Excerpt: SS-5

(Here is an excerpt from the beginning of the novel...)

Riiiiiinnnnnnggggggg.....

Riiiiiinnnnnnggggggg.....

Riiiiinnnnnnnngggggg...

Why didn't someone answer the phone? The sound echoed through the blackness, setting his teeth on edge.

Riiiiiiinnnnnnggggg....

Gosh! Jan groped out for the phone.

Abruptly, he woke, eyes opening to the early-morning dimness of his bedroom. Silence louder than the ring of the dream-phone echoed in his ears.

Shivering, he pulled his legs up to his chest and fumbled for the bedclothes sprawled in a tangle on the side of the bed. “What time is it, anyway?” he mumbled. Foggily, he reached for the clock on the side of his bed.

Five in the morning.

“Uuugh.” Dad must have had a night call or something. He fell back into bed, burrowing under the pillow.

Then he became aware of the rich smell wafting through the room. Coffee? At five in the morning?

Something slid over him; a sharpness, an awareness of something not right.

Then he heard the voices. The kitchen was directly under his room; the voices vibrated up through the floor against his ear; the deep rumble of his father's voice, then his mother's, scratchy with held-back tears.

Instantly wide awake, he sat up, ignoring the bedclothes as they slid off. Something was wrong.

Grabbing his robe, he shoved one arm in, twisting his bedroom door open with his free hand. Not bothering to tie the robe, he hurried down the steps and stopped, blinking in the light of the kitchen.

His father was wearing his uniform, not the suit he'd wear to go out on a call. Instead of the dark duster he wore as Doctor Jonkheer, an army-issue overcoat draped his shoulders. Helen Jonkheer's fingers smoothed the lapels of the coat, over and over, her fingers trembling.

“Dad?”

His parents broke apart, turning swiftly to face him. His mother swiped at her eyes, but her voice shook when she spoke. “Sweetheart, there's something...something we need to tell you—”

Jan looked past her at his father. “You're going, aren't you?”

A single nod. “I've been called up. We got the phone call just an hour ago. I'm to report at once.”

“You knew about this, didn't you?” Stop it, Jan told himself, he can't help it. But neither could he help the flow of high-pitched angry words. “You let me think we'd spend my birthday together. You lied.”

Like a rock wall assaulted with pebbles, Dirk Jonkheer didn't flinch. “I didn't know, son. We may still be able to spend the day together. There's no—” he glanced at his wife “—need. I've probably only been called up for drills. I'll see if I can get leave for at least part of tomorrow.”

“And then?” Jan still couldn't stop. “Are you coming back?”

In the back of the calm blue eyes, a shadow fell. “I'll do my best, son.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to leave.”

Jan turned away, emotion roiling inside him, as his parents kissed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father cup his mother's cheek, look long and silently into her eyes, then turn, sling his satchel over his shoulder, and put his hand on the door.

At the last minute, he turned back to Jan. For the first time in his life, Jan saw his father hesitate. “Walk with me, son?”

An eternity seemed to stretch before Jan made himself nod. Wool scratched his face as he pulled on a coat, then shoved his feet into clammy mackintoshes. His mother stood in the hall, a silent watcher with her hand pressed to her mouth as his father held the door open, then closed it softly behind them.

The streets outside were silent; empty of the usual clatter. The houses stood, their windows like empty eyes. In the dimness before dawn the only light was the street lamps, glinting faintly off the canal to their left.

From the distance came the tinkle of glass and the muted rattle of wheels as milkmen cycled on their rounds.

His father broke the silence. “I'm sorry.”

Jan shrugged. “Guess you can't do anything about it.”

“That's just it.” His father shoved his hands into his pockets. “I could have waited. I could have waited to be called up if there were a need, instead of joining the army last spring. But...Holland is weak, Jan.”

Jan's feet rooted to the ground. “Our country? Dad, we've got the greatest country in the world! How can you—”

His father held up a hand. “Our country is weak. We all are weak. We're not a nation of warriors.”

