“Your clothes. I’m going to cook breakfast. You are going to eat breakfast. You are never going to stay out all night without telling us, ever again. But right now, you are going to change your clothes and comb your hair, and we will not speak of this morning.”
I don’t know why she’s offering me this reprieve—maybe it’s just that she’s as exhausted as I am, maybe she doesn’t want to fight today—but I’ll take it.
In the bedroom, I drag a comb through my hair and pull on a plaid dress that Mama loves but I hate. It’s an olive branch gesture, and she’ll recognize it that way. My bed is still unmade from yesterday morning, and I desperately wish I could crawl into it. Instead, I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and pinch life back into my cheeks. I want to see Ollie and the rest of the group, so we can keep making plans. But we’d been awake so long, we decided it was better to rest, change clothes, and freshen up. Ollie said he would find me later.
When I come out of my bedroom, Mama’s rushing around the kitchen, pulling food out of the cupboards, not just the porridge that we usually have for breakfast, but the rest of our eggs and a side of ham I didn’t even realize Mama was saving. Instead of the careful, responsible rationing she usually does, Mama is making breakfast like there is no war, like everything is normal.
“Bread?” she asks when she hears me come in, her upper body buried in the pantry. “If I sliced bread, would you eat it?”
I glance at Papa, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to respond, but he won’t meet my gaze. “If you want to, slice it. I’ll eat anything you make.”
We sit down at the table to more food than we normally have in a week. I can tell Papa doesn’t believe my lie. His eyes are on me with every bite I take, while I talk about any silly thing I can think of—the weather, the loose button on my skirt, the good price I saw on turnips—and secretly wonder how long I’ll have to wait for Ollie to arrive. Will he try to get in contact with Judith first, to see if she has any ideas? Did he even specifically say he would come to me, or was I supposed to find him? I’m so tired I’m not even thinking clearly. Should I go to Leo’s and wait?
It’s Sunday, not a day I normally work, so I don’t have any excuse to leave the house. Mama is watching me like a hawk anyway. Instead of escaping, I help with the chores that didn’t get finished yesterday. We wash the windows, sweep the floors, and finish polishing the silver. When we run out of polish, I hopefully suggest that I could go borrow some from a neighbor, but Mama triumphantly produces another jar. When I suggest that I could go buy a newspaper for us all to read, Papa is the one who stops me, saying he has an idea of something he’d much rather listen to than news stories.
“Why don’t you play something, Gerda,” my father encourages my mother.
“Oh, a neighbor could be napping, and I need to peel the beets for lunch,” she protests.
“No, play something, Mama. I’ll peel the beets.”
At first I suggest it because I think music will put her in a good mood. But when she sits down at the piano, I’m longing to hear her play, too, like she used to. Before the war, I’d be able to hear the music from halfway down the block, first a melody played by my mother and then a student’s plodding, clunky version a few seconds later.
She doesn’t play at once, just lets her hands rest on the keys. When she finally starts, it’s a beginner’s tune, one she even managed to teach me before admitting I had no musical skill. It’s basic and simple, not the kind of music you would play to show off. The paring knife hangs in my hand. This song reminds me of being young and carefree. She plays it again and again, each time adding a new variation that makes the tune more complex, until the original simple melody is barely audible beneath the trills and chords on top of it. It’s still there, though, when I listen closely.
After an hour, Mama is lost in the music and Papa dozes in his chair. I think my transgression is mostly forgiven. In another hour, I’ll try to leave. I’ll tell them I’ve made plans with Ollie. They like him. Just when I’ve settled on that plan, I hear a noise, under the sounds of Mama’s playing. Mama hears it, too, and stops, her fingers poised a few centimeters off the keys.
“Hanneke!” The call comes from downstairs, and since the voice is half whispering, it’s hard to make out who it belongs to.
I throw the window open with beet-stained fingers, leaning my chest out to see who’s standing on our stoop. “Ollie? Are you there?”
“No, it’s me.” A tall figure standing next to a bicycle steps back and removes his hat.
“Willem? What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry,” he shout-whispers, trying not to disturb the neighbors. “Ollie gave me your address but not your apartment number. I didn’t know which buzzer to ring.”
“I’ll be right down.”
As soon as I close the window, Mama stands, the piano bench scraping across the floor. “Who is that?”