“I don’t remember. No? I’m not sure. Yes? Can’t you tell me what’s happening?”
“I’m going to come over later,” I tell her before hanging up. “I don’t know when, but I will.”
Mirjam Roodveldt didn’t have a birthmark but did have scars on her knee. The girl on Mr. Kreuk’s table had a birthmark, definitely, but no scars. The girl in Mrs. Janssen’s pantry may or may not have had a birthmark; Mrs. Janssen doesn’t remember seeing one, but admits she could have been wrong. Now the girl is in the ground and it’s too late for me to get confirmation from any of the people who could identify her.
Was I right all along, that day I told Ollie that it might not be Mirjam at the theater? Do I still have a chance to save the real girl?
Back in the office, Mina sits where I left her. She doesn’t ask me who was on the phone. She’s obviously beyond the point of expecting answers. The slide is still projected on the wall. Everything looks the same as it did five minutes ago. Nothing makes any sense. There are the soldiers. There are the frightened people. The brown coats. The lavender hats.
On my third pass, I see it. Something that all at once seems so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. “Something is off with this picture,” I whisper.
“What do you mean? The color might be off; the film was developed in a hurry.”
“Not that.” I move out of the way so Mina can see what I’m talking about. “Look at this closely. Really closely. Tell me if you notice anything about this girl’s face.”
Mina wrinkles her forehead. “I already told you; it’s blurry, and it’s hard to see her face. But I think she looks scared. As I would expect.”
“Not the expression. The direction.” I use the tip of my finger to draw explanatory lines in the air. “Here’s the soldier, to the left. Do you see? Giving instructions to the prisoners. And just in front of him is his partner.”
“And?”
“And every other person in the picture looks afraid of the soldiers. See the way this soldier is pointing? And how everyone else is looking in the direction he’s pointing? It looks like he’s telling everyone which way to go in the theater.”
Realization begins to dawn on Mina’s face. “What is Mirjam looking at?”
Mirjam’s face is pointed in another direction. She’s not paying attention to the soldiers at all. Whatever she’s looking at is far in the distance, out of the frame of the shot. It’s possible that it’s just a fluke, that she’d been looking at the soldiers, and a noise or a movement distracted her. That’s the most logical possibility and I know it. But I can’t get rid of another feeling.
Mirjam doppelg?nger, whoever you are. Is it possible that Nazis weren’t the only thing you were afraid of?
THIRTY-ONE
Mrs. Janssen doesn’t answer the door when I knock. I try again, as loud as I dare without drawing too much attention to myself. “Hello? Mrs. Janssen, it’s me, Hanneke,” I say softly.
“She went out,” a voice calls, a middle-aged woman standing on the stoop across the street. Mrs. Veenstra, the woman whose son was missing in the country on the day Mirjam disappeared. Or not-Mirjam.
“Mrs. Janssen never goes out on her own.”
“I know that, but she did, about ten minutes ago. I told her I could pick up anything she needed, but she said she needed to go herself.”
“Did she say where?”
“No, but she looked upset. I figured she’d had bad news about one of her sons. Do you want to wait in my house until she comes back?”
“I’ll just wait—” I’m about to say that I’ll just wait on her steps when I realize I never tried the doorknob. I surreptitiously twist it now, and the door pops open. Next door, Fritzi starts barking. “I’ll just wait inside. She’s expecting me anyway.”
Mrs. Veenstra looks uncertain. “I wanted to make sure I came today,” I babble pleasantly, trying to think of an excuse that will convince her I belong in this house. “You know, with Jan’s birthday. It’s probably why she’s so upset. I bet she’s at church.” I have no idea when Jan’s birthday is, but I doubt Mrs. Veenstra will remember any better than I do, and I hope she can’t sense how uncomfortable I am. A week ago, I was at this house, reminding myself how to behave on a social call. Now I’m reminding myself how to tell lies and excuses again. “Would you like me to pass on your thoughts as well?” I ask.