under arrest, though this was not customary during such reprisals. But even if they had been taken to a concentration camp in Vught or Amersfoort, they should have been freed by now. Only the survivors of the German camps had not yet returned home.
That afternoon Anton went into town with his aunt. Amsterdam looked like a dying man who suddenly flushes, opens his eyes, and miraculously comes back to life. Everywhere flags at windowsills in need of paint, everywhere music and dancing and crowds rejoicing in the streets where grass and thistles grew between the pavement. Pale, starved people laughingly crowded about fat Canadians wearing berets instead of caps, dressed not in gray, black, or green, but in beige or light-brown uniforms that did not encase them tightly like armor, but hung loose and easy, like peacetime clothes, showing hardly any difference between soldiers and officers. Jeeps and armored cars were being patted like holy objects. Whoever could speak English not only became part of the heavenly kingdom that had come down to earth, but perhaps even received a cigarette. Boys his own age sat triumphantly on top of car radiators marked with white stars surrounded by circles. Yet he himself did not take part. Not because he was worried about his parents or Peter, for he never thought about that, but more because none of this was really a part of him or ever would be. Hisentire universe had become that other one which now fortunately had come to an end, and about which he never wanted to think again. Nevertheless it was part of him, so that all in all, he didn’t have much left.
At dinner time they returned home and he went to his room, where he was quite comfortable by now. His uncle and aunt were childless and treated him as if he were their own son—or really with more consideration and less friction than if he actually had been their real child. At times he wondered what it would be like to go back to live with his parents in Haarlem, and this thought confused him so much that he quickly put it aside. He liked being at his aunt and uncle’s house on the Apollolaan precisely because he did not feel like their son.
His uncle had the habit of always knocking before he entered. When Anton looked at his face, he saw at once the news he had brought. The steel clamp that had protected his uncle’s pants leg on the bicycle was still around his right ankle. He sat on the desk chair and told Anton to be prepared for very sad news. His father and mother had never gone to prison. They had been shot that night, along with the twenty-nine hostages. Nobody knew what had become of Peter, so there was still hope for him. His uncle had been to the police, but they didn’t know about anyone except the hostages. Then he had gone to the neighbors on the quay. No one was home at the Aartses’ in Bide-a-Wee. The Kortewegs were home but refused to receive him. Finally it was the Beumers who told him the news. Mr. Beumer had seen it. Van Liempt did not go into details: Anton did not ask for any. He sat on his bed with the wall on the left, and stared down at the flamelike shapes in the gray linoleum.
He had the feeling that he had known it all along. His uncle told him that the Beumers were very glad to hear he was still alive. Van Liempt pulled the clamp off his ankle and held it in his hand. It had the shape of a horseshoe. Of course, he said, Anton would continue to live here.
Not till June did they learn that Peter too had been shot on that same evening. By then it seemed like a message from prehistoric times, hard to imagine. For Anton that distance of five months between January and June, 1945, was incomparably longer than the distance between June of 1945 and the present day. It was on this distortion of time that he later blamed his inability to explain to his children what the War had been like. His family had escaped from his memory, had retreated to a forgotten region of which he had only brief and random
That afternoon Anton went into town with his aunt. Amsterdam looked like a dying man who suddenly flushes, opens his eyes, and miraculously comes back to life. Everywhere flags at windowsills in need of paint, everywhere music and dancing and crowds rejoicing in the streets where grass and thistles grew between the pavement. Pale, starved people laughingly crowded about fat Canadians wearing berets instead of caps, dressed not in gray, black, or green, but in beige or light-brown uniforms that did not encase them tightly like armor, but hung loose and easy, like peacetime clothes, showing hardly any difference between soldiers and officers. Jeeps and armored cars were being patted like holy objects. Whoever could speak English not only became part of the heavenly kingdom that had come down to earth, but perhaps even received a cigarette. Boys his own age sat triumphantly on top of car radiators marked with white stars surrounded by circles. Yet he himself did not take part. Not because he was worried about his parents or Peter, for he never thought about that, but more because none of this was really a part of him or ever would be. Hisentire universe had become that other one which now fortunately had come to an end, and about which he never wanted to think again. Nevertheless it was part of him, so that all in all, he didn’t have much left.
At dinner time they returned home and he went to his room, where he was quite comfortable by now. His uncle and aunt were childless and treated him as if he were their own son—or really with more consideration and less friction than if he actually had been their real child. At times he wondered what it would be like to go back to live with his parents in Haarlem, and this thought confused him so much that he quickly put it aside. He liked being at his aunt and uncle’s house on the Apollolaan precisely because he did not feel like their son.
His uncle had the habit of always knocking before he entered. When Anton looked at his face, he saw at once the news he had brought. The steel clamp that had protected his uncle’s pants leg on the bicycle was still around his right ankle. He sat on the desk chair and told Anton to be prepared for very sad news. His father and mother had never gone to prison. They had been shot that night, along with the twenty-nine hostages. Nobody knew what had become of Peter, so there was still hope for him. His uncle had been to the police, but they didn’t know about anyone except the hostages. Then he had gone to the neighbors on the quay. No one was home at the Aartses’ in Bide-a-Wee. The Kortewegs were home but refused to receive him. Finally it was the Beumers who told him the news. Mr. Beumer had seen it. Van Liempt did not go into details: Anton did not ask for any. He sat on his bed with the wall on the left, and stared down at the flamelike shapes in the gray linoleum.
He had the feeling that he had known it all along. His uncle told him that the Beumers were very glad to hear he was still alive. Van Liempt pulled the clamp off his ankle and held it in his hand. It had the shape of a horseshoe. Of course, he said, Anton would continue to live here.
Not till June did they learn that Peter too had been shot on that same evening. By then it seemed like a message from prehistoric times, hard to imagine. For Anton that distance of five months between January and June, 1945, was incomparably longer than the distance between June of 1945 and the present day. It was on this distortion of time that he later blamed his inability to explain to his children what the War had been like. His family had escaped from his memory, had retreated to a forgotten region of which he had only brief and random
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