by Pam Lewis
Sander had brought her back to the house and to bed. Before she knew it, she was being held down again. She’d struggled, flailed her head from side to side, but on Sander’s orders, Fenna had forced more liquid between her lips.
She had awakened the next morning to find the small house eerily quiet, Sander on the bed beside her and Fenna slumped in a chair nearby. “What happened?” she’d asked, dreading the worst, that Zef had been found dead. Sander had leaned his weight against her in case she tried to bolt again. He had told her in detail the events of the night. He’d gone to the skinners and demanded Pieps come outside and face him, but the boy had taken off at a run. For all his youth, he was no match for Sander, who had caught up and wrestled him in the dirt. Only the guilty need to run, he had said, and Pieps had admitted to everything, had broken down sobbing and begging forgiveness, “like the blubbering coward he was.”
“Pieps has him, then?” she had said, hope swelling enormously. The question had only angered Sander, who said Pieps had sold the boy to the gauchos, who were a hundred miles away, no doubt, and then he had railed at her that it was her own fault. How many times had he warned her and she hadn’t listened? He said Pieps had bragged like a rutting schoolboy, had said a child like Zef—fair, blond, European—had brought a huge price. And so what? Minke was capable of having plenty more, and one day she’d forget all about Zef.
Her only thought at the time, not the rage at Pieps—that came later—but that they must go to him, must demand information. Which gauchos? Where might they be? Her words had infuriated Sander further. Didn’t she understand? Pieps was dead. Sander had shot him through the heart and left him to die in that godforsaken rubble. And now they would have to leave Comodoro because there would be repercussions. “God justifies what I did. A man takes my child, I’m justified,” Sander said. Nevertheless, they could expect the gauchos to take their revenge. Pieps had been their friend. Minke had fought the plan tooth and nail. To leave was to abandon any hope of ever finding Zef. Sander had said it would do them no good to stay and be murdered in their sleep.
Guilt overwhelmed her, weighed her down with the force of a thousand stones. What she could not tolerate was that Pieps would have done this thing to her. How was it possible for a friend to turn so hatefully against a friend? And yet he had confessed. She ached with a pain so intense, as though the skin had been ripped from her body, and at her center, a feeling that Zef was connected to her by a strand of her own flesh that pulled at the core of her, that unraveled the farther he was taken away.
Sander had instructed Marta and Fenna to be sure Minke stayed deep in her morphine fog. She lived shrouded, as though through a curtain of wool. The morphine did nothing to ease the agony; it only made her unable to act. She had been powerless to stop the plan from moving forward, a plan in which Sander would go to America immediately, for his own safety.
He’d hidden away money and would take it to America, where he would set about establishing himself in business. Fenna would accompany him and find a grand home. Minke begged to go with them, but that was impossible because of her advanced pregnancy; the ship would refuse to take her, and even if she were able to board with the pregnancy undetected, Cassian was adamant that she must not travel. A ship’s journey was far too dangerous for a woman in her condition—both the baby and mother would be in grave danger, and they dared not risk losing another child.
Now Minke gathered Elly to her again and rocked, turning her back to Sander. She hadn’t wanted to break down, didn’t want a scene in front of the baby, but she felt it coming. To keep herself steady, she sang the little song that calmed them both.
Sleep, baby, sleep
Today I saw a sheep.
Its feet were white
Its milk so sweet
Sleep, baby, sleep.
But she couldn’t bear to be with her husband at that moment. She rose and took the baby to the parlor, where she could have solitude. She rocked and thought with a bitterness she hadn’t known was in her about the way she always fell for Sander’s fantasies. She didn’t need a big house or money. She didn’t care. She could live in anything, hadn’t she shown that? But the reversal of expectations each time was exhausting.
