House on Endless Waters

by Emuna Elon

  FOURTH NOTEBOOK

  52

  Hi, Nettie.

  Yoel! How are you? Are you back from Amsterdam?

  No, Nettie, I am still here. I want to ask you something.

  One moment, I’ll just turn off the radio. What do you want to ask me?

  If you remember how I was on the train, on our first trip together.

  How you were on the way? In the train itself?

  Yes.

  You… you cried, Yoel.

  How long did I cry?

  The trip took more than two days, and you… you cried for more than two days. You cried the entire trip.

  And did Mother try to calm me?

  You didn’t let her get near you. They took us in a cattle car. All those people were on the floor of the car, and you moved away from Mother, and also from me, as far as you possibly could.… You were so small, and so miserable, and you simply crumpled yourself into a corner, pressed against the car’s side panel, and cried and cried nonstop.…

  Did I say anything?

  You called: Mama! Mama!

  I called Mama.…

  Yes, and Yoel, you were just so hungry and thirsty, and… well… you had made in your pants, and you smelled dreadful… but you wouldn’t let yourself be touched, you wouldn’t even let anyone get close to you. And if Mother or I tried to stretch out our hand to you or even to just move a bit in your direction, you started to shriek so terribly that everyone looked at us as if we were murdering you or something.…

  So Mother… Mother didn’t touch me? What did she do?

  Nu… what could she do? She just sat as close as she could to you. And most of the time you weren’t the only one crying. Mother cried too.

  * * *

  This part of the story he decides he will begin with the dramatic scene on the train platform at the Westerbork transit camp. Not from Sonia’s first days in the camp, and also not from the shocking moment when she meets Martin and Anouk. It will be the scene that takes place on the train platform, not on a Tuesday, the day of the human transports destined for Poland, but on a different day, when the train heads for Germany, to Bergen-Belsen, as a result of a rare deal in which dozens of Jews are to be sent from Bergen-Belsen to Palestine in exchange for German citizens who live in Palestine under British rule.

  This is the moment. Now it is happening.

  Sonia is standing on the platform. Next to her stands Nettie, and at their feet their few belongings are bundled into a ragged blanket whose four corners have been sewn together. Sonia’s eyes are torn open after she hasn’t slept or eaten a thing for a number of days. She has been waiting and is still waiting for her son, Leo, whom the messenger from the underground is supposed to bring from the village where he was hidden. She is waiting for Leo so she can take him, with Nettie, up into the train, its engine already belching smoke, its passengers anxious to leave for Bergen-Belsen and from there to freedom, to Palestine, to life. Martin had promised her that Leo would be delivered to her the day before yesterday, but Leo was not brought then, nor was he brought to her yesterday, nor was he brought to her at any time during the long night that was between yesterday and today.

  And he wasn’t brought today.

  Come on, people shout to her from the train. Come up. Don’t miss your chance to live.

  Sonia doesn’t answer. Sonia pays them no attention.

  Suddenly two Jews jump out of the car behind her. One lifts up Nettie in his hands and the other picks up the bundle and pulls at Sonia’s arm.

  Come. Come quickly. The train is pulling out!

  No, she cries. I won’t go without my son.

  At least save the girl, shout out countless voices.

  The train seems to be starting. Black smoke billows from the locomotive’s smokestack, there is a sharp whistle, and the German soldiers are rushing back and forth to make sure that all the doors of all the cars are fastened.

  The two Jews let go of Sonia and Nettie and rush back into the car.

  But here comes somebody else. Someone is dashing up to the platform at a crazy sprint.

  It is Martin.

  Who does he carry in his arms.

  It is his son. It is Sebastian.

  * * *

  In the morning, that same hunchbacked, Jewish-looking, elegantly dressed old lady, her lips painted bright red, enters the café on Beethovenstraat. This morning too, she is pushing in front of her a baby carriage holding a tiny gray dog, its long hair gathered above its button eyes and fastened with a ribbon. And today, too, she parks her carriage alongside the inner tables, gathers up her furry baby, and goes to the coffee counter.

  She must have known Sonia, Yoel thinks as he watches how, toward eight o’clock, the avenue is filling up with vehicles and people. The trams stop one after the other and high school students, their faces a testament to freedom, health, and youth, descend from the cars and cross the street to the school. Countless bicycles stream in front of the café, a river of bicycles, including tandem bikes on which parent and child ride together and bicycles with accessories attached to carry all kinds of loads, and of course countless bicycles with all sorts of varied contraptions for carrying children. With what confidence the cyclists move, how much trust they must have in man and the world and how relaxed their bodies are on their wheels, their backs always upright, their clear gaze straight ahead, the long hair of young female drivers streaming charmingly. Here they are, zooming across the intersection; here they are, easily cutting across the transportation lanes and the tram tracks in endless nonchalance, turning in a wide arc toward the intersection and cycling on.

  * * *

  Hello, Bat-Ami.

  How are you, my darling? Where are you?

  I’m on the balcony.

  Ah, really? And how is your neighbor the dancer?

