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“Coming!” She hated her quiet afternoons with Rose to be interrupted. It was a golden, sacred time, not to be broken by some lost deliveryman who needed directions or, worse, a zealot who wanted to lead her to Jesus. At the door, she looked through the peephole, opened it and clapped her hands. “Flowers! Oh, how wonderful!” She saw a tall man with white hair and a craggy face holding a brilliant arrangement of tulips—yellows, reds, whites—looking as if they would burst from the silver paper wrapped around them.
As she reached for them, the smile on the man’s face disappeared. He threw the flowers inside and lunged for her. In seconds, he had gloved hands around her neck. He kicked the door shut and forced her backward.
Terrified, Anneke opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. His hands were tourniquets. She couldn’t breathe. She felt herself passing out, but then he released his grip. She stumbled, fell to the carpet and took deep, hacking gulps of air. Her mind reeled in horror. Who was this monster? What did he want?
The man stood over her. “Look at me, you bitch!”
Gasping, Anneke slowly hauled herself up and stared at the furious man, his white hair and black eyes. Dutch! He was speaking Dutch!
“Don’t you recognize me?” He grabbed her shoulders and then shook them—hard. When she did not respond, he shook her again in a wild rage.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know you.”
“Speak Dutch to me, you bitch. Or have you forgotten that, too?” He yanked her toward him and then shoved her down onto the living room floor. She tried to scramble away, but he was quick and kicked her fiercely in the ribs.
Anneke screamed and writhed on the white carpet. Her heart slammed in her chest, her legs would not obey her. “Stop!” she cried in Dutch. “Take what you want. My purse is on the counter! Just please, please, don’t hurt the baby!”
As if she knew what was happening, Rose began wailing. Anneke held up her arms, as if to ward off another blow. The man moved quickly to the bassinet and picked up the baby, swathed in a soft yellow blanket, and stood grinning at Anneke. “And who is this? The grandchild of a whore?”
“No!” He had the baby— Oh, God! She struggled to her feet and tried to wrest Rose from his arms. Rose’s screams became screeches. Every cry was a spike into Anneke’s heart. Rose! I have to get her—now!
The man blocked Anneke with one arm, holding the baby just out of reach of her desperate arms, taunting her with crazed black eyes. He thrust the infant high above him. Rose howled even louder, her face a florid red as the blanket fell to the floor. He then yanked off the baby’s yellow hair band and threw it onto the carpet.
“Stop!” Anneke fell upon him, her fists pummeling his arms and head, but her blows were futile. The man struck her across the face. It was as if a hammer had slammed into her jaw. God, he wasn’t going to stop until he killed them both!
“Get out of my way.” He pushed Anneke aside and dumped Rose in her bassinet.
Anneke rushed to the baby, who was purple from screaming, and clutched her precious Rose to her breast. I have her safe—in my arms! She whirled around and felt fury rise in her. “What is it you want! If it isn’t money, then what?”
He smiled at her, a twisted grimace. “I’ve waited for this moment for over thirty years.” His voice was soft and cruel. “You know me from the war. Can you guess now?”
Anneke quickly laid Rose in her bassinet, trying to breathe. Who could he be? “I don’t—really, I—”
He glared at her. “Isaac.”
Feeling shocked and confused, she stared at him. And then it hit her. “Isaac? Can it be?”
He smiled at her, a twisted grimace. “Remember me now?”
Her hand went to her throat. “Abram’s brother,” she whispered.
“Don’t even say his name, you Nazi! You and your husband.” He laughed. “What a shame he’s already dead. Killing him would have been a true pleasure.”
“What are you saying? I loved Abram—”
“You’re a goddamned liar!” He shook his fist. “You’ve always been a liar. Hiding here like the assassin you are, Mrs. de Jong. Your filthy name is Brouwer. And your husband—his was Moerveld.” He strode closer and stopped a foot away. “You ran away. You knew you’d be arrested for the traitor you are. Your neighbors would have hacked off your hair, marched you down the street in disgrace and thrown you into prison!”
“No!” she cried. “That’s not true!”
He pulled out a pair of scissors from his jacket pocket. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you now.”
Anneke ran, but he thrust his foot out and tripped her. When she hit the floor, she screamed and scrabbled to fight him off, but he knelt on both of her arms. She was a pinned butterfly, desperate to escape.
With one hand, he grabbed her hair. With the other, he clutched the scissors and began savagely slicing off clumps of her fine, silver hair. With each cut, he threw the locks up into the air like a madman.
