*
For three days in a row I wait outside of her school without seeing her. Is she ill? Has he moved her? Did something else happen? Girls walk down the steps of the schoolhouse arm in arm, chatting with each other, making plans. I search their smiling faces, and none of them look like Non. But on the fourth day, when I see a solemn dark-haired girl walking alone, I know that it’s her. All of the other girls are carefree; there’s a misery in this young girl’s face that makes her look older than her years.
My heart beats too quickly. I could call to her, reveal myself. But what would I say? And where would I go to spirit her away? I’m still waiting for my own passage to France. I have no papers for my daughter. The old woman waiting for her across the street would scream for help. And then what? Would we run? Would Non want to leave with me?
A thousand scenarios pass through my head. In the end, I simply watch her while she walks away, committing every detail of my daughter to memory. The way her hair falls in dark curls down her back, her slender waist, her blue school uniform. I drink her in until she disappears from sight.
*
A newspaper has been delivered and waits outside my room at the hotel where I’m staying until I can sail for Paris. The lead story describes a French cavalry unit dressed in blue feathers, red caps, and newly polished brass buckles. As they rode their horses into battle they mocked the British soldiers they were meant to aid. “Cowards!” they yelled. “You English are not fighters. We will show you how it is done.” Two hundred Frenchmen armed with lances charged into machine-gun fire. “Not one of them asked us what the Germans were fighting with,” an English soldier is quoted. “And not one of them came back.”
I think of von Schilling. He would say, “This is why Deutschland will prevail.” And I feel a true jolt of fear. What if France doesn’t prevail? What will happen to us? What will happen to The Netherlands?
I go downstairs and gather a copy of every newspaper in the lobby, then read them from front to back in my room. Milk shortages in Paris. Not enough petrol in the south of France. Then a small article buried deep in Le Figaro about a man from Normandy caught with invisible inks and working for the Germans. What if I could use invisible ink to communicate with Non? Where would I find such a thing? And how would she know how to decipher it?
I phone the consulate and learn my ship won’t leave for Paris for one more week. I will spend every afternoon outside the yellow schoolhouse, secretly watching Non.
*
I am eager to leave Amsterdam for Paris. I will apologize to Edouard. I will tell him whatever he wants to hear. That he was right, that he’s always been right, that it was foolish of me to insist on staying in Germany. Then I will ask him to renew his efforts to bring Non home to me, whatever the cost. I want him to come with us to New York. This is where we will finally find refuge. I’m certain of this after reading an article about the generosity of the Americans: GIVES $18,000 CHECK TO HELP ARMENIANS
Stranger First Decided on $5,000 but Tale of Suffering Caused Him to Increase Amount.
A well-dressed but unassuming man walked modestly into the office of the American Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief, 708 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, the other day, and inquired for the secretary. He named a Middle West State as his home, and said he had been thinking about making a contribution on “Armenian Sunday,” October 22, to help the Armenian refugees in Turkey, but had concluded, from what he had read in the newspapers, that money is badly needed now.
“I can give $5,000.” He said, “but I would like to hear something about the facts.”
The assistant secretary of the committee, Walter Mallory, summarized the situation in accordance with information which had been received in recent letters and cablegrams. One of the facts stated by Mr. Mallory is that there are about a million Armenian and Syrian Christian refugees in Turkey and Persia, largely women and children, nearly all of whom are destitute. Deported from their homes by Turkish soldiers, many thousands are suffering for lack of the bare necessities of life. Then he began to tell of sacrifices which contributors to the relief fund had made.
The visitor listened to the story of a minister in Ohio who had written that from a salary of $80 a month his wife and himself would contribute $40 a month for six months.