Nora was well versed in this. She and Nico had had long discussions about it. Sentiment after the war was critical of the Dutch. The “gray” people, they were called—neither heroes nor traitors. They had stood on the sidelines and done nothing.
Nico argued that no one, unless he was an overt traitor, could be blamed for trying to keep his job, putting food on the table and protecting his family. Refusing to put one’s family at risk was not being a traitor.
Nora had disagreed. Anyone with even a hint of humanity could not sit idly by and watch Jews be corralled and sent to their deaths without doing
something.
But it was the final question Nico posed that had made her doubt her premise.
If you had a child, could you watch it die for lack of food?
Nora remembered his flushed face.
If you knew that if you got involved fighting the Nazis you would be risking the very existence of that child? Of your entire family?
As Rose’s mother, Nora knew she would now have to agree with him.
“It must have been horrible for you,” said Nora. “To watch your friends and neighbors turn away when you needed them so desperately.”
Henny gave a harsh laugh. “You Americans have never been occupied, have no idea what it was like under the Nazis. All of you believe that the story of Anne Frank is the only story of the Dutch Jews—that every Dutch family took us in, fed us, hid us from the Germans.” Her voice caught. “Yes, that story ended in tragedy, but only after the failed efforts of good Dutch people. For Jews like us, it was a fairy tale.”
Her eyes were bitter. “I can only tell you our story. By late 1942, Abram had to go underground. It was Anneke who found him a hiding place. My father’s manufacturing business was closed down, taken over by the Nazis. They took all the money in our bank accounts. We had nothing to live on. My mother sold her jewelry and then her clothes for food. Our Dutch neighbors shunned us. Not one offered to help or hide Abram. They wouldn’t even share their food with us. It was as if we were already an invisible people.”
Nora tried to pour more coffee into Henny’s cup, but she waved it away. “In 1943, our home was given to an NSB-er and we were thrown into the street. We had to move in with my mother’s sister, her husband and four children. We lived in an attic with no toilet, easy to round up when the
razzias
came.” Henny’s rough laugh bruised Nora’s ears. “We thought even then that we might make it until the end of the war. But then in April of 1945, a few days after Abram was killed, they took everyone in my family except me and tossed them like trash into the back of a truck in bitter cold—in their nightclothes.”
Nora felt the sob that wrenched Henny’s body. When she took one of her hands, it was ice. “That night I was sneaking home from a girlfriend’s after curfew and saw the
Groene Politie
pull up in front of the house. I crouched behind the garbage cans in the alley. I heard my mother’s cries and my father’s shouts. They saw me and motioned to me not to move. It took everything I had not to run to them, even though I knew where they were going. To the
Hollandsche
Schouwburg
. From there, by train to
Westerbork,
where they worked sending other Jews to their deaths until they themselves were shipped to Auschwitz.”
Henny’s voice lowered to a sick whisper. “The last thing I saw was my mother, with her long, beautiful gray hair around her shoulders, clinging to my father as they both shouted to me not to worry...that they would write.”
“So Abram was betrayed.”
Henny seemed to have reached an impasse. Nora squeezed her hand and she went on. “That goy I told you about—Hans Moerveld.” She spit out the name. “He killed Abram and then betrayed my family to the
Groene Politie.
”
“Who was he?” whispered Nora.
The old woman raised red, tearful eyes to Nora. “A student. A
friend
of your mother’s, so he always pretended. Everyone knew he was in love with her. He was in the same resistance cell as Anneke. Pretending again.”
“To do what?”
“To fight the Nazis.” Henny snorted. “He was a mole, a spy. He claimed that he printed false documents for the resistance, that he spied on ammunition depots for the British. Blew them up. Killed Germans. Lies—all lies!”
“But how do you know it was a lie?” The documents she had found in the attic showed that both her mother and father had served in the resistance, that her father had coordinated with the British Secret Service.
Could that be true, no matter what Henny said? Could her father have fought on the right side of the war?
“Maybe he was telling the truth.”
“I believe none of it.”
“What did Anneke believe?”
“That she had known the Moerveld boy since he was a child. She refused to believe he was a spy.”
“Why do you believe it?”
“Because the neighbors who lived next to Abram’s hiding place later told us that on that terrible night, they heard a loud argument and then a gunshot. By the time they ran into the street, Abram lay dead.” She looked at Nora suspiciously. “Do you know something of this Moerveld? Is that why you have come here?”
Nora felt her cheeks burn. “No, of course not.”
“Because if he is still alive—”
“Where was Anneke during this argument?”
