Misfortune (and Gouda)

by Pierce, Blake

  “What a marvelous way to live,” Bryce said. Then with a playful nudge, he added to London, “How would you feel about retiring here?”

  London’s eyes widened.

  Was Bryce thinking about a future for them together? From his broad grin, she guessed he wasn’t considering anything so serious.

  Anyway, it’s fun to think about, she thought.

  She nodded and replied, “It would very nice, I think. I wish we had time to—”

  London was a bit shocked when Emil interrupted her with a chuckle.

  He said, “Kapitein, maybe you should tell these two why moving here might not be so easy.”

  Kapitein Claes frowned a little.

  “Times have changed, I fear. After World War II, houseboats were popular because they were cheap as well as comfortable. A lot of struggling artists once lived in them. Now you have to be quite rich to be able to afford one.”

  “Are the boats really that expensive?” Bryce asked.

  “Oh, not the boats, really,” Kapitein Claes explained. “An old boat that has not yet been renovated can be very cheap to buy. But the berths—the spaces for the boats along the banks—are what are really expensive. They alone can cost as much as a half million dollars these days.”

  “Oh, my!” London said.

  Bryce laughed and added, “I’m afraid that’s always going to be a bit out of my price range.”

  “The boats themselves are changing as well,” Claes said, pointing and frowning at a larger, newer-looking boat with multiple levels and terraces. “I am not very fond of boats of that type. Look closely and you will see that it was never a water-going vessel. It was just designed to look that way.”

  Pointing to another modern craft, he added, “And that one is built on pontoons. It doesn’t even look like it was ever supposed to sail. A lot of the newer boats are like this—luxurious, I suppose, but lacking in character.”

  Shaking his head, he added, “Times must change everywhere, I suppose. Amsterdam is no exception.”

  I guess gentrification is a happening all over, London thought with a sigh.

  The Jonge Gouda passed through a busy intersection where their canal crossed another waterway, then continued under two more low bridges. On the shore to the boat’s port side, London saw a group of people standing in line outside a modest Dutch-style building that looked much like all the others around it.

  Unexpected emotions flooded London at the sight of that building. Tears stung her eyes, although she had no idea why.

  “I want to stop there,” she cried.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As Kapitein Claes steered his boat toward the water’s edge, London wondered what had come over her at the sight of that building. She didn’t even know what it was, but seeing it had triggered some memory.

  Or if not an actual memory, at least a strong feeling of familiarity.

  “Yes,” Claes said, “you really must visit Anne Frank Huis—the Anne Frank House. One cannot come to Amsterdam without stopping there.”

  Emil added with a nod, “I completely agree.”

  “But I hope you have reservations,” Claes added. “It is very popular.”

  “I do,” Emil replied. “In fact, I made a dozen reservations and passed most of them on to our passengers. As it happens, I have three left.”

  “Just the right number,” Bryce commented.

  “Yes, I had this in mind when I flagged down the two of you to accompany me.”

  When the Jonge Gouda came to a stop at the embankment, Bryce climbed out and offered London his hand to help her join him.

  Kapitein Claes asked Emil, “You may wish to stay here for a while. Do you want me to wait for you in the meantime?”

  Emil looked at his watch.

  “No, you need not inconvenience yourself,” he said to Claes, “You have been very helpful.” After handing the boatman a hefty-looking tip, Emil joined them on the walkway that bordered the canal.

  Claes thanked Emil with a tip of his hat, then pulled his red and yellow boat away from the shore and continued on his way.

  “We are within easy walking distance of the Rijksmuseum,” Emil explained to London and Bryce. “We can spend some time here at the Anne Frank House and still get to the museum in time for our tour. Of course, even with reservations, one must wait in line. But the line is not as long today as it sometimes is.”

  “Have you been here before?” Bryce asked Emil as the three of them joined the line.

  “Oh, yes,” Emil said in a somber voice. “Many times. One cannot come to this place too often. It has so much to tell us.”

  “This will be my first visit,” Bryce said. “What about you, London?”

  “I came here once,” London said. “But I was very young.”

  Too little to understand, she thought. Of course, she had long since read Anne Frank’s diary, so she knew the girl’s story.

  They stood in a line that took them past the original wooden front door of the house into the adjacent modern building. London recognized a few faces of Nachtmusik passengers in the group as they passed through an entry gate and continued on their way toward the original house. Although some background information was posted on the walls, Emil told them more after they went up one flight of stairs.

  “Otto Frank’s spice company offices were all around us,” Emil said. “It was a bustling workplace during the day. Only a few of the employees knew the secret of the house—that Jewish people were hidden from view on the upper floors. Earlier they had fled Germany where the Holocaust was raging and came to the Netherlands. But the Nazis invaded the Netherlands in 1942, and then they hid away on the top floors of this building.”

  The group walked up another flight of very steep stairs, where they came upon a large, heavy bookcase sitting askew. An opening in the wall was visible behind it.

  “This leads into a part of the original building that can’t be seen from the street,” Emil explained. “A family friend built this bookcase, especially, to cover the entrance. It is hinged like a door so it can open and close.”

