stopped and asked. No one had heard of our friends, but at each I saw the new signs. At each I asked if there were any jobs. Two of the banks said, no, sorry, and the third said perhaps in a week or so; come back. Well, so I would tell Anneke I was sure we could find work.
I walked for several hours, gathering things to tell Anneke about Amsterdam, to present to her like gifts: I heard someone practicing a clarinet; a young man was painting at an easel in front of a canal house; a group of students was handing out leaflets for a play. There were German soldiers everywhere I looked, but here they seemed to belong to the city, not the other way around. We could do well here, make a new life.
It was almost time to meet my aunt. I stopped into a pastry shop and to buy some
taartjes
for the train. The sign was there on the shop door, once again: JODEN VERBODEN. I wasn't hungry anymore. Just as I turned in the doorway to leave, three elderly women stepped up to come in.
I flattened myself against the door in politeness, smiled, and wished them "
Goedemiddag,
" and as they made their arthritic way past me I slipped my right hand between my back and the glass door, found the insulting notice, then ripped it off and dropped it crumpled to the tiles below. "It's a beautiful day!" I added, and walked out, smiling even more widely. Yes, Anneke and I might do well here.
It was dark when my aunt and I walked up to our house, and the telephone was ringing. I hurried ahead, unlocked the door, and ran inside to answer it.
It was Mr. Eman, from the bakery. He wanted to know if An-neke was ready to come back yet. "My wife's been covering the extra shifts, but if Anneke's going to be gone any longer..."
TEN
My aunt understood before I did. As I stood with the telephone to my ear, she came into the hall and called for Anneke. Then she reeled backward as if she'd been struck: The news hung in the air, in the crushing languid smell of so much blood, finished with its lifetime of coursing. She dropped her coat and bag and flew upstairs. The smell was so heavy, it coated my tongue and made me gag; still, even as the receiver fell from my hand, even as I watched my aunt run up the stairs, I refused to acknowledge its meaning.
My aunt screamed. I followed the cry. There were a hundred steps on the stairway that night, and then a hundred more. I climbed with legs of stone.
Anneke.
A lake of blood, drying to crust at its shore and pooling under her mattress, drenched the rag rug between our two beds and made four mahogany islands of the night table's legs. My aunt knelt in the blood beside the bed howling, her head buried next to her daughter's. Anneke's face was white—white as her pillowcase, white as her slip above her waist. Below, her slip was clotted red and black, its lace hem swollen dark, slick as seaweed, knotted up between her legs at the blood source.
"
No. Oh, please no,
" I begged. I climbed onto the bed next to Anneke's still body and begged her not to have left me, not to have miscarried, not to have been pregnant at all. "No," to everything. Too late. My aunt held her, wailing.
My uncle appeared in the doorway. He roared and flew across the room, bent over Anneke, and lifted her out of our dark well and crushed her body to his. He crouched with her beside my bed, reached for my blanket and wrapped it around her. I thought,
No! Don't take her away!
and then I thought,
Yes! Warm her, make everything all right again. Bring her back! Bring her back!
I climbed from Anneke's bed and knelt beside him and cradled my cousin with him, and my aunt followed.
We sat on the floor holding her, six arms touching the lost center of our wheel. I didn't know how long—half an hour, or all night—because time lost its meaning. One by one we would spin off from each other, jolted by a fresh stab of pain, then fight our way back. Worst of all was to watch my uncle lose his battle. I could see the blow land each time, like a cannonball to his
I walked for several hours, gathering things to tell Anneke about Amsterdam, to present to her like gifts: I heard someone practicing a clarinet; a young man was painting at an easel in front of a canal house; a group of students was handing out leaflets for a play. There were German soldiers everywhere I looked, but here they seemed to belong to the city, not the other way around. We could do well here, make a new life.
It was almost time to meet my aunt. I stopped into a pastry shop and to buy some
taartjes
for the train. The sign was there on the shop door, once again: JODEN VERBODEN. I wasn't hungry anymore. Just as I turned in the doorway to leave, three elderly women stepped up to come in.
I flattened myself against the door in politeness, smiled, and wished them "
Goedemiddag,
" and as they made their arthritic way past me I slipped my right hand between my back and the glass door, found the insulting notice, then ripped it off and dropped it crumpled to the tiles below. "It's a beautiful day!" I added, and walked out, smiling even more widely. Yes, Anneke and I might do well here.
It was dark when my aunt and I walked up to our house, and the telephone was ringing. I hurried ahead, unlocked the door, and ran inside to answer it.
It was Mr. Eman, from the bakery. He wanted to know if An-neke was ready to come back yet. "My wife's been covering the extra shifts, but if Anneke's going to be gone any longer..."
TEN
My aunt understood before I did. As I stood with the telephone to my ear, she came into the hall and called for Anneke. Then she reeled backward as if she'd been struck: The news hung in the air, in the crushing languid smell of so much blood, finished with its lifetime of coursing. She dropped her coat and bag and flew upstairs. The smell was so heavy, it coated my tongue and made me gag; still, even as the receiver fell from my hand, even as I watched my aunt run up the stairs, I refused to acknowledge its meaning.
My aunt screamed. I followed the cry. There were a hundred steps on the stairway that night, and then a hundred more. I climbed with legs of stone.
Anneke.
A lake of blood, drying to crust at its shore and pooling under her mattress, drenched the rag rug between our two beds and made four mahogany islands of the night table's legs. My aunt knelt in the blood beside the bed howling, her head buried next to her daughter's. Anneke's face was white—white as her pillowcase, white as her slip above her waist. Below, her slip was clotted red and black, its lace hem swollen dark, slick as seaweed, knotted up between her legs at the blood source.
"
No. Oh, please no,
" I begged. I climbed onto the bed next to Anneke's still body and begged her not to have left me, not to have miscarried, not to have been pregnant at all. "No," to everything. Too late. My aunt held her, wailing.
My uncle appeared in the doorway. He roared and flew across the room, bent over Anneke, and lifted her out of our dark well and crushed her body to his. He crouched with her beside my bed, reached for my blanket and wrapped it around her. I thought,
No! Don't take her away!
and then I thought,
Yes! Warm her, make everything all right again. Bring her back! Bring her back!
I climbed from Anneke's bed and knelt beside him and cradled my cousin with him, and my aunt followed.
We sat on the floor holding her, six arms touching the lost center of our wheel. I didn't know how long—half an hour, or all night—because time lost its meaning. One by one we would spin off from each other, jolted by a fresh stab of pain, then fight our way back. Worst of all was to watch my uncle lose his battle. I could see the blow land each time, like a cannonball to his
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