  The dancer has not yet returned from his dancing job. Just his cat is at home, evidently immersed in the writing of a novel.

  And what about the psychoanalyst? Is she still engaged in her psychoanalytic labor?

  A psychoanalyst’s life is indeed a hard one.

  And the life of a stuffed animal?

  That too. But, my wife, I just called to say I love you.

  What—

  I love you, Bat-Ami.

  Are you… I don’t… Sorry for my bewilderment, Ee sheli, my island, but I don’t recall you ever saying this.

  I love you. I am sorry that I’ve never said this.

  * * *

  Martin hands her his son. Take him, he says breathlessly.

  Sonia looks at the boy. Her ears are ringing from the roar of the train, from the voices of the people shouting at her, from the rocks exploding inside her. Her eyes mist over.

  Take him, Martin chokes. Take him and we will bring you your son.… We’ll bring him to Bergen-Belsen next week.… A girl and a boy are registered in your papers, and a boy is written in ours—

  And as he utters these impossible words, he thrusts forward his free hand and raises Nettie onto the car whose door is still slightly ajar. In the blink of an eye he shoves in the cloth bundle and Nettie is screaming, Mama, Mama, get on. And Sonia is nothing but a lump of ash that people are pulling and lifting into the train, and in her arms is the boy, in her arms is little Sebastian Rosso, who gives her one look and immediately bursts into tears.

  * * *

  Night. Dam Square. On the way here, he went into a women’s clothing store on Kalverstraat, because for the first time in his life he was overcome by a sudden urge to buy Bat-Ami some clothes. He stood in the store, facing the loaded hangers, but he realized he had no idea of her size and had no idea which items on display were to her taste. He almost chose a sort of zebra-striped jacket for her, but then changed his mind and gave up, continuing on his way. From his post at the top of the Royal Palace, the statue of Atlas is collapsing under his sphere and it seems that he can no longer bear his burden. The stone lions flanking the monument are watching with worried, stony eyes as hordes of young people, man
y of them Israeli, walk around the square with meaningless gaiety. And Yoel turns into his alley, goes into his Irish pub, and sits down next to his table adjacent to the upper-level railing.

  Does Anouk agree, he asks himself while sipping from his first green bottle, does Anouk agree to this crazy exchange that Martin has conceived. Does she even know about this spontaneous transaction, he asks with his second green bottle. Does she even know what he is going to do. And how does she react when he comes back from the platform without Sebastian. What does she do when she realizes that her baby has been taken from her, that her baby is now with Sonia on his way to the unknown.

  * * *

  And all in all, what did Zohar want? Zohar, his youngest daughter, whose life, so she said, had flopped somehow but still, she went on to say, she thought she deserved a chance to be a mother. And how Bat-Ami had sent him to buy those bromeliads; Zohar was then working in the Botanical Gardens nursery, and only now—idiot that he is—does he realize that Bat-Ami sent him not to buy that silly plant but to speak to his daughter, who was then at the beginning of this single-parent pregnancy of hers and needed her father’s support. And he just stood there as Zohar was preparing the flower pot, and instead of asking how she’s doing and if she has morning sickness and if she is scared to death of becoming a single mother at a not-very-young age, instead of all these appropriate questions, he asked her—idiot that he was, idiot, idiot, idiot—if she was in touch with Gidi, who had left her ages ago after years of a bad relationship. And this poor woman, who had started working in the nursery because she couldn’t make a proper living as a hydrotherapist, or perhaps because, at that time in her life, she needed to work with earth more than with water, said to him, With Gidi? Why would I be in touch with Gidi? Her voice choked, and she turned away from him, probably so that he wouldn’t see the tears as she dug little holes with her trowel to sink the little plantlets into. And instead of letting the topic go, he continued: Do you have any idea where Gidi is? Because he had no idea what he was supposed to talk to her about, and with the same choked voice, she replied that Gidi was living in Italy and working there as sort of a ship’s captain, that is to say, he sails rich people’s yachts, and anyway, he has already found something (he remembers that she said “something” and not “someone”).

  When she finished planting the flowers, she added some more handfuls of crumbled soil and some fertilizer, and smoothed the earth around the reddish plants as if she were preparing a soft bed for a baby.

  * * *

  The later it gets, the fuller the pub gets. When Yoel is on his third bottle, all the levels are already packed full of human bodies, music, smells, and conversations. And then the third bottle empties and there are two boys at his side who are asking him, in broken English, if he is Israeli. When he answers in the affirmative, they change to Hebrew and introduce themselves as Ido and Tomer, who have recently finished their matriculation exams and are now spending a bit of time in Amsterdam before their enlistment into the Israel Defense Forces.

  We wanted to ask you something, says Ido or Tomer. And Tomer or Ido explains, We’re here with another friend, and this friend of ours claims that you are Yoel Blum the writer. The truth is that we’re pretty sure he’s wrong, because you really don’t look anything like Yoel Blum the writer.…

  We even searched the internet. Ido or Tomer laughs and points to his smartphone. We found pictures of Yoel Blum the writer and we could see that you are definitely not him.

