I thought I knew so much then. I thought the world was so black-and-white. Hitler was bad, and so we should stand up to him. The Nazis were immoral, and so they would eventually lose. If I had truly paid attention, I might have realized that our tiny country had absolutely no hope of defending itself, not when bigger countries like Poland had already fallen. I should have guessed that when Hitler told our country in a radio address that he had no plans to invade and we had nothing to fear that it meant his soldiers were already packing their parachutes and we had everything to fear. Joining the military wasn’t a symbolic statement. It was a fool’s errand.
So that’s why I hadn’t talked to Ollie in more than two years. That’s why I dream of Bas coming to me, angry that I never read his letter. That’s how I learned that being brave is sometimes the most dangerous thing to be, that it’s a trait to be used sparingly. That’s why, if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve become obsessed with finding Mirjam. Because it seems like a fair and right exchange: saving one life after destroying another.
I’m to blame for Bas’s death. Bas was stupid to love me. I only got him killed. It was my fault.
THIRTEEN
Fifty-two hours. I learned of Mirjam Roodveldt’s disappearance fifty-two hours ago. Two sleepless nights. Three encounters with German soldiers. One rescued baby. One still-missing girl. I haven’t seen Mrs. Janssen since I first agreed to help, so I bicycle to her house as soon as Ollie leaves, in the twilight before curfew, to tell her everything that has happened. She installs me at the kitchen table immediately, producing more real coffee and a plate of small croissants. When I bite into one, my mouth fills with almond paste. Banketstaaf, my favorite. Mrs. Janssen remembered from last time and had them waiting.
“I thought of a few more things also,” she says after I sketch out what I’ve learned so far. “About Mirjam. I’m sure they’re not helpful; they’re just things I keep thinking about.” She produces a piece of paper, squinting. “Number one: You said it would be dangerous to go to the neighbors, but Mirjam once mentioned a nice maintenance man in her building. Maybe you could talk to him? Number two: She liked the cinema a lot. She knew all the stars. Are there movie houses open still? You could try seeing if anyone had seen her there. Number three: She was a quiet girl, Hanneke. She didn’t like talking about her family; it made her too sad. She wasn’t afraid to ask about my family, though. Even Jan. Some people are afraid to ask about him, but Mirjam asked me lots of questions. I would come in to bring her a cup of tea, and we would talk and talk until it was late. And she was polite. She hated beets, but she never complained about eating them, not once. She never complained at all.”
Mrs. Janssen looks up at me. “Should I go on?”
“No. No, that was very helpful.”
So much happened today: the hidden camera, and Ollie, and the horrible red glow of the barren stage at the theater. I almost haven’t had time to work through how it all made me feel. And when I do think about it now, I feel ashamed.
Because when I first told Mrs. Janssen that I would find Mirjam, I had been viewing her as a discrete puzzle that I could try to solve. A way that I could put order back in my corner of the world. A way that I could take revenge on the Nazi system—a missing girl, like a missing pack of cigarettes. A way of finding the person I used to be. But in that horrible theater, and now in Mrs. Janssen’s kitchen listening to her talk about Mirjam uncomplainingly eating beets, I am finally thinking of her as what I know she has been all along: a life, a scared girl, one of many.
“Should I burn this paper now?” Mrs. Janssen asks, holding up the notes she just read from.
I hesitate and then nod. “Yes, probably.”
“All right.”
She searches for the matches near the stove but doesn’t seem to see them, even though they’re less than a foot from her hand.
“Mrs. Janssen, where are your glasses?”
Her fingers fly up to her nose, where two deep marks are still indented on the bridge. “Oh. I dropped them. Behind the armoire.”
“When?”
“The morning after you left.”
“That was a couple of days ago.”
“I know where everything is in this house, for the most part.”
I feel nauseated with this thought of her, bumping around the house with her cane, half blind, ordering almond pastries on the chance that I’ll come over to eat them, wishing that she still had someone to ask about her son. She’s so alone now.
I brush the crumbs off my fingers. “Take me to the armoire. I’ll get your glasses.”
She leads me through the house to her bedroom, talking. “I’m just getting used to living alone. The boys or Hendrik would have helped me with my glasses. And then Mirjam, she would have. There’s just always been someone around to help me. You know, I used to be a career girl, like you. Forty years ago, when almost no women worked, I met Hendrik because he hired me to be his shop assistant. I thought I was so independent, but then my life became about caring for other people, and now I don’t want to be alone. I never would have thought.”
Mrs. Janssen’s armoire looks clunky and heavy, made of oak. I won’t be able to move it on my own. Underneath, I can see Mrs. Janssen’s glasses, but the space is too slim for my arm to squeeze through.