Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  Hood looked at the contraption of cooking kettles and piping. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He reached over to the end of the pipe. Wetting his finger, he moistened his tongue with the liquid. “We need to test this.” Looking around the storeroom, he saw what he wanted. He pulled a measuring cup off the shelf, opened one of the bottles on the floor and filled the cup. Then he sipped the liquid, shaking his head like a dog and exhaling sharply. “You need to drink some. I’ll need a corroborating witness on this.”

  “What is it?” Unfortunately, Hank thought he knew. It smelled a little like Genever, Dutch gin, but without the herbal scent of the juniper berries.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. You stay here. Lock the kitchen doors. No one comes in.” Hood disappeared and returned with a canteen. “We need to save this for evidence.” He opened the jug again and filled the canteen. “Good work, Burns.”

  Hank stood there a little confused. He wasn’t sure what he had done right, but apparently he had found something important. It was best to let others decide how this was significant. “So what happens now? What is it?”

  Hood looked at the still. “It’s good, but it’s not exactly legal. We have to go see the boss. After we report this contraption, they’ll dismantle it. I’m afraid Rainwater’s kitchen duty is over.”

  A week later Captain Olney was shuffling through his interoffice memos, and the title of “RE: Hank Burns” caught his eye. He had seen a couple hundred guys since Burns had left, but the curious Dutchman had piqued his interest. A letter of commendation had been written up, detailing Burns’s responsibilities and attention to details at Fort Dix. He had discovered an illicit alcohol brewing operation and reported it up the chain of command, responding to orders effectively. The soldier was ready. He was finally going to join the combat photography unit. At last he would do his part to beat up Italians and Germans, or at least record the events. He was going in as part of a machine, with every pipe and tube doing its job. He was the thermostat, the one to monitor the results and let the world know what was brewing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amsterdam, Holland

  May 1942

  “A woman is like a teabag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.”

  ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

  Esther put down her book, and picked up a pencil to sketch. Sasha’s head was bent intently over her sewing, and she resembled the women in Rembrandt portraits, the ones he did of mothers, beggars, even Jews. Her curls were loosened, and the deep brown eyes were focused on her lap. The dim light made her work difficult, and she sometimes squinted. Esther worked to capture the illumination on her friend’s cheekbones, light playing through her auburn curls. Sweaters and jackets were piled onto the table, and next to them a neatly stacked pile of yellow stars, inscribed with the word “Jood – Jew.”

  Why in God’s name would she obey this order, this additional insult? Was she being proud and defiant because she was a Jew, or was she trying to be conciliatory to the authorities? Or was she trying to stay out of trouble because neighborhood police were well aware that she was a Jew? Sasha picked up still one more star, centered it neatly onto the jacket in an exact match to the diagram, and began making tiny even stitches around it.

  By now, even a trip for basic provisions was a journey of harassment. Dutch police in Nazi green uniforms treated young women as if they were streetwalkers. Sometimes the men would grab their bags and take things from them, things that they needed to get by – bread, a wedge of cheese. One policeman put his cigarette to the side, and reached into his pocket for a bar of chocolate, which he would be willing to exchange for “a kiss.” Esther bent her neck in close enough for the policeman to smell her perfume and asked him to close his eyes for a proper kiss. Then she grabbed the chocolate and ran down the street, while he was waiting for her lips to brush his. His comrades laughed and let her go.

  The restrictions were becoming unbearable. The two women were imprisoned in their own apartment. Curfews were so strictly enforced that they did not dare to go out with friends. In fact, Jews were not allowed to congregate with other Jews at all, in public or in private. The neighborhood was deserted, absent of its life.

  Sasha looked up from her work. “You had better get busy if you ever intend to go outside again.”

  Esther glared at her, and then looked out the window. “I don’t need to go outside. I’ll just read and draw in here.”

  “You need to start your sewing.”

  “Maybe I’ll just put them on my chemises. That way they have to look more closely.” Esther went to the sink with her teacup and turned on the water.

