It was six months after the invasion. My marks had plummeted, while the rest of the school tried to stagger on like everything was normal. Elsbeth was the only friend I still saw. She came over dutifully, every day, even while I stared at the wall and said nothing. She played with my hair, or told me the latest gossip, or brought random gifts that served no purpose other than to produce a shadow of a smile: A windup toy. A funny card. A lipstick in the ugliest shade of coral, which she smeared all over her mouth, puckering her lips and prancing around my room, telling me to kiss her.
One afternoon Elsbeth came over and sat on my floor, flipping through magazines she’d brought over, her latest effort to cheer me up. She was quieter than usual. I stared at my feet and Elsbeth smiled like a sphinx, like something had happened and she wanted me to guess what it was. Finally she couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Rolf loves me,” she said. “He told me yesterday, and I said it back.”
“No, you don’t,” I said automatically. “You don’t love him. You flirt with everyone.”
She pursed her lips, and I could tell she was gathering patience before responding. “I’ve flirted with enough boys to know the difference. I love Rolf. He wants to marry me. After the war, I’ll move back with him to Germany.”
“You can’t,” I told her, but even as I said it, I wasn’t sure what I was telling her she couldn’t do. Marry a German? Leave the country? Have somebody when I had nobody? Her words had bludgeoned me, bludgeoned even the parts of me I thought were already dead. How could she want to marry one of them? “You can’t, Elsbeth. You want me to be happy for you, but I can’t be. I can’t forgive you for loving the side that killed Bas.”
“Rolf didn’t kill Bas. Rolf doesn’t even want to be in this country. He wants the war to be over so he can go home,” she said. “He doesn’t agree with what Germany is doing—he was sent here. You’re just upset right now.”
“Of course I’m upset right now,” I exploded. “Can you even hear yourself? Are you listening to what you’re saying? You want to marry a Nazi, after what they did to Bas.”
“I’m sorry, Hanneke, that I can’t sit with you and be depressed forever,” she spat. “I’m sorry that my life is going to move on.”
“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry because it should be your boyfriend who is dead, not mine. I hope he dies soon.”
She looked at me for almost a full minute before she spoke again. “Maybe I better go for now,” she said finally. “I’m supposed to meet Rolf anyway.”
“Go,” I said. “And don’t ever come back.”
TWENTY-TWO
The streets are still quiet when I leave Mrs. de Vries’s. A few schoolchildren, a few milkmen and street sweepers, but otherwise, our early-morning meeting is over before I would normally even leave for work. I’m somewhere between euphoric and half dead; floating spots drift in front of my eyes whenever I look too long at one thing.
Maybe my parents aren’t awake yet. Maybe they went to bed last night and left the door unlocked for me. They’ve done it before. Not often. But at least twice they’ve gone to bed early without making sure that I came in before curfew. I peel my shoes off on the stoop of my building, tiptoeing up the inside stairs.
Three steps from the door, it flies open.
“Where have you been?” My mother crushes me to her chest. “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “I’m sorry; I was with some people, and I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. When it was past curfew, I just had to stay.”
“Which people?” Behind my mother, in his chair, my father’s face is flat and icy. He almost never gets angry, but when he does, it’s so much more terrible than my mother. “Which friend would let you make your parents worry?”
“Someone from work,” I elaborate. “I was helping Mr. Kreuk. It was for a funeral. He needed me to go talk to the family. That’s why I ran out of here so quickly yesterday; I almost forgot. They were grieving, and I didn’t feel like I could leave, and then curfew passed and I was stuck.”
“Mr. Kreuk?” she says.
“He apologizes, too.”
“I’m going to see him right now. I’m going to see him right now and tell him—”
“Of course,” I interject. “Of course you should go visit Mr. Kreuk. I only hope he doesn’t feel he needs to hire another person, if he can’t count on me to work nights in cases of emergency.” I’m praying that she won’t go see Mr. Kreuk. She won’t want to do anything to jeopardize my job.
“Do you have any idea what you put us through?” my father asks. “Do you have any idea what last night was like for us?”
“I do. I can imagine. But I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Mama releases me from her hug, turning toward my father. Her hands dart in front of her face, swiping. Is she crying? When she turns back to face me, there are no tears, but her face is red and blotchy.
“I’m sorry,” I start to say again, but she silences me with a shake of her head.
“Go and change your clothes, then come back for breakfast.”
“Go and… what?”