Held nodded again. “Of course. Inside. Doors locked.”
As he escorted them to the door, he began to feel quite ill. After they had left, he closed it behind them and locked it, barely making it to the bathroom in time to vomit. Weary and shivering, he changed into dry clothes then lit a fire in the sitting room. While it was crackling in the grate, he went into the kitchen and automatically opened the large shutters, needing his usual evening’s peace. Horrified awareness washed over him as he remembered there would be no more music.
He shut and bolted the window. With new determination, he picked up the leftover food and climbed the attic stairs. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see the attic was empty. As he turned to leave, he heard a rustling behind him. Michael had burrowed himself behind some boxes.
Held sighed with relief. “Mr. Blum?”
“I heard voices.”
Michael extricated himself and sat on a large chest, watching him lay out the abundance of food on an upturned box before sitting down on the trunk opposite Michael. There was a long silence as Held struggled to speak, and then finally said, “I think it would be best if you didn’t leave right now.”
Michael was shocked. “But…”
Held was adamant. “No. You will stay.”
Michael responded defiantly, “I can’t! You don’t understand. I have to be somewhere.”
“It isn’t safe out there.”
“You can’t force me to stay.”
Held, with his mind made up, walked to the door. “It’s for your own good.”
Michael got up, obviously exasperated. “You don’t even like me!”
Held nodded before continuing. “That’s immaterial.” Michael moved toward the door. The professor put up a hand. “It is going to be very dangerous out there over the next few weeks. A Nazi just told me so. You will stay here until this horror passes.”
“A Nazi was here?” Michael appeared shocked.
“He was not looking for you. You are still safe, as long as you stay up here.”
The student shook his head. “Professor, I’m sorry. I have to go! I promised to meet someone!”
Before Michael could say any more, Held stepped through the door and locked it.
Michael reacted in utter disbelief. “I can’t believe it. You’re locking me in!?” As Held descended the stairs, he heard Michael pacing his tiny room like a caged animal. He thought again about the poem, “The Panther”, and felt conflicted. Was it fair to imprison someone for their own good, and what could that really accomplish? But a stronger sense took over him. The need to keep someone alive—at any cost.
Held placed the key in his pocket. This time he would do the right thing. This time there would be life instead of death. This time he would stand up for what was right. It was the least he could do. It was the least he could do for Mrs. Epstein and for Sarah.
Chapter 11
The morning after the raids Professor Held woke up and stared once again at his bedroom ceiling. He sighed, exhausted and glad he didn’t have to be at the university until later. His home was fairly close to the Jewish ghetto of Jodenbuurt and he had been kept awake most of the night by the sounds of sirens, gunshots and screams streaming in through his bedroom window as the Jewish roundups had continued all night. Even with thick curtains and wooden shutters firmly locked, anguished cries and high-pitched screams had still pierced the muted stagnancy of the night.
He’d repeatedly tried not to speculate about what was happening. But there were raised, angry German voices and trucks moving in the streets and occasional bursts of gunfire. He’d prayed that they were just warning shots, but every sharp crack that defiled the night’s silence took him straight back to the moment Mrs. Epstein had been murdered. Each startling shot had shaken him to his core and he’d felt so powerless.
As he’d tossed and turned, he’d thought of Sarah, his raw emotions exposed for the first time in years. A meticulously bolted door that had kept everything locked away had seemingly been wrenched opened by Mrs. Epstein’s death. But now it refused to shut and he had no control over the thoughts that assaulted him in an ever-flowing discourse. As he’d tried to distance himself from them, instead of subsiding, they’d just intensified in focus; his dreams becoming more vibrant and jarringly real as the night wore on, speeding his heart and stealing his breath in gasps as he’d found himself reliving the last moments of Sarah’s life over and over again.
At 3 a.m., unable to cope with the terrifying visions any longer, he’d got up to fetch a glass of water. A sleepy Kat had followed him downstairs, seemingly confused by the disturbance in their usual routine. As he’d hunched over the kitchen sink, drawing water, his reflection in the darkened window had showed the full weight of his foolishness crashing down upon him.
