Peter’s glass stopped in mid-air. “Well, the Queen is not having a good day.”
Esther raised hers. “Let’s toast the Queen.”
“Let us toast the eventual defeat and removal of the Germans from Holland.” Mark set his glass down with a bang.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, they’re hardly even here. Soon it will be business as usual,” Sasha exclaimed.
Esther took a deep breath. “I don’t know. These Germans are not like our mothers. One came into the store this afternoon. Bolsman nearly lost his temper. He doesn’t lose his temper at anyone, ever.” Esther’s uncharacteristic stillness contrasted with the flare of temper she had witnessed in the shop; reflective moments before the sunlight in a mirror ignites dry weeds. “I don’t know what to think.”
Mark regarded his plate, squared his shoulders and looked Peter in the eye. “I’m going to join the English. The RAF needs pilots.”
Sasha started at him. “In a pig’s eye!”
“We don’t eat pigs,” remarked Esther.
Mark steadied his gaze, first on Esther, then on Sasha, who reached up and covered her mouth with her napkin. “I sail on Monday. My application has been approved.”
“You are not!” Sasha began to tear up, and wiped her face with the napkin.
“Sasha, you are my heart, but I have to do this.”
Her eyes widened, incredulous. “What about us?”
“I’m doing this for us. But love is greater than just the two of us. We will want a family, and we will want to be Dutch, not German.”
Esther glanced nervously at Peter. “Sasha, it’s OK. Peter will take care of us.”
Peter looked down at his empty plate. “Actually, I think you two girls will do fine together. You are both strong and able. This invasion is not to be tolerated.” Determination crossed his face. “I will also be enlisting in the RAF.” Esther got up from the table without excusing herself. The kitchen sink was the nearest basin, and she began to heave her dinner – herring, chocolate, cheese and wine. Even though she was cold and perspiring, she did not faint. Vomiting cleared her head.
Mark looked up, stunned. “How could she be that drunk? All she’s had is a little wine!”
Esther’s glare froze the other three at the table. “Well, my dears, I really must go to bed now. Don’t mind me.” She moved toward the bedroom, but Peter grabbed her arm.
“Sit down!” he commanded. Peter wet a towel and slung it across her forehead. “Your daydreams need to end. Our government collapsed into a vacuum this week. Peace is over.”
Esther’s tossed the towel on the floor. She headed for the basin again, but instead of vomiting once more, she began to frantically clean it. She ignited the water heater and pulled out the dishpan, scouring everything in the kitchen with scalding water. Her hands turned red, but not as red as her eyes and nose. The tears ran down her face and into the sink. Peter crossed the room, fishing out his handkerchief. His arm went across her shoulders and he steered her back into her chair. She gasped, and then spoke.
“This German who came into the shop…”
Peter looked at her puzzled. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“The Germans want posters in the Damplatz announcing the capitulation of Holland.”
“Good God.” Mark continued. “We aren’t done yet.”
“I didn’t know what to think then. I just wanted to get him out of there because Heer Bolsman was furious.”
Sasha had been listening closely to the heated argument and responded with gasps of frustration and her hands in the air. “We don’t have to get involved in the ongoing squabbles between Germany and England. Mark has an English grandfather, but Peter, it’s nothing you need to do.”
“I am sober. I just haven’t had the courage to make a plan yet. It’s settled now.”
“It may not even turn out to be anything,” Sasha continued. “English and German royal families have been intermarried for two hundred years. We can make peace with this.”
Esther shook her head and glared at Peter. “Are you crazy? For God’s sake, we don’t even know peace because all our parents talk about is the Great War.”
Mark continued. “Sasha, the Royals are useless. Hitler is counting on it. They’re all drinking tea together while Europe burns. Even England is at that party. And now you see why it will be necessary to fight.” Mark’s resolve was based on inconvenient facts about European rulers.