“Stop! Oh, God, stop!” she shrieked, watching her hair snow down around her. The more frantic his motions, the less precise his cuts. Black terror consumed her. She felt shooting pains as he gouged her scalp. Blood ran into her eyes as she screamed and tried to twist away. As if in communion, Rose began wailing from her bassinet.
As he hacked, Isaac ranted on. “No, dear Anneke, you tricked Abram into falling in love with you and then you betrayed him—and my entire family.”
“I did not!” she cried. “You, of all people, know I would never do that! I loved Abram and your family! I tried to help in every way I could—”
Isaac threw down the scissors and stood. Anneke tried to get up but fell back, sobbing. Struggling to her knees, all she could see were bloodied clumps of her hair strewn across the white carpet. She sat and cradled her head in her hands. When she pulled them away, they were covered in blood.
“Isaac!” She moaned and held up her crimson hands. “What in God’s name have you done?”
Isaac stood above her, pulled the pistol from his pocket and spat upon her. Anneke recoiled, sobbing. He was mad! What would he do to her—to Rose!
“Now admit it, all of it!” He pointed the gun at her head. His eyes speared hers, his voice molten metal. “Including what that bastard of a husband of yours did.”
“Hans?” Anneke looked up, unable to stem her tears. “He married me and brought me here. I was so numb and hopeless about Abram that I didn’t care where I went, as long as it was out of Holland.”
“You married your lover’s murderer!”
“Are you crazy?” she cried. “Abram was killed by the Nazis. Hans had nothing to do with it!”
“Can you truly sit here in front of me and deny it? Your boyfriend was jealous and shot my brother between the eyes. All the neighbors heard them raging at each other—over you.”
Anneke raised her bloody hands, imploring. “You’re wrong, Isaac. Hans could never hurt anyone. Yes, he was jealous of Abram. And Hans wanted me to love him. But I didn’t.”
“No, no, he killed my brother and you turned us all into the Groene Politie.”
“No! I was there!” she cried. “Abram and Hans were fighting, that much is true. But the police shot Abram—not Hans. I came running to try to stop them—”
“Stop lying!” His voice was a razor cut. “Your lover killed Abram and you brought the police with you in case that son of a bitch didn’t finish the job.”
“Isaac, I don’t know why the police were there!” she sobbed. “They must have followed me. You have to believe me.”
Suddenly he slapped her so hard she fell. It felt as if a bullwhip had sliced her face.
“How stupid do you think I am? We had witnesses! They came running when they heard that bastard of yours threaten to kill my brother if he didn’t leave you alone. By then Abram was dead.” Anneke put her bleeding head into her hands and moaned.
“What they did see was you standing there with the Politie by your side. Did you know that two days after Abram was murdered all of us were arrested, thrown on a train and shipped to Mauthausen?” He wiped away his tears with a rough gesture, his other hand still pointing the pistol at her. His voice was broken. “My whole family was gassed. Amarisa and I made it out.”
“Amarisa,” whispered Anneke.
“Yes,” snarled Isaac. “My brave sister. Would you like to hear what they did to her?”
“I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Hear that she was raped every day? That they smashed her leg when she took too long in the food line? That they slit her face from lip to ear?”
Anneke felt vomit rise in her throat. “Oh, God, Isaac, please believe me—”
He grabbed her by the collar with his free hand and pulled her up until her eyes were level with his, now pressing the cold gun barrel against her forehead. “Don’t you talk to me of love! You seduced my brother, promising you would find a way to get him out of the country.” He shook her hard. “‘Foul spawn of a Nazi,’ my father said. ‘Apples don’t fall far from the tree, especially rotten ones.’”
She tried to pull away, but every wound he had inflicted had left her in agony, helpless. “Isaac, I wasn’t lying to you, or them! Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because you were a Nazi, just like your father. You haven’t forgotten about Joop, now have you?”
She sagged in his arms. “No,” she whispered, “that part is true. My father was a Nazi.”
He flung her onto the couch. “All you good Dutchmen kissing the Nazis’ boots. In 1940, there were 140,000 Jews in the whole country. Lucky for you and your SS father, almost all of us were rounded up in ’43 and forced to live Amsterdam. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Anneke hung her head. “But I’m innocent.”