  Sasha dropped her work, shocked. “How can you even talk of bedding those pigs? They hate us. Your pretty face and tight sweaters won’t get you out of this one.” She picked up her spool of thread and held the needle steady, pushing the dampened end of the thread through the eye. Her hand trembled at little at the last minute. “Dammit.” She moved the needle into position again. “Esther, this is not a joke. You can go to jail for not wearing your star or carrying your Identification Card.”

  The water ran louder, and soap began to foam as Esther scrubbed harder at an imaginary brown stain on the cup. “I don’t plan to identify myself. It’s nobody’s business. And I’m not going to wear those bloody yellow stars. It’s not very stylish. Anyway, what can they do to us that they have not already tried?” She stood up, walked over to the table and stood over Sasha, blocking the light. “You know what’s wrong with you? You are afraid. You’re afraid of them. You are even afraid of your own actions. And if that weren’t enough, you are afraid for everyone else too. ‘Will Mark fly safely? Will the printer get caught?’ Good God, I left my mother, and now you are acting like her! Don’t you order me around. I do not take orders.”

  Sasha blinked her eyes and ignored Esther’s diatribe. Instead, she commented, “Actually, they’re very stylish right now. The Royals are all wearing them in solidarity with us. The Danish king has been wearing one too. If everyone wears them, we will all be Dutch and Jews can no longer be singled out. They even stitched a yellow star onto the princess’ bridal gown.” She turned back to her sewing and ignored Esther’s stance. “You’re blocking the light.”

  Esther continued, “Who would want to go out anyway? We have everything we need right in this apartment. We don’t eat much, no one in here cares if our clothes are old, and we don’t have to work. It’s perfectly safe here, and even sane. We have a phonograph and can play music and dance if we wish.”

  “That’s it. I’m going out and spend time with some friends, real friends who live in a real world. Maybe I’ll ask Jaap downstairs to accompany me.”

  Esther’s eyes widened, “And what will Mark say to that?”

  “He’ll be pleased that I am escorted safely to and from the coffeehouse.” Sasha nipped off the yellow thread, and checked the alignment of the star on her brown tweed jacket, one with a velvet collar that highlighted her hair. In the hallway she brushed out her hair and set her hat at a coquettish angle.

  The apartment door slammed, reverberating in the concrete hallway. Let Sasha and Jaap enjoy their evening out. They didn’t really matter to her. Maybe friendships weren’t important any more. Society wasn’t worth the effort.

  Hours later Esther looked out the window into the Dutch mist, reddened by moisture in the air and reflections off the clouds. Smoky streaks were a warning that the sun had set, and curfew passed. By eleven o’clock the streets were dark. Why in God’s name had Sasha gone to the coffeehouse with Jaap?

  Perhaps Sasha had stayed with a friend to avoid being seen after curfew. That yellow star might as well have a target printed onto it. Esther cared deeply for Sasha and regretted some of her nasty childish comments. Tomorrow she would try to make amends in some way, perhaps pretty up the apartment or try to locate a treat in the shops.

  Two days later she le
ft the apartment to seek out Sasha’s mother and inform her of Sasha’s disappearance. She had an address near the Apollolaan, and hoped that it was accurate. The street was intimidating, full of Germans and of Green police. Luckily she was not wearing her “labels” but if they asked for her identity card, she would be in big trouble. She made a mental note to stop by a stationer’s and see if she could locate some ink eradicator. She knew how to use it to erase small mistakes in her calligraphy. She would try to correct the “J” on her identity card.

  As she turned onto the street, and walked near the house where Sasha had taken her for tea now and then, she noted the silence everywhere. It was not a good silence. No one was shopping, no children were playing in the park; the bakery was empty. She knocked on the familiar door, this had to be the correct address, but no one answered. The front stoop was unkempt, and there was no sign of life in the building. Where was Sasha’s mother? My God, what was happening here? Such things only happened in stories, ancient German fairy tales of disappearances, trolls and magic pipers living in mountain crags. She had better get back to the flat immediately.