Esther dreaded the task waiting on her work table at the shop – her personal role in the surrender. “So, about the man in our shop….Germany has taken Holland. He threatened Mr. Bolsman. We have to do what they say, or it could be dangerous for us.” She had grown up on the shadow of the now abandoned palace. She had always been able to refuse to do unpleasant things, but she would not have Bolsman punished over some cardboard posters.
“If you leave, I’ll…” Silent sobs began to rack Esther. She took a deep breath. “I see now that I should have gone to New York when Hans had my passage paid.” Esther folded her arms, a frozen glare darting around the table.
Sasha countered, “We’ll survive; we can live here. We are a strong people. The Germans are obnoxious, but what can they really change?”
“There is no other way — and there is no alternative to driving the Germans back home,” Peter concluded.
He opened a cabinet and selected four ancient pewter shot cups that had seen Holland through many wars. He set one down in front of each of them, picked up the bottle of Genever and poured out the remaining liquor.
“We are Dutch. This is our home. You will continue to live here and we will survive this.”
“To Holland!”
Chapter Six
Rochester, New York
June 1940
“Paris falls under German occupation.” ~ Newsreel
Hans was a man of habits, and he appeared each afternoon at the cheery Woolworths lunch counter. He would have preferred a solid wood table and chair, but a big grin crossed his face when he took his place on a slippery red stool. He looked expectantly at Greta, like a puppy waiting for a pat or a treat.
Greta’s casual banter with customers made everything right in his world. She greeted him in German, and gave him a break from the torrents of English that he heard in the camera shop. Their German conversation always began with a discussion of the menu and the specials, even though he ordered the same meal each afternoon. Hans stumbled over long English words, and her furrowed brow and blue eyes took in every word from the smiling friendly newcomer. Greta was not bothered by his European manners, including his insistence on eating a sandwich with a knife and fork.
On a nasty November afternoon, they sat at the counter and talked for hours. Woolworths was empty as the black storm clouds blew down into the streets. “It’s hard being an immigrant,” she offered. “My parents are German. Papa’s family moved to Wisconsin when he was a little boy, just before the Great War. They picked on him in school because he sounded German. It was easier once he learned to speak like an American.” She smiled, “Actually, he still has an accent, but he doesn’t hear it. Papa likes to go to the movies. Then he copies what the actors say. Sometimes it’s really funny, but a lot of the time it works pretty well.”
Hans laughed. “My sister loves acting. She wanted to be a movie star.” He reflected for a moment on Esther’s startling decision to remain in Holland.
“What’s she like? Your sister.”
“For one thing … very pretty, but not like you. She has dark hair and green eyes.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Esther would have regarded Greta as a servant, someone whose job was to take care of others.
A large piece of Hans Bernsteen had been left in Amsterdam. His refugee status was now just a mark on his visa. He was in the process of creating an American.
Greta noted his pensive m
ood.
“Do you miss her?”
“Of course I do, but – ” and he realized that he could not discuss any circumstances of his leaving Holland. He certainly didn’t want Greta to know about Esther’s liaisons. She might think that he would approve of these illicit behaviors. He tolerated them, but he couldn’t convince Esther to think beyond her next adventure.
“So, she is a green-eyed beauty and self-centered? Like Vivien Leigh? The movie star?”
He was completely bewildered. “Most of Esther’s acting takes place at home. I actually never knew what movie she lived in from one day to the next.”
“Vivien Leigh is in Gone with the Wind, the new hit movie. Have you seen it?”
“No, but I would like to take you to see it, if you would like to go.”
“Certainly!”
He couldn’t believe his luck, a date with Greta. What a thrill to be seen with his blonde beauty on his arm. Gone with the Wind was difficult to understand. He was looking for the hero, but instead the predatory green-eyed Scarlett O’Hara manipulated men who were not strong enough to control her. Greta was more intrigued by the kindnesses that prevailed though the story, the loyalties, and the sacrifices that were made for home. It was almost as if they looked at two different stories in the same movie.
