to remove those ridiculous garments. Anton looked like a ragamuffin from the ghetto of Bialystok, he said, at which the officers smiled. Anton did what he was told, and the general opened a door and snarled something into a side room. The younger officers remained in the background; one sat down elegantly in the window seat and lit a cigarette.
As Anton took a chair in front of the desk, a pretty, slender girl in a black dress entered. Her blond hair was pinned up on the sides but hung down in the back. She set a cup of coffee with milk in front of him; on the saucer lay a piece of milk chocolate.
“Here you are,” she said in Dutch. “I bet you like that.”
Chocolate! Only by hearsay did he know that it still existed. This was very like paradise. But he wasn’t given a chance to taste it, for the general wanted to hear what had happened from beginning to end. The girl functioned as interpreter. The first part of his story, about the assault and the fire, made Anton cry a little (but it was so long ago by now). The general listened unmoved, however, now carefully stroking his smoothly brushed hair with the palm of his hand, now caressing his smooth, shiny jaw with the back of his fingers. But as the story proceeded, he seemed unable to believe his ears. “
Na, so was
!” he exclaimed when he heard that Anton had been locked in a cell below a police station. “This is incredible!” Anton kept it a secret that someone else had been in there too. That he should have been brought to the Ortskommandantur afterwards the general said was unheard-of. “
Unerhört
!” Weren’t there any homes for children in Haarlem? The Ortskommandantur! That was really the limit. And the Ortskommandant had sent him to Amsterdam with a military convoy? When he knew perfectly well there were strafers everywhere? Hadthey all gone crazy in Haarlem? It boggled the mind. “It has all been a series of appalling mistakes!” He raised his arms and let them fall flat-handed onto the desk. The officer in the window seat burst out laughing at his colorful indignation, and the general then said, “You may laugh all you like.” Had the gentlemen in Haarlem had the courtesy to give Anton any messages? His paper, for instance, just to name an example?
“Yes,” said Anton. But in a flash he saw the sergeant stuff the letter into his inside pocket, the very spot where the dreadful wound had opened half an hour later.
When he began to cry again, the general stood up, annoyed. Take him away and calm him down and call Haarlem at once. Or not, after all. Let them stew in their own juice. Call the uncle and have him pick up the boy.
The girl put a hand on his shoulder and led him out.
When his uncle appeared an hour later, he was still sobbing in a waiting room. The corners of his mouth were brown with chocolate, and on his lap a copy of
Signal
lay open at a dramatic drawing of air combat. His uncle threw it to the ground, knelt in front of him, and silently held him close. Then he stood up and said, “Come, Anton, let’s get out of here.” Anton looked up at him and saw his mother’s eyes.
“Did you hear what happened, Uncle Peter?”
“Yes.”
“I have a coat somewhere …”
“Let’s get out of here.” Holding onto his uncle’s hand, without a coat but wearing the two sweaters, he walked out into the winter day. He was sobbing but hardly knew why, as if his tears had washed away his memories. His other hand felt cold. He stuck it into his pocket, where he touched something he could not place. He looked: it was one of the dice.
1
All the rest is a postscript—the cloud of ash that rises into the stratosphere from the volcano, circles around the earth, and continues to rain down on all its continents for years.
In May, a few days after the Liberation, having received no news yet of Anton’s parents and Peter, Van Liempt left early in the morning for Haarlem to try and find out what had happened. Apparently they had been kept
As Anton took a chair in front of the desk, a pretty, slender girl in a black dress entered. Her blond hair was pinned up on the sides but hung down in the back. She set a cup of coffee with milk in front of him; on the saucer lay a piece of milk chocolate.
“Here you are,” she said in Dutch. “I bet you like that.”
Chocolate! Only by hearsay did he know that it still existed. This was very like paradise. But he wasn’t given a chance to taste it, for the general wanted to hear what had happened from beginning to end. The girl functioned as interpreter. The first part of his story, about the assault and the fire, made Anton cry a little (but it was so long ago by now). The general listened unmoved, however, now carefully stroking his smoothly brushed hair with the palm of his hand, now caressing his smooth, shiny jaw with the back of his fingers. But as the story proceeded, he seemed unable to believe his ears. “
Na, so was
!” he exclaimed when he heard that Anton had been locked in a cell below a police station. “This is incredible!” Anton kept it a secret that someone else had been in there too. That he should have been brought to the Ortskommandantur afterwards the general said was unheard-of. “
Unerhört
!” Weren’t there any homes for children in Haarlem? The Ortskommandantur! That was really the limit. And the Ortskommandant had sent him to Amsterdam with a military convoy? When he knew perfectly well there were strafers everywhere? Hadthey all gone crazy in Haarlem? It boggled the mind. “It has all been a series of appalling mistakes!” He raised his arms and let them fall flat-handed onto the desk. The officer in the window seat burst out laughing at his colorful indignation, and the general then said, “You may laugh all you like.” Had the gentlemen in Haarlem had the courtesy to give Anton any messages? His paper, for instance, just to name an example?
“Yes,” said Anton. But in a flash he saw the sergeant stuff the letter into his inside pocket, the very spot where the dreadful wound had opened half an hour later.
When he began to cry again, the general stood up, annoyed. Take him away and calm him down and call Haarlem at once. Or not, after all. Let them stew in their own juice. Call the uncle and have him pick up the boy.
The girl put a hand on his shoulder and led him out.
When his uncle appeared an hour later, he was still sobbing in a waiting room. The corners of his mouth were brown with chocolate, and on his lap a copy of
Signal
lay open at a dramatic drawing of air combat. His uncle threw it to the ground, knelt in front of him, and silently held him close. Then he stood up and said, “Come, Anton, let’s get out of here.” Anton looked up at him and saw his mother’s eyes.
“Did you hear what happened, Uncle Peter?”
“Yes.”
“I have a coat somewhere …”
“Let’s get out of here.” Holding onto his uncle’s hand, without a coat but wearing the two sweaters, he walked out into the winter day. He was sobbing but hardly knew why, as if his tears had washed away his memories. His other hand felt cold. He stuck it into his pocket, where he touched something he could not place. He looked: it was one of the dice.
1
All the rest is a postscript—the cloud of ash that rises into the stratosphere from the volcano, circles around the earth, and continues to rain down on all its continents for years.
In May, a few days after the Liberation, having received no news yet of Anton’s parents and Peter, Van Liempt left early in the morning for Haarlem to try and find out what had happened. Apparently they had been kept
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