19
Trams screeched by Nora, running so shockingly close to one another that she was amazed they didn’t crash. The one she had been waiting for finally careened to a stop. Nora boarded with the rest of the commuters en route to the
Centrum.
Her thoughts turned to the research she wanted to do at the
Instituut.
Nico had given her a number of books to read about Amsterdam during the war. She learned that by the end of 1941, Jews from the coastal regions of the Netherlands were forced to move to Amsterdam. By April 1943, Amsterdam was the only city Jews were permitted to live in.
She thought of Leo, a friend of Nico’s, who had lived near the
Hollandsche
Schouwburg.
As they had walked to his house for dinner one evening, Nico had pointed out the white stately building and told her that it had been an actor’s playhouse used as the central roundup point for Amsterdam Jews during the war. Nora imagined entire families huddled and petrified as they lined up to register their names, addresses and businesses. Little did they know that everything would be taken from them, including their lives.
Had her mother handed out yellow stars to terrified Jews as they were herded into the majestic building? Did she join her friends—Nazis and NSB-ers—who sat in full evening dress enjoying that night’s play?
Nora had viewed old photographs depicting the
Schouwburg’
s lovely cream edifice, where she read that the Jews were torn from their families, thrown in trucks like trash and hauled to
Centraal Station.
From there, they were herded onto freight trains, screaming promises to their families, who stood crying at the station, arms outstretched for one last touch, one last look. “Don’t worry! We will write! We are only going to the work camps!”
Like Mauthausen. Like Auschwitz.
But now Nora could not contain her excitement.
She finally was doing something for Rose. So what if she was deluding herself? It was better than sitting in Houston, terrified and frantic.
So, deep in her thoughts, she missed the stop for the
Instituut
and wound up stepping out at the
Dam
in the
Centrum.
She fell in with the people who thronged the streets, giving the impression that no one worked. A warm feeling of belonging grew with each step.
She walked by
bruin
cafés, the dark, wonderfully narrow bars with sand thrown on the wooden floors. She caught a glimpse of weathered tables and old men, already cupping their small glasses of
genever
at nine in the morning. They would drink, smoke and watch the world go by for the rest of the day. She walked by the
Begijnhof,
a tiny convent in the middle of the city, a jeweled garden of silence cut off from the noise and crowds. Inside, she knew, were tiny rooms where now only the oldest nuns lived. Their walled enclave was suspended in time, a quiet patch of flowers, statues and grass in a city that kept changing around them. She walked into the
Spui,
a pleasant square not far from the
Dam
and passed the
Hoppe,
a café good for people-watching. Nico considered it too posh for the intellectuals with whom he surrounded himself. She continued past the
Singel
to the
Herengracht.
Finally she stood in front of the
Instituut,
her heart gripped with excitement, fear—and pain. Excitement that there might be a real chance that she would uncover information that would lead her to Rose, pain because of Nico.
She looked up at the stone facade. Two enormous columns, complete with grimacing gargoyles, framed the entrance to the forbidding building. The broad entryway spanned twenty feet, enclosed by thick borders of intricate stone carvings arched over modern glass doors.
Nausea roiled in her stomach.
Was she crazy? What could she possibly find on this wild-goose chase?
She closed her eyes a moment and focused on Rose’s blue, laughing eyes and her soft fingers curled around Nora’s own. When she opened her eyes, she took a deep breath, gripped her purse and rang the bell. She heard a buzz and a click and stepped inside.
The male receptionist gave her a baleful glance from his desk behind a glass wall. They must have taken the neo-Nazi threats seriously. Was the glass bulletproof? She stepped up and spoke into the speaker.
“Goedemorgen,”
she said briskly. “Dr. Aantje van Doren.”
“Goedemorgen, Doktor. Kan ik U helpen?”
The uniformed man seemed to be at least six foot three, with broad shoulders and a completely bald head. The voice from the speaker was gruff and unfriendly.