They went to more movies. Greta loved romances and musicals, and he tolerated the fluffy pictures to be with her. His favorites were the crime stories, black and white palettes of morality and justice captured though the photography. Greta was afraid of the bad guys and worried about the victims even after the story was over. When she looked down to her lap his arm went around her, and she buried her face into his shoulder while he solved the puzzles. Many, many movie dates followed as he held Greta’s hand and studied how the actors spoke.
They spent frozen winter evenings at her boarding house, and he brought albums of photos he had taken. An uncomfortable black horsehair couch with white antimacassars had stood in that living room for more than 50 years. It was an excellent choice for a girls’ boarding house. If a man tried to lean over and kiss, one or both people would slide off its hard seat. The long conversations continued.
“I am so glad you enjoy photography. I like the way you see things.” Greta was admiring a close-up of a Queen Anne’s lace flower.
Hans blushed, desperately in love with Greta. “I had hoped to go to work for Kodak but— I guess they can’t hire me.”
Greta continued his sentence, “I don’t think they can hire aliens. None of the defense contractors can. I’m not sure why, because we aren’t in the war.” She paused, and then smiled at him. “After you earn your U.S. Citizenship you can work anywhere. My Papa has done very well. He works in optics, over at Bausch and Lomb.”
During the spring thaw they began to go dancing. The Four Aces club had a low cover charge on Thursdays, and they only had to buy one drink. Greta loved jazz, and the club reminded him of the Café Americain with its snappy black and white décor. It was much louder, though. Blasts of the trumpet split the air. On the dance floor men strutted and kicked, lifting partners into the air, petticoats flung high and panties and garters exposed. Hans took Greta into his arms and walked her across the floor, taking care to hold her firmly by the waist. Once in a while she would wriggle out from underneath and persuade him to let her spin.
They began to discuss their dreams. He hoped to own his own photography business one day. She had another few months of nursing school ahead. In the late June evenings, dates would end on a park bench by the river, looking at stars rising in the night sky. They kissed in the dark of the lilac bushes next to the rooming house, and at last she would step up onto the porch and wave goodnight.
Chapter Seven
Amsterdam, Holland
July 1940
“Where has your lover gone, O beautiful one?
Say where he is and we will seek him with you.” ~ Song of Songs
Esther lay on the extended dining table and listened to the instructions. “You cannot turn, you cannot move your legs, and you cannot push back. If you do, you will never have children, and you might bleed to death.” Dr. Hemelrijk had come. The tears slid back across Esther’s temples, dripping onto the white feather pillow. She lifted herself and reached for a handkerchief to blow her nose. More tears fell, heavier ones, a storm opening through threatening clouds.
“Where is that bastard now?”
Sasha wiped Esther’s face. “This isn’t a good time to think about Peter. Let’s talk about going to the seaside next week, when you are feeling better. The sunshine, birds swooping to steal our bread….”
A week ago, while getting dressed for work, Esther discovered that the waistline on her favorite skirt was too tight. She couldn’t button it. She hadn’t been overeating. In fact, she had been eating very little because of the stomach upsets. Nerves. Dammit. Now she would need to go on a diet, as if throwing up every day weren’t enough. There was no money to go and see a doctor.
Sasha had quipped, “Eating well, aren’t you?” Esther’s glare cut off the rest of the joke. Their larder was nearly empty.
“Esther, are you pregnant?” Sasha began to mull over Esther’s complaints of the last two weeks.
“Peter’s gone.”
“Yes, but he has only been gone a month. When did you have your last menstruation?”
“Before Peter left … let me think.” She lowered her head and began to count on her fingers – count what? Events? Days? Nights with Peter? Nights without him? “My God, I couldn’t be … he’s not even here… we can’t even get married.” Tears started. “I hate him.”
