of tea. He had not taken a sip from the steaming cup. He put it down on the table, littered with newspapers. His hand shook, and tea splashed into the saucer. Then he lifted the cup again and tried to drink. Beneath the saucer, a wet ring began to spread across headlines of the previous day.
Rotterdam Destroyed! Bombardment of the entire historic city centre. 900 killed and 85,000 homeless.
Holland surrenders - Fall Gelb - Operation Yellow, invasion and occupation of the Low Countries.
“Oh, God. Why him, why German business? Couldn’t God choose someone else, just once?” He shuffled out to the front in his slippers, thinking and muttering, Gelb – yellow – we are not cowards. Confronting the stranger he announced, “You are in a Dutch shop. If you have German business, you need to go to a German shop. I’m sure you will find something.”
“Gnädige Herr, I have given you a polite offer. I can make it a command. I would suggest you treat us with courtesy and respect. We have gone to great trouble to liberate your country.”
Esther looked at one man, then the other. Two strangers who had not met ten minutes before were in a standoff. Bolsman didn’t even know this man – and he was nearly snarling at his customer. No wonder men loved their politics and wars. Dutch and German people had lived side by side, and shared land peacefully for centuries. How could this be a problem? What did it matter? She could see that Heer Bolsman was furious, but she had done nothing wrong. She took the announcement and dropped it on her desk. Both men kept their silence as she presented a calendar and marked a date to deliver a simple rendering. When the German left, no one said “Good day” or “Thank you.” A curt nod indicated that he was done with his business.
Heer Bolsman’s door was closed. She stuffed the proclamation into a drawer of papers to be forgotten. Soon she would be home with Peter to celebrate her birthday. They were not going out to a café. There was a new 20:00 curfew in place, and many cafés were hanging out signs that announced, “We do not serve Jews.” With her bobbed hair and bright smile, Esther was ready to just step in, flirt with the maître dix, and order dinner, but she knew her friends would not approve. The Germans wouldn’t know who was Jewish and who was not. However, Dutch boys were joining the police force and even the German army, putting on green uniforms and marching down the street. Apparently these Dutch boys were “Aryan”, whatever that was, and they were dangerous because they knew the neighborhoods of the city. The Queen didn’t stop them. She and her ministers had already fled to England. Holland was closing shop as quickly as it could in an effort to maintain peace.
Peter had promised to stop at the cheese shop and the bakery, and maybe splurge on a bottle of wine if one could be found. When she thought of the wine cellars at the Herengracht house she wondered how she could get a couple bottles. The cellars faced the courtyard, away from the main house. Unfortunately, there were no loyal servants left, at least no one who was loyal to her. They had been polite to her when she lived at home, but she had never exchanged a word with the girl who took care of her clothes or made her bed.
Dammit. This sweater was really bothering her. She needed to take it off. When she got home to Peter, she could take off the sweater and anything else she wanted. She would be dressed in kis
ses. He would kiss her neck, her arms, her….it was so hot in here. She picked up the pen and started to draw two lions rampant, one on either corner of the page. Not exactly what was on her mind, but it would have to do. Now her stomach seemed to be just a little upset.
Heer Bolsman came in and checked the proclamation. “This is lovely, but can you work a little faster? The customer wants to pick it up late this afternoon, and we need time for the inks to dry.”
“Oh, certainly, mijnheer.” Under her breath she muttered, “Vincent, you must really paint a little faster.”
“Young lady, you are a fine calligrapher. You are not an artist, and your lack of decent manners pushes me to the limit. Anyway, Van Gogh is not an artist or a painter. I would not hire him to paint my walls.”
Esther smiled at him, blinked her large green eyes, and settled back to her work. At last it was time to tidy up the shop and walk down the cobbled streets to Peter’s flat. It was a good job, and Heer Bolsman did not mind that she was living with Peter, so long as Peter did not stop by the shop. He appeared to be a nice young man, but one with no prospects. Esther and Peter were enamored with the wild arts scene in Paris, but, thank God, they didn’t have enough money to go there. Whenever Peter had a little cash, he would spend it on a new piece of stone or clay, anything that he could sculpt. They had no way to survive without the generosity of their parents and patrons.
