The Cohens nod politely at me, and then Mrs. Cohen suggests to her husband that Mina and I might like some privacy. They leave; Mrs. de Vries stays, as if unwilling to allow any conversations in her house she is not privy to.
“Here, I’ll show you our hiding place,” Mina says, taking my hand and pulling me toward the cupboard entrance before I have a chance to say no. The entrance smells like paint, the only clue that this hiding space has been recently constructed. The craftsmanship is impeccable. From the outside, it looks like it was built at the same time as the rest of the apartment. There are even scuff marks on the baseboards. Mrs. Janssen’s hidden pantry is amateurish by comparison.
“We only have to go in here when strangers come,” Mina explains. “The rest of the time we can move around the apartment.” She closes the cupboard door again, and the entrance all but disappears. “When I got here yesterday, they made me practice, again and again, seeing how quickly all of us could gather our things, get into the hiding place, make sure we hadn’t left anything out that would give us away. You should see one of our drills.”
“I’d like that, but not now,” I mutter, distracted. When Mina shut the hiding place door, it created a breeze, causing the window curtain to flutter open and reveal a view of a large, familiar stone building.
“The Schouwburg,” I whisper. “This apartment building is right across the street from the Schouwburg.”
I’ve only ever seen out the front windows of the de Vrieses’ apartment building. Because I’d never been invited farther into the family’s living quarters, I never put together what the view would be from the rear. Now I know why Ollie gave me this address.
“Mina. Did you—” My mouth has gone dry. I swallow and start again. “Did you see the group arrive yesterday after the razzia?”
Mina nods. “It was just after I came here. There was so much yelling. I stood behind the curtain and watched it all, feeling so guilty that I was safe, and everyone down there wasn’t.”
“This is important. Did you see Mirjam? Did you see her be brought in with those people?”
“Mirjam was in that group?”
“I don’t know. Someone with her last name was. So you didn’t see her? Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I didn’t know to look for her.”
Another door closing. Another hope slipping away.
“I did take pictures,” she offers, using her sleeve to wipe her eyes.
“You took pictures?”
“I left behind clothes so I could fit my new camera in my suitcase. I wanted to still be doing something. Even if I’m stuck in here, I can still take pictures of everything happening out there.”
“Can I see them? Your pictures?”
Her face falls. “They’re not developed yet. I just took them a day ago.”
“Let’s get someone to develop them, then. I’m sure we can find someone to trust.” Mentally, I scroll through my list of black market clients, thinking of the artistic ones who might have basement darkrooms. There was the owner of an art gallery once, but when I went to his house, he had pamphlets with Adolf Hitler’s face lying on the coffee table.
Mina shakes her head. “We can’t—they’re Anscochrome.”
“What do you mean?” I’ve never heard this word before.
“They’re Anscochrome. It’s a color film, the special brand I was waiting for at my birthday. Most photographers won’t have dealt with it before; it’s a German-American brand. Even if we wanted to risk getting it across the border to a sympathetic German photographer, it would take weeks to come back.”
“But maybe a teacher at an art school, or someone who works at a newspaper… they could rush it, or—”
“It’s not a matter of hurrying. It’s that regular photographers might mess this film up.”
“But…” I trail off, frustrated. I can think of ways to find almost anything. But I don’t know how to find a photographer to develop a film I’ve never heard of.
“Give the camera to me,” Mrs. de Vries says. It had been so long since she’d spoken I’d almost forgotten she was still in the room. There she is, in the corner, her arms folded elegantly. “Give it to me,” she repeats, a note of irritation in her voice. “I’ll take it to one of my husband’s business contacts.”
“His business contacts?” I repeat blankly.
“He publishes a magazine,” she reminds me. “A fashion magazine, full of photographs.”
“But Mina just said that this is special film.”
“And he has special contacts.” She raises one eyebrow. “He knows all sorts of people with access to technology in private darkrooms. I won’t promise, but I’ll try. Give it to me.”
Mina looks at me again, and I nod at her to give the camera to Mrs. de Vries. “Please be careful,” she begs. “It’s so expensive, and those photographs are dangerous.”