This is why I don’t want to be around Ollie. Because it’s not only his looks that are all wrong. Bas would beat the shirt off my father in a game of chess, gleefully teasing him while my father pretended to be upset. Ollie is losing methodically and gracefully. Ollie is like ersatz Bas.
“You made the chocolate.” I return to a safe topic, both for something else to say and because the rude part of me wants to convey that I don’t think Ollie’s visit warrants it.
“She wasn’t going to.” My father playfully jabs the air at my mother. “I told her we should.”
“I told her we shouldn’t,” Ollie offers. “I knew I couldn’t stay long. There’s no point in wasting it on me.” He mustn’t have exerted himself too much in protest. The cup next to him is almost empty.
“Will you stay for dinner, Olivier?” my mother asks. “It’s just spinach and potatoes with the skin.” Across the room, my father grimaces at the description of the food. The Bureau of Nutrition Education has distributed endless flyers encouraging us to eat potato skins, drink skim milk, try cow brains. My mother religiously follows the recipes in these pamphlets as her main acknowledgment of the war. “I’m happy to set another plate. Though we’re eating late tonight; you might not have time to get home before curfew.”
Now I know her smile is forced. It’s barely after six and curfew isn’t until eight. Ollie would have plenty of time to get home. It’s just that inviting Ollie for dinner, even if she likes him, is a step out of the ordinary, and that always makes her worry.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bakker. But I’ve already eaten. Actually, I was hoping Hanneke might come for a little walk with me.” He rubs his neck exaggeratedly. “I’ve been hunched over books studying most of the day. It would be good to have a walk and catch up.” Mama looks at the wall clock. “Just down the street,” he assures her. “I’ll have her back before curfew.” He nods toward the coat I never had a chance to take off. “And look, you’re already dressed for it. Unless you’d rather we just stay in and talk with your parents.”
Something about the final suggestion makes me feel his invitation isn’t one after all. He’s suggesting that we go for a private walk, but if we don’t, he’ll say what he needs to in front of my family.
“I’ll be back soon,” I reassure my mother, and then look to Ollie. “Very soon.”
Even though the rain has stopped, it’s still damp, the kind of frigid humidity that makes you feel icicled and wet all the way through.
Ollie doesn’t bother to offer me his arm. He just places his hands carefully in his pockets and begins to stroll, assuming I’ll follow him, and because I don’t have a choice, I do. “It’s been a long time,” he tells me. “Your hair is longer. You look older.”
“Better than the alternative,” I respond immediately with the joke my father always uses whenever someone tells him he’s looking older. Ollie cocks his head.
“What’s the alternative?” he asks.
And then I don’t know what to say, because the only alternative to growing older is to be dead, and after Bas, Ollie and I don’t make those kinds of jokes anymore.
“Where are we going?” I ask instead of answering.
He shrugs as if he hasn’t really thought about it. “Het Rembrandtplein?”
It’s one of my favorite squares in Amsterdam, with a statue of the painter in the middle and cafés around the border, where Mama used to take me for special treats. Coffee for her, hot anise milk for me. I haven’t been able to stand the taste of anise milk for two and a half years. I was drinking it when I heard the radio broadcast that the Dutch had surrendered.
Ollie asks me about my job, and I ask him about his studies, and he says he’s moved out of his parents’ home to live with a roommate closer to the university. But I can tell both of us are only half listening, and by the time we reach the corner, I drop the pretense. “Why are you really here, Ollie? I don’t think your mother just thought of me.”
“I would bet that my mother thinks of you every day,” he says, “since you’re a connection to Bas.”
I can’t tell if he’s meant that to be as painful as it is.
“But you’re right,” he continues. “That’s not why I’m here.” Ahead of us, another couple walks slowly, heads tilted toward each other the way people do when they’re newly in love. Ollie stops, pretending to read a plaque on a wall, but I’ve used this trick myself enough to recognize he’s creating distance so the other couple won’t hear him. “What did you want at the Jewish Lyceum, Hanneke?”
“The what?”
He repeats his question.
I swallow. “Why would I go to the Jewish high school?”
“Do you think you have to lie to me?”
“I already graduated from school. Not with marks like yours, but they gave me a diploma and everything.”
“Hanneke, stop playing dumb. I’m not the one whose mother is waiting for her at home, worried about curfew. I can have this conversation until dawn or we’re arrested. Whichever you prefer.”