I don't dare go in the daylight. I bike south along Keisersgracht to Vondelpark, where I sit near a group of grackles, which is what we call groups of mothers in their burkas who meet in the park with their children. No one will notice me.
It is still March, and darkness falls early. When the mothers head home, I bike to the Boerenwetering Canal. I see the Fredrika Maria, parked between two barges. After locking my bike on the iron railing, I hop down into the boat.
Most of our group is there. Everyone is anxious and confused, passing bottles of strong home-brewed beer. I've been in a stir every since my botched pickup. With Rosalie's capture, my level of agitation rattles my bones. I drink long and hard, and pass the bottle on.
The raid was worse than Nasira reported.
Fourteen Resistants were arrested in the sweep. Leaders and liaison officers. Eight of them women. Many had large sums of money on them and multiple sets of false IDs. Berger was arrested outside his house. He yelled a warning to his wife. When the Landweer broke in, they found her tossing documents into the stove. She managed to swallow a small thumb drive, but they retrieved a few documents. They got reports on resistance activities all over the country. At every house they discovered secret hideaways—behind water cisterns, in attics and cellars, under bins of food—and came away with tracts, caches of money, detailed lists and addresses of members of the Resistance, and guns.
Gerda shambles in from the wheelhouse. She looks like she hasn't slept in days and smells of cigarettes. She stands at the end of the long communal table, leaning on her hands.
“Please sit down, everyone,” she says, her voice gravely, looking around at each of our faces. “You have all heard about the sweeps yesterday. Several groups have been hit hard. This is a critical time, and we all have too much to do for a single one of us to get caught. Your identities are probably safe. The Landweer picked up Karel, which could've been a disaster, but he made an escape and was shot before he could reveal anything.”
Two of us lost—Berger captured, Karel killed.
Several of the women gasp, and Edda, who is also a courier, stifles a sob. There is no mistaking that look—when the one you love is taken. We all guess, after the fact, that they were a couple.
Gerda glares at her, a silent reprimand for dating within the group, then continues. “There is no reason to take chances. Be on the lookout for anyone following you. Use evasive routes. When possible, couple up with strangers in the streets. A single woman in a burka could be a Landweer spy. Or a schoolboy hanging out by himself. No paper printouts of anything in your houses. Keep everything on thumb drives, and hide them well. Wipe your computers clean after every use, and use an overwrite program, which will lay random numbers over your deleted data files. If you don't have a copy of the overwrite program, see Hansen. Destroy all private photos of yourself and your family. If someone misses a rendezvous, do not go home. And never ever be late. Any questions?”
We all know the procedures, but we get sloppy. That's how these things happen.
“Do we know where the fourteen have been taken?” Lars asks.
“To a police station in the Western Islands. Another group is working on trying to get them free. We know from intelligence that this is just the first offensive against the Resistance. If Coalition Forces invade France, they want to make sure we aren't around to help.”
“So what's our plan?” asks Femke.
“Janz will lay it out for you. We will plan three simultaneous attacks. They will be done by people outside of their communities, who will then disappear. That means for some of you, this is your last mission before going underground. Now, if you'll excuse me.”
Gerda leaves us, back to the wheelhouse, with Hansen. Janz takes over, slouching over the table.
“You will all be working outside of Amsterdam. Our first attack will be in Essen, the derailment of a train carrying material from Germany to the Turkish front. The second will be the simultaneous assault of IHR soldiers all around Holland. And the third will be an assassination of a member of the Islamic Military Command for the Islamic Republic of Holland. You will go in as teams, coordinate with local groups, then disappear. Use your new ID papers.”
I feel a fluttering in my stomach, excited. This is the work I was born to do. Truus walks out of the wheelhouse and taps me on the shoulder. “Gerda wants to see you.”
As I get up, Truus takes my seat. I open the door to the wheelhouse and walk in.
Gerda is studying a map of western Germany, the railways marked in red. Hansen stands beside her. “Ah, Lina,” she says. “Kom binnen. Please take a seat. Did you get something to eat?”
Berger isn't here to make soup. But no one feels like eating anyhow. My stomach grumbles. “I'm fine, thank you,” I say as I sit.
Gerda smiles at my lie, then frowns. “Your contact was picked up?”
“Yes.”
“We have to assume she'll talk. What did she know about you and the package?”
“Only my Resistance name . . . my first name. And where and when the package was to arrive and be delivered. But not where it would go from there.”
“The package was successfully delivered?”
“Yes. The Landweer showed up at the pickup site. I improvised.”
“Did anyone see your face?”
“No.”
Gerda nods, obviously curious, but not willing to spend the time. “Good. You should be all right. Visit Rikhart for new papers after you leave here.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She shifts a little in her seat. I know she needs a new hip, and can see the pain in her face. A hip operation is well beyond what our Resistance doctors can provide. She needs to get out to Denmark or Norway, but is unwilling to leave. So she suffers. “I hear you are to marry Kazan Basturk.”
I jump in my seat, my heart suddenly pounding loudly. I had almost forgotten. Very little happens in Amsterdam that Gerda doesn't know about, yet I wonder how she found out. A spy in the mosque? It had never occurred to me there would be spies there, but of course there must be. “Yes,” I say, terrified I'll be dismissed. “It wasn't my idea,” I blurt stupidly.
Gerda smiles wanly. “I think it's a very good idea.”
Hansen gives me a skeptical look. Apparently he has never thought of me that way—as someone who might marry. I squint back. “My mother arranged it,” I say.
Gerda tilts her head and nods. “It could play brilliantly for us. Will you be living with his family?”
I jolt at the possibility. “I don't know. I'm sure there will be some interaction.”
“Women are usually shunted away from the men in those households, but whatever information you can pick up about the Islamic Council or the Landweer will be helpful. Do you think you can place some bugs in their house?”
“Yes,” I say, without having any idea if it will be possible.
“Good. Ask Pim to make you a few. We may ask you to do some other things. More dangerous than merely spying. This is important for us, but you can say no.”
“I'll do whatever I can to help the Resistance.”
“Good. What do you know about Kazan Basturk?”
“Nothing. Only that he is the son of Ahmed Basturk, an Islamist who sits on the Islamic Council. His family is in the import-export business.”
Gerda laughs. “Everyone in Holland is in the import-export business.”
“I believe they import coffee and olive oil.”
Gerda lowers her chin, lips pressed together. She knows more than she's saying. “Learn what you can. When is the wedding?”
“I don't know. I am meeting the family for the first time next week.”
“Give me a full report. I am very interested in the Basturks.” She says no more on the subject, but glances at Hansen. Something they've discussed that she needs to add. “Of course, you no longer need to complete your homework assignment. Write down the name, fold the paper, and hand it to me. I'll find someone else.”
“No. I can
do it. I've already put together my study group.”
“Absolutely not. I don't want you to compromise your position. This marriage is much too important. Usually after a homework assignment, students go on vacation for awhile. You obviously can't do that.”
“I can do both. I'll be careful. I won't need to disappear. Everyone else is headed out for a major assault. Don't make me sit this one out. Please, I'd like to be able to say I killed the most hated person in Holland.” I blush deeply—how can she trust me when I basically just told her who the target was?
Gerda blinks slowly, realizing my mistake, but lets it pass. “You can never tell anyone. You know that.”
“Of course.”
She looks at me coolly. “Are you sure about this?”
Part of me almost hopes I won't make it. At least I wouldn't have to marry. But more than that, I don't want to give up what I'm best at. “Yes. I can do it.”
“Very well, then. Get your new documents.” She looks over at Hansen, who stands and joins her again over the map. I have been dismissed.
Eight, September 2017
Sweet Sixteen
On Salima's last day of school, there is no diploma. No long boring speeches about young men and women facing their bright futures. No yearbooks. But there is birthday cake.
At sixteen, she is no longer allowed to attend madrassah. A good Muslim woman does not need to be educated.
The girls push aside their desks and gather around the cake. A magnificent tower, called an opera cake, made with almond sponge cake, soaked in coffee syrup, layered with ganache and coffee butter-cream, and covered in a chocolate glaze. From Nazar's, of course.
Nazar's is Amsterdam's only surviving French bakery, run by a French Moroccan, who trained at Ladurée, the famous pâtisserie on Rue Bonaparte in Paris. Niko Nazar makes it all: brioche, croissant, éclair, madeleine, pain au chocolat, petit four, tuile, religieuse, profiteroles, apple tarts, mille-feuille, clafouti, ladyfingers, and truly magnificent spongecake. The Islamists are huge fans. Sugar is one of the few indulgences not banned by Islamic teaching, rescued only because Arabs didn't develop sugar production techniques until after the conquest of Persia in 641 AD, a decade after Mohammed's death. They cling to the vice. The more fanatical their religious beliefs, the more obsessed they are with Nazar's treats. Walking out of the bakery with their bags of madeleines or Napoleons, they barely turn the corner before pulling them out of the bag and sinking their teeth into them. Right there in public, pedestrians bumping their elbows, bicyclists ringing their bells. Their eyes roll back in their heads.
For a moment, they are human.
The Islamic Council is one of Niko's best customers, ordering large trays of pastries for its meetings. When there are food shortages, the Islamic Council makes sure Niko does not run out of butter and sugar.
The opera cake is cut into slices and passed around, the girls falling into religious silence as they slowly savor the decadent sweetness.
“Where is Joury?” asks Salima, disappointed. Joury had promised to come to her birthday party, even though she no longer went to madrassah. She turned sixteen three months ago.
“Maybe her father wouldn't let her come,” suggests one of the girls.
Salima exhales softly. Joury has been fighting with her father about her wedding, but he will not budge. She is unhappy and angry. Salima worries what she might do.
“What are your plans?” the teacher asks Salima cheerfully. “Have your parents arranged a marriage for you?”
“No. My father says I don't have to marry if I don't want to.”
“Lucky you,” blurts one girl, before catching a reprimanding look from the adult in the room.
“You can be a teacher, like me,” says the teacher, “or a nurse. They allow women to practice medicine now, but you'd have to get trained in Switzerland or Sweden.”
“I have a job—delivering vegetables for my uncle.”
“That is not appropriate for a young woman of standing.”
“I like it,” Salima says. She knows how lucky she is. Joury's father would never let her work. But you can't keep a spirited girl like Joury inside all day without screaming tantrums, which is exactly what her mother is enduring. She often sneaks out and meets Salima after school.
Salima leaves feeling both liberated and disappointed. Liberated from daily recitations of the Quran, and endless lessons of what she is not allowed to do. Disappointed in that she has nothing to look forward to. Nothing is clear. In a way, she feels her life is over.
She walks home to change out of her school uniform and burka into a shalwar kameez. With a black ribbon, she ties up the pant leg of her right leg so it doesn't catch in the bicycle chain. She unlocks her bike in the courtyard and rides into the street.
It is her mother's bike, with a big basket on the handlebars and two large saddlebags mounted on the rear fender. A tank of a bike. The wheels are large, and she stands on the peddles to get it moving. Once in motion, it is surprisingly easy to peddle.
She bikes up Prinsengracht, over Brouwersgracht to Haarlemmerstraat where Uncle Sander has his main store, Freyja Natuur Winkel, named after the Norse fertility goddess. He has four stores in Amsterdam. His organic farm north in Waterland supplies fresh produce daily.
Before the Occupation, door-to-door delivery was rare. Houses were not homes, but empty shells, with no one to receive milk or produce. Your apartment was a stopping place to sleep and clean up before you went out to work or play. There was no reason to linger. Your parents had retired to Spain or the south of France. No one waited up for you. Or made dinner for you. If you cooked for yourself, you shopped once a week and stored everything in your refrigerator, where it became tasteless and soft from neglect. Now families stay close, taking in homeless relatives and friends. People are frightened to go outside. Electricity is unreliable, so storing a week's worth of perishable food in your refrigerator is unwise.