Nora reached into her purse, pulled out a white envelope and held it up. The man pointed down at a small metal drawer. When it opened on her side, she placed the envelope into it and pressed the button. He took the envelope and studied it. This time he looked at her with what appeared to be respect.
Amazing what a piece of paper will get you,
she thought,
even a fake one.
Before she left Houston, she had dug up an old letter of Nico’s written on the
Instituut’
s stationery, and had lifted the heading of it to compose a letter of recommendation for one “Dr. Aantje van Doren,” a professor at Stanford University.
The man frowned. “I am very sorry, Dr. Van Doren, but were you not aware the Dr. Meijer is out of the country?” He slipped the letter back into its envelope and into the drawer.
“No, I was not,” she lied. “But as the letter explains, I have important research I must accomplish in a very short period of time.”
“Of course,” he said briskly. He turned to a set of keys behind him, selected one and put it into the drawer. “You may put your things in a guest locker—to the left there.” His voice assumed the tone of someone who repeated the same instructions day after day. “Guests are not permitted to bring anything into the main document room except a pencil and a notepad. Making copies of the documents is forbidden. If you go straight ahead you will come to the
medewerkers’
desk—our research assistants. I am certain that they will be able to help you.”
“I have particular documents that I must have with me.”
He frowned. “Put them into the drawer. I will have one of the
medewerkers
bring them to you.”
Nora slid a sealed envelope into the drawer. “And the archives?”
“Yes,” he said. “They are located in the basement. You will have to ask permission if you wish to see them.” He gave her a deferential glance. “We are honored to have such an esteemed guest, Dr. van Doren.”
“Thank you.” Nora hoped that he did not see her hand shake as she slid the key from the metal drawer. Thankfully, not much about the
Instituut
other than the new security measures seemed to have changed, particularly the reflexive assumption that something like letterhead should be taken at face value.
She passed a wide staircase on the way to the document room. Everything was the same: the dark, intricately carved balustrade that led upstairs to the offices of the war experts; the thick red carpet on the stairs—as if for royalty. The faded antique rugs she remembered were gone. Harsh gray linoleum had replaced the rutilant hardwoods she had so admired. The high ceilings with their carved crown moldings seemed incongruous with the cold white walls and modern furnishings. Nora found it unsettling. It drove home how long it had been since her life with Nico.
She looked up the stairs and glimpsed the long hallway. Nora knew where Nico’s office used to be. She wondered if he had taken over the former director’s or kept his own. A pain sliced through her.
Why did he have to be gone the one time she needed him most? Well, she’d do it alone. Where Rose was concerned, hadn’t she always been on her own?
She took a pencil and pad out of her purse, put her purse in the locker and then slid the key into her pocket. She entered the research room, glanced around and chose a carrel tucked away under a stairwell. Before she could pull the small wooden chair out from under the desk, a young man—no more than twenty-five—appeared at her shoulder. She looked up, startled.
“Dr. van Doren? Mijn naam is Koos Dijkstra. Mag ik U helpen?”
The receptionist must have told him her name. They shook hands. He held the envelope containing her documents and then studied her pencil and pad as if he suspected her of bringing contraband into the holy hall.
Maybe he’ll frisk me, too.
His eyes widened when he unfurled and read the judgment against her father. He shook his head, as if pitying her.
She opened the envelope and handed him her parents’ passports and the rest of the documentation from the attic. He leafed through them. “What precisely are you researching, Dr. van Doren?”
Nora forced calm into her voice. “As my letter explained, as a professor, I make myself available to researchers in the academic world who are interested in my specialty, the Netherlands during the Second World War.” She paused. He nodded. She took a breath and went on. “In this case, I received a strange request. A week ago, I was contacted by the police in Houston, Texas, where a Dutch woman was murdered and her granddaughter kidnapped.”
Dijkstra’s pimpled skin grew taut as his jaw dropped.
“Echt waar?”
