Chapter 5 Ada
Ada
Ada stands outside Gordon’s front door, clutching the paper that reads Aleida de Vos, and looks toward the tall hedges that could easily shield someone in this darkness. She hears nothing aside from the blood
rushing in her ears.
If whoever left this note hasn’t gone, she might as well face them.
“Go on, then,” she calls out, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Show yourself.”
Silence. Then footsteps. Swallowing past her dry throat, she closes one hand around the doorknob, prepared for a hasty escape
if necessary.
From behind the thick hedges, a silhouette appears. A woman’s. Ada cannot see her features, cannot hear anything but the light
thud of her feet against the motor court as she approaches the two-story white brick mansion. Yet as she nears, something
irrepressible flares in Ada’s chest.
When the figure steps into the light from the two flickering sconces, Ada grips the doorknob tighter.
The woman’s hair is pulled back and almost as red as the front door, and her face is one Ada can still envision as clearly and distinctly as the last time they stood before one another like this. But surely it cannot be her.
Except it is. Without a doubt. Yet Ada can only stare, unable to believe this woman is standing before her. At last she finds
her voice.
“You changed your hair.”
“You changed your name.” The other woman gives a faint teasing smile. “Am I still allowed to call you my twin sister, or have
you changed that too?”
Everything inside Ada breaks free, emerging in a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Ingrid.” The name is a prayer of thanksgiving
upon her lips as she captures her sister in her fiercest embrace.
Six years have been lost to them. No need to lose another moment more.
Ingrid immediately clings to Ada in return, neither loosening her hold. A fit that feels as right as it always has, no different
than when they were girls. So much of Ada longs to discard everyone and everything from her old life. Everyone and everything
except her sister and this moment. Theirs is an embrace unburdening every fear, every worry, every concern each has carried
for the other since they parted; now they are both here. Together, as they should be.
At last, they loosen their holds, wiping tears while Ada manages to voice one of her many questions. “How did you find me?”
“I recently saw your photograph, so of course I realized it was you, and nothing could keep me away.” Ingrid brushes a final
tear from Ada’s cheek. “I’ve missed you terribly, Leidje.”
The old nickname should be comforting; instead, it stirs the worries, the pain, the silence, everything she has suppressed for so long because dwelling on it changed nothing.
Except now the change—the truth—is standing before her.
Ingrid left Arnhem and ventured into a world ablaze with war, traveled for God knows how long to God knows where.
The sister Ada remembers would not have left her with silence, with nothing except the fear that Ingrid had not survived such an arduous journey.
“You promised me.” Ada’s voice trembles, sharpens. “You promised to write when you and Lars were safe.”
“I did—dozens of times, and you promised to write back. None of which would have been necessary if you’d come with us.” Ingrid’s
own voice sharpens in return, then she sighs. “When I never heard from you, I was afraid you hadn’t survived . . . I suppose
my letters never reached you. I’m sorry.”
Here is the sister Ada once mourned, alive. How Ada wishes nothing had ever changed between them, yet so little remains the
same. Then they were girls united by the bond of sisterhood; now they are women torn apart by war, sisters in their bond yet
strangers in their experiences. What Ingrid endured, she does not know. What Ada endured, she fears she will never find the
strength to share.
The woman formerly known as Aleida stayed in Arnhem to help those who needed her, to fight for their homeland. Ingrid fled
with her fiancé. Their paths have diverged. Ada often considered what it would be like if Ingrid had survived, if their paths
led to each other again, yet she did not anticipate the ache now consuming her insides, nor can she pinpoint its cause or
why this sudden darkness is fighting against the light of relief and joy.
The war buried Aleida alongside all her pain and created Ada, the most vibrant, alluring act of her career. If it has done
the same to Ingrid, they do not know each other as well as they once did.
“I’m sorry for leaving a note . . . I wanted to see who answered the door in case it was someone other than you. All this
would be rather difficult to explain to a stranger.” Ingrid gives a sheepish smile, then nods to the note in Ada’s hand. “It’s
late, so I won’t keep you, but will you meet me tomorrow night around five? I wrote down my hotel and room number.”
Ada glances at the paper, confirming the information at the bottom of the page. She hadn’t noticed it before. Of course they will talk. Once they do, this strange discomfort inside her will cease, surely.
Perhaps the broken promise is what has unsettled her so. It’s not fair to be angry with Ingrid if she really did write, yet
it doesn’t change the gaping absence of these last years. And with her sister’s presence comes a past no one can know—not
even Gordon, certainly not the press.
By stepping into the spotlight, she had assumed the risk of being found. A woman with every reason to hide would not become
a public figure, would she? Which is precisely why Ada did. The war took ballet from her; she would not let it take performing
too.
Still, she has been found by Ingrid. Perhaps others will follow.
Ada pushes down the thought before it can overtake her, agrees to meet Ingrid, and bids her good night. Ingrid retraces her
steps across the motor court. Moments later, a car rumbles to life and fades into the distance. Then Ada goes inside and stands
by the door, waiting for her breaths to steady, clutching the note from the sister who was once dead and is now very much
alive.