“You know damned well that you went to every Dutch Nazi rally, every march, wearing your brown NSB shirt and swearing allegiance to that maniac! Pretending to steal coal and food from your SS father for us, when all along you were just reeling us in for the kill.”
“No, no!” Her eyes searched wildly around. She felt that her shame must be stamped in her eyes. “I was in the NSB and did go to the rallies,” she whispered. “My father made me.”
“And did he make you go out with charming SS officers?” His snarl was a cobra strike. “Don’t bother to deny it. I saw you myself, walking with some gallant German killer.”
Anneke hung her head. When she raised her eyes, she felt only dullness and defeat.
“Enough. You’re a liar and a murderer and you’re finally going to get what’s coming to you.”
Anneke fell to her knees. Hopelessness filled her. “Do what you want to me. I don’t care. Just please, please, don’t hurt the baby.”
Isaac pointed the pistol at her and shook his head. “No, I’m not finished with you yet. I want you to imagine my father starving in that miserable camp after you betrayed him.” He stepped closer, lowering the gun barrel until it touched the top of her head. “Do you know how we even knew he was alive? He got messages to us from a cell he shared with fifteen other men! Fifteen men with only one bucket to piss and shit in! He wrote on lousy scraps of toilet paper that he sewed into the lining of his filthy clothes. The laundry girl passed them on to us.”
Isaac choked up and then pressed the barrel harder against her head. “And do you know the first question my brother always asked when I snuck into whatever hellhole you found for him to hide in? ‘Where is Anneke? Is she all right? Tell her I love her.’”
“Oh, Isaac, I loved him, too—you must know that! And I protected you. What about the day you were walking down the Singel and were stopped by the Groene Politie? Don’t you remember?”
“You wore the NSB uniform, that’s what I remember,” he snarled.
“No, you know what I’m talking about. I pretended to fall off my bicycle and the Duitsers ran over to help me—”
“Because they saw your uniform and knew that you were a filthy Nazi, too.”
Anneke looked into his angry eyes. She had to make him understand! “No! I did it to distract them so you could get away. And you did!” Isaac still glared at her, but said nothing. “What about the food I brought your parents every week? And in the winter of ’44, when your mother was so sick, I brought medicine for her that I stole from my father.”
“What I remember about your Nazi father is that he turned in four of my friends. Shipped them off. Dead now. And we all know why you pretended to protect us, feed us and even made Abram fall in love with you.”
“Why?” cried Anneke. “Why would I have done that if I didn’t love all of you?”
“Because it was all part of your plan to turn in a Jewish family to win more NSB medals to pin on that Nazi outfit you wore. We were just another notch in your belt.”
“You don’t understand any of it.”
“I understand perfectly.” Then Rose wailed from her bassinet. Isaac picked her up and walked to Anneke, baby under one arm, pointing his pistol at her with the other. But Rose kicked and cried in his arms. He tried to switch her to his right side, but she screamed louder. “Shut up, godverdomme!”
Anneke saw her chance and sprang up. She kicked out at Isaac and caught him in the knee, grabbed Rose and ran. Off balance, Isaac recovered quickly, shoved the pistol in his pocket and dashed after her. Anneke bolted up the back stairway, adrenaline erasing her pain, and hurtled breathlessly into her bedroom with Rose under one arm. Hands shaking, she slammed and locked the door and then flung open a drawer on the night table. Where was it? Her hand closed around the cool metal.
Isaac banged on the door. “I’ll break it down, you bitch!” he yelled. “And when I do, I’ll kill you with my bare hands—and that child!”
Anneke flung the door open. With Rose on her hip, she moved toward him. Isaac lunged forward, his hands reaching for her throat. But when he saw what she held, he stopped cold.
“Get your hands behind you.” She pointed her pistol at the spot between his eyes. She waved its barrel gently up and down. A deadly calm filled her. When she spoke, her words sounded like silk. “I know how to use this, as you are well aware.”
Isaac’s face contorted with rage. “A Luger!” he shouted. “And you say you’re not a Nazi? You lying whore!”
Anneke gave him a small, bitter smile. “Shut your goddamned mouth,” she said softly. Then she saw him frantically try to free the pistol from his pocket. She clicked off the safety. Isaac froze. “Put your fucking hands behind your back.”
“No.”
Anneke hiked Rose higher on her hip and trained her eye down the sights of her pistol. “I never enjoyed killing. But you are threatening me and my family. If you don’t do as I say, what happens will be your fault—no one else’s.”
