Chapter 2 Aleida
Aleida
Two sharp claps echoed around the Muziekschool’s dance studio, interrupting the accompanist at the piano and causing Aleida
and her fellow dancers to pause mid-pirouette. By the mirrored wall stood Madame Bellamy—tall, elegant, and frowning at her
students.
“No, no, no! Mon Dieu, where are my graceful young ballerinas? You’re fumbling about like infants learning how to walk.” When a few dared to giggle,
her piercing gaze silenced them. “What do I always tell you? To dance you must feel the music.”
Even Aleida sometimes found it difficult not to wither beneath such a scrupulous gaze, yet her years of training with Madame
Bellamy had revealed the instructor’s passion for ballet, translating into the deepest respect for the art and the highest
standards for her students. And when Madame Bellamy caught her eye, Aleida knew precisely what the look meant.
Her heart leaped in terrified yet eager anticipation while a small collective sigh rose from the girls who had been spared this time.
They withdrew to the outskirts of the floor, leaving Aleida to demonstrate the choreography so Madame Bellamy could dissect every step, mention everything wrong, use one student as an example to challenge the entire class toward improvement.
A challenge that always ignited something irrepressible within Aleida, giving her the courage to perform the way she had once feared she would never perform again.
“I don’t want to go to Kent,” she had wailed to Madame Bellamy before class one day more than ten years ago, when she was
seven years old and lamenting Mother’s intention to send her and her twin to boarding school. “What if I forget how to dance?”
“Your mother will enroll you in dance lessons there, will she not?”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Nor will it be so different. You will learn from your new instructor, practice on your own, and take lessons with me every
time you come home.”
Yet from the moment she had stepped shyly into her first dance class a few years prior, Aleida had known no instruction from
anyone else except this stern Frenchwoman who was, in fact, not always so stern. She could not lose her lessons, even temporarily,
from the trusted ballet mistress who had taken her from uncertain pupil to confident ballerina eager to learn, to improve,
to dance professionally someday.
Madame Bellamy knelt to her eye level and gently brushed a tear from Aleida’s cheek. “Write to me at the Muziekschool. Tell
me about your lessons and your new instructor, ask me questions, anything, and I will answer. Then I will be here when you
come home. You will not fall behind, I promise.” She gave the little girl’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “You have no need
to fear, Aleida, and you are far too talented to give up. Promise me you will keep dancing.”
Aleida had taken her advice. Despite boarding school, she had studied, trained, learned, and stayed in touch with her instructor when she was not home to take classes from her, and she had not fallen behind.
Now, as Aleida came to the end of her demonstration, Madame Bellamy did indeed tear apart the performance before concluding with a few praises, then a nod.
“Overall, good enough. But I trained you to be your best.”
“Yes, madame,” Aleida replied, resisting a small smile. Pleasing her instructor was the most motivating challenge of all.
Before the other girls could resume their places, a sound came from the doorway. A man clearing his throat. Concern built
in Aleida’s chest. The Netherlands fell in early May, hardly a few weeks ago, yet she was still unaccustomed to the green-uniformed
Ordnungspolizei patrolling the streets. Ones like the young man entering the room.
“Girls, you are dismissed,” the ballet mistress said calmly before addressing the policeman. “Good afternoon, may I help you?”
Pointe shoes clacked across the parquet floor as the dancers gathered their belongings. Aleida removed her shoes slowly, watching
the Orpo officer.
“Pardon the interruption.” He spoke in polite, German-accented Dutch. “Please ensure this building is open tomorrow so all
signage can be updated. The Dutch signs will remain as well for those who require them.”
He handed her a document, likely a notice of the changes. What a foolish order, adding German signs to every building. As
if the soldiers were here to stay. This occupation was temporary, though. It had to be.
While Madame Bellamy accepted the paper, Aleida watched as the officer glanced briefly at the tiny gold Star of David around
her neck. A harmless observation, so Aleida couldn’t explain why the knot in her chest tightened. Then he tipped his cap to
her and smiled at the dancers, leaving a few girls tittering, staring after his retreating figure.
One girl sitting near Aleida leaned closer to another. “The soldiers are nothing like I thought they would be—all so civilized
and friendly. And young. And handsome.”
“My parents say there’s nothing to worry about,” her companion replied. “If Jews have to register here like they do in Germany, what’s the harm? All it means is that the government knows how they worship.”
Before Aleida could ask how they would feel if such laws impacted them instead of their Jewish neighbors, or if they were
really so confident that supposedly civilized behavior would not develop into something more sinister, the girls vacated the
building. Then only Aleida and her instructor were left.
Madame Bellamy sat before the piano, her back to her remaining student. She placed her fingers on the ebony and ivory keys
and played a piece Aleida recognized by Chopin. She listened, feeling the music as Madame Bellamy always instructed. When
the final note ended, the ballet mistress sighed, rose, and startled when she turned.
“Forgive me, I thought everyone was gone. Did you have a question about the class?”
“No, I . . .” Aleida glanced at the policeman’s document resting on the piano bench, then looked to her instructor. “I wanted
to ask how you are.”
A foolish question to ask a Jewish woman during such uncertain times, especially when Aleida could do little to help. Still,
Madame Bellamy’s eyes warmed briefly with gratitude before a hollowness returned, one leaving Aleida’s own chest feeling hollow.