“What about the Spanish? We beat them!”

“We outlasted them and won by cunning.” His brief smile showed white against the shadow of his face. “None are better than the Dutch at that. But I think more will be needed now. Hitler's army is bigger than Spain's ever was. Hundreds of times bigger. He's rolled across Europe like a scourge, conquering every country in his path.”

“Dad, Holland's neutral. We're aren't fighting him.”

Dirk Jonkheer drew a long breath. “Some believe Hitler will respect our neutrality,” he said. “But I see Hitler's past as a long strand of betrayal and ruthless deceit. I don't know who will be right. But I feel that I need to be ready, at any moment; I can't wait for the call, when preparation will come too late.”

Jan suddenly realized he was shivering. He huddled the coat up to his ears and didn't speak.

The dark seriousness was gone from his father's tone when he spoke again. “I will try to be here tomorrow.”

“Oh Dad—” Jan abruptly unfolded his arms and threw them out “—it's not just tomorrow! It's everything. At Christmas we decided that I'd start helping you at the office this spring, in preparation for my latinum, and then medical school when I'm sixteen.”

His father stopped, rubbing his chin. “Maybe it's just as well that won't work out, Jan. I'd wondered if you'd decided to follow in my footsteps too soon. I think you need some time to figure out where your life should go.”

He fell silent. “I pray you get that time.”

The words were spoken under the breath, but Jan heard them. Fear shivered through him again, then sudden anger. “Fine. It isn't like I want to be a doctor anyway. I've only spent the last three years taking extra sciences because I liked reading about explosions.” The bitter sarcasm spewed out. “Oh, yeah, and all the hours riding along when you went on calls? That was just—”

“Oh Jan.” His father's strong hands grasped his shoulders. “Please...”

Jan stiffened against the touch. After a long moment, his father let him go.

“I know you'll make me proud, son.”

Then he was gone, a lean figure striding away into the early morning fog.

**************************************************************************************

When Martje turned, tears glittered in her eyes. She wiped them angrily away and dumped the small brown medicine bottles she held in a basket. “They took Mr. Mendelbaum. Because he was Jewish.”

"But he isn't, not Jewish, he's Christian just like all of us."

"That doesn't matter to the Nazis. They didn't see past the yellow star, and they came to take him away, and he fought. The kitchen chairs were smashed; he must have hit the Germans with them."

Images came of gentle Mr. Mendelbaum hurling chairs across the room, tears running down the face she'd always wanted to paint. Bewildered, Charlotte shook her head. "I don't understand. He never did anything."

"That doesn't matter," Martje cried, shaking the basket at Charlotte. The bottles inside rattled and clattered wildly. "No one has to do anything any more. The Nazis will kill you just for who you are."

"Oh, Martje, no. They didn't. They didn't kill him!"

As fast as they'd come her sister's tears dried. "God only knows. Father's out there now, going to the police stations, trying to find out. I only know that when they tried to take her husband Mrs. Mendelbaum fought too. They beat her, after taking her husband. She's got a broken arm, cracked ribs, and a burst eardrum from being slapped."

The image of shy Mrs. Mendelbaum, both hands protectively placed over her domed stomach, made Charlotte feel like throwing up. "What about the baby?"

"She's in labor right now." Martje opened another cupboard, read some labels, and dropped a jar in her basket. "The baby's three months early. There's a good chance she'll die before it even gets born."

Vomit rose in Charlotte's throat, bitter and sickening. She pressed her fist against her mouth, forcing herself not to be sick, forcing herself not to cry, to scream.

Then she remembered the little girl. "Anna, Martje? What about Anna?"

"She was sleeping when the soldiers came." Martje reached for a large copper kettle. "I don't think she knows what happened."

Oh, God please let that be true. Charlotte grabbed for her coat. "I'm coming with you. I won't be any good with the nursing, but I can stay with Anna."

