she was going to go find out from my uncle what had happened.
Anneke stepped out of her dress and hung it up, something I had never seen her do. Thin crescents of white tipped her fingernails where the polish had worn off—I had never seen that, either. She put on her nightgown and pulled the blankets over her, all of her motions small and careful.
I suddenly felt guilty, as if I had let her down. "I've thought this through. If you left, I'd leave, too. I don't want to be here without you—even if your father let me stay. So why don't you and I move away together? We'll get a place in Amsterdam, and jobs, and no one will know us. We'll tell people whatever you want."
"I'm so tired, Cyrla" was all she said.
"No, wait," I said. "Isaak told me about the Lebensborn. Where did you go? Tell me what happened."
Anneke cringed, inched deeper under her blankets.
I got up and sat on her bed and put my hand on her shoulder. She was cold under her nightgown, but she wasn't shivering. "No," I said again. "Please talk with me. I'm not going to sleep until you do. You're not going into that place, and they're not going to take the baby. Are you all right?"
Anneke sighed and looked at me. "You don't understand." Her eyes were still far away, older and slow; something at her core had vanished. "I'm fine. It was nothing. I saw some doctors ... at the headquarters ... just some tests. They measured ... they measured everything. They asked about our family. That's all. I want to go to sleep now."
"Anneke, do you hear me? You don't have to go." I suddenly had a wonderful idea. "Your mother's to go to Amsterdam tomorrow, to pick up that part your father needs for the order. Let's go with her. We'll see Frannie and Leisje. We'll ask them to help us find a place to live. We'll have fun."
Anneke slipped farther away. "Leave me alone, Cyrla." She rolled over. I grew angry with her for a moment, that she had gotten herself into this situation, and now wouldn't let me show her a way out. Later, when I heard her crying, I was ashamed.
The next morning, she was up when I awoke.
"Well," I said immediately, "Amsterdam?"
"I'm going back to work today. But you go with Mama, Cyrla. It's a good idea. See what you can learn." She put on a gray woolen skirt and a wine sweater, and I thought she seemed better, stronger. "Will you go today?" she asked me a few minutes later, and she waited until I promised. I was pleased—my idea had given her hope.
She talked with me while I dressed, and asked questions about Isaak and me. How did I feel when I was with him? How did he act? Was I sure? A hundred questions.
"Is anyone ever sure?" I asked her. And then she gave me more advice, about how I'd know if he were the right one, what I might feel. I stopped listening. Isaak had been the one for me since the day I'd met him, the day I'd arrived in Holland. There was no question. What mattered was that Anneke seemed to be herself again. But she didn't check herself in the mirror before she went downstairs, and she didn't fix her nail polish.
I should never have let her out of my sight.
The train was crowded—they were always crowded now. The Germans had requisitioned our modern electric engines and left us with only older coal-burning ones, which broke down all the time, and the worst of the carriages. By the time we reached Amsterdam, there were hundreds of people on board, crushed shoulder to shoulder in the aisles so that if anyone fainted, he probably wouldn't hit the floor, while the last two carriages were empty— NUR FUR WEHRMACHT, the signs said, although there were no soldiers in them that day. I thought it was a good omen—all these people traveling to Amsterdam must mean there was work.
The air was sooty and stale, but as Schiedam was early on the route, we had seats, so we felt lucky. On the way, my aunt told me what she'd learned last night. There was a home in Nijmegen, barely a hundred kilometers away, called the Gelderland. Anneke had
Anneke stepped out of her dress and hung it up, something I had never seen her do. Thin crescents of white tipped her fingernails where the polish had worn off—I had never seen that, either. She put on her nightgown and pulled the blankets over her, all of her motions small and careful.
I suddenly felt guilty, as if I had let her down. "I've thought this through. If you left, I'd leave, too. I don't want to be here without you—even if your father let me stay. So why don't you and I move away together? We'll get a place in Amsterdam, and jobs, and no one will know us. We'll tell people whatever you want."
"I'm so tired, Cyrla" was all she said.
"No, wait," I said. "Isaak told me about the Lebensborn. Where did you go? Tell me what happened."
Anneke cringed, inched deeper under her blankets.
I got up and sat on her bed and put my hand on her shoulder. She was cold under her nightgown, but she wasn't shivering. "No," I said again. "Please talk with me. I'm not going to sleep until you do. You're not going into that place, and they're not going to take the baby. Are you all right?"
Anneke sighed and looked at me. "You don't understand." Her eyes were still far away, older and slow; something at her core had vanished. "I'm fine. It was nothing. I saw some doctors ... at the headquarters ... just some tests. They measured ... they measured everything. They asked about our family. That's all. I want to go to sleep now."
"Anneke, do you hear me? You don't have to go." I suddenly had a wonderful idea. "Your mother's to go to Amsterdam tomorrow, to pick up that part your father needs for the order. Let's go with her. We'll see Frannie and Leisje. We'll ask them to help us find a place to live. We'll have fun."
Anneke slipped farther away. "Leave me alone, Cyrla." She rolled over. I grew angry with her for a moment, that she had gotten herself into this situation, and now wouldn't let me show her a way out. Later, when I heard her crying, I was ashamed.
The next morning, she was up when I awoke.
"Well," I said immediately, "Amsterdam?"
"I'm going back to work today. But you go with Mama, Cyrla. It's a good idea. See what you can learn." She put on a gray woolen skirt and a wine sweater, and I thought she seemed better, stronger. "Will you go today?" she asked me a few minutes later, and she waited until I promised. I was pleased—my idea had given her hope.
She talked with me while I dressed, and asked questions about Isaak and me. How did I feel when I was with him? How did he act? Was I sure? A hundred questions.
"Is anyone ever sure?" I asked her. And then she gave me more advice, about how I'd know if he were the right one, what I might feel. I stopped listening. Isaak had been the one for me since the day I'd met him, the day I'd arrived in Holland. There was no question. What mattered was that Anneke seemed to be herself again. But she didn't check herself in the mirror before she went downstairs, and she didn't fix her nail polish.
I should never have let her out of my sight.
The train was crowded—they were always crowded now. The Germans had requisitioned our modern electric engines and left us with only older coal-burning ones, which broke down all the time, and the worst of the carriages. By the time we reached Amsterdam, there were hundreds of people on board, crushed shoulder to shoulder in the aisles so that if anyone fainted, he probably wouldn't hit the floor, while the last two carriages were empty— NUR FUR WEHRMACHT, the signs said, although there were no soldiers in them that day. I thought it was a good omen—all these people traveling to Amsterdam must mean there was work.
The air was sooty and stale, but as Schiedam was early on the route, we had seats, so we felt lucky. On the way, my aunt told me what she'd learned last night. There was a home in Nijmegen, barely a hundred kilometers away, called the Gelderland. Anneke had
Similar Books