“That night? The neighbors said she was there. The
Groene Politie,
too. That bastard Moerveld must have followed Anneke to Abram’s hiding place and shot him. Then he alerted the
Politie
like the filthy coward he was.” Her shouders slumped. “Afterward I never saw Anneke or heard anything from her again. There were rumors that she had gone to the States. Now you tell me they were true.”
“And what happened to you?” asked Nora softly.
“They found me a few days after my parents were sent away and I was sent to the camps like everyone else. When I finally made my way back to Amsterdam from
Theresienstadt,
I went to my father’s house and looked into the window. Our next-door neighbor was setting the table with my mother’s silver. All our furniture was still in the house. The woman saw me staring at her. She walked over and closed the curtains. I never went back.” She waved a tired hand. “So I live here in my little flat in The Hague.”
Henny now noticed the tears streaming down her face. Nora handed her the lace handkerchief. Henny wiped her face, giving Nora a hollow, haunted look. “This is too much for me. I must stop now.”
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Nora. “Could I ask you one more question?” When Henny didn’t answer, she pressed on. “Do you know of anyone—anyone—who might have hated my mother so much that he would kill her?”
Henny stared at the ground and twisted her lace handkerchief. Finally she met Nora’s eyes. “I cannot imagine anyone doing such a thing. Not after thirty years.”
“No neighbors, family members, someone Anneke may have harmed—”
“No, it is preposterous.” Henny shook her head wearily. “Come here a moment and then I think you must go.”
Nora followed her to a long, plain table that stood against the wall. Henny pointed at more photographs, each in an identical silver frame, plainly members of her family, so many that Nora couldn’t focus on all of them. In front of each lay a stone. Nora thought they looked like the smooth stones one would find in a riverbed.
“Do you know why I have these here?”
“I know that Jews place stones on the headstones of their dead.”
“Yes, but do you know why?”
“No,” she whispered.
Henny picked up the stone in front of Abram’s photograph and rolled it gently, lovingly, in her palm. “There are different explanations. In ancient times, stones were used as markers. The superstitious believed that stones kept the soul in the earth. This was necessary because the
beit
olam—
the grave—was thought to still have within it some part of the soul of the deceased. I believe that we place a stone on the grave or headstone to show that we have been there, that our loved ones have not been forgotten.” She put her arm around Nora’s shoulders.
The feeling reminded her so of her mother’s embrace that tears came to her eyes. Henny held her tightly and then opened her palm and placed Abram’s stone in Nora’s hand. It was still warm from Henny’s touch. It felt alive, like her mother’s locket. Nora’s fingers clenched around it.
“It is yours. Your mother would have wanted it that way.”
Nora fought back her tears. “Are you sure?”
Henny nodded and kissed her softly on both cheeks. Nora hugged her and put on her jacket, careful to slip the stone into the inside pocket. Like Anneke’s yellow star, close to her heart. She followed Henny’s slow steps to the door. “I have no way to thank you—no way at all.”
“Ach, kind,”
she said softly. “For these hours, you have given me back my Anneke. It is as if she and Abram lived for one more day.”
As Nora turned to go, Henny stopped her. “You have not asked me about the photograph.”
“Which one?”
Henny pointed at the long table again. “Come here.” She picked up a blurred photo of a black-haired infant with dark eyes. “One of Anneke’s resistance friends gave it to me after the war.”
“Oh, the baby picture of Abram. Yes, I saw it.”
“That is not Abram,
kindje.
”
Nora felt faint as Henny placed the silver frame in her hands. “What do you mean?”
“That is the baby of Abram and Anneke.”
“What baby?”
Henny’s brown eyes grew full again. “That is you, my dear Nora. Abram was your father.”
62
After Nora left, Henny paced up and down. What could it all mean? When she heard Nora describe how Anneke was killed, a sick fear had shot through her. It couldn’t be...not after all these years. Even Isaac wasn’t crazy enough to do such a thing, was he? But the hacked hair, just like the NSB-ers...and how had he found Anneke?
Even as her questions formed, Henny knew the answers. After the war, she and Amarisa had shared a small flat in Amsterdam. Every day they would visit Isaac and his wife. And every day it was the same thing, both of them consumed with getting revenge against Anneke. Henny had no idea how Isaac had done it, but she just knew that somehow he had found Anneke and killed her.
Oh, God, what do I do now?
She sat at her desk. Only one way to find out. She rummaged through a drawer until she found her old address book.
Did Isaac still have the same number? Same address?