She thought back over their years together, almost three now. Why hadn’t she seen his character before? The signs had been there. Now they swung up and practically slapped her across the face. He’d married Minke because she was present in his house. He hadn’t had to miss a beat from one wife to the next. Nor from Minke to Fenna. He had Cassian give Elisabeth an overdose—not for Elisabeth’s sake but for his own. What was it Griet had said on the day the Frisia sailed? Be warned; he was a man who never passed up an opportunity. That was Sander, indeed. And his business. Why had he never been forthcoming and simply told her he traded in morphine? Instead, he had muddied the waters whenever she asked. And the store. What had been the point of it? The store had made sense at first, but the Almacén sold what people needed. The so-called store at the front of their home was a shambles of boxes and knickknacks from the Amsterdam house that Sander traded with Goyo for God knew what.
He’d barely done anything at the store. The whole thing had been a pipe dream, given that the Almacén was already well established. What did they sell, anyway? Scraps of fabric to local women, the occasional piece of furniture or gewgaw traded with the gauchos. That store was never intended to support them. It was the obras, but there Cassian produced the morphine, not Sander. Come to think of it, the Elisabeth had belonged not to him but to his first wife. The more Minke thought, the plainer it all became; she’d been blind not to see it until this moment. While Cassian was healing, she hadn’t seen Sander do a lick of work. Mostly, he’d counted his money. The obras might have been saved if Sander had rolled up his shirtsleeves and pitched in. Finally, she thought bitterly, hadn’t it been easier to leave her behind to clean up the details of their lives in Comodoro, leave Minke to have the baby without him, and set sail with Fenna and money in his pockets? Money that was apparently gone after three months.
She shuddered. This dismal flat with its filthy windows. He was a weak man. He’d left his children behind to start a new life. He was capable of that. He’d left her behind to start a new life. And look at the mess he’d made this time.
For richer or for poorer, the wedding vows said. But she had never actually taken those vows. Sander had promised a real marriage in Argentina and never followed up. She had half a ring.
Sounds came of Fenna retching in the bathroom. She gathered up Elly, returned to the bedroom, and pulled the door closed behind her. “Is Fenna pregnant?” she asked him, rocking Elly gently as she spoke.
He was slumped on the unmade bed.
“Answer me.”
He met her eyes. “A man has needs, Minke. Not that you’d know. You made yourself unavailable with babies, with pregnancy. What was I to do?”
She almost laughed at the brazenness of it, that he was laying the blame for it on her shoulders. “So I’m responsible?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She stepped closer, looking down at him. “You’re my husband, not hers. You already have a wife and a child to care for.”
The door opened behind her. “A word, Sander?” Cassian asked.
“How far along is she, Cassian?” Minke asked. “I want to hear one of you say it.”
Cassian glanced at Sander. “She says it’s a few months. Maybe three.”
Minke handed Elly to Cassian and asked him to take the child from the room. She shut the door behind him, crossed the floor, stood over Sander, and slapped him with all the force she had. His head snapped to one side from the blow. “How will we live now?”
The door swung open. Fenna, big, with muscular arms, broad shoulders, and full breasts, said, “So now you know.”
“Lichtekooi,” Minke said. “You always were. Stom rund. Stupid.”
Fenna shrugged, unfazed.
“How could you?” Minke said.
&nb
sp; “Ask Sander,” Fenna said with a laugh. “He likes a certain thing that you know nothing about. You’re the stupid one. While you slept, we did it. While you tended Cassian, we did it. Wake up, Minke!”
Minke turned back to Sander. “Say something!”
Sander lifted his eyes to her. “Don’t take that tone, either one of you,” he said, but his voice was dull. “We will all need to look for work.”
“Not me,” Fenna said. “I can’t work when I throw up all the time.”
“Swallow it,” Minke said. “You’ll work, all right.”
“Sander already said I won’t have to. You’re the one who’ll work. And Sander and Cassian. I stay here and take care of Elly, right, Sander?”
“When hell freezes over.”
“You’ll do as I say,” Sander said.
