“Do you honestly think that any of this is important? The courage to fight and to love—that’s all that is important right now. And you won’t find any of that in a mathematical formula.”
Slowly pushing his glasses farther up his nose, Professor Held stared at the ball of crumpled paper.
Elke opened the door. “Michael! Come now!”
The sound of marching feet echoed down the hall toward the classroom. Michael moved swiftly toward the door.
Held opened his desk drawer and pulled out a book. It was a well-worn copy of Rilke’s New Poems. He signaled to his young student. “Before you go, Mr. Blum––”
Michael turned and Held pushed the book across the desk. Michael approached, curious, in spite of himself. Noting the title, he opened it reverently. Held watched him read the inscription on the first page, handwritten by his father.
“To Josef. Sometimes the most courageous love is whispered in the quietest moments.”
Meaningless words from a very long time ago, Held mused. He returned to his papers and with a dismissive wave of his hand muttered, “Keep it.”
Michael clasped the book to his chest. “Really? Thank you. Thank you, very much.”
Uncomfortable with this show of emotion, Held pushed his spectacles higher up his nose and nodded, shuffling papers awkwardly about the desk.
Michael turned to leave and then stopped at the door. “I guess it’s safe to tell you now that I hate mathematics.”
Held scoffed, then muttered, more to himself than to Michael, “So I have surmised.”
As Michael reached the door, Elke pulled him quickly by the arm into the corridor.
Held noted the empty place where the book had sat unopened for many years. He took a deep breath and closed the drawer. He was about to return to his grading when he noticed something on his desk. Gingerly, he picked up the flyer Michael had dropped.
The classroom door opened, and Held called out, “Mr. Blum, you forgot…”
But instead of Michael, he was surprised by Hannah Pender. The new university secretary, a striking woman with fine cheekbones and thoughtful blue eyes, was rarely seen away from the front desk. Her clothes today, he noticed, were a dark blue A-line skirt, that hugged her hips and emphasized her shapely legs, and an ivory-coloured blouse with a lacy neckline. As she walked in, she spoke in perfect German to a serious-looking Nazi officer who followed.
A small group of soldiers accompanied him and stood to attention outside the door, their severe gray uniforms sharp-edged and out of place against the elegant high-banked windows and pleasant wood-paneled hallway.
“This is Professor Held,” Hannah said. “He tutors advanced mathematics.” She approached his desk. “Hello, Professor. We are just checking on your students.”
Held responded, bewildered, “My students? My room is empty.” Under his desk, he clutched the census notice in his hand. He didn’t need any questions about why he had it or why it had been torn down.
Hannah smiled nervously and nodded.
The Major walked purposefully around the classroom, taking in every detail. Stopping at the large arched windows, he looked up, seemingly mesmerized by a spider building a web in a high corner outside. As the spider bobbed and wove its gossamer threads, a gentle breeze captured its work and rocked it like a hammock at sea. In the classroom, the only sound, the ticking clock, built its own tension with each stroke marking time. A bead of sweat formed across the bridge of Held’s nose under the rim of his glasses, and he quickly swiped it away with his free hand. The Major turned slowly to face Held.
“Professor Held? Interesting name.”
The professor nodded slightly.
The soldier approached the desk, speaking in German. “I believe that word is the same in Dutch as it is in German, meaning ‘hero.’ I hope you are not planning on being one.”
Held methodically pushed his spectacles farther up his nose and looked up at the officer, answering him in Dutch. “I’m afraid I am.”
A curious expression crossed the soldier’s face, accompanied by a forced smile; he knotted his eyebrows as if he were weighing up the professor.
Held continued with his well-versed return. “I teach literature students who would rather be learning the classics how to understand algebra.”
The soldier realized the professor was joking and laughed. A forced, overblown laugh meant for show, controlling and demanding attention. He recovered quickly and took a long, hard moment to scan Held’s desk as he nodded slowly.
