As it is, we’re supposed to listen only to approved propaganda. It’s illicit to tune in to the BBC, which, along with underground newspapers, is our only source of real news now that the Dutch papers have been taken over. The Dutch government in exile broadcasts through that channel sometimes; we call it Radio Orange. Mama forbids the BBC entirely, terrified of getting caught, but Papa and I don’t mind it at a low volume, with all the windows closed and towels stuffed under the doors to keep sound from escaping. Papa listens to the words that the British newscasters say. My English isn’t as good as his, so I muddle through and he helps me later with anything I’ve missed.
The radio tuned to a droning hum, I go back to Mirjam’s belongings in my lap. The dates on the pages are all from the late summer or early fall, just weeks before she would have gone into hiding. Her papers all have high marks on them, and she kept a running tally of her grades compared to everyone else’s. She was a good student. Much better than I ever was. In addition to the schoolwork, she’s kept a few torn-out magazine pictures of fashionable dresses and grand houses.
The quiet hum of the radio has been overtaken by a rhythmic sawing sound. Papa is snoring in his chair. As I sort through the papers, another flutters out. This one is smaller than the others, and folded intricately into a star pattern. The folding is familiar—I once spent two days learning to fold my notes just this way, instead of paying attention in math. It was a popular way girls in my school passed notes; Elsbeth learned first and then taught the rest of us.
It takes me a minute to remember how to open it, but once I find the right corner to start with, the rest comes back easily. It’s the only paper written in casual printing rather than the formal cursive of a school assignment, and the handwriting is tiny. It looks like the sort of note Elsbeth and I used to pass, composed in secret behind our textbooks and handed off as we passed in the hallway.
Dear Elizabeth,
I’m sitting in math, and the teacher has this loose sole on his shoe, and every time he takes a step it makes the rudest noise you ever heard. It’s practically indecent, and everyone is laughing at it. I wish you were in this class. I think T noticed me today, a proper noticing, not just accidentally stepping on my foot, or handing me my pencil after I drop it next to his desk, or saying “Excuse me” when I run into him in the hallway. (Have I mentioned I’ve tried all these things, Elizabeth? Have I mentioned I have become so pathetic that I have resorted to standing near doors when I know he’s going to walk through them? Yes, darling, it is true. I am literally throwing myself in harm’s way so he will talk to me. I can’t believe that when we were little, he used to come and eat toast at my house after school and now I can’t even say two words to him.) But! Today was different. Today in literature class I stood up to give my presentation and I made a little joke, and T laughed, a genuine chuckle, and afterward he told me it was a funny joke. A funny joke! So I’m not as pathetic as I feared. (Or am I?)
I miss you, dearest duckie, and write back soon, sooner, soonest!
Love and Adoration,
Margaret
I read the letter again, and then once more, the familiar rhythms of friendship sparking out from the page.
Didn’t I tell Elsbeth about the first time I made Bas laugh in a note just like this one? How many notes did I once write, full of secrets and stories and folded into a perfect star? How many did I receive? Elsbeth gave me a box for them once, for the dozens of folded star-letters. It was an old cigar box that had been pasted over with colorful papers, and then shellacked with varnish: a just-because present. I asked her if she made it herself, and she laughed. “God, no. I’m not going to get my hands dirty like that. I just saw it and thought you’d like it, silly. To put notes in.” That was Elsbeth. Generous and careless, giving presents that never made you feel indebted for receiving them, because they were done so casually. “You should tell Bas that another boy gave it to you,” she said. “Make him jealous.”
Do I still have that box somewhere? Would I still recognize myself in those letters?
Here is the thing about my grief: It’s like a very messy room in a house where the electricity has gone out. My grief over Bas is the darkness. It’s the thing that’s most immediately wrong in the house. It’s the thing that you notice straight off. It covers everything else up. But if you could turn the lights back on, you would see there are lots of other things still wrong in the room. The dishes are dirty. There is mold in the sink. The rug is askew.
Elsbeth is my askew rug. Elsbeth is my messy room. Elsbeth is the grief I would allow myself to feel, if my emotions weren’t so covered in darkness.
Because Elsbeth isn’t dead. Elsbeth is living twenty minutes away, with a German soldier. She says she loves him. She probably does. I met him once. Rolf. He was handsome and tall; he had a friendly smile. He even said the right things, like how he knew all the boys wanted Elsbeth and he felt lucky to have her, how he worked for someone high up in the Gestapo and if I ever needed anything, I should let him know because a friend of Elsbeth’s was a friend of his. I shook his hand and wanted to throw up.