She saw the artery in Isaac’s neck bulge with each ragged breath he drew. He was clearly calculating his odds, but finally did as she said. The bastard was listening to her now, wasn’t he? “Turn and walk slowly down the stairs.” Rose began to whimper and struggle, but Anneke shushed her, jiggling her as they followed behind him.
Isaac quickened his descent, tensing as he glanced sharply behind him. Anneke jabbed the gun barrel into the back of his neck. “Run and I’ll kill you.”
As they neared the foot of the stairs, suddenly Anneke heard the front door open and someone burst into the front hallway. “Papa! Papa, are you here? It’s Ariel!” a man called in Dutch.
Anneke shoved the barrel into Isaac’s neck—hard. “Don’t move!” she said with deliberate calm. Isaac halted like a marionette whose string had been jerked.
She heard this Ariel’s voice coming from the dining room. “Papa!”
“Walk.” Anneke’s voice sounded like the slice of dueling swords as she prodded Isaac with the gun barrel. They crept farther down the back stairway in silent tandem. “Say one word and I’ll kill you both.” He gave her a deadly glare, but obeyed. At the bottom step, Rose slipped on Anneke’s hip and cried out. Isaac whirled around and managed to grab the baby and wrench the Luger out of Anneke’s hand.
“Rose!” Anneke leaped forward to wrest away the baby, but Isaac grabbed the pistol and shoved her aside. Then he turned and pressed the black barrel into Rose’s pink cheek. The baby twisted and screamed, but Isaac held her fast. Now he smiled.
“You! Walk here!” His voice was an evil whisper as he pointed the gun at her. “Slowly, very slowly.”
Horror gripped her as she saw the black pistol sink farther into Rose’s cheek. Then she saw the younger man, Ariel he called himself, on the far side of the room. “Help us!” she pleaded.
“Papa!” he cried. “Put down the gun!”
Barely breathing, Anneke continued her careful approach, trying not to hurry, to alert Isaac. But when she was a few feet away, he pressed the barrel against Rose’s temple so hard that the baby screamed. “Stop!” he thundered.
Anneke halted as he backed away from her. “Isaac!” she screamed. “Don’t!”
Ariel rushed toward them but stumbled on a small rug. By the time he righted himself, Isaac was on the far side, away from him and Anneke. “Ariel, don’t move!” he shouted.
“Papa, I can’t let you do this....”
“Stop right there!” he bellowed, swinging the barrel from Anneke to Rose and back again. “Or pick which one you want to die.”
“No!” he cried. “Neither!”
Isaac gave him a hard look. “Why the hell are you here?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Anneke saw Ariel inch closer to her. She felt a wild hope. Maybe he could stop him!
“I went to your apartment and couldn’t find you,” he said. “Then I saw the plane reservations and I knew—”
“Enough! Let me do what I have to do!” He clutched Rose tighter and pressed the barrel to her temple.
Anneke fell to her knees, sobbing. “You can’t kill her!”
“Now you will see what it is to watch a member of your family murdered.” His voice was a deadly whisper. “First her, then you.”
“No, please!” She had to do something. And then it hit her. “Wait—you don’t know!”
“Oh? And what don’t I know?”
“The baby...” Anneke choked on her sobs.
“Spit it out. It will be last thing you say before I kill you both.”
“Rose, she’s—” Anneke, still choking, uttered her next words. “She’s Abram’s granddaughter.”
“What?”
Anneke, racked with sobs, collapsed onto the carpet. “I was pregnant before Abram died,” she whispered. “I had Nora, his daughter....”
“Get up!” yelled Isaac. “This is just another one of your lies! You’d say anything to save her.”
Anneke struggled to her feet and stood shaking. She looked at Rose, still writhing in Isaac’s arms. Doomed. My darling Rose is doomed—because of me! And Nora—how will she—
Suddenly, Ariel sprang over the couch, but when he recovered his balance, Isaac had already taken aim at Anneke. The gunshot roared through the air. Anneke’s body jerked backward as blood spurted from her forehead.
“No!” shouted Ariel. He ran to her, knelt and felt wildly for a pulse. Her blood sluiced his hands, slick and hot. He looked up at Isaac. “You killed her!”
Isaac, still holding Rose, dropped the Luger as his knees buckled. Rose tumbled onto the white carpet, still wailing. Ariel saw Isaac’s eyes widen as he clutched at his throat and gasped for air. He fell to his knees, his face contorted.