  London felt a flash of recognition. She remembered being fascinated by this secret passageway when she was here as a child.

  The group followed Emil into the dimly lit rooms where the Frank family hid.

  Bryce remarked, “I can’t imagine a family of four staying hidden here. I understand that it was for two years.”

  Emil replied, “Oh, Otto Frank and his family were not the only people hiding here during that time. There was another whole family—Hermann van Pels and his wife Auguste and his son Peter. Another man named Fritz Pfeffer joined them, so there were eight people hiding here overall.”

  This secret annex suddenly felt extremely crowded, even claustrophobic, to London.

  Emil said, “Any noises up here could easily be heard on the floor below. The eight people had to keep extremely quiet—at least throughout the day during the company’s business hours. At night they could actually come out of the secret annex into the main building. Those nights were the only time they had access to hot water.”

  As the group moved among the other visitors, they quickly found themselves in a room with old pictures on the wall.

  Pointing to the old pictures on the walls, Emil continued, “Anne pasted these pictures and postcards here herself. In a way, her collection shows how she matured during those two years. The early photographs are of then-famous movie stars. So as you can see, at first she was a typical star-struck 13-year-old. But as she became more interested in the fine arts, she put up images like this one of a Greek sculpture.”

  The group looked into the room where Otto, his wife, and his other daughter had slept. Then they continued up the stairs to see the kitchen, the living room, and the room where the van Pels family stayed.

  Finally they arrived at the foot of another steep staircase, which was blocked from entry by glass. Through a strategically placed mirror, they could catch a partial view of the upstairs attic, which app
eared to be brighter than the rest of the annex.

  Emil commented, “In the mirror you can see the only window that was never covered over. Anne used to stand there looking out at the chestnut tree, which you can also see still standing outside. That was the only glimpse of the outdoors she ever had during those years.”

  “Anne wrote about that tree in her diary, didn’t she?” London asked.

  “Indeed, she did,” Emil said. Then he shut his eyes and recited by heart:

  “From my favorite spot on the floor I look up at the blue sky and the bare chestnut tree, on whose branches little raindrops shine, appearing like silver, and at the seagulls and other birds as they glide on the wind.”

  The group of people was very quiet as Emil led them back down the way they’d come. Finally, they turned into a room with an altar-like black display case at one end.

  “This is where Anne’s diary is kept,” Emil said, pointing to the book’s open pages filled with the young girl’s handwriting. “The case is temperature controlled to protect the pages from fading with age.”

  With a sigh, he added, “Anne loved her diary. All during those terrible years, she dreamed of becoming a writer and journalist and sharing her thoughts with the world. Those dreams came to an end in August 1944, when she and her companions were captured by the Nazis. She died at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, probably early in 1945.”

  Now London remembered standing in this very room when Mom had read those words aloud to her daughters.

  Then Mom had said, “Maybe someday when you’re older you’ll understand all this.”

  Then, Mom had added …

  “When you do, please explain it to me.”

  London’s throat tightened with emotion.

  Sorry, Mom, she thought. I still don’t understand how this could have happened. I don’t think anybody ever will.

  As she followed Emil out of the Anne Frank House, London felt overwhelmed by the weight of things she didn’t understand—many of them regarding her own mother who had once brought her to this place. Somehow she couldn’t put together her memory of that caring woman with the thought of the person who had disappeared from her life.

  Seeming to sense her mood, Bryce gave her hand a quick squeeze. Then they walked along quietly as the historian led the way along a street that bordered the canal. As they passed narrow houses, cheerful shops, flower gardens, and waterfront cafes, London’s spirits began to lift. She realized how fortunate she was to have a rich and rewarding life.

  As they entered a broad street near the Rijksmuseum, she turned to Emil to thank him for the information he had given them on their tour.

  But at that moment, the historian let out a gasp and dashed away from them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bryce’s jaw dropped as Emil scurried away down the street.

  “Where’s he off to?” he asked London.

  “I don’t know,” London said. “But we’d better not lose him.”

  She was still worried that he might disappear before he could give his scheduled lecture at the Rijksmuseum. She hadn’t prepared to substitute for him.

  London and Bryce br*-oke into a trot, following after the escaping historian. Fortunately, he didn’t go very far. He stopped in front of a corner shop with a sign that read Meyer Fijne Kunst.

  Meyer Fine Art, London thought, translating the name from Dutch.

  As she and Bryce came nearer the storefront, they could see that windows on either side of the corner entrance were filled with paintings and sculptures.

  Emil stood staring at a piece that was strikingly different from all the rest.

  Resting on an easel was a large, flat ceramic plaque, about two feet high. Painted on it entirely in blue was a landscape featuring a windmill on a riverbank, a cloudy sky, and two small boats sailing nearby.

  “Exquisite,” Emil proclaimed as London and Bryce joined him at the window.

  “Yes, it is,” London agreed, although she still didn’t quite understand why Emil was so strongly drawn to this plaque that he had dashed over here to gaze at it.