As soon as Esther reached the flat, she shed her offending sweater and dropped it on the floor beside the chaise lounge. The gabardine skirt fell beside it, and she tossed her pumps on the Persian rug. Company was coming to supper, and she hadn’t cleared away the coffee cups from the morning. Nobody should have to clean on a birthday. The breakfast dishes got shoved into a dishpan and hidden in the cupboard. She hadn’t dusted in days, and some sculptures in the apartment looked like ancient relics.
Peter arrived at the door with the shopping bags in his arms. He looked at her quizzically. “Happy Birthday! But may I ask what you have done with your clothes?”
“Oh, they were itchy.” She adjusted the strap to her slip.
He paused. Sometimes Esther acted like a twelve-year old nymph. “Well, perhaps you might like to put on your Japanese kimono and be a geisha tonight. I did invite Mark and Sasha to join us for supper.” He unpacked a wrapped box. “These are for you.”
She eyed the label from her favorite chocolatier, a little shop down by the Leidseplein. Her eyes filled. “Thank you. Now I will just want chocolates for supper. Are they for me to keep?”
“You’re impossible. Do as you wish. But I think you would be better off eating them than keeping them.”
“If I have one a week they’ll last a long time and I won’t get fat.”
The downstairs buzzer sounded. “Can you go and put something on so I can let them in?” She jumped up and scurried into the bedroom as Mark’s heavy footsteps announced their presence. Sasha was wearing high heels; she could tell by the clicking. Dammit. She didn’t have anything like that, and they probably had some wonderful tales of Paris besides. Think. In her bedroom she brushed out her hair and applied some lipstick. The Japanese robe was a wonderful idea. She would put on a silk camisole, and leave the front slightly open. Instead of the wide obi binding her waist she took a braided ribbon sash and tied it high, just enough to keep the robe from falling open. She loved this robe, with its powerful birds resting in still waters. A little powder and some dramatic earrings and bracelets…voila! Oh, perfume; she needed more perfume.
Rushing out from the bedroom, she ran to Sasha, embraced her and kissed her on each cheek, then stepped back holding on to her friend’s hand. “Sasha, you look absolutely chic, tres chic! Tell me about your shoes. Wherever did you find those?” The two ladies scurried over to the table to talk.
Meanwhile, Peter was pouring the first surprise, a shot of Dutch gin, Genever, for the gentlemen. They sipped the icy drinks slowly, savoring the rich taste of the juniper. Mark spoke in a quiet voice, serious words to be kept out of ladies’ earshot.
Peter stared out the window, seeing nothing. A vague comment, “I didn’t know you had an English grandfather.”
A quiet force behind Mark’s words forced Peter to turn and look his friend in the eye. Mark continued, “He was a British officer abroad in South America when he met my grandmother. Her father was a local liaison, and they met at one of those endless parties. I think that’s all they have to do in those colonies, drink and have parties.” As Mark spoke of the parties, he transformed into someone else entirely.
Peter now observed a young man frozen like an imperial officer from a time past, coiled up under pressure, prepared to strike.
Mark continued to explain, “I’m not even sure whose colony was whose. But somehow the Dutch and English are pretty friendly.” He set down his shot cup. Clatter from the kitchenette broke into his thoughts.
“Esther! Here is the smoked fish. We brought herring and eel.” Sasha held up the wrapped packets. “— and white bread” as she set a fresh baked loaf on a board.
Esther grabbed the baguette, inhaled the odor of the warm yeast and began rubbing it, slowly, her tongue flickering around the tip of the hard bread as she danced a striptease around the kitchenette, removed her apron and dropped the shoulder on the kimono. Then she picked up a knife and sliced the end off, shoving it in her mouth and crunching the treat. “I’d rather be in the kitchen with you, and you know I hate to cook. Look at those two, cold sober even after the Genever.”