Home delivery has made a comeback. Fruit vendors, milk and dairy vendors, bread vendors, even herring vendors will deliver to your door.
Salima rides her bike right into the store, and leans it against a bin of squash. She loves the woodsy smell of mushrooms and dirt, onions and straw. In the fall it smells of apples and cider.
No customers. No males. She pulls off her veil.
“Hello, Salima. How is my birthday girl?” Uncle Sander calls boisterously, throwing down a 20 kilo bag of potatoes to give her a hug.
“Prima, dankjewel.” She wants no fuss, given her ambivalence about turning sixteen. After giving her uncle a peck on the cheek, she takes her list from a clipboard hanging on a nail in the wall.
“Ha! What's you're hurry? You have some place to go? Birthday plans? Een vriendje?” He grins, knowing perfectly well she can't date. “I gave you a short list today.”
“You didn't need to do that. It's just a birthday.”
“Indulge me. I like to give thanks to Freyja that you were born.”
“Don't let the Islamic Council hear you.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “I have a present for you.” He hands her a small box, which she opens. Inside is a silver necklace of a sailboat.
“It's beautiful.” Her voice is soft and oddly flat. It's been so long since she's thought about sailing. A warm wash of emotion suddenly flows through her, and she stumbles against her uncle, hiding her face as she hugs him.
He pats her hair gently, then puts the necklace around her neck. She tucks it underneath her black garment. A flashy piece of jewelry is enough to get stopped by a matuwa. “Salima, I wanted to ask you—now that you don't have school, would you like to work in the mornings, too?”
“I hadn't thought about it.” Suddenly famished, she selects a plum from a stack of fruit, and sinks in her teeth. Juices drip down her chin.
“You should ask your mother first. I sure could use your help.” He motions to a woman who is carefully wrapping pears in newspaper. “I have a lot of deliveries.”
The
way he says this makes Salima tilt her head. What is he suggesting?
“Here we go.” He fills her baskets with crisp brown paper bags. Each bag is numbered, corresponding to a name on her list. “There's a couple of new addresses.”
“Yes, I see.” She rolls her bike outside. With the weight of the groceries, she wobbles a bit, standing up to gain momentum. “Tot ziens,” she calls, waving to her uncle.
Salima's client list lives mostly in Jordan within the canal ring. She delivers the packages Sander put on top first, those closest, riding up and down the streets between Lijnbaansgracht and Prinsengracht. She catches a glimpse of a band of Bloed van God—four young men harassing a restaurant owner—and makes a quick turn before they see her. Then up and over a canal.
The Islamic Council banned cafés because they don't like places where people can hang out. A pleasant atmosphere conducive to conversation is considered dangerous. So café owners changed their marques, and began offering sandwiches and salads, making them restaurants. Then the Islamic Council passed a law that coffee was not permitted in restaurants. The restaurants changed the menu to offer herbal teas. People lingered still, and the Islamic Council made the rounds harassing restaurant owners with ever-changing petty zoning laws—the distance between tables, number of chairs, length of time patrons could stay. Café owners are always one step ahead of them.
Salima gets to the bottom of her basket, and finds the new addresses Sander gave her on Leidschegracht.
She rings the doorbell. A man opens the door and yanks her inside. She gasps as he pushes her face against a wall of blue Delft tiles.
“Who are you?” He turns her around and yanks down her veil. He holds her against the tile, squeezing her triceps, hurting her. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm delivering groceries . . . from Freyja Natuur Winkel.”
He opens the door off the foyer into a house, shoves her in, and closes the door, his grip still tight around her arm. “Don't move.” He grabs the brown paper bag and tosses it to a young black woman walking toward the front of the house. She opens it, looks inside, and crinkles it closed. “Let her go,” she commands.
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