Unable to bear being in their presence for another minute, Minke addressed Sander. “Ask Cassian to bring Elly to me. I want privacy.” She turned to Fenna. “You get out of here. This is my room. I’m the mistress of this household, whether I like it or not.”
Fenna crossed her arms and seemed about to start another war, but Sander intervened and guided her out. A few moments later, Cassian came in with Elly drowsing in his arms.
They sat on the bed, Cassian with his arm around Minke’s shoulders, which helped to quiet the trembling that had begun. “Did you know about them?” she asked.
He hung his head.
She sighed when he remained mute. “Why didn’t you say? Never mind. I know. He’s blood. You either betray him or you betray me. It’s the devil’s bargain for you. I forgive you.”
“I thought it would end. I didn’t understand it. How he could stray with your own sister?”
“She goes after what she wants.” They sat in silence a moment. Then Minke said, “They must have spent all the money.”
Cassian’s black eyes fixed on her. “Sander is a gambler, Minke.”
“I know that. He gambled at the Explotación with Dietz and the others.”
“Sander has the compulsion.”
“Don’t they all?”
“No. Only some will gamble until nothing is left.”
“Then we’re doomed.”
“You need to be careful. I as well. And not let them have the money we earn. It won’t be easy.”
“I don’t know how I’ll earn money. I have no skills. And Elly.”
“You’re stronger than you know, Minke.”
“Five mouths to feed, and Fenna is pregnant. How will we survive this?”
“People never see how it will happen, Minke. That’s not the gift. Strength is the gift. You have it.”
After Cassian left the room, she opened the black dress to feed Elly. The baby’s eyes stayed on Minke’s the whole time. Then she lay Elly carefully on the floor while she made up the bed, taking care to tuck in tight corners so the bed had a crisp, unyielding look. She lay down, curled her body around Elly’s. At first she could only suffer over the terrible thing that had been done to her, Sander’s atrocious behavior, Fenna’s betrayal, and a well of worry so deep she thought she might die of it. She longed for her mother’s comforting arms, but that was impossible now. The shame of it would kill her mama—Minke’s failed marriage, a lost child, destitution.
But then, as if waking from a bad dream, her despair gave way to clarity. Why hadn’t it come to her sooner? For the first time—not just today but in a very long time—the curtains of worry parted, and she knew exactly what she would do. She would go back to Comodoro with Elly. Just the two of them. She would figure out a way. Somehow she would find work, save her money, and go.
She would find Zef if it took her a lifetime.
16
MINKE MADE A plan. She would start at the corner of Broadway and 121st Street and enter each store no matter what it sold. Cassian had instructed her to speak only to store owners, no one else. He had buoyed her up when she despaired over finding a job. “You sew like a professional,” he told her. “You speak English.”
“But who will pay me for any of that?” she asked. “I’m seventeen.”
“Be patient,” he said.
Her first store, tiny and fetid, sold typewriters and ribbons. “I can sew,” she explained shyly. The owner just shook his head. When she left, she felt like a fool. What would a typewriter store need with sewing? In the next store, the merchandise was more varied. Canned goods, bolts of cotton. Again she told the owner she could sew. He laughed. “Everybody can sew,” he said. “Get out of here.”
“I speak English,” she told the next shopkeeper.
“We don’t need English,” he said. “English don’t come in here. Only the Dutch, the Germans, the Poles.”
“I speak Dutch, of course.”
“The whole city is Dutch.” In case she didn’t understand, he slapped the map hanging over his desk and said in a thick voice, “Konijnen Eiland, Bouwerij, Breukelen, Haarlem, Greenwijck, Vlissingen, Staaten Eylandt.”*
“I do figures, too.”
He sighed. “We’ll try you, but leave that baby at home.” When she refused, he threw her out.
And so it went. There was nothing to be had. Everywhere the same: Either they had no need of her or they were willing to hire her but without Elly. She was one of thousands looking for work.
