Then, in a frenzied attack, she snatched the lapel of his coat, jerking him so aggressively that he stumbled down his two steps as she pulled her face close to his. “Help me, please,” she screamed. “Please help me!”
Before Held could even respond, someone was upon her. It happened so fast that over the many times he would recall the event, it would still have the turbulent confusion of a frantic nightmare; a fractured vision of jarring and maniacal memory. An arm around her neck, a gray-sleeved arm, wearing a black leather glove. Her petrified eyes imploring him like desperate prey caught by a bloodthirsty predator. The screaming, shrill and constant, desperately piercing his world over and over again.
And finally, her words high and frantic, the words that would remain with him forever. “No, let me go, please, please let me go.”
Then with a final violent jerk of his collar, her white fingers, which had locked on and refused to let go, were aggressively torn from him. There was a stunned look of desperate futility on her face as she was dragged back through the bushes. His last image was a blur of a blue wool skirt and one black shoe left turned on its side on his path. And then, from just behind his shrubbery, the crack of a bullet, followed by deafening silence. And with that one sharp sound, the whole of Held’s world fractured open.
He was unaware of the bag slipping from his hand, didn’t hear the bottle smash or see the wine pour forth onto his step. He realized afterward that he must have closed his eyes because when he opened them again, the sky was filled with fluttering white paper. Sheet music raining down all around him. He remembered thinking how mesmerizing it was, like white rose petals stirred up by a mighty wind. Watching stupefied, incomprehensible horror was paused to anchor him to beauty. A hairbreadth of time to allow a chink of exquisiteness to drift through the cracks of weighty realization and the acrid smell of cordite that lingered heavy on the air.
Through the flurry of papers, he saw German soldiers coming toward him. In a moment of blind panic, he thought he would be next.
He couldn’t move, his legs locked in cement. He willed them to move, looked down at them. His shoes were covered in red liquid. Was it wine or blood?
He looked up at the officer who was speaking but Held couldn’t hear the words. The soldier repeated himself, and slowly sound filtered through.
“You are the professor?”
Without even being aware of doing it, he nodded. Held didn’t have control of his own body; someone else appeared to be working it for him. He was just the observer watching from a safe place.
The soldier continued. “Held?”
Again, he nodded. Words were out of the question. Held caught sight of something on his shirtsleeve. Tiny red specks along the cuff where the arm of his coat had ridden up. He took a moment to process; it was blood.
The officer lit a cigarette and offered one to Held. He managed to shake his head.
The soldier continued in a tone the same as if they were discussing the weather. “Yes, Ingrid described you. You’re her uncle, yes? We had been given a tip-off about this particular Jewess already, but I thank you anyway for your confirmation that she was here.”
Held registered his niece’s name. It sounded foreign and ugly coming from the mouth of this animal, a deplorable creature who had just casually taken the life of another human being a few feet away. A human being the enemy knew nothing of, blind to everything except that to them she was vermin. What confirmation was this man talking about?
Held became light-headed from holding his breath. The words of the soldier continued to reverberate as if he were yelling into a deep well and Held was imprisoned at the bottom. From the shattered shards that were his thoughts, one rose to the top, something so fearful and unimaginable that he felt he might throw up. A terrible realization, piercing his heart and soul with such acute precision the pain was even worse than what he had just witnessed. The officer was talking about Held’s conversation with Ingrid.
The soldier continued, oblivious to the fact Held was about to pass out. “Yes. The sneaky Jews are the hardest to find. But we will find them thanks to the good Dutch, like Ingrid. Like yourself.”
The German soldier picked up the wet cloth bag, now just a bag of broken glass, and handed it to Held.
His hand shook violently as he put the key into the lock and entered. Inside the house, he closed the door on the horror, fighting again for his breath. He slumped against the doorframe and then slid to the floor. Kat climbed onto his lap, purring and meowing his welcome.
Reaching out absentmindedly for any fragment of comfort, Held petted his friend. “Oh, Kat, what did I do?”
Held did not remember much of what happened in the next two hours, but he did remember pouring water on his front step in an attempt to wash everything away. He stood there in the dark night, uncaring of the blackout or the curfew, pouring pails of clear, cold liquid in a steady stream. The water bounced down the concrete steps onto his path, swelling and swirling, gathering mud and debris as it turned the red into pink. As he finished the task, he heard a fluttering, like a bird trapped in his thick hedge. The moonlight illuminated crumpled sheets of music, most of it caught and wrapped around a bush in his tiny front garden.
He took his time gathering all of them, straightening out the sheets the best he could. Then he placed them on his kitchen table. He wasn’t sure why, but somehow it felt important. A physical reminder that what had happened to Mrs. Epstein had been real. He stared at the musical notes and saw this was a lively, upbeat piece, marked to be played allegro. He instantly recognized the placement of the notes, the music she’d been practicing for weeks now. It appeared to be a piece she had written herself. He pulled the title page close to his face to be able to read the two words written at the top in Mrs. Epstein’s spidery hand. He whispered them to himself, “Mijn Amsterdam.”
Chapter 6
As the cold day turned to night that evening, Elke lit long red candles around the houseboat. They bounced light off the windows into the overhanging eaves, casting a rich warm shadow across the boat. She stood barefoot on the red-tiled floor that she had painted herself, her hair was swept up in a messy bun and a thick woolen shawl draped around her shoulders. Humming in front of her stove, she stirred the pot of warm food that was to be their dinner. Elke always loved to make soup; it reminded her of her grandmother.
She had just finished painting and she could hear Michael playing her guitar on her bed. He was composing a song and was not to be disturbed, he’d reminded her in a severe, artistic fashion. Then, to soften his declaration, he’d added that it was a love song for her.
Elke continued to stir the wooden spoon around the blue enamel pot, listening to his gentle strumming. The soup started to erupt into tiny bubbles at the base of the pan that soon gave way to larger syrupy ones at the top. The smell of the carrots and potatoes cooking became intoxicating. Replacing the lid, she moved the pot to simmer and took time setting her tiny galley table for dinner. A vase of paper flowers she had made years before in art class anchored a Van Gogh-inspired tablecloth in vivid yellows and blues. Spoons sat arranged beside wide-brimmed purple soup bowls she had turned herself. Elke completed the arrangement by placing two oversized, mismatched wine glasses and a candle.
Going to a shelf, she took down a cheap bottle of red wine. Since the occupation, certain foods were hard to come by, but at least wine always seemed to be available. She turned the corkscrew, removing the cork and leaving the wine to breathe on the table. It would be a surprise for Michael, a frivolous indulgence from some extra money she made doing French translation work, a sideline she pursued to help fund her university education.