Ariel rushed to him and cradled his head, moaning. “Papa? Papa, no!”
“My heart—” His voice was a strangled whisper. “Medicine...hotel.”
Frantic, Ariel looked around and then saw the phone on the end table. “I’m going to call for help.” He started to stand.
Isaac grabbed his son’s arm and pulled him down, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were fading as color drained from them. “Too late for me,” he whispered. “The baby, take the baby!”
Ariel sobbed, holding his father close. “Papa, please!”
Isaac shook his head and held Ariel’s weeping face between his hands. His eyes struck Ariel like an army commander dying in battle. “She’s Abram’s...take her home, raise her Jewish. Promise me!”
“I can’t do that, Papa!”
“Yes, you can,” he said hoarsely. “You can and you must.”
“Please don’t make me!”
“Promise me!”
Ariel sobbed. “All right—I promise. I promise!”
Isaac nodded and dropped his hands from Ariel’s face. A half smile played upon his lips. “Abram...” he whispered.
Ariel watched as he convulsed and then was still. Ariel thrust his fingers into Isaac’s neck, digging for a pulse. Nothing. “No, no,” he moaned. Ariel stared at him and at Anneke, horrified, until he realized that Rose was twisting on the carpet, howling. Softly sobbing, he picked her up.
Then he heard the sound of a garage door churning. “Oh, God, what do I do?” He clutched Rose to his chest.
Then ran as fast as he could.
5
Nora stood in the blistering Houston sun at Anneke’s freshly dug grave and watched as her coffin was lowered. The funeral ceremony had been a dreary blur. Her black blouse and skirt, damp and clammy, clung to her like wet leaves. Feeling suffocated, she only half listened as the priest recited the Catholic rite. The priest had never known Nora or her mother. She had had to provide him with the highlights of Anneke’s life so he would have something to say.
After Hans died, Anneke had stopped going to church. Her mother had never told her why, nor did Nora ask. Nora had gone only for her father. He would have been crushed if she told him that she didn’t believe in the Pope. She still lit a candle for him at St. Anne’s—on his birthday and on the day he died. She tried to pray after lighting the candle. Just sitting in the silence, surrounded by the glow of stained glass that cast down prisms of color, she always felt restored.
She stared at the coffin in the ground. More candles to light, another dead parent to pray for. Nora glanced around her. It was pitifully sad. She now realized how rarely her parents had strayed outside the world of two they had built and then guarded from outsiders. Other than Marijke, a few colleagues from the hospital stood awkwardly around the grave, telegraphing bleak looks in her direction showing that they were clueless about what to say. How do you comfort the daughter of a brutally murdered woman?
If it hadn’t been for Marijke holding her up, Nora knew she would not have gotten through it. So many times she had thought she would faint, run or scream.
The aching that filled her now made her realize that she had been unable to truly mourn Anneke’s loss because of her terror for Rose. Now her mind flooded with memories: Anneke’s cool hand on Nora’s hot forehead as she lay in bed with the flu when she was eight; Anneke’s eyes shining with pride at Nora’s graduation from the University of Texas; Anneke’s joy-filled face when she first held Rose in her arms. Her mother. The only person in the world who had known her completely. Now she would know what it was to be an orphan, lost and alone.
She bent to clutch a fistful of dirt and let it fall from her hand onto the coffin. It hardly made a sound. That made her heart clench and then she felt dizzy. Marijke wrapped her arm firmly around Nora’s shoulders. Nora took a deep breath and turned from the grave. Nothing she could do for her mother now. After receiving hushed condolences from the few attendees, she and Marijke walked toward Nora’s car.
“Are you all right?” asked Marijke.
“Don’t worry. Once we get home, I’ll be fine.”
Just as they reached the car, someone called to her. “Ms. de Jong?”
It was Richards. He loomed above her. She felt confused. What was he doing here?
As if reading her thoughts, he nodded at the last of the mourners heading toward their cars and shrugged. “We always go to the funerals. Sometimes the murderer—or, in this case, his accomplice—shows up or watches from a distance.”
Nora felt sick. “I...see.” She saw Richards glance quickly at Marijke and mouth, Wait here. Marijke nodded and got into the car. Richards took Nora’s elbow and walked with her to a nearby oak tree. The lush green leaves against the cloudless sky seemed so damned peaceful. Nora felt anything but. He released her elbow and stopped. She didn’t like something in his eyes. Her breath caught. “What is it? Have you found Rose?”