“We will have someone look after that. Right now we need boats and pilots.”
“Well, you don’t want his piece-of-junk boat. That thing hasn’t run for a long time. And he’s a crappy pilot.”
“We need Mr. Koopman.”
“I’ve got the boat you need and I’d be happy to go instead.”
“Oh, Martin,” my mother whispered. Words meant for him alone.
“We came for Mr. Koopman,” the soldier said.
“Yes, but look, he’s got his nice family here, and you’ll see that you need him for the factory. Besides, if you want boats, mine works. It’s bigger, and I’m your man.” Uncle Martin gave a full smile to the soldiers now. He had switched into his charming Dutchman mode of speaking. “Look at me, boys. I’m a bigger catch than this one anyway. Let me get my coat.”
“We need Mr. Koopman,” the soldier said.
“Well, you’re getting one better,” Uncle Martin said as he walked to the closet to get his coat. Fergus lurched to get close and sniff the men.
My mother reached up to my uncle and hugged him around the neck. “Thank you, Martin,” she whispered.
I felt sick with uncertainty.
“Let’s go, men,” Uncle Martin said, moving his giant body into the door frame so both soldiers had to step back out of the house. By force of his will, the two men turned when he had their shoulders under each arm and they didn’t turn back as he walked with them to their car.
My uncle, without hesitation, sacrificed himself so my father wouldn’t have to go. Part of me wanted my father to go with them though, wanted him to be needed. Then the soldiers pulled down the driveway and the back of my uncle’s head rocked back and forth in the car, still talking to the two men in the front, like they were now the best of friends. When the car rounded the corner, the quick flash of the headlights blinked along the trees as they pushed down the road and out of sight.
THE LIGHTHOUSE LADY
7
Father Heard came to our house one Sunday night.
When my father opened the door, the two men hugged in the vestibule.
“Come in. Come in,” my father said.
They stepped into the living room, where I sat with my mother. She stood, pinched the blue bathrobe tight around her neck, waved, and walked out of the room. Several minutes later she came back in after changing into black slacks and a loose, button-up gray sweater that she held tight at her waist. Her hair was still tangled and flattened from lying on the couch. She held a plate with a cut-up pear and cheese slices.
“I need to speak with you, Hans,” Father Heard said.
He had received a letter that the Dutch archbishop had sent to all the priests in the country with the order to read it aloud to their parish congregation that Tuesday. Father Heard placed the letter on the coffee table next to the untouched plate of cheese and the pear slices, already browning.
The simultaneous reading of the letter was meant to inspire a general strike of workers in Amsterdam. The news from the rest of Holland, funneled in by commuting workers, said the encroaching Germans had removed Jews from all public functions, including universities. Protests had begun in Leiden and spread throughout the country. The Germans sought control and were met with violence. Jewish sections of Amsterdam had been fenced off and non-Jews were blocked from entering. They rounded up over four hundred Jewish men and took them away, to where we didn’t know.
“Jacob should go upstairs,” my mother said.
“No, he needs to hear this,” my father said.
Some part of me thought those missing young men had been taken to the training camps in Germany, that they would be shown movies and taught songs, and be returned champions. But I soon learned that the Germans had stationed machine-gun nests around the Jewish quarter, a fact that couldn’t fit into my understanding of things.
The archbishop’s response to the current unrest was this letter. Father Heard said it contested the alleged mistreatment of the Jewish population by the Germans in the country. Though, of course, there was never any mention of it in the new German newspapers, which had started circulating in the town the previous fall, the archbishop had ordered the Catholic Church to voice its concern to the congregation, to draw light to what was happening.
“I’m going to read it. I came to tell you because we’re friends, and I know it may complicate your relationship with the Germans in your factory.”
“But, Father, this might not be safe for you,” my father said. “Let’s think about this. We can play it safer, I’m sure.”
“Hans. I am going to call the congregation together. My mind is made up. Like I said, I’m trying to be respectful and give you fair warning.”
“This sounds bad to me,” my father said, and I heard the tremulousness in his voice. For years, my mind would crawl back to this revelation, and I would blame my own timidity on the intense shadow he cast over my childhood. I come back to this conversation as the one that illuminated my father’s cautious and scared nature, which felt to me like my unfortunate birthright. It had slipped right past Edwin, who was certain about his life and how to carry himself, while it struck me clean on.
“They’re trying to silence us,” Father Heard said. His upper lip rose over the jumbled line of his yellowed teeth. The whites of his eyes engulfed the dark iris. Blood pumped to his large ears.
“But we don’t want to stir up trouble. Make things worse.”
“Hans. How is the status quo working for you? How has that been going?”
“I don’t want to risk anything else.”
“We have to. Look around you, Hans,” Father Heard spoke in his booming sermon voice. Then he lowered his tone. “Look around. Edwin’s gone. Look at Drika here.” He held his hand out to my mourning mother. “Your factory. And for heaven’s sake, Martin has now taken up with them. Seemingly in spirit as much as in body.”
“Leave him out of this,” my mother spit out.
Father Heard took a moment. “Security is off the table. Nothing is safe, and that’s why I have to do this.”
My mother picked up a pillow, cradled it in her lap, and sunk her face into it. My father turned to look out the window.
“I’m sorry to be so harsh,” Father Heard said. “But the archbishop’s letter is the voice of reason. The voice of pacifism in the face of all of this aggression.”
My father held up his hand to stop him from talking. “Jacob. See Father Heard to the door please.”
Father Heard picked up his letter and let me lead him out.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday, I’m sure,” he said as he left the room.