No one answers the door, so I ring the new bell again, pressing my face close to the glass. Same sitting room. Same wallpaper.
I knew it would make me nervous, to come here. I knew it would be uncomfortable. I didn’t anticipate the heaviness of the dread spreading through my stomach, though. I didn’t know I would have to root my feet in place so intentionally, just to make sure I didn’t run away.
Nothing—no noises from the inside, no flickers of light from a reading lamp. Nobody is home. It’s better this way, I tell myself. Safer. Easier. I’d planned for a million contingencies: Her at home, him at home, both of them at home, and this is the one I knew would be the best scenario for me. It’s why I came now, because Elsbeth’s family always had a big Sunday dinner at her grandmother’s house, and I bet this tradition has continued even through the war. So why does a part of me feel so disappointed to not see her face?
Another thing that hasn’t changed about this house: the spare key on top of the doorframe, slightly rusty, cold in my hand.
Everything smells the same: the whole house, like cloves and laundry powder, the way it always did, the odor particular to the Vos family, the one I know well enough to have it be comforting. But this time I’m not a guest, I remind myself. This time I’m working.
Before I can second-guess myself, I slip all the way inside. The master bedroom is upstairs, at the end of the hall. I almost never went inside it, though Elsbeth would occasionally sneak in and return with her mother’s rouge for us to practice applying. As soon as I step into it, I know it’s wrong, though. This room doesn’t feel occupied; the bed is piled with a half-finished sewing project.
My heart sinks. If Elsbeth and Rolf haven’t moved into the master bedroom, then that means I have to go into a room I was hoping to avoid. Back toward the stairwell. The first door on the right.
I open the door and am overrun by ghosts. Elsbeth’s bedroom is where I spent so many afternoons: practicing dances, pretending to do homework, ranking our favorite film stars. Talking about how we would grow up and have babies at the same time, and eventually become old women together, walking around the square and holding each other’s arms for support. Stop. Stop.
Her dressing gown hangs on the door. It still has a hole in the sleeve, from the time we smoked secret cigarettes on the balcony.
To steel myself against emotion, I’m clinging to the practicalities of breaking the law. Elsbeth used to share this room with her older sister. Nellie’s wardrobe was on the left and Elsbeth’s was on the right. When she installed her new husband in her childhood home, I bet she gave him Nellie’s old space to use for his clothing. That seems like something Elsbeth would do, telling him to shove things aside, make room for himself anywhere. He would discover one of Nellie’s forgotten brassieres, and Elsbeth would laugh at his embarrassment.
I slide open the left closet. I’m right. Inside, neatly pressed men’s clothes, slacks and shirts, hang in a row. These are the clothes that Elsbeth’s husband wears. Her husband. Rolf. For her new life, which I am not a part of.
No uniform, though. The uniform isn’t in here; I check twice. He must have at least two—one to wear and one to wash—but there’s nothing in here. Nothing draped over chairs, nothing lying across the quickly made bed. Where could it be?
Back in the hallway, I open the linen closet. Inside is a wicker basket, full of crumpled towels and bedsheets, waiting to be washed. I paw deeper, looking for flashes of gray and black, the color of death, the color of the Gestapo. Toward the bottom, I spot something dark-colored, so I pull it out.
How could I have forgotten? Elsbeth’s grandmother gave gifts in twos. The Tonsil didn’t fit, and Elsbeth gave it to me, giggling at my face when I opened the hideous dress. But Elsbeth had to keep its mate, another dress in dismal grayish purple.
It smells like her, like talcum powder and perfume, and I have a dozen memories of Elsbeth in this dress. Making faces when her mother suggested she wear it to a party. Wearing it anyway, but trying to “accidentally” spill punch on it. Gossiping at the party about what a good kisser Henk was, sagely telling me that a first kiss was never as good as a second one.
I kissed Ollie, I want to tell her. I kissed Ollie, and Bas is still dead, and how are you doing, and was it stupid for our friendship to end because you loved a boy, or is that just what happens?
I stuff the dress back into the laundry basket and grab at the black collar peeking out from the bottom. Rolf’s shirt. And just as I’m grabbing the matching pants below it, the front door opens.