Sasha frowned and shook her head. “That’s not true. You don’t hate Peter. You miss him. Why do you get so angry before you think about how you really feel?” Esther really tried her patience. “He probably misses you too.”
“He hasn’t written.”
“He’s put his life on the line for us. You should be hoping that he is safe.”
“Who is ‘us’? If he loved me, he wouldn’t have left. I need to go for a walk.” Esther pulled on her shoes.
“You are not going to escape this one. Sit down. Now. We need to make a plan.”
“I can’t be pregnant!”
“Esther, when two people live together someone gets pregnant, usually the woman.”
“You and Mark don’t have any children. Obviously this doesn’t happen to everyone.”
“But we want them.” Her eyes met Esther’s face. She sighed, and then asked, “If Peter did know, what would he want to do?”
“He does not believe in conventional marriages – he says people are too unhappy. I don’t have any evidence to the contrary. I haven’t had a letter from him. My God, he may not even be alive. I can’t have some bastard child.”
“Oh, yes you can. It’s not having one that is the problem.”
“Who would take care of it? My mother? She can’t stand children. She hated us, and we hated our governesses.” Esther began to gag. “I think I’m going to throw up again.”
“No, you’re not. I’ll make us some tea. You need to get your wits about you.”
“Can we get rid of it?”
“Get rid of what?”
“You know, ‘it.’”
A very sad expression crossed Sasha’s face, one of regret and confusion. “My mother did not plan on having me, but we managed very nicely. I can write Mark. Maybe he is able to get a message to Peter.”
“And then what? Peter should have written me. Obviously he doesn’t wish to. Anyway, I don’t want to manage…this. Leave me alone.”
Sasha stood up from the chair. “What, do you think you are just going to lay an egg and fly away? It doesn’t work that way.” That settled it. She would call on Esther’s mother and ask for help, living expenses or doctor’s fees at least. It was a family problem, not her problem. Sar
ah Goudberg would understand this. As she stormed through the door she called out, “Oh, and by the way, you are not alone any more. In fact, you will not ever be alone again.”
Sarah had listened intently to Sasha’s account. “Of course Esther is in trouble, we expected no less. The question is, ‘What do we do now that her lover is somewhere in England?’” She paused and looked around the parlor. “And no, we are not taking her in. However, I will call on our private doctor tomorrow and learn what our options are.”
It was nearly dark when Sasha returned to her sulking roommate. Esther looked up from her book. “Did you have a nice walk?”
“Oh, it was lovely.” Sasha pulled off her sweater and hung it on the hall tree. “It’s beginning to sprinkle though, and I didn’t have an umbrella with me.” Then she plopped down on the couch and picked up her tatting shuttle and cotton. A new lace collar was beginning to appear under the repetitive motions of her busy hands.
“I’m starving. What are we having for dinner?” Esther had not moved.
“Boiled babies,” Sasha retorted and then left the room.
***
Three days later Esther lay on the sheets and pillows listening to Dr. Hemelrijk’s clinical babble, talk that was about her but not directed at her.
“Sasha, please keep her knees bent. Let me know if she starts to shake. I’m going to give her a little something to relax her.” He squirted a little clear liquid out of the end of a sharp needle to make sure there was no air bubble, then took Esther’s wrist and punctured her upper arm. She winced and yelped. “You also must be quiet.” A tray of sterile instruments lay next to the dining table. Sasha and Esther had boiled every sheet and pillowcase in the house for twenty minutes, as directed by the doctor. Her white summer nightgown was already drenched in sweat, the animal smell of fear rising from her pores. Dr. Hemelrijk was about to perform a secret and highly illegal procedure. It was time.
Esther began to breathe slowly, her eyes closed. Slipping into the twilight sleep, she saw clouded images and heard voices from her final week with Peter. In the first days after Peter and Mark announced their intentions to fight, she remained silent. Peter had never spoken strongly of home or a homeland in the past. Commitments were for the bourgeois. He would get over it.
Islands of Deception Page 6