Why had he locked Michael in the attic? The boy had come for help and he was treating him like a criminal. He’d felt estranged from his actions, though he knew he had acted out of fear and instinct; there had been a compulsion, a need to have control over something uncontrollable. As emotions had weighed in again and overwhelmed him like an angry tide, he’d tried once more to put his thoughts and emotions into their place, find a tidy space in his mind to collect them and file them away. But nothing seemed to help. He was free-falling, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Slowly, he had finished his water and washed up the glass. Walking back upstairs, he had hesitated on the landing before quietly walking to the attic. Putting his ear to the door and closing his eyes, he’d listened. Soft, rhythmical sounds of breathing had come from inside, a reassuring presence that calmed him. With a grateful heart, he’d turned and walked down the stairs to bed. Later in the morning he’d unlock the attic and Michael could make up his own mind about whether he wanted to stay or go, live or die. He had to give him that.
Held had finally managed to fall asleep around four, just as the cries from outside started to subside.
Finally awake again, the sun was already streaming through cracks in his shutters though it created no heat for the icy day. He again rolled over and looked at the clock—8 a.m. The chill of the bedroom floor was striking and stung the soles of his feet. He dressed quickly, the fabric of his shirt feeling raw and cold as he shivered under it. Once dressed, he climbed the attic stairs and placed his hand upon the handle. A face flashed into his mind, one he had imagined many times. How old would his son have been had he lived? He shuddered with the thought. Where had all those years gone?
The door creaked open. A shaft of early-morning blue light streamed through the cracked window pane. It cast a long dust-filled shadow across the wooden floor and one perfect rectangle of light across Michael’s bed.
Michael lay with his back to him and was naked from the waist up, which seemed ludicrous in the frosty chill of the morning. His broad shoulders rose and dropped as he breathed. His black, curly hair splayed across the pillow. A gray woolen blanket was in disarray and a white sheet was knotted in a bunch at Michael’s feet. Evidently, Held wasn’t the only one who had had a restless night.
“Mr. Blum,” he whispered. Michael was still. Held coughed and cleared his throat and repeated it a little louder. “Mr. Blum, are you awake?”
Michael started to stir. Taking in a full breath, he rubbed his face and turned over to acknowledge the professor. Held didn’t know what to say. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and slid his spectacles farther up his nose.
“Did you hear? Did you hear the…?” Held didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Yes,” Michael responded abruptly, sitting up and gathering the gray blanket around his shoulders.
Held walked to the corner of the attic, pulled out a dusty tea chest, and sat down awkwardly on it. As he sat, Michael spoke, unable to keep the ice from his tone. “I can’t believe you locked the door. My friends were out there. They might have needed my help.”
Held wanted to respond to Michael’s frustrations but he couldn’t remember how to have t
his kind of conversation. It had been so long since there had been anyone in his life with whom he’d had a chance to have a real and honest conversation. There had only been Ingrid and she just talked at him. He wanted to explain everything. He wanted to explain that there was very little help for Jewish people these days, but those words sounded coarse and heartless. He wanted to clarify why he had locked him in the attic, but then he would’ve had to talk about his son and Sarah, and the thought of exposing his own losses made him feel much too vulnerable to even contemplate sharing them. Now, in the light of the day, it really did seem absurd that he had locked the door.
So, he retreated behind safe words. “I have a little food if you’re hungry.” He got up and started to make his way to the door. Then stopped, forcing himself to say more. “You are free to leave if you want, it would be safer after dusk. I’m going to the university in a little while. Is there anything else you need?”
“Need?” said Michael, rolling back on his bed and putting his hands behind his head. “Yes. There are many things that I need. I need to be free. I need this war to be over. I need to be able to walk on the street and be treated like a human being instead of the animal they call Jew.”