  “What is it?” Bryce asked.

  “You do not know?” Emil replied with a haughty grin.

  “Well, there’s not a label on it,” Bryce said.

  “No, nor do you see any labels on the other artworks either,” Emil said. “That tells you something about the excellence of the gallery. It caters to people who know what they are looking at, who do not need to be told.”

  Bryce’s slight grumble expressed a bit of annoyance at Emil’s show of superiority.

  London sighed. Earlier in the tour, when she had been getting a lot of attention from both Emil and Bryce, she had understood why the two sometimes got competitive about their knowledge of one thing or another. Fortunately, Bryce always stepped back before an actual argument broke out.

  She had actually been relieved when Emil recently paired off with Amy, although their behavior had been so weird lately that it wasn’t clear where that relationship stood anymore.

  At least, she thought, Emil is acting more like himself again.

  “It’s very nice,” London told him, looking at her watch. “Now we’d better be on our way to the Rijksmuseum.”

  “Not just yet, please,” Emil said. “Please, I have not for many years seen a large piece like this done with such skill.”

  “It reminds me of Blue Willow china,” London observed. “My sister has some at home.”

  “Oh, yes, Blue Willow,” Emil said with a disdainful chuckle. “I have seen pictures of it. An English pattern, I believe, although it is meant to look Chinese. Very popular in America, is it not? Well, there is a distant connection, I suppose. Both Blue Willow and this superb piece were inspired by decorative porcelain imported from China in the 17th century. However Blue Willow is but a poor relation in my opinion. It soon became a mass-produced motif that turned up absolutely everywhere.”

  London was glad Tia couldn’t hear Emil’s words. Her sister was very proud of her blue-tinted china with its East Asian landscape featuring a footbridge, a pavilion, a pair of flying swallows, and of course a willow tree. The images were supposed to tell a story, which London had heard Tia relate to her children—something about a mandarin’s daughter falling in love with a commoner against her father’s command. After their tragic deaths, the two lovers were transformed into swallows.

  Or something like that, London thought.

  This much larger piece in this window told no such story. In fact, it looked very much like scenes painted on framed canvases displayed in the same window.

  Emil pointed at the elaborate border decorated with flowers and leaves and topped with a shell-shaped carving.

  “Can either of you identify the style of the border?” Emil asked.

  Stifling a sigh, London glanced worriedly at her watch again.

  Now he’s quizzing us.

  If he started playing the role of the learned academic, London feared they would never get away from here. He had a lecture to give elsewhere, after all.

  “It’s very elaborate,” Bryce said, looking at it closely. “Somewhat like the architecture we see around Amsterdam—including this building. My guess is that it’s Baroque.”

  With a snort of glee, Emil said, “A mistake—but an easy one to make. It is another style even more noted for its intricacy.”

  Bryce didn’t look happy to be corrected. London spoke up quickly, hoping to settle the matter right away.

  “It’s Rococo—a 17th-style that evolved out of Baroque,” she said. “You can tell by all the asymmetrical curlicues.”

  “Very good,” Emil said.

  “Now we’d really better being going,” London added.

  “Oh, but we must not rush,” Emil said with a wag of his finger. “This is charming old Amsterdam, after all, not a city of turmoil and frenzy. I believe your English term for this kind of mellow place is ‘laid out.’”

  Laid back, London thought, but stopped herself from cor
recting him.

  Then to her alarm, Emil walked on into the gallery.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get him out of there,” London said to Bryce.

  They followed Emil inside the gallery, which was full of paintings, sculptures, and furniture of various periods—although London noticed a lack of anything modern.

  “Mostly 18th and 19th century,” Emil muttered, gazing at the paintings of ice skaters, windmills, and families lined up on the wall.

  A severe-looking man was standing as if at attention. His head was shaved and he wore what looked rather like a butler’s uniform. But his stiff posture and a microphone on his shoulder suggested he might also serve as some kind of security guard.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Emil said to him in Dutch, “but could you tell me the provenance of that ceramic piece in the window?”

  “Provenance?” the man asked with a tilt of an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I would like to know exactly where it was made and by whom.”

  The man frowned darkly.

  “I can assure you that every item in this gallery is quite authentic,” he said.

  “I do not doubt it,” Emil said. “All I am asking for is … well, a bit more information about this particular piece.”

  The man stared at Emil, and Emil stared right back at him. Then the man spoke into his microphone.

  “Meneer Meyer, there is a gentleman here with whom you may wish to speak.”

  Then the man tilted his head at Emil and said, “I am sure that the gallery owner will join you shortly.”

  Shortly? London thought anxiously.

  How shortly is shortly?

  “Emil, listen to me—” London said.

  “Yes, yes, I know, I have a lecture to give. I have not forgotten. Honestly, London, it is hardly like you to nag. I assure you we will be at the Rijksmuseum with time to spare.”

  London was really beginning to doubt that, but she didn’t figure there was any changing Emil’s mind.

  While they waited for the mysterious Meneer—Mr.—Meyer, Emil peered closely at one of the paintings.