She removed the documents from the envelope and handed him her mother’s passport. The young man glanced at it and nodded. Nora then passed him Anneke’s NSB identification card and Hans’s passport with their real surnames,
Brouwer
and
Moerveld.
“They were married in Holland shortly after the war, immigrated to the States and changed their names.” He nodded. She saw a glint of excitement light his pale eyes as he grasped the import of the document.
“Has it been determined that this—Anneke Brouwer—was indeed an NSB-er?”
Nora cringed.
Her mother. A Nazi.
“That is what we must find out. That and what connection there may have been between Hans Moerveld and this Abram Rosen that might provide a motive for murder.”
Nora placed her reading glasses on her nose and nodded. “Yes, it is strange, but the police seem to believe that there is a connection between the Abram Rosen mentioned in that document—” she pointed at the judgment “—and the murder and kidnapping.”
The
medewerker
looked confused. Surely no one at the
Instituut
had ever asked him to work on a present-day kidnapping or murder. “But what possible connection could there be?”
Nora peered at him over her glasses in what she hoped was an academic way. “I am not privy to the evidence, of course, but apparently the most credible theory is that someone related to this Abram Rosen may have engaged in a revenge killing.”
The
medewerker
studied the judgment again. “Thirty years later? That’s crazy!”
Nora felt angry. Even if “crazy” was everyone’s favorite word for her theory, she was
not
crazy. “That is not for us to determine, young man. Dr. Meijer and I have been colleagues for many years. He agrees with me that this matter is of the utmost priority.”
The
medewerker
lowered his eyes respectfully, but shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not mean to be uncooperative, but I am not certain that we can be of much service in a police investigation.”
Nora felt struck. “What do you mean? That you are not allowed to assist me because the events involve a case in the United States?”
“No, that is not what I meant. Please.” He held out his hand for the documents. She bundled them up and gave them to him.
“I only meant that our system is...less than efficient. We have a unique cataloging system here.” He waved his hand around the room. “During the war, a very important Cabinet minister, David Prager, established this foundation with support from the government—”
“Yes, yes.” Nora tried not to let her voice reflect the impatience she felt. Every minute waiting around was another minute her chance of finding Rose became more remote. She might already be too late.
Dijkstra
droned on. “—and we have therefore amassed a most extensive collection of
dagboeken—
diaries—and every imaginable kind of original wartime documentation. It is all housed in this one building,” he said proudly.
Nora looked at the clock and saw that fifteen minutes had already gone by. She could almost feel her blood pressure rise. “Yes, yes, I know all of this. As I told you, Dr. Meijer and I are close colleagues.”
The
medewerker
looked stricken. Nora felt as if she had kicked a puppy. She could tell that this young man was rarely given an opportunity to express his enthusiasm or impart his knowledge of the history of the
Instituut.
He stiffened and assumed a businesslike air. “Please wait here while I conduct my research.” He turned.
Nora put her hand on his arm. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
The
medewerker
shook his head and stepped back, as if her hand on his arm was inappropriate. “No, no. It will go faster if I do it myself.” He must have seen her disappointed look because his expression softened. “Well, you could look through the general index for any mention of these names.” He nodded in the direction of the document room. “Will you please come with me?”
She followed him into another large room, feeling unprepared with only her pencil and pad. Dark, oversize drawers lined the wall in a room that felt to Nora as if it were hermetically sealed. A very old man with a white shock of hair pored over a brown-edged Rotterdam newspaper, his elbow propped upon a stack of thick, leather-bound books.
The
medewerker
pointed to one of the old wooden cabinets and pulled out a long narrow drawer. “This is an example of how our information is categorized.”
Inside, Nora saw rows and rows of yellowed index cards smudged with the ribbons of ancient typewriters. Many of the cards also had unreadable marginalia scribbled in ink. She gasped as she looked at the floor-to-ceiling cabinets with countless wooden drawers. She felt as if she were searching for a pearl in an endless bed of oysters.