“You know what I’m talking about. The ways I frustrate you. The way you look to your father for reassurance when you can’t stand my questions.”
She’s right; I think these things at least three times a day. I say them to her at least once a day. But not now, while her face looks so lost and vulnerable.
“It’s just that I’ve seen wars, Hanneke,” she continues. “I know what can happen in them. I know what can happen to young girls in them. I try to protect you so you can grow up and not have to worry as much as I do. There is nothing in the world I care about more than you. Do you understand?”
I nod, flustered, but before I can figure out how to respond, Mama puts the birthday card down again, rising to her feet and brushing the dust off her skirt. She kisses the top of my head, perfunctorily. “Enough of a break. Back to the rugs.” Moments later, the whacking on the balcony starts up again.
Mama’s right that this closet had become a mess; some of these papers are years old. Papa and I are both packrats: he because of sentimentality and me because I never want to throw away anything that could be worth something. These days we find uses for things two or three times again. Mama will keep some of these papers to light fires; others will be used to wash windows or line our shoes.
“Mama, where are your sewing scissors?” I call into the hallway, thinking of the way my feet got so cold when I was trapped in the rain the other day. “I was going to make some liners.”
Once I have the scissors, I place my shoes on top of a sheet of newspaper. Before making the first tracing, though, I see the newspaper I’m about to ruin is from Mama’s birthday. Papa won’t want me to use that one; he saves the newspapers from our birthdays every year. The one underneath is an issue of Het Parool, one that I vaguely remember being given by a customer several weeks ago, one that I should have destroyed long before now rather than store in my house. I’ll use it to make liners. I like the idea of that small rebellion, carrying a paper piece of the resistance in my shoes.
Mama’s shears have been freshly sharpened, and they cut through newsprint like nothing. I’m halfway through cutting the second liner. The scissors slip through my hands to the ground.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
I bring the shredded newspaper closer. Am I imagining things? But no: There it is, inadvertently circled by the tracing I’d made. I read the newsprint again, the words swimming in front of me.
“Hannie, what was that noise?”
Mama’s voice comes like I’m hearing it from underwater, far away and muted. “What?” I ask finally, unable to drag my eyes away from the paper.
“What happened to my floor?” She sighs, coming into the room. I look down dully. The shears are sticking out of the floor, gouging a hole in Mama’s maple. “Oh, Hannie. I’ll get the floor polish; we’ll see if we can—”
“I need to go.” I scramble to my feet, riffling through my closet for a clean skirt and pulling off my nightgown without even asking for the privacy I usually demand while changing.
“You need to go? Where?”
My blouse and skirt hideously clash; I’ve put on the first clothing my hands touched. “You’re wearing that?” Mama frowns. “Why are you getting dressed now?”
“I have to go.”
“But we’ve barely started the chores! Hanneke, that blouse really doesn’t match.”
I brush past her and collect my coat from the closet. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Hannie!” Mama is still calling after me as I run downstairs, take my bicycle, and start down the street.
I pedal furiously through my neighborhood, taking the potholed roads I usually avoid because I know today they’ll be faster. Is it just a coincidence? What I saw in the paper, was it just a coincidence? It wasn’t, though. I know it wasn’t.
Across the street, an old classmate of mine is shopping at Mrs. Bierman’s store. She waves her hand in greeting, but I don’t stop. I don’t stop, either, for the customer of Mr. Kreuk’s who calls out my name, wanting to place an order for next week’s delivery.
When I get to Mrs. Janssen’s house, I leave my bicycle leaning against it, more exposed than I would usually, pushing past her as soon as she answers the door.
“Is something wrong?” She doesn’t have her cane, and she grasps the armrest to balance herself against the sofa.
“I need to get in the hiding place again.”
“Why? What have you found?”
In the kitchen, I open the pantry, shoving canned goods aside. Mrs. Janssen limps behind me. “Do you think there’s something we missed?” She watches me as I unlatch the secret door, pushing into the small room. “Hanneke, what did we miss?”