The Tree and the Vine

by Dola de Jong

  It was the memory of the day my mother was buried with the lifeless baby boy who had caused her death. I remembered being in the nursery, looking through the closed curtains, their floral pattern unusually lit by the sun, at the black carriages on the street. The kitchen maid whose care I’d been entrusted to had forgotten about me. She was crying with her face in her hands. I was too young to understand what was going on, and I was curious about the commotion downstairs in front of the gate. The door swung open and my father and grandparents hurried into the room. I was lifted up and smothered with hugs and kisses. For the first and only time in my childhood, I tasted the salt of grown-up tears. For a few moments, the little girl was brought into the family circle. As small as she was, the adults needed her before making the difficult journey to the cemetery. Suddenly, my grandmother realized that she was needed more at home than at her daughter’s graveside. It was a tremendous sacrifice that she was willing to make. She stayed behind at the house and played with me until the black carriages returned. It was the memory of a memory, one that has stayed with me all those years. Only then, at the age of twenty-eight, did I understand what my grandmother had felt during those hours, as she’d helped me dress and undress my dolls, cheerfully pretending, entering the imaginary world of a little girl imitating her mother, pampering and scolding her porcelain friends. She’d had to listen to that, while her daughter was being buried.

  Memories from my childhood are scarce. Nothing remains from the years after my mother’s death to my high school years. Recently, I found myself having to do some calculations when someone here in America asked me how old I was when my mother died. Her death left a gaping hole in my youth. Still, I’d always kept an image of her, and later as I got older my father’s stories about her took on a heavenly form. How different it must have been for Erica! Instead of a guardian angel, she’d had a mother in the flesh and blood who reminded her of all the misery she’d caused.

  At exactly two o’clock, the operator announced a call from Egmond. It was Erica, calling as planned.

  “Well …? What did she say?” She asked nervously.

  “It was a waste of time,” I had to be careful because I wasn’t sure if the line was tapped. “She wouldn’t say. Said you should just ask him.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said threateningly. Then there was silence.

  “You still there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, which was again followed by nothing but the crackling of the connection. But behind the silence was hate, a hate so powerful in its own powerlessness that I could almost hear it.

  “See you later,” she said dryly and hung up.

  I went home that night full of apprehension, but Erica didn’t ask me any more questions. She gave me a two-word thank you for my trouble, and I was relieved not to have to relay the entire conversation with Ma. After dinner, Erica laid the letter to Judy in front of me and asked me again to sign it. We took the epistle to the mailbox together. Before I dropped it into the slot, I looked at Erica.

  “Come on,” she said, “you old nag.”

  After that, all we could do was wait for a reply. One week later, it was the first thing I asked when I came home from work. Pretty soon, Erica couldn’t take it anymore and told me to stop asking. She’d let me know. In the meantime, she ordered me to gather information from the American consulate and the shipping line. She did nothing to prepare for her departure herself. For the next two weeks, I came home to her lying on her bed reading one of the books I’d given her, the gramophone or the Dutch radio playing in the background. After a while, the bird took flight again, and I started coming home to notes in my room. “Went to the movies” or “Gone to Amsterdam.” It was unusually courteous of her, and she kept it up for a little while—“Not sleeping here tonight”—but eventually there were no notes anymore, and she was gone a lot.

  One morning, when I brought her breakfast in bed (something I’d started doing back when she needed it and kept doing when she slept at home), she said: “I might as well tell you—you know everything now anyway. I’m in love again. She’s a cellist in the women’s orchestra that’s playing at the beer hall. You should come hear her sometime. She’s fantastic.”

  Thus, she made me a partner in her escapades and in doing so, also made it easy for me to keep my distance. Without realizing it, we’d entered a new phase in our relationship.

  That afternoon after work, I visited the bar in the city center where Erica had lost her heart. It was an unusually assertive move on my part. Standing nervously by the revolving door, I took a moment to find my bearings. I wondered how on earth Erica had ended up at such a kitschy German bar. I would’ve never even considered such a place; the patrons were from another planet. A waiter noticed me helplessly searching for someone. After my stuttering description of Erica, he sized me up from head to toe and with a cheeky smile and a wink to his co-worker directed me toward the stage. I found Erica at a table, practically at the cellist’s feet. She was absorbed in her new flame and barely looked up when I, sweating all over, sat down beside her. Still, the smile on her face was for me.

  “What do you think of her?” she said without turning toward me.

  What do you think of her? Now that I was in on her secret, my opinion was apparently appreciated. There was no way I could tell her that I’d always found women with cellos between their knees unattractive. My father, like so many middle-class Dutch people, had been a lover of classical music, and he used to take me to concerts. One of them had featured a female cellist, and I did not enjoy it. Watching the musician, all dressed up for the occasion with a plunging décolleté to accentuate her fragility, wield the cumbersome instrument between her thighs had been confusing to me, and I’d found myself unable to appreciate her art. Afterward, I got into a fight about it with my father, who thought I was overreacting.