Martje didn't protest, just handed Charlotte the kettle and led the way across the street. They walked in step, hip to hip, closer then they'd been in years. And yet the stifled anger and helpless grief was a distance greater than the ocean was wide.

Inside the Mendelbaum house, Martje disappeared upstairs at once, leaving Charlotte in the dark narrow passage. Charlotte walked in slowly, removing her jacket, noticing the gouges in the wall in the shape of rifle butts. One concave dent near the door bore a gruesome resemblance to a head: strands of what might have been blood-matted hair edged it.

Charlotte averted her eyes. The kitchen door was ajar; the stove roaring and pots of boiled water rattled on top. The broken furniture had been stacked in a corner of the room, but brown stains still marked the floor.

Charlotte turned away, to the living room. She took one step and then, out of nowhere little Anna stood in front of her, holding a rag doll. "Hi!"

Charlotte sank down to the three-year-old's level. "Hi, Anna. How--how are you?"

The tiny shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Hungry, I guess."

Her blue eyes seemed free of shadows: Charlotte sucked in a breath of relief. Hard as it was to believe, the toddler must have slept through the brutality of the morning. Thank you God.

She held out her hand, which Anna filled at once with hers. "How about I try to find something to eat. What would you like? Milk?"

"We don't have any. Mama said the milkboy hadn't come, these last few days."

Because they were Jewish? Charlotte had heard grocers refusing to serve Jewish customers. It wasn't that they didn't like them, it was the fear of the Gestapo. Those who helped Jews were guilty of the same crimes they were. It wasn't always clear what helping included.

"We have milk over at my house. Should we go over there?"

The thistle-down pale hair floated around the small face as Anna shook her head.

"Why not, honey?"

"Mama needs me."

A lump rose in Charlotte's throat. How much did she know? "My mama's with yours, Anna. And my big sister. She's a nurse at the hospital, and my mama is the best at nursing too. They'll take care of your mama."

The hair lifted and fell as Anna nodded. "But I still don't want to leave."

Charlotte sighed. "Okay. What else could you eat..." she racked her brains, trying to remember what she ate at three. "Bread is good. Bread with honey?"

A tiny glimmer of a smile appeared as she nodded vigorously. Score. "Right, then. Um...why don't you wait here, while I go get it? Is that all right? Will you be okay alone?"

"Not alone." She lifted the rag doll by one arm. "Tildy's here."

Charlotte squeezed her hand. "Then I'll make sure to bring bread and honey for Tildy too."

She glanced over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen: Anna was sitting on the floor, both arms around her doll, her tininess nearly swallowed up in the shadows.

God, how can this be? Charlotte's hands shook as she sliced the bread, mangling the first slice. Angrily, she started to throw it away, then forced herself to set it down. There wasn't food to waste.

She smeared the honey on with fierce strokes. God, why? That's all I'm asking--why?

The kitchen echoed with the lack of an answer.

Anna was sitting in the same place when Charlotte came back, balancing the bread on her palm, a mug of honey water in her other hand. Her unblinking gaze followed Charlotte as she sank, carefully, to the floor and sat cross-legged, balancing the bread on her knee while she handed the mug to Anna. "Milk would be better."

The blue eyes watched her over the rim of the mug. In a series of small sucking noises the drink disappeared. Anna set the mug down carefully and reached for the bread. Honey smeared a track across her cheek as she took an impossibly large bite. Through the sticky crumbs she mumbled something Charlotte couldn't make out.

"What's that, sweetheart?"

"Illy."

"Illy?"

Anna swallowed. "Tildy. She's hungry too. Can she have the other piece?"

"I'll feed her personally." Charlotte picked up the doll, suddenly not sure of what to do. She watched Anna covertly as she pretended to put the bread in the thread-sewn mouth. She didn't remember ever playing with dolls. Frogs, tadpoles, snakes and the occasional injured bird, but not dolls.