  The flat…. Sasha’s mother had been paying the rent. There were less than two weeks until the first of the month. If Sasha did not return, she would have to, to what? To move? Where? With whom? She turned in her steps, and headed toward a tram stop. Hopefully it would be very busy and she wouldn’t be noticed. She mustn’t look afraid. Head up, look at people, be bold but not noticed. Don’t talk – use your eyes to acknowledge others. And, above all, don’t be rude to anyone. From the Dam Platz, she carefully negotiated a path through canals behind the palace, eventually able to walk along the Herengracht and toward the Bernsteen home. She had better make up with her mother, just in case.

  Sophia the housekeeper answered the door. Thank god, the servants were still there. It wasn’t so bad. But, the ground floor offices were empty. Typewriters and adding machines sat on empty desks. The office furniture was dusty. Sam had been ordered to cease doing business. The first floor sitting and dining rooms had not been aired, and windows were tightly closed. “My God, Esther! Max! Your sister’s here.”

  Max strolled down the marble stairs, a serious young man, pushing his long hair aside from his thick glasses. He had not seen a barber in a while. She put her hand on the banister with its heavy carved balusters. His asthma had caused him to lose weight, and there were blue circles around his eyes. At sixteen he looked like an old man. He peered at her. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter, returned home!”

  “What?”

  “So are we supposed to prepare a feast for you? What will it be, dry bread and blackened grain in a coffee cup?” His anger was not really directed at her, it seemed to emanate from every direction.

  She looked at him sadly, then put her arms around him tightly. “I’m full. I don’t need anything.”

  Sophia then mentioned, “Your mother is still in her bedroom. I’ll let her know you are here. Did you want to see her?”

  Esther’s smile lit the stone hallway, now emptied of paintings and Chinese vases. “Oh, that would be wonderful. But only if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “So, are we going to stand all day?” her brother inquired.

  “Oh no, I was just in the area and thought I would come by. It’s so pretty here, and I thought it would be nice to be near the water.”

  “You hate water.” He pulled out a handkerchief, and began to cough into it, then wadded up the soggy linen and pushed it into a pocket. Her eyes widened; she was not going to tease a sick boy who had not been outdoors in weeks.

  “Maybe I like it now. It’s nice to see the swans and ducks swimming and flying around.” She looked closely at his pale face, marked with acne and the stray dark hairs that signaled a young beard. “I don’t really get out to the park as much as I would like.”

  “Nobody gets out to anything as much as they would like any more.”

  “Well, we aren’t in cages yet.”

  “I hear caged birds die.”

  Sarah’s ponderous steps announced her arrival. In addition to her weight, her chins had sagged, and her beautiful large eyes now squinted out of the folds in her brow. She looked worn.

  “Mother, how are you doing?”

  “Esther, you didn’t come here to inquire about my health. Obviously, things are not going well. Sam’s business is closed, and we have had to let go of our entire house staff, except Sophia. We don’t go out and we don’t have enough to eat. Why are you here?”

  “I actually wanted to see you.”

  “Where’s Sasha?”

  Esther’s eyes filled. She honestly had no idea where Sasha was, and there was no use to pretend or to make a show any more. “Sasha went to a coffeehouse on Wednesday, and never returned.”

  Sarah’s first thoughts were that Sasha had had enough of Esther’s rude behavior, but that made no sense. The flat was Sasha’s. “Come, let’s prepare a small dinner for tonight, light candles and thank God we have each other.”