  But the subject of Erica’s interest made a better impression on me, and my expectations were a bit lower in the bierstube.

  She was more enthusiastic than devoted. She played freely, in a way that was almost rough, as if ready to throw all caution to the wind.

  Days later, when Inge (that was her name) played for us in Egmond, I discovered that she was incredibly talented, a true artist heart and soul. Hunched over her instrument in Erica’s room, her sleek dark hair falling down over her cameo face, she was a completely different woman from the one I’d seen in the smoky bar. There, she played for money, a concession that didn’t bother her because she had created another self that no one could touch. At our house, she released that other self and played like a woman possessed. It didn’t even bother me that she stayed over once a week. I cared for her like I cared for Erica. The one thing that did bother me at first was the fact that she was German. Even then, people knew that Germans weren’t being allowed to leave Germany, unless of course they were spies. There were a lot of rumors flying around about German tourists, and although some members of the population wrote them off as exaggerations, I couldn’t rule out the possibility. Artists were only allowed to travel under the auspices of Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi minister of propaganda—that much was clear. Inge’s orchestra was there to create cultural propaganda for the Third Reich, but it was also possible that their assignment extended beyond the four walls of the bierstube. My suspicions were soon dispelled. Inge proved her trustworthiness by speaking openly about the situation in Germany. She went on and on, her delicate, heart-shaped face taut with anger and rage, until we were fully convinced of her hatred for the regime. They left you no choice, she said. You did what you had to do to survive. But a few members of the orchestra actually were Nazis, and, she whispered with an anxious glance over her shoulder, they were paid more because they did other work on the side. She didn’t tell us what exactly these side jobs consisted of, but it was clear enough. Her pale face whitened even more as she warned us: things would go wrong. Germany had its eye on Holland.

  Erica started whistling a little tune and got up to put a record on the gramo
phone. It was a tic of hers that I knew well by then. My heart started pounding in my throat. We were still waiting for Judy’s reply. Even if she said yes and supplied the necessary funds, it was unlikely that Erica would go at this point. I had no more illusions. Inge was more important to Erica than her desire for change or self-preservation. And time was running out. It was already early April.

  When I went to the American consulate (without telling anyone) to see if there might be a message for Erica, there were long lines of Jews. The shipping company where I’d reserved a passage for Erica on good faith was now demanding payment. I had already been planning on borrowing money to cover the costs. It was up me to take care of it. Erica could no longer be bothered.

  But now, standing by the gramophone, she blurted out, “Ich bin halb Jude.” I’m half-Jewish. She spun around to see how Inge would react. I was suddenly aware that there was some kind of drama going on between them. Erica didn’t care about the danger, she just wanted to know how much Inge had been influenced by racist theories, and whether or not her feelings for Erica could withstand Hitler’s ideology. In spite of myself, I felt sorry for Inge.

  “That’s not possible,” Inge said, ready to scold Erica for making such an off-color joke. But Erica pierced her with her eyes and didn’t let her go, betraying nothing. Inge looked to me for help. I’ll never forget how uneasy I felt in that moment. All I could do was nod in agreement.

  “But then …” Inge began, “then …” She jumped up and looked wildly from Erica to me, searching for the right words to adequately express her horror. “But then there’s no time to lose!” She fixed her eyes desperately on me. “What are you going to do? What are we going to do?”

  She sank back down in the chair. In a few steps, Erica was behind her with her face pressed against hers. I got up and collected the dirty ashtrays. As I emptied them, I heard Erica whispering into Inge’s ear. She’d passed the test, I thought bitterly. Maybe deep down I was hoping that Inge would react differently. Who knows? Maybe I’d become overly suspicious, maybe I was trying to get too deeply involved.

  After a wave of inexplicable bitterness, I concluded that Erica had come to terms with her own illegitimacy. Her father had officially recognized her as his child, so it was on her record. Rather than calling her Ma to account or interrogating Pa further, she simply resigned herself to the situation.

  10

  BY THE END OF APRIL, I gave up waiting. Apparently, the whole thing with Judy was over, and I blamed myself for not taking Erica more seriously when she’d said, “For Judy, those kinds of things are more of an adventure. She can take it or leave it.” No wonder Erica didn’t talk about it! She must’ve been hurt by Judy’s abandonment. Or else that too had left her cold. There was nothing and no one else in the world to her but Inge. Erica’s love life replaced all logic. That’s how it had been with Dolly and Judy, and that’s how it was again. And I had to admit that I, too, had been her main subject of interest once, albeit with less preponderance.

  I plodded on at the office and worked overtime, which I was paid extra for. We needed the money. I was working for two now. Erica was borrowing from me on a regular basis—she always said, “I’ll make it up to you later.” The remainder of Ma’s inheritance was still in her savings account. She didn’t ask about it, and I didn’t dare bring it up. We both just “forgot” about it. As far as I know, it’s still in there. Every now and then, I take out the book and hold it in my hands. It’s always traveled with my other papers and turned yellow over the years.