The elder woman had never looked at her in such a way.
“Without you, the little girl who took her first ballet class here would have lost herself and her passion for dance in boarding
school, and she would not have grown into the young woman and ballerina she is today. You always supported me when I needed
you most. Please tell me how I can support you.”
The ballet mistress picked up the notice.
“Many of my friends expect matters to worsen. Some wish to leave—which requires funds, papers, and more. Until we develop a way to acquire such resources, there’s little to be done.
” She placed a hand on Aleida’s arm. “Yours is a kind offer, likely a dangerous one.”
Dangerous. An unsettling realization. In occupied Arnhem, a simple offer to help a friend was now considered dangerous.
As she picked up her bag, Aleida stared at the pointe shoes tucked inside. Perhaps the solution was simpler than it seemed.
Dangerous or not, they had to try.
“Let us help—your dancers. Those who can be trusted, anyway.” She gestured to the empty room. “We can perform to raise money
for Jews who need assistance.”
Madame Bellamy arched a brow while Aleida’s heart pounded. Something to be done. A way to feel useful until this war was over.
Maybe some saw no reason to worry about the occupation, but how could Aleida sit by while her countrymen suffered?
After her instructor promised to consider the suggestion, Aleida left the Muziekschool and, outside, found the June sky painted
in a sunset as vibrant as the warmth in her chest. Perhaps her idea would help to assuage Madame Bellamy’s concerns, the same
way her instructor had once assuaged Aleida’s.
Before she could walk to her family’s house on Jansbinnensingel, she noticed the young Orpo officer lingering outside the
building, finishing a cigarette. Suddenly Aleida’s mouth tasted like ash, even though she pretended not to see him. She would
be cautious and not make her disdain for the invaders obvious, but unlike the girls from her class, she had no interest in
befriending them. Not when their presence posed a threat to all Dutch citizens, particularly Jewish ones, if Madame Bellamy’s
worries proved valid. Maybe the soldiers had been relatively civil since the invasion. Maybe they would not always be.
“You are one of the dancers.”
Aleida jumped when the young Orpo officer’s voice sounded behind her. “I am,” she replied shortly, then bit her lip when he stepped in front of her. She stopped, unable to pass.
“My sister takes ballet classes. But she is only six and not very talented yet, I’m afraid.” He laughed, then cast a fond
gaze at the Muziekschool, perhaps lost in thoughts of home. If this was an attempt to endear himself to her, it would not
work. He blinked, returning from the reverie, and doffed his cap in introduction. “Wachtmeister Julius Hochheimer. May I walk
you home, Fr?ulein?”
“I know the way, thank you.”
“Please, I insist.”
Her eyes fell instinctively to the gun at his hip. Did she have the power to refuse? With a small nod, she consented and led
the way down Boulevard Heuvelink even as her heart raced. He chatted amiably and did not seem to care if she answered, so
she stayed quiet.
More of this supposedly civilized behavior would not make her forget the brief shadow that had overtaken his countenance when
he noticed Madame Bellamy’s Star of David necklace, nor would she dismiss her instructor’s fears. If Jewish people felt unsafe,
Aleida would do whatever she could to assist them until Arnhem belonged to the Dutch again.
When they reached her front door, she forced a smile and spoke with attempted lightness. “Thank you for accompanying me home,
Herr Wachtmeister.” A poor effort; she heard the tension concealed within her tone.
“Of course.” Then, as she reached for the door, he caught her arm. “A word of advice: When choosing the company you keep,
choose wisely.”
Somehow she did not think he was referring to himself. Everything inside her bristled in protest. Was this because her ballet
mistress was Jewish, because she had lingered to speak with Madame Bellamy beyond class time rather than leaving when the
other girls did? He had no right to deter a pupil from associating with her instructor. Still, it did not sound like advice.
More like a threat.
Aleida did not move, did not breathe, not until he released her, tipped his hat with a charming smile, and watched as she slipped inside. Once the door was firmly closed, she placed a hand on her chest, attempting to slow the heart that had pounded the entire way home.
“Everything all right, darling?”
At Mother’s prompting, Aleida joined her in the living room, where she was sitting on the sofa, brow creased in concern. Aleida
sat beside her and rested her head on Mother’s shoulder the way she did so often as a girl—whether seeking comfort or listening
to the calming cadence of Mother’s British accent or simply enjoying each other’s company. One by one, Mother removed the
pins from Aleida’s bun until her dark hair fell about her shoulders, then she ran her fingers through it, steady and rhythmic
and soothing.
No, everything was not all right. She could not sort out if Hochheimer had threatened her or not, nor could Aleida speak of
her intentions to help Madame Bellamy. If doing so would be dangerous, she could not put Mother in jeopardy, certainly not
before she knew what the work would entail or the risks it would impose.
“I’m afraid, Mother,” she whispered at last, because that much was true. Even if the other dancers were right and the occupying
soldiers had not done anything yet beyond instate their own laws. But worry had found its way into her heart when Arnhem fell,
then more strongly with every passing second after the Orpo officer’s visit and the look on Madame Bellamy’s face, the concern
in her eyes, the worries she had expressed.
Mother kissed the top of her head. “Oh, my dear girl . . . How I wish I could take those fears. But I will keep you safe no
matter what happens. I promise.”
Aleida wondered if such assurances were within Mother’s power to give.