Chapter 6 Ingrid
Ingrid
Ever since Opa’s dismissal from his position as a prosecuting attorney, Ingrid had spent the last couple of weeks assisting
Aleida with her plan to raise money to aid Jews. Aleida had shared her intentions in an eager whispered conversation one night
in their bedroom, so of course Ingrid had volunteered her assistance. She wanted to do something helpful, not to feel as helpless
as she had that day in Opa’s office.
Madame Bellamy had prepared dances for the trusted students lending aid while anyone sympathetic to the cause was invited
to attend. Now, the night had arrived. The Muziekschool’s first clandestine performance—a blackout performance, they called
it. The studio was filled with chairs for the guests while Ingrid stood by the door, accepting donations and pointing each
attendee to a sign listing the rules: total silence. No talking, no applause, no music for the performance. Noise might alert
the occupiers.
Once the guests were seated, Ingrid placed the donations into a box and found her seat between Lars and Opa.
She and Aleida had agreed not to mention their work to Mother—for her safety, and because Ingrid maintained her doubts about Mother’s political loyalties.
She had invited Lars, though, and one of Opa’s colleagues had invited him, despite Ingrid’s worries for his safety since the Orpo officers had already identified him as anti-Nazi, which was why Ingrid and Aleida had refrained from mentioning it to him in the first place.
“I will not be deterred from supporting a worthy cause or seeing my granddaughter perform,” he had insisted when Ingrid expressed
her fears, so that was the end of the discussion.
Tonight’s performance was a selection of original pieces choreographed by Madame Bellamy, and Aleida was first. Illuminated
by a single light, she stepped onstage wearing a pale pink leotard, white tulle skirt, and flat ballet shoes, since those
were quieter than pointe shoes. Then she began, stepping gracefully into an arabesque—if Ingrid remembered the correct word
for the step—before proceeding into a series of turns and extensions, fast and slow steps, large and small jumps. Her grace,
strength, and the little smile toying around her lips and igniting her eyes made each movement appear effortless, yet the
effort was apparent in every visible muscle contracting and rippling.
Ingrid watched, captivated. She had seen Aleida dance countless times, but something was different about tonight. About watching
her sister pursue her passion in support of an important cause. When the dance ended, Ingrid sat on her hands to remind herself
not to applaud while Aleida took center stage and curtsied. When she straightened, she found Ingrid in the crowd. Ingrid grinned,
hoping her sister felt every bit of her pride and love.
Beside Ingrid, Opa’s eyes crinkled around the edges as Aleida found him next, and he gave her a tiny nod, communicating his
own delight.
The evening continued in a reverent, respectful silence more thunderous than any applause.
When the performance concluded, the guests filed out, one by one, while Ingrid returned to the door to collect any additional donations.
Once finished, only she, Aleida, Lars, Opa, and Madame Bellamy remained, and all evidence of their event was gone.
Ingrid returned the collection box to the dance instructor, who nodded, granting permission to speak quietly now.
When she accepted the box, her eyes widened.
“It is far more than I expected,” she murmured. “And it will help considerably.”
“Then we should schedule the next performance,” Aleida replied with a grin before wrapping her arms around her grandfather’s
midsection. “I’m delighted you came, Opa.”
“And I will be at every performance.” He kissed her cheek, then Ingrid’s. “I’m so proud of you both.”
He bid them good night while Ingrid caught her sister’s eye. For the first time since the occupation, a little flame of hope
had ignited inside her. They were making a difference, and if they continued to do so, perhaps this occupation would end after
all.
When Madame Bellamy removed the funds from the box, Aleida reached for them, but she shook her head. “No, I will make the
delivery. Someday the task might fall to you. Until then, I will not endanger you any more than necessary.”
“A frivolous girl walking home from dance class draws less suspicion than an older, wiser Jewish woman,” she teased before
sobering. “It will be easier and safer for me. Let me do it, please.”
The ballet mistress hesitated, then she gave Aleida’s arm an appreciative squeeze and agreed. Aleida tucked the funds into
her pointe shoe, then Madame Bellamy drew her aside to give instructions privately.
The twins walked home with Lars while the warm evening air, the lingering rush of joy from watching her sister onstage, and
the success of the endeavor left Ingrid feeling almost as giddy as she had when Lars proposed. At last, a way to do some good.
They detoured so Aleida could deliver the funds—although she would not allow anyone to accompany her for the last few blocks, unwilling to endanger them or burden them with knowledge of the contact.
Despite initial protests, Ingrid conceded and waited with Lars.
Her heartbeat did not slow until Aleida came into view—unharmed, humming a carefree tune, swinging her dance bag as though she was indeed an oblivious girl, not a young woman partaking in clandestine resistance work.
She gave Ingrid a sly wink, to which she chuckled, then they proceeded on their way.
“We should do something tonight to celebrate the evening’s success,” Lars said. “Any ideas?”
“None that involve having my sister with us.”
While he chuckled in response to her suggestive grin, she gestured for Aleida to hurry—half a block behind them, lagging to
admire shop windows. That girl, so easily distracted. At last she caught up, and the three were passing a pub when the door
swung open, bringing noise, the stench of alcohol, and a stumbling figure whom Lars failed to intercept before he barreled
straight into Ingrid. Gasping, she staggered and would have been sent sprawling