Held blinked behind his glasses, rendered speechless.
Michael must have sensed his discomfort as he met the professor’s eyes, because he added, “But I’d be happy to start with some water if you’ve got some.” A faint smile crossed his face.
Held nodded. By the time he made his way downstairs, put together a small tray of food, and brought it back to the attic, Michael had dressed. He stood at the window looking across the red rooftops that stretched as far as the eye could see and flicked through his book of poetry.
Held placed the tray on the tea chest. “There is a desk in the corner,” he stated. “It’s old, but you can sit and write or read at it. I have a little scrap paper that I haven’t had taken off me that I keep for students,” he offered, pulling a few sheets from a box in the attic.
Michael nodded. “Thank you.”
Held stood awkwardly for a second, then moved toward the door.
“There’s actually something that you can do for me, Professor.” Michael turned to face Held. “Remember the girl with me the other day? The girl who met me after the class? She only took the class so we could be together. She is the girl I will marry one day.”
Held thought for a moment and then remembered the girl with the concerned eyes. “Miss Dirksen? But she is not Jewish––”
Michael became defensive. “Her name is Elke. And why does that matter?”
Held was shocked—knowing it was very unconventional for Michael to date a Gentile, especially in these times—but just nodded his head.
“Well, I wonder if you could get a message to her. Will you tell her that I’ll try and meet her in a few days’ time when these raids are over?” Michael went to the bed and scribbled on one of the pieces of paper that the professor had just given him and held it out.
Held stiffened. “It’s very dangerous,” he said, stepping back, his hand moving nervously to his spectacles. “You know, now that you’re on the run, it is dangerous for her, too. I don’t think it would be wise.”
Michael threw the note down on the bed and slammed the poetry book shut. “I have to see her. She is waiting. She is already worried. I can’t imagine not seeing her. Please, you have to at least try. She means so much to me.” Michael’s voice cracked.
Held took a couple of steps forward to reassure him, but he didn’t know what to do. It struck him that he didn’t really remember how to be physical with someone. Did he put an arm around him? Should he put a hand on his shoulder? It had been so long since Held had touched anyone with intention. He ended up just nodding his head and doing the only thing he was capable of. He picked up the note from the bed. “I will see what I can do.”
For a second Held saw the weight of the world lift from the young man’s shoulders.
Leaving the attic, the professor’s heart was troubled with something new. The realization of what he’d become. Who had he last touched apart from Kat? Even Ingrid just forced her affection on him and he could not reciprocate it. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d reached out for someone’s hand, let alone held it. After Sarah’s death eighteen years before, there had been many arms of comfort—sisters, parents, well-meaning friends. But none of them were Sarah’s, so the comfort had felt hollow, unfamiliar, painful even. Intentionally, one person at a time, one pair of arms at a time, he had pushed them all away. Now he had become this. Before he could close the attic door, Kat arrived and forced his way in. He leaped onto Michael’s bed and rolled himself into a ball.
Michael’s eyes lit up. “At least I have one friend to keep me company,” he acknowledged, a little more cheerfully.
Held nodded. “I have a class. I’ll be back later.” He stopped. It needed to be said. “Michael.” Michael looked up. “I’m sorry I locked you in.”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “You probably saved my life,” he said, sitting down on the bed and starting to stroke Kat. As Held shut the door, he heard Michael say quietly to Kat, “Whether it is worth saving remains to be seen.”
With a heavy heart, Held walked downstairs, put on his coat, and went to the university.
Once in the safety of his classroom, Held looked down at the class register, looking for Elke Dirksen’s name. She would be with him late this afternoon. As the day went on, he waited for the fourth lesson. But Elke didn’t show up. Maybe she was ill or maybe she, too, had been caught like Michael. He debated whether to tell Michael and thought it was best he confirm his suspicions first.
At the end of his day, he put on his heavy overcoat, hat, and scarf, paused to add his last math problem to the blackboard, and moved out of the classroom.