But Anna seemed reasonably satisfied with Charlotte's care, and when she had finished her slice, Charlotte presented the other slice to her. "Tildy says she's had enough, thanks. She wants to know if you want the rest."

Anna accepted, gravely patting Tildy on the head while she crammed the sticky treat into her mouth. Halfway through her eyelids started to droop. The honey-smeared bottom lip sagged sleepily as she snuggled farther into her corner.

"You can't go to sleep all sticky like that." Charlotte climbed to her feet, flexing stiff muscles. "Stay here, all right? I'm going to just run into the kitchen and get a washcloth."

When she came back, holding the warm damp cloth, Anna's eyes had closed. They remained closed as Charlotte scrubbed the sticky face and hands, but when Charlotte reached to lift the little girl, they opened and she raised her arms to be picked up.

She buried her face in Charlotte's neck as they went into the living room. Her mouth tickled Charlotte's neck as she yawned. "Is Mummy going to be all right?"

Charlotte didn't answer until she'd tucked the little girl into warm blankets on the sofa. "Yes," she said then. God forgive me if it's a lie. "She'll be fine."

Anna nodded as if she'd known that all along, and lifted Tildy to show Charlotte. "Mummy said she's got a real live doll inside her tummy. It'll be better than Tildy, because it will move--it already does, I felt it. She says I can help take care of it." A yawn pinked the small mouth. "I hope it comes soon..."

Charlotte stood very still until the lids drifted down over the blue eyes. Then, without pausing, she went into the kitchen, fisted the washcloth she'd used to wash Anna, and threw it viscously across the room. It smacked against the wall, then slid limply down, leaving a dark patch on the plaster.

Charlotte bit her lip to keep back the scream that wanted to come. She felt the skin split and tasted blood, but she didn't let up as she got a scrub brush and bucket, and poured hot water over lye soap.

It took half an hour to get the blood stains off the floor, but she put all the rage and agony into the scrubbing, until her shoulders ached with the effort. When the floor was clean she emptied the bucket, and all the tense anger seemed to flow down the drain with it.

Limply, she sagged to the floor, leaning against the cupboards. Upstairs she heard the creak of footsteps, but no other sounds. She knew enough about birth to know that wasn't right. Mother always said she screamed like a banshee when Martje was born. Dad says she scared the neighbors. But it helped, Mother said, and she didn't have that luxury with me, because she didn't want to scare Martje. But she still yelled plenty, Dad says.

She filled her mind with the chatter to shut out the darkness that hovered just over her shoulder.

She didn't know how long she'd sat there--but the wooden floor had dried--when the kitchen door creaked open and Anna walked in, trailing a blanket. "Carlot?"

Charlotte scrambled hastily to her feet. "Anna, I didn't know you woke up. Want something? A drink, some more bread?"

Anna shook her head, the fine tendrils of her hair tangling. "Is Mummy all right?"

Charlotte clenched a hand in the folds of her skirts. "Yes. Mummy is all right."

"Will the doll come soon?"

The doll?

The baby.

She clenched her fist so tight her nails bit into her palm. Then she reached for Anna, cradling the warm fragile body in her lap. "Would you like a song? Does your mummy sing to you?"

The blue eyes lit up. Anna nodded several times.

"Want to hear anything special?"

Anna stuck her thumb in her mouth, considering. Then she removed it and tugged at her ear. "Mockinbug."

"Mockinbug?" Charlotte ran desperately through her limited repertoire of nursery songs. Then, in the back of her mind, she remembered her father, his face enormous in memory—she must have been very small—his lips moving as he sang.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word, daddy's going to give you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing..."

Anna put her thumb back in her mouth, leaning against Charlotte's chest as she sang.

"And if that wagon wheel gets broke, daddy's--"

The thumb popped out of the mouth. "Where is Daddy? Will be bring the doll?"

Charlotte only tightened her arms around her and sang louder.