chest. He crumpled with a single gulping sob and clutched his big head in his big hands.
My aunt's pain was sharp and terrible to see. But sometime during the night she disappeared into it. She left in her place a woman with eyes that burned brightly but didn't cry. She rose from our circle, breaking its power, and began to fit the day together.
"Who saw her last? What time did she leave?" She stood in front of us, kneading the flesh around her heart, as if she could dig out what was hurting.
"We had breakfast together after you left," my uncle said, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face. He seemed to be unable to look away, as if he felt she had only gone deeper into it and he might find her again if he searched hard enough. I couldn't look at Anneke's face because she was gone from it. Worse to look at, though, were her limp arms: Her fingers were stuck together in the dark red glue of her blood, her hands covered to the wrists in it, as if she were wearing wine-colored gloves on her pale arms.
"I left first. She said she was leaving soon, too. She asked how late I'd be." Oom Pieter brushed Anneke's hair from her forehead and repeated softly, "She asked how late I'd be."
"But why didn't she call someone? Why didn't she go to a neighbor for help?" my aunt asked over and over, her eyes darting between my uncle's face and mine, but not quite focusing on either of us.
Anneke had asked me twice if I would go to Amsterdam with her mother. Had she known then something was wrong? Had she wanted me to stay? It had felt exactly the opposite, as if she had been eager for us to leave. I considered telling my aunt this, but didn't. What good would it do?
I tried to remember our last words, but I couldn't. This seemed to be the most important thing in the world to know. The only thing that was of any importance at all, because if I could remember what Anneke had said last, I could have changed my answer to her. I could have stopped whatever was going to happen.
My aunt grew desperate to do something, to take any kind of action. I understood her urge, but it frightened me. It reminded me of her frenzy to strip the house of anything the Germans might come for. The connection was too grim. The Germans had wanted what Anneke carried within her. They wouldn't get it.
"Go downstairs," she ordered. "Fill a pail with soapy water, very hot, and bleach. Get rags and a scrub brush. Lots of rags."
I stumbled down the stairs and pulled aside the parlor drapes. Outside there were no lights at all, not even moonlight, and it seemed possible the real world didn't exist anymore. My legs buckled and I vomited.
When I came back with the pail, my uncle was bent over Anneke's bureau, lifting her brush, her lipstick, her perfume awkwardly, as if his hands were too large and clumsy. My aunt was washing Anneke's hands. She wrung a flannel cloth in a bowl of soapy water. Lavender, Anneke's favorite.
"Strip the bed first," my aunt said, as if this were an ordinary washday morning. I crossed to the bed, grateful for a task, but unable to look at the dark proof of Anneke's death in the center. I lifted the pillow to loosen the sheet from underneath, where it was unstained, keeping my eyes away from the rest. Under the pillow was a steel knitting needle, smeared with dried brown streaks. I held it up.
"What's this?" I asked.
What was left of the world fell apart.
ELEVEN
"
Gera's aunt says there are ways....
"
The stupid waste of it! For a second I could almost feel myself shaking her to make her see. But then I saw her limp arm, clean and white now, trailing onto the floor from my aunt's embrace, and my heart seized.
The knitting needle fell from my hand. If I had run it through their hearts, I couldn't have caused my aunt and uncle more pain. My aunt hugged Anneke's body tighter with each image that occurred to her. My uncle sobbed into Anneke's sweater, slumped over her bureau, her things. Their daughter had done this herself.
She had been
My aunt's pain was sharp and terrible to see. But sometime during the night she disappeared into it. She left in her place a woman with eyes that burned brightly but didn't cry. She rose from our circle, breaking its power, and began to fit the day together.
"Who saw her last? What time did she leave?" She stood in front of us, kneading the flesh around her heart, as if she could dig out what was hurting.
"We had breakfast together after you left," my uncle said, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face. He seemed to be unable to look away, as if he felt she had only gone deeper into it and he might find her again if he searched hard enough. I couldn't look at Anneke's face because she was gone from it. Worse to look at, though, were her limp arms: Her fingers were stuck together in the dark red glue of her blood, her hands covered to the wrists in it, as if she were wearing wine-colored gloves on her pale arms.
"I left first. She said she was leaving soon, too. She asked how late I'd be." Oom Pieter brushed Anneke's hair from her forehead and repeated softly, "She asked how late I'd be."
"But why didn't she call someone? Why didn't she go to a neighbor for help?" my aunt asked over and over, her eyes darting between my uncle's face and mine, but not quite focusing on either of us.
Anneke had asked me twice if I would go to Amsterdam with her mother. Had she known then something was wrong? Had she wanted me to stay? It had felt exactly the opposite, as if she had been eager for us to leave. I considered telling my aunt this, but didn't. What good would it do?
I tried to remember our last words, but I couldn't. This seemed to be the most important thing in the world to know. The only thing that was of any importance at all, because if I could remember what Anneke had said last, I could have changed my answer to her. I could have stopped whatever was going to happen.
My aunt grew desperate to do something, to take any kind of action. I understood her urge, but it frightened me. It reminded me of her frenzy to strip the house of anything the Germans might come for. The connection was too grim. The Germans had wanted what Anneke carried within her. They wouldn't get it.
"Go downstairs," she ordered. "Fill a pail with soapy water, very hot, and bleach. Get rags and a scrub brush. Lots of rags."
I stumbled down the stairs and pulled aside the parlor drapes. Outside there were no lights at all, not even moonlight, and it seemed possible the real world didn't exist anymore. My legs buckled and I vomited.
When I came back with the pail, my uncle was bent over Anneke's bureau, lifting her brush, her lipstick, her perfume awkwardly, as if his hands were too large and clumsy. My aunt was washing Anneke's hands. She wrung a flannel cloth in a bowl of soapy water. Lavender, Anneke's favorite.
"Strip the bed first," my aunt said, as if this were an ordinary washday morning. I crossed to the bed, grateful for a task, but unable to look at the dark proof of Anneke's death in the center. I lifted the pillow to loosen the sheet from underneath, where it was unstained, keeping my eyes away from the rest. Under the pillow was a steel knitting needle, smeared with dried brown streaks. I held it up.
"What's this?" I asked.
What was left of the world fell apart.
ELEVEN
"
Gera's aunt says there are ways....
"
The stupid waste of it! For a second I could almost feel myself shaking her to make her see. But then I saw her limp arm, clean and white now, trailing onto the floor from my aunt's embrace, and my heart seized.
The knitting needle fell from my hand. If I had run it through their hearts, I couldn't have caused my aunt and uncle more pain. My aunt hugged Anneke's body tighter with each image that occurred to her. My uncle sobbed into Anneke's sweater, slumped over her bureau, her things. Their daughter had done this herself.
She had been
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