She hadn’t spoken to him or Amarisa in years. When she first moved to The Hague, they’d exchanged birthday cards, but they didn’t even do that anymore. All they did was remind her of the war.
And Amarisa,
the older dominating sister. When Henny had gotten a new puppy for her birthday, Amarisa had whispered to her that she didn’t deserve it. The next day it was found in the road, poisoned. When they had played together, Amarisa always won. If she didn’t, she twisted Henny’s arm until she cried. Henny had learned to always let Amarisa win.
But after the war, when all Amarisa and Isaac did was sit day after day and rave about the injustices they had suffered, swearing revenge against Anneke and Hans and belittling Henny’s unshakable defense of her, Henny knew they would never change. So she had moved on.
Finally she found Isaac’s number. Taking a deep breath, she dialed. No answer.
Should she wait? Try again?
She thought of Nora’s desperation. Even if it was crazy, this notion that Isaac was involved, she had to find out.
She ran her finger down to the number under Isaac’s name. A sick feeling ran through her. But she had to do it.
A mechanical voice. “The number you dialed has been disconnected.”
Henny grabbed her address book and called Amarisa. Another robotic voice informed her that the number had been changed. Henny scribbled it down. Of course Amarisa had moved. It had been a decade since Henny had spoken a word to her. When she dialed, it was answered on the first ring.
“
Mevrouw
Rosen’s service.”
“Service?”
“Yes, all of
Mevrouw
Rosen’s calls are routed through us. Name, please?”
“Henny Rosen. I am
Mevrouw
Rosen’s sister. Could you please give me her number?”
“I am afraid not. We will contact her and, if she accepts the call, then I will patch you through.”
“This is ridiculous,” muttered Henny as she listened to clicks, whirs and then a ring.
“Met Amarisa Rosen.”
“Amarisa, met Henny.”
“Henny who?”
“Don’t play games, Amarisa. You know I wouldn’t be calling unless it was urgent.”
“Oh, forgive me.” Amarisa’s sarcasm snaked through the line. “I wasn’t sure you were still alive.”
“Where is Isaac?”
“What do you care? You haven’t spoken to either of us in ten years.”
“I’ve tried to call him, but there’s no answer.”
“So try again.”
“Amarisa, tell me what is going on.” She hated the nervousness in her voice, the young girl still petrified by her older sister. “I had a visitor today. Anneke’s daughter.”
There was a short silence. “Who?”
“Nora de Jong. She told me that Anneke had been murdered, her baby kidnapped!”
“So the bitch is dead. All the better.”
Henny felt terrified. Amarisa had answered far too quickly.
She wasn’t surprised—not at all!
Henny hardened her voice. “What do you know about this? Did Isaac kill her? Is he hiding somewhere?”
Amarisa snorted. “What makes you think such a crazy thing? It was over thirty years ago.”
“Because Anneke’s daughter said she’d been shot by a Dutchman and that her hair was hacked off, just like the NSB-ers.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“And Isaac hasn’t said anything to you?”
“Isaac won’t say anything ever again. He’s dead. Not that you give a damn.”
Henny’s heart sank. He was her brother, after all. “When? How?”
“None of your goddamned business.”
“Amarisa!” she cried. “You’re lying to me! Anneke’s daughter told me the murderer was a Dutchman, that he died at the scene after killing her. Isaac must have killed poor Anneke and someone stole the baby. And I think that person is you!”
“What an imagination you have!”
“Amarisa, you must know that Nora de Jong is Abram’s child! You owe it—”
“Don’t you tell me what I owe my dead brother! I’ve spent my life mourning Abram while you turned your back on his memory and ran away!”
“But you can’t do this to his daughter—to Nora!”
“She isn’t his daughter!” thundered Amarisa. “She was stolen and raised by the man who murdered her real father—a Nazi! She is her mother’s child, the daughter of a whore. Nothing more.”
“I’m coming there,” said Henny. “We have to settle this.”
“Ha! You don’t even know where I live. I moved years ago. Besides, I’m on vacation in Italy. My service forwarded your call.”
“Then I’m going to call Anneke’s daughter and tell her what I suspect!”
“You aren’t going to do a goddamned thing.” Henny started at the deadly hiss of her words. “You’re just an old, delusional woman making wild speculations. If you repeat your crazy ideas to anyone else, you’ll regret it. You know me. And what I’m capable of.”
“But Amarisa! Who took that child? And why?”
“I have no idea what you’re babbling about. There is no child. I’m hanging up. Don’t ever contact me again.”
Henny heard one sound before Amarisa slammed down the receiver. The faint cry of a baby.