He made his usual stop in the hallway, and Hannah Pender nodded to him cheerfully. “I have your mail, Professor,” she sang out.
He nodded, then paused, wondering for a second if he would be causing more problems if he asked about Miss Dirksen. Bringing attention to any person in these times was dangerous. But he needed to know, for Michael’s sake. He owed him this.
“Mrs. Pender, I wonder if I can ask you something?”
Her eyes lit up, expectantly.
“It’s about a student.”
She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Oh, of course, Professor Held.”
He was surprised by her reaction, but nevertheless continued. “She is a student and didn’t attend today. I wondered if she is unwell.” He tried to sound nonchalant.
Hannah studied his face before nodding. “Let me get the main register.” She disappeared beneath her desk. She pulled up a heavy, leather-bound book and turned to Professor Held’s classes. “What is her name?”
“Elke Dirksen,” he responded, swallowing down the tremble in his voice. His hand went to his pocket and he fingered the note he had placed there that morning.
He watched her forefinger move swiftly down the page until she was under the letter D. “Elke Dirksen… Oh.”
Held’s breath caught in his throat. “Is there a problem?”
Her eyes looked up to meet his, filled with concern.
“Yes, I’m afraid there is, Professor. There is a note in here, to say that she will no longer be enrolled in the university. She’s had to move on. I remember her now. She seemed very nervous and looked exhausted. I wondered if she had—” Hannah paused, trying to find the right words. “Personal problems.”
A gaze lingered between them as they both contemplated her words. “Personal problems” was the phrase often used to describe the peril all around them now. It could mean her family had been moved or taken, or their business had been destroyed. Personal problems never meant anything good.
Held nodded and pulled his scarf tightly around his neck. Slowly, he took his letters from the counter and slipped them into his bag without even looking through them. Once again he felt Hannah watching him
as he made his way out into the night.
He thought about her again as he followed his usual route home, he knew so little about her and her husband. Held stiffened at the thought of her with him, the two of them eating dinner, talking, laughing, making love. He was shocked that this last thought didn’t sit comfortably with him. He must be confusing his resurfacing thoughts of Sarah with the woman with the beautiful eyes that watched him leave the building every evening. He shook the thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the things around him on his journey home; noticing the first hints of spring. Winter had felt endless, but now the beginning of buds appeared on the trees. Anything positive was worth noting in these dark times, he reassured himself. Surely things would feel better with brighter days and warmer weather.
Held sighed as he crossed the street. How much longer would they have to endure the Germans? How much longer would they have to put up with a life of holding their breath? And then a new thought. How much longer might Michael need to stay in his attic? Surely not too long. Even if the war continued, he would presumably need to leave the attic to find somewhere safer.
He stopped at the store and picked up what little food was available with his ration coupons for the day and then made his way home. He dreaded telling Michael that Elke was gone. Hopefully this war would be over in a couple of months and they could all get back to living their former lives.
Chapter 12
Ingrid opened her eyes, and for a second she couldn’t remember where she was. As she took in the immense opulence around her, she knew she wasn’t in her own bed. Not in her dark, dank flat on Bloedstraat. Her eyes focused on her red dress and white fur stole laid across a gold brocade chair, her high, strappy red shoes slung haphazardly across the Persian carpet. Then she remembered she was with Heinrich.
With the sheer thrill of that wonderful thought, she stretched out in the vast, comfortable bed then rolled onto her side and curled her legs up, catlike, under her, reveling in the luxuriousness as she skimmed the soft, silk sheets. Ingrid stretched her arm across the expanse of the bed to find Heinrich. But though the sheets were still warm, she was disappointed to find he wasn’t there. She was alone. Ingrid felt a sudden sadness in that loss. A moment of connection missed. This had been their first time making love and her first time ever. Selfishly, she had hoped to lie leisurely in his strong arms before they started their day.
A View Across the Rooftops: An epic, heart-wrenching and gripping World War Two historical novel Page 8