Professor Held shifted in his seat and glanced at the wall clock. “Is there anything else? If you don’t mind, Mrs. Pender, I do have to prepare. I have another class arriving soon.”
Ignoring him, the Major walked back toward the window and looked out at the icy view once more. Through the feeble shafts of sunlight, columns of sleeted snow started to fall again. Mrs. Pender smiled awkwardly at Professor Held. As they waited, the air between them felt like it tightened. Eventually, the captain turned. “I think teaching is a fine profession and, as long as you keep your heroics to algebra, things will go well for you.”
With that, the Major nodded before striding out of the room. Mrs. Pender followed. Held waited until the footsteps faded before letting out a ragged breath. He screwed up the census notice and dropped it into his wastepaper basket.
He stood and stretched before walking to a cupboard at the back of his classroom, where he took out a small key from his waistcoat breast-pocket to unlock the door. The cupboard was completely empty except for a pristine wireless with a rich, mahogany veneer. Held reached in and turned the large dial. The display glowed, and the wireless crackled into life. Lilting classical music filled the dry space and cut through the suffocating air. Sitting back down at his desk, he removed his glasses, closed his eyes, and took a deep, slow breath.
At the end of the day, Held added a new equation to the blackboard to be solved by his first class, wrapped a wool scarf tightly around his neck, and put on his coat. With his hat and satchel in hand, he exited the classroom. Moving wordlessly through the corridors, his eyes cast down, he gave an air of deliberate aloofness. As a result, no one talked to him or even acknowledged him. It was as if he were invisible. Making his way to the university’s main desk, he noted Hannah Pender instructing a young woman about her duties.
Mrs. Pender turned and spoke. “Oh, and here is Professor Held,” she said to the young girl. “Good evening, Professor. You will want your mail.”
Held nodded.
Hannah turned to instruct her protégée about which pigeonhole to fetch it from. As she moved around behind her desk Held pretended to be focused on the mathematics book he was holding, but couldn’t resist giving her a sideways glance. She was very attractive, he mused, more attractive than the woman who had just retired from the same job. She had been square-built, with wiry hair, a constant look of disappointment, and the beginnings of a mustache. This new secretary, this Hannah Pender, was very different.
“So sorry about the intrusion today, Professor,” she continued, turning to him as he looked down quickly toward his hands. “We have so much to do, and we have the German Army to answer to as well. As if I weren’t busy enough. And now I have this young girl, Isabelle, all they could spare me, who I have to train, and as you know I have only been here a few weeks myself…”
As she chattered on, Held waited, watching her, trying not to draw attention to the fact he was studying the shape of her face and her soft brown curls.
Isabelle, a mousy girl with wispy, brown hair tamed into a hairclip, appeared at Hannah’s side and handed her a bundle of mail, which Hannah then presented to Held. Hannah continued to chat about the weather, her workload, and the drop in enrollment as he quietly shuffled through his letters. As she leaned forward to await his instructions he caught a wisp of her perfume, violets or maybe it was lilac. Not wanting her to see how much of a distraction it was to him he hastily replaced a couple of pieces of mail on the desk and put the rest in
his bag, turning quickly and saying, “Good evening, Mrs. Pender.”
Hannah took his discarded mail and smiled. “Good evening, Professor.”
Held nodded, put on his hat, and walked quickly toward the main door.
Out on the street, the morning chill had returned to herald the evening. Pulling his hat down farther on his head, he moved mutely through the streets on a well-worn route toward home. After picking up his evening groceries, he turned into Staalstraat, where a commotion of angry, volatile voices confronted him. A young couple were having an altercation with a German officer. People everywhere stopped, watching from a safe distance. Helpless despair hung in the air as thick as the blanket of cold around them. Held noted people’s faces—the shock and the horror, but also the fear, as if any of them could be next.