  And why is this friend of yours so certain that I am Yoel Blum the writer?

  Because our friend is the author’s grandson. In his opinion, you are his grandfather.

  * * *

  It was only on her third or fourth day in Westerbork that Sonia discovered, to her shock, that Martin, Anouk, and Sebastian were in the camp. She had heard the name de Lange mentioned as one of the Jews appointed to decide the fate of all the other Jews, but it didn’t occur to her that it was Jozef de Lange, the banker from Amsterdam. The banker, she believed, had surely long since fled and settled far, far away from Holland with his wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, and his grandson. But now it turns out that all the family members are in the camp, that is to say all of them except for Mrs. de Lange, who had fallen ill and died a short time after she had been expelled from her house. Sonia and Nettie were housed with the rest of the women and children in barbed-wire-surrounded barracks, in a building in which three stories of sleeping pallets lined the lengths of the walls. Yoel feels nauseous when he writes about the moldy wooden pallets, known to every Hebrew reader from stories of other writers. But what can he do if Sonia and Nettie are there now? And what can be done if the words “Soon we will be in America,” that Anouk says to Sonia when they meet in Westerbork, cannot conceal the harsh reality? My poor mother will not merit to see America. Anouk continues talking as her finger vainly searches for a strand of honey hair to move from cheek to behind ear. But Martin and I and Sebastian will get to the shores of New York very soon.

  Sonia had been horrified earlier when she was summoned to report with her daughter to the Jewish living quarters of those who had positions in the camp. And how surprised she had been when she arrived there to find her former neighbors.

  Anouk had lost her freshness, her body had wasted away, and her hair had become ragged and faded, but she and Martin and the boy were protected. They were protected.

  * * *

  It’s all thanks to my father, crowed Anouk. My father saw your name on the list of new prisoners and told us that you and Nettie had arrived at the camp. When we asked to see you, he arranged it so they would summon you here to visit us! And Sonia cringed inwardly, because she knew that Anouk’s indulgent father was collaborating with the Germans, helping to organize those efficient worklists that they of the Dutch transit camp were so proud off, and in the framework of his job, he had a decisive influence also on preparing the weekly lists of Jews to be sent on the trains to Poland. The camp’s veterans had already explained to her that the train to Poland left the camp every Tuesday at ten in the morning, meaning that the list of deportees was compiled the night between Monday and Tuesday. De Lange, they told her, is one of those who must verify that the number of people on the train exactly match the quota. If a Jew on the list escapes the transport, de Lange has to immediately improvise and choose someone else: another man or woman who will replace the defector.

  * * *

  Yoel turns his head in the direction that the two bashful youths are pointing and within the huge multitude crowding the pub he sees Tal, a handsome boy with brown hair shorn almost to the roots. Tal waves his hand at him and Yoel rises slightly from his chair, waves back, and wonders what is expected from a grandfather meeting his grandson under such circumstances.

  We’ll leave you two alone, says Ido or Tomer as Tal approaches, but Yoel hears himself protesting loudly, almost shouting, No! Why should you go? Sit. I’m asking you to stay and sit with us. Here, I am already ordering a round of this excellent beer for us all! And Tomer and Ido, startled at his vociferous insistence, quickly sit down. In the meantime, Tal has come over and they both sort of extend their arms to greet each other, but they don’t hug, not really. That is to say, the boy places a tentative hand on his grandfather’s shoulder, and the grandfather slaps the boy’s shoulder a few times, and they both say to each other:

  What’s happening? What are you doing here?

  No, I don’t think your mother told me that you were going to Amsterdam before your enlistment.

  No, Grandma didn’t tell me that you were working in Amsterdam on a new book. Or maybe she actually did say something, but I didn’t pay attention.

  And that’s it. That, more or less, covered the topics of conversation at their disposal. The three young boys sit at his regular table, sip the beers he ordered for them with tiny sips, and glance at him with awe. Yes, they find the city beautiful. No, they haven’t really visited any museums, in fact they’re not really touring a lot. They mainly ca
me to have a good time between matriculation and the army. Yup, that means mainly spending time in the coffee shops. No, not, God forbid, hard drugs, but you probably know that most young people come to Amsterdam for the coffee shops. In another day and a bit we will be heading back home, so…

  * * *

  It’s all thanks to my father, Anouk said, and it’s true that thanks to Jozef de Lange’s status, Martin managed to slightly ease the tribulations of Sonia’s and Nettie’s lives in Westerbork. Sonia capitulated despite herself: she couldn’t forgive de Lange for his part in Eddy’s tragedy, in her own tragedy, in the tragedy of the Jews of Amsterdam, and Martin, too, was to her nothing but another miserable collaborator. But it seemed that the more she made her hard feelings known to him, the more he went out of his way to do things for her. The family’s status bestowed on Martin extra privileges, and due to them he was able to keep his radio and listen to Western stations. So he often came to Sonia in the evenings, the time when only those with special permits were allowed to walk around the camp despite the curfew, to check how she was and what she needed, and to pass on to her reports about the military forces’ movements throughout Europe and the prospect that the war was finally reaching its end.