  Esther followed her mother toward the unfamiliar kitchen. The copper pots were hanging, some of the large ones covered with dust. Only two servants’ aprons remained on the rack that used to hold six. Sarah handed one to her. Esther looked at her mother and understood the circles under her eyes, the sagging of her jowls. She offered, “I have actually learned to cook a little. May I peel the vegetables?” The two women went to the cellar, and they filled their apron pockets with potatoes, parsnips and a leek. Esther inhaled deeply as she looked at the basket of roots. “I suppose we don’t have any butter or mustard for these?” Her mother’s face twisted into an odd frown. “Hans always liked his vegetables with brown butter and mustard. The way you fix them.”

  Sarah sighed. “I’m sure Hans is getting dinner somewhere tonight. We just won’t know where for a while.”

  Esther opened a nearly empty closet in the dining room. The sets of silver and dishes were no longer there. The Sabbath candlesticks were pushed to the back of the shelf, tarnished. She took a soft rag and rubbed them until they reflected the soft glow of the sunset. “I think we had better pray for peace.” The two women bowed their heads over the table.

  Blessed are you, L-rd our G-d, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the light of the Holy Shabbat.

  Four people shared the soup. Sam and Sarah were silent as Esther chattered about her friends. Then she looked at her watch.

  “Oh no! It’s past eight o’clock. There will be police everywhere looking for violators. I don’t even have stars on all my clothes yet. Max, when you go out, do you travel a favorite route to avoid the police?”

  Sarah swallowed her words. Her disapproval was palpable and her silence indicated that Max never went out.

  Max broke the silence. “Why don’t you stay in your old room? There are some extra books in there now, but we still have your bed.”

  Esther regarded her mother, and then said, “Let me clean up the dishes.”

  Outside the deep blue twilight announced the first Sabbath stars.

  Chapter Eighteen

  June 1942

  Sharpshooters

  “Our own objectives are clear; the objective of smashing the militarism imposed by war lords upon their enslaved peoples, the objective of liberating the subjugated Nations—the objective of establishing and securing freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from want, and freedom from fear everywhere in the world.” ~ President Franklin D. Roosevelt, January 1942

  Hank sat on his bunk, looking at his orders again. He had done everything they asked, he had taken on extra work, and he had commendations. He couldn’t wait to get to Europe. These orders said, “CONFIDENTIAL – Eyes only. Report to the CO immediately for further instructions.” Maybe they weren’t going to take him after all.

  When Hank completed his training for combat photo
graphy he was pretty sure he had passed his fitness tests. The training exercises in photography were dangerous, but thoughts of boyhood adventures kept him at ease. For days his unit had climbed towers with bulky movie cameras and squeezed into impossibly small spaces to shoot. When they rappelled down the 50 foot wall, he looked at the distance. Men were afraid to jump off. Then he smiled. He had done worse. He had grinned like a twelve year-old imp, grabbed the rope and jumped over the edge.

  As a boy he talked his little sister and brother into climbing out on the snowy gables of the four-story Herengracht house. It was icy and some tiles were loose. He had photographed the entire expedition. Esther had been in a little dress and coat, with patent leather shoes, and Max was also dressed up in tweed knickers and shiny boots. Hans had developed the photos in his bedroom closet. Enemy bullets couldn’t do as much damage as the wrath of Sarah Bernsteen.

  Now he measured his paces as he walked toward the brick building. The CO must not see him sweat. He had learned to keep his hands still, and his eyes steady. His Adams apple was still as he waited for the officer to speak first. “Burns, Hank Burns, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about your accent.”

  “My accent? I am a legal resident of the United States, sir. I want to earn my citizenship.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Amsterdam, Holland, sir.” As he stood at attention a chill ran through him, and a shock ran through his feet. He regained his balance without moving. “Is there a problem?”

  “At ease, Burns. We need to talk.”

  Hank immediately moved with his legs spread apart, and hands clasped behind his back. “Sir?”

  “What other languages do you speak?”

  “I was born in Holland, and I speak German.” He began to rattle on. “It’s because my mother was German, but she has been Dutch for many years now.” Maybe he had said too much. How dumb could he be to say his mother was German? He tried not to fidget. A slight creasing around his eyes indicated that he was thinking in questions.