Sasha laughed. “At least there is no cooking tonight – just a little slicing, and maybe a glass of wine.”
In the small sitting area, Peter poured two more polite shots of icy Dutch gin. Mark responded, “Bedankt! Today I need this.” He tipped the shot back and followed it with a piece of bread, then exhaled, snorting like a dragon.
Peter followed with his shot. Mark asked for a third shot of the dense cold gin. “You sure? We still have a long evening ahead of us, and a bottle of wine. There is only one bed here.” Mark took his third drink, and set it on the windowsill. “You thinking of going anywhere?”
Mark paused and looked out the window. “The Fascists are making a real mess of Europe.”
“You’re seriously thinking of going to England?”
Mark pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, opened it, and then handed it to Peter. “We don’t have a country any more. Even our Queen and Cabinet have left, along with our national treasury. They asked the British for protection.” He tossed the third shot back. “I am going to England.” He lifted the empty Genever glass, tipped it upside down, and set it on an end table by the chaise. Then he stood at attention, unshakeable, unmovable, and sober. “I’ve decided to join the RAF. I know how to fly, and they’re recruiting pilots.”
“Does Sasha know?” Peter nodded toward the girls laughing and setting the table.
“She knows I like to fly. She’s even been up with me.” Evidently, Mark was more nervous about Sasha’s response than he was about getting shot out of the air. “I will be telling her very soon.”
“My God, Mark, they taught you how to take that thing up and bring it down! You’re not a competitor or a daredevil!” Peter snorted back his shot.
“I don’t know how I can continue here. Whatever we have here is lost.”
“What the hell are you talking about? The girls are in the kitchen, the – you’re drunk. You can’t even walk, let alone fly an airplane.” Peter’s hands began to shake, just a slight nervousness. Anxiety always came through his hands. He saw with his hands, and now he listened to his hands.
“Our only choice is to go to England and fight,” Mark continued.
“Our choice?”
“We can’t fight from here. What do you plan to do to save Holland?”
Peter closed his eyes and exhaled. “I’ve been working in metals since I was a boy, and I’m not afraid to get my hands d
irty. Someone is going to have to fix the planes after you guys wreck them.”
Mark’s eyes met his. “I hear Germany is lovely this time of year. Let’s see how it looks in flames.”
Peter picked up the bottle. “Now I need another drink.”
Mark turned Peter’s glass over. “You need to swear to this one with your wits about you.”
Peter looked around his apartment, every surface adorned with a bronze, a sculpture, or a painting. A soft bed and an even softer woman waited for him at the end of each day. He had never acted on a decision in his life. Esther observed his clenched fists. “I am not drunk.” Silence split the air. Then he opened the right fist and extended it for a stiff handshake, a promise that Mark would not be fighting alone.
***
“Drunk? Who’s drunk? We have to catch up with you now!” Sasha had removed her high heels and stepped quietly across the room. Esther followed behind, displaying a lovely platter of thinly sliced fish, lemon, onions and cheese. She lit the candles on the table and paused. A few words of an unspoken Sabbath prayer went through her head. It was Friday night. Crunchy baguette appeared next to the black bread on the table and they poured wine to toast her birthday.
“Let’s have a nice supper. No politics.” The room went silent and the food was passed without comments. After several minutes with no conversation, Sasha reached into her handbag and pulled out a tiny package. In it was an ounce of French perfume. “We brought you a gift! Happy Birthday.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful, and I love this crystal bottle. I shall have this for the rest of my life.” Esther opened it and let its fragrance waft through the small room. “Wait a moment. I have something for all of us.”
Esther brought out the chocolates and offered each of them their choice of the bon-bons and wine jellies. “See, it’s so much better when we are not serious. We can take care of ourselves and let others live with their own problems. As long as chocolate like this exists, who cares about the Germans?”
Islands of Deception Page 5