  Once again, I found myself living largely alone. In the evening, I took my work home with me. It was a welcome distraction, and I took great satisfaction in carrying out the tasks my boss had entrusted to me in preparation for his departure. In all my brooding loneliness, his appreciation was a comfort. It was a cordial goodbye. He said he would never forget me, “You were the best secretary I ever could’ve asked for, if you ever need any help …” At that moment, neither of us expected me to actually take him up on those words, but I’ve been his secretary in New York for years. He helped me out tremendously when I wanted to leave Holland after the war. But that’s getting off the subject. When the new director took over the accounting firm in Amsterdam, I got along with him too. At the office, I’m always the best version of myself.

  I resigned myself to wait and see what happened. I was amazed by the fatalism that had gripped the population, but it also brought me a certain sense of anxiety. Maybe it would all work itself out. Who knows, maybe I’d gotten carried away with all my worrying about Erica. Even my colleagues at the office calmed down after the boss left. Not being constantly reminded of the danger seemed to come as a relief. The new owner became the main subject of discussion.

  Erica and Inge spent the night in Egmond once a week. I lived for those evenings, when they’d let me into the sanctuary of their union. I didn’t know what Erica did in Amsterdam. All she told me was that she spent her evenings at the bierstube and then went back with Inge to her guesthouse. So, she spent night after night sitting in a bar at Inge’s feet? How could she stand it? I thought back on the waiter’s suggestive little smile and shuddered.

  Then came the blow, at least for Erica, and in a way for me as well because I drew my conclusions from it. On May 4, the women’s orchestra ended its engagement and left for Germany. Erica showed up unexpectedly at the house that night, defeated.

  “Didn’t Inge know this was coming?” I asked innocently. Erica shrugged.

  “Of course, but she didn’t want to say goodbye.”

  “Come on!” I said. “You don’t really believe that!”

  She didn’t respond and disappeared into her room. In the middle of the night, however, she came in and sat on my bed. She was still fully dressed and in a frantic state, as if she needed to get something off her chest. At first, she talked about Inge. In her misery, she told me all kinds of things they did together that I didn’t want to know and were painful to hear.

  “She knew,” she finally said. “She’d known for a week. The orchestra was supposed to stay until the end of the month and then play in Rotterdam. That was the official plan. But last week she heard they’d been called back. They weren’t allowed to talk about it. She didn’t dare tell me. It was top secret and too dangerous to discuss. Even with me. She didn’t trust any of the others. She was afraid my reaction would attract attention.”

  “Well that says a lot,” I said alarmed. “If they’re calling Germans back to Germany …” I didn’t finish the sentence. Erica dug into in her skirt pocket, pulled out a crumpled envelope and handed it to me. It had an American stamp on it and had been sent via registered mail.

  “I lied to you,” Erica confessed. “She wrote back within a week. I already spent the money.”

  The images of the following period have replayed in my mind hundreds of times, and now, thirteen years later, the details have consolidated into a single memory. All it takes is a single glance for the feelings to come rushing back, to know that, despite the agonizing pain of losing Erica, she depended on me for half a year, and, as much as I could allow it, had been mine.

  What came afterward, the haunting question as to why I imposed certain restrictions on our relationship, my regret over a decision that I didn’t doubt for a second at the time, but that later I couldn’t understand—that was the legacy of the time, a legacy that has nestled into my tissue like a tumor, harmless as long as new cells can grow around it. Sometimes, during sleepless nights, that growth takes on a life of its own, and it takes all the willpower I have to save myself, to cast off the doubt and regret and rebuild myself anew. Nothing will ever change what happened. We can’t go back. On the surface I’ve moved on, the slate’s been wiped clean, my life has continued.

  But now that I am coming to terms with the most critical period of my life, the only time that really mattered, I’m compelled to take one last look at what happened during the first months of the occupation.

  I now see that the sh
ock of Erica’s extreme unreliability hadn’t fully hit me. I was too caught up in the strange, incomprehensible satisfaction it gave me. And then, before I had the chance to regain my balance and make one last wild attempt to help Erica flee the country, the Germans invaded.

  It’s too late, I thought, it’s just too late. Unsurprisingly, my initial reaction to the invasion was entirely focused on Erica. In my state of mind, I considered Erica’s precarious position to be more important than the disaster that had befallen our country.

  I still remember how she sat by the radio for hours, feverishly tense at first, but soon utterly dismayed. It became a kind of vigil.

  For me, that’s where the war began, in Erica’s room. The image of her leaning into the radio as if she were attached to it represented the invasion, the battles, the bombings, the defeat of a proud people. I saw only Erica, shattered, so completely paralyzed that the voice coming from the speaker was the only thing she had to hold on to.

  And I could tell by the way she shook her head in disbelief that, in addition to her despair, she was staggered by her own recklessness. It was upsetting to see her like this, though deep down I felt a gnawing sense of atonement. Inside me was a smoldering flame of satisfaction that even my pity and fear couldn’t extinguish.