One night Fenna told her about someone in the neighborhood who needed a girl to model clothing in a small department store. Minke knew Fenna spent her days on the stoop gossiping with other women and that the lead had come from one of them, but she followed up. Things were becoming desperate. She went to the address. The store was called Murphy’s, and it was in a neighborhood much farther north. She was told to wait behind a curtain for Mr. Murphy. The store was nicer than the places she’d been, she had to admit that much.
A man of about Sander’s age pulled back the curtain. He was heavyset and florid. He told her to stand. “Put that baby somewhere else. What do you think this is?”
She took Elly, sling and all, from her shoulder and carefully laid her in a corner. The man stepped back, told her to turn this way and that. He handed her a blue silk slip to put on. Her heart beat at the prospect of a job. She let the black dress fall to the floor and had the slip over her head, ready to slide it down, when the curtain was pulled. The man stood watching, eyebrows raised in expectation. She yanked the curtain shut, threw the slip to the floor, put on her black dress again, grabbed Elly, and brushed past him in her haste to escape.
The next morning before dawn, there came an ear-splitting sound from the hall, a banging on the door and Fenna’s voice demanding to be let in. The door flew open and bounced against the wall. “He’s mine!” Fenna said. “He belongs in my bed!” And then to Sander, “Now. Right this minute. You will come now or pay the piper, Sander, I swear it. I’m carrying your baby, you son of a bitch.”
Minke was on her feet in a heartbeat. This was the last straw.
Sander swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. Cassian limped in from the hall, wrapping a dressing gown around himself.
“Now!” Fenna shouted louder. She grabbed for Sander’s hand to pull him from the room. “I won’t stand for this arrangement one more minute.”
Fenna had obviously been awake for hours, building a vicious head of steam, her rage and self-justification exploding in this fury. She could be terrifying, but Minke felt something let go inside her as she swung at Fenna with her fist and cracked her sister hard on the shoulder. Fenna wailed, doubled over, but was upright in only a second, lunging for Minke, who dodged the clumsy girl. Cassian—frail as a spider—inserted himself between them, his arms out, like a referee at a boxing competition. Minke drew back, although it took Fenna a moment longer, and for a second Minke was afraid Fenna would harm Cassian. Silence fell except for their heavy breathing. Minke had had enough. She trembled in the aftermath of her own rage. She felt sick.
It had all taken only a few seconds. Elly’s screams pierced the silence. Minke scooped up her baby and made her
way shakily down the hall to the parlor, collapsed onto the couch, and tried to calm Elly. The baby’s cries subsided as Minke rocked gently back and forth.
Outside, snow was falling, covering the grimy streets in white, lighting on winter trees. And so quiet under the streetlights. She rocked and tried to think. Fenna had won this one for sure. Sander hadn’t the backbone, and Minke was tired of fighting for a man she didn’t want.
When dawn finally broke, she made her way to the small kitchen. Normally Cassian left the apartment early to look for work, but not today. She sat opposite him, and he poured her some coffee. “I have an idea,” he said.
He’d spoken about the new public library. He’d been reading about its construction in the newspapers. It was on Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, he told her, and they could walk to it if they took their time. They put on their heavy coats and set out. Down Broadway they went, block after block through the snow and slush. Cassian had to sit on benches often to rest. “Aren’t we a pair. What must we look like to others? You with that big sling and your terrible dress, me with a limp, my white hair.”
When they reached the library, the sight took her breath away. It took up two city blocks. Two enormous fierce lions carved in stone and covered in snow flanked the grand stairs leading up to it. Cassian said the library contained seventy-five miles of shelves, which had to be a mistake. There weren’t enough books in the world for that.
Inside, Cassian asked an attendant where to go. The man led the way to an area where newspapers hung like laundry on wooden dowels. He showed Minke how to remove the newspaper still on its dowel and spread it on a reading desk. He turned to the section called POSITIONS AVAILABLE. Minke hadn’t known such information existed, and she read greedily. There were offers of employment for cooks and drivers and ironworkers. And then she found it. The ad said: