by Ellen Keith
The boy’s mother caught up, calling out to him as she pushed a baby carriage across the square. That baby we’d shepherded across the city right before we were captured must have been a toddler by now. What had become of her? Theo had been unable to hide his longing to shelter her, to raise her as our own. I recalled what he’d said to the woman who’d taken her in: how happy it made him that she could care for a child who was not her own. But surely my husband was no different. He knew only generosity and love.
Along the canal, an automobile honked, startling the boy. He ran to join his mother, and I stood and continued on my way.
WHEN Theo came home that evening, his jaw formed a hard line. He went straight out back to the garden, where I found him trying to coax some life out of the tomato plants.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“A lot has changed on campus.”
“Like what?”
“So many things.”
“You know you can talk to me about this.”
“All right. Well, you know Cohen, the one whose wife made that chicken dish you liked at the last Christmas party? He was gassed at Auschwitz.”
“Oh.” I knelt to rub his back, unsure what to say. “He was such a nice man.”
“Goddammit!” The garden spade flew from his hand and smacked the stone wall. He pressed a fist to his forehead and forced out a deep breath.
During dinner he said little and retreated to bed as soon as we finished the dishes. I stayed up, scrubbing every surface of the kitchen with water and vinegar until even the teapot looked brand-new again. When there was nothing left to clean, I wrung out the sponge, went into the cellar and retrieved the dust-coated bottle of genever we’d received as a gift when Theo had started teaching. For the first time in many years, I poured myself a glass, a generous one. I stood at the counter, trying to shake off the image of Karl, his hands on my shoulders, his amused smile reflected in the windowpanes of the koberzimmer. In one sip, the drink was gone. Wincing at its piney bitterness, I wrapped my arms around myself and started up the stairs.
As I entered our bedroom, Theo flipped over. He watched as I faced him and started to undress without making any effort to conceal myself. When I turned to the side to hang my clothes on the back of the chair, he sat up. He opened his mouth to say something but paused and tilted his head, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Come here.”
I circled round the bed while he propped himself up on an elbow and reached out to feel the slight curve of my belly.
“Are you . . . ?”
I nodded.
“Already, really? I can’t believe that.”
At this, I started to cry.
He pulled me in, kissed my stomach and pressed his cheek to it. “What’s wrong?”
I motioned for him to move over and crawled in beside him, turning my face to the wall. “It’s just, with all we’ve been through, with everything we have to face going forward.”
“Darling, shh, don’t talk like that. This is the best thing I could have ever asked for.”
“I just wish . . . oh, I don’t know.” The genever still burned my throat, bringing with it a sense of heaviness. I couldn’t tell him, at least not yet, but maybe one day, when the time was right.
He rolled me over and leaned in until our lips almost touched. “Marijke,” he said, “I love her already.”
“Her?”
“It’s a girl. I can feel it.”
The affection in his voice felt promising, but nothing was certain anymore. Somehow, out of all the others, we had survived. But whenever I closed my eyes, I found myself back there, staring up at those iron gates, with the soldier asking me that question: “Are you going out?” We may have left Buchenwald that day, but would Buchenwald ever leave us?
Theo curled into me, the heat of his chest warming mine. I lay with my head on his shoulder, listening to the comforting beat of his heart until we fell asleep. And the next day, morning came to us as I hoped it would for many years to come. Bars of sunlight streaked the room, birds chirped out on the canal, and there we were, entangled in each other’s arms, the two of us together as husband and wife.
Epilogue
DECEMBER 1, 1983
BUENOS AIRES
ARTURO WAGNER SAT AT HIS NEIGHBOURHOOD BAR, sipping a glass of Fernet. On Thursdays, Patricia marched with the other mothers in the Plaza de Mayo, grief trailing her like a stray cat, so he’d learned to come home late on those days. After another drink, he settled his bill. Arthritis slowed his pace down the darkened streets, but he whistled along the way. The night smelled of car exhaust and the remnants of grilled beef. Jacaranda blossoms formed a purple carpet across the sidewalk beneath the very same trees Luciano had climbed as a boy.
Arturo turned onto his block, unsettled by the memory. He didn’t notice the man leaning against a car parked in the shadows or the figure watching from the front seat. The stranger called out. “Herr Müller?”
Startled, Arturo looked up. The gun had a silencer fixed to the barrel. He had nowhere left to run.
Historical Note
WHILE ALL OF THE CHARACTERS IN THE DUTCH WIFE ARE fictional, their stories are rooted in fact. In 1942, under Himmler’s orders, the first prisoners’ brothels opened at Mauthausen concentration camp and one of its sub-camps. Brothels were eventually established at ten of the most significant Nazi concentration camps, with the goal of increasing production efficiency among the forced labourers. In total, an estimated 190 women served in these brothels during the course of the war, yet their stories have long remained in the shadows. The bravery of these women, along with those who fought for a free and just society in Argentina, astounds me.
Among the many sources I consulted during my research, two played a vital role in shaping the novel. For Luciano’s story, this was Nunca Más (“Never Again”)—the CONADEP Report, published by the National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons. I am also greatly indebted to Dr. Robert Sommer, author of Das KZ-Bordell, for his counsel and extensive research on concentration camp brothels. In some instances, I have chosen to bend certain historical details or time frames for the purpose of the novel, but I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible in my portrayals. I hope I have done justice to the experiences of both the disappeared in Argentina and the women who were forced to work in the camp brothels.
Acknowledgements
WRITING THIS NOVEL BECAME A JOURNEY THAT TOOK ME around the world, but it was one I could never have completed on my own. I owe enormous thanks to Rachel Letofsky at the Cooke Agency for guiding me through the publishing process and to the entire team at HarperCollins in Canada, especially Patrick Crean. Patrick, your incredible encouragement and belief in this novel kept me going, and I couldn’t have asked for a better editor.
Thank you to the faculty and my fellow students in the University of British Columbia’s creative writing MFA program, especially Annabel Lyon, Tariq Hussain and Nancy Lee. Nancy, you’ve taught me so much. Thanks for pushing me to make some difficult choices. I’m also grateful to the Canada Graduate Scholarships Program for the generous SSHRC scholarship.
Sarah, Jill, Laura, Julie—I couldn’t have finished this without your feedback and enthusiasm. Special thanks to Jen and Mel for keeping the wine and laughter flowing on many a writing day. To Matt, Jason and Tom for offering advice on early drafts. Lauren, you keep me afloat from afar. Jake, thank you for sitting through endless war movies and for your listening ear. And Hannie and Han, you’re like second parents to me.
To the many others near and dear to my heart: thank you for being there for me around the world, for welcoming me into your homes when I was without one, for late-night sailboat conversations in False Creek, for salsa dances at OTR, for theatre evenings in Toronto, for sunset walks along the Seine. You bring home to me.
To my brother, Peter: your ambition inspires me. And finally, to my parents—thank you for your support while I chase this crazy dream and for setting up that old typewriter in the basem
ent all those many years ago.
About the Author
Winner of the HarperCollins/UBC Prize for Best New Fiction, ELLEN KEITH is a Canadian writer and a recent graduate of the University of British Columbia’s MFA program in creative writing. Her work has appeared in publications such as the New Quarterly and the Globe and Mail. She spends much of her time abroad, be it travelling across South America, dancing salsa and tango, or cycling along the canals of Amsterdam, where she currently lives.
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Copyright
The Dutch Wife
Copyright © 2018 by Ellen Keith.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Published by Patrick Crean Editions, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
COVER DESIGN BY LAURA KLYNSTRA
COVER PHOTOGRAPH (TOP) BY ELISABETH ANSLEY / ARCANGEL
COVER PHOTOGRAPH (BOTTOM) BY MARCO WONG / GETTY IMAGES
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition AUGUST 2018 EPub ISBN: 978-1-44345-427-8
Print ISBN: 978-1-44345-425-4
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