The soldier was yelling something about identiteitsdocumenten and the young woman started to cry, pleading she was on the way to the doctor and just forgot to pick them up. Held turned and kept moving, keeping his head down, deliberately looking in the opposite direction as the woman started to scream. He assured himself this would all be over soon. It had to be. He picked up his pace as he turned into his street. Still able to hear the echoes of the Jewish woman screaming, he tightened his scarf around his ears to block it out.
He pulled out a key as he reached the stone steps that led to the simple brown door of his three-story house. Behind him, the sound of two soldiers marching encouraged him to unbolt the lock and step inside without hesitation.
Putting down his satchel and small cloth shopping bag, he turned on the light. It illuminated a life that was neat and functional but devoid of warmth. A young gray cat raced up the hall to meet him, meowing incessantly. Held came to life. “Hello, Kat, I brought you a little something from the market. How was your day? Mine was interesting.”
Following Held up the hallway and into the kitchen, Kat watched intently as he put out scraps of fish in a bowl and then made himself a cup of tea.
He looked at the clock on his kitchen wall. “It is almost time,” he informed Kat. “I wonder what it is going to be tonight.”
Above the sink in his kitchen, he unlatched the heavy shutters and opened the windows wide. Methodically, he began his nightly ritual. First, he carefully arranged a chair to face toward the window, then he sat, added a plain woolen blanket to his knee and, with tea in hand, waited expectantly.
The cat jumped up into his lap. The last weak rays of evening light illuminated the darkness and streamed across his face. All at once, the awaited event began. Delightful piano music from next door danced through the window.
He educated Kat as he stroked his lean body. “Ah, Chopin, one of the nocturnes.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Chapter 2
Michael gazed down at Elke; her eyes were closed and her soft brown lashes still. Her long, chestnut hair, ends damp with perspiration, lay heavy upon her chest, masking her bare breasts. He leaned down and kissed her lips. As he pulled away, dragging the sheets to just under her chin, she moaned.
“No more, Michael, I’m tired.”
Moving his hands below the sheets, he started to stroke the length of her body with just the tips of his fingers.
“Stop.” Her eyes flashed, confrontational. “Don’t you know there is a war on? We should conserve our energy.”
Michael lifted himself gently on top of her, enjoying the feel and weight of their naked bodies pressed together as he whispered into her hair, “That is exactly why we should be making love. Who knows how long we have left.”
Playfully, she pushed him off her and returned the sheet close to her chest. She sat up and ran her hand through her messy hair. “Do you want some coffee?”
Michael sighed, rolled onto his back, and nodded. “If that’s the best you can offer.”
Giggling, she jumped up, taking the sheet with her and wrapping it around herself toga-style, leaving him naked on the bed.
As she moved toward the front of her houseboat, she looked back at him stretched out the length of the bed, as he pretended not to care he was naked and sheet-less.
“I am just going to lie here until you are overcome by my incredible body and beg me to make love to you again,” he informed her.
She shook her head before moving to the kitchen to make coffee and, standing waiting for the kettle to boil, looked over at her latest painting—an unfinished vase of sunflowers she’d been working on—with a self-critical eye. Michael noticed her shiver, her body reacting to a night that had descended into bitter cold again. When he heard the kettle boiling, he stood and dressed himself in her orange robe that he had found on the back of the bedroom door. He grabbed the book of poetry, the one Professor Held had given him, from the nightstand and joined her in the small galley kitchen.
Elke smiled at his ensemble, but her look changed to concern as she noted what he was carrying. “You should be careful. You know you’re not supposed to have books.”
Michael puffed out his cheeks as he flicked through the pages. “Let them try and take it from me. They can take away my freedom, but they can’t suppress my thoughts or mind. I refuse to give them either of those.”
Worry crept into her tone. “What will you do now though? These new laws are saying you can’t go out after 9 p.m., read books, study…’
Michael shut the book thoughtfully. “I haven’t given it much consideration, but maybe I’ll stay here, write poetry, and cook food for you all day. Imagine the sheer luxury of hiding away writing poems day after day.”
“No, seriously. Have you thought of leaving? I’m not sure how difficult it would be, but maybe you need to try.”
“And go where? I am Jewish. And even though I haven’t practiced my faith since my grandmother’s death, still that’s how our new German guests see me. There is no place for me right now. Besides, I would never leave my beloved Amsterdam, nor you.”
She smiled and interlocked her fingers with his. “This is the first time I have really heard you talk about your faith. Does it worry you that I am not Jewish?”
He looked at her with surprise. “I barely feel Jewish myself. Yes, it is my race. And yes, when I was young I went to the synagogue. And I suppose I liked the way the Rabbi recited the Torah, but I stopped believing in God, when He took all of my family from me.” He found it hard to keep the pain from his voice as he continued. “As you know, my father was in the Great War, so it wasn’t exactly a shock when he died because of his injuries, but when my mother was struck down with tuberculosis a year later and I had to watch her fight for her every breath, and my grandmother died just weeks after, I knew I could never believe in a just and kind God again. Even less so as this war goes on, and my people are persecuted.”
His voice petered out, with the emotion it still aroused in him, as once again he felt the isolation and loneliness that he’d experienced when he’d lost all of his family before the start of the war.
“You will always have me,” Elke whispered. “And if our relationship progressed to something more…’—she blushed slightly—“permanent, then I would be willing to convert if you wanted me to.”
“More permanent,” he repeated with a tone of mock surprise, as he reached forward to take her in his arms. “That sounds rather lovely. Though I would be surprised if there is a Rabbi left to marry us. I think they’ve all already gone into hiding.” He leaned forward and brushed her chilled lips with a kiss. “Don’t worry so much. This thing has to end soon, and in the meantime, we will continue to fight hate with love.”
He attempted to cup her breast again, but she took hold of his wandering hand and placed a mug of coffee in it. “You are incorrigible.”
Chapter 3
That same evening Hannah Pender made her way home from her job at the university, clothed in her navy-blue felt hat and coat, leather gloves, her tiny waist emphasized with a wide, black, patent-leather belt. She moved at a fast clip through clouds of her own icy breath that numbed th
e side of her face as she walked. On the corner of her street, she stopped. Even in the cold weather, she took a moment to look up. Though chilly, it was a beautiful twilight evening. She admired a chevron of birds returning for the spring, forming long dark streaks across the red-marbled sky that stretched above her.
“Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” she said out loud to herself and smiled. Her great-grandmother had been British, and she’d heard her say that many times. As she continued to stare up, a young boy came running toward her.
“Hannah, Hannah, it fell out!” he yelled with gusto as he beamed at her. He pointed to a gaping hole in the front of his mouth, where a tooth had been the day before.
She smiled and crouched down to meet him on his level. “Let me see,” she said, a glint in her eye.
Even with his mouth wide open he continued to talk. “I found a five cent coin; it was under my pillow this morning.”
Hannah stood to her feet. “Well done, Albert. Did you have to force it?”
Albert shook his head a little too vigorously. Then, sensing her lack of belief, added reluctantly, “Well, maybe just a little.”
Hannah ruffled his hair, and then he ran off to announce his achievement to someone else. She was charmed, reminded that not everything was swept away by such desperate times; innocence still prevailed. Teeth fell out of children’s mouths, and swallows still built spring nests.
She turned the corner and noticed a woman standing in a doorway, waving vigorously to her. It was her mother’s old friend, Mrs. Oberon, whom all the neighborhood children called “Oma”, meaning “Grandmother”. She was a tiny older woman bundled into a fringed shawl and a dark, heavy skirt. Upon her feet, thick black stockings and traditional wooden clogs. As Hannah made her way up the path, the woman tucked a few strands of gray, greasy hair back under her threadbare headscarf and fingered a brown paper package clasped in her dark, wrinkled hands. At five foot six, and in her high-heeled shoes, Hannah towered over her.
A View Across the Rooftops: An epic, heart-wrenching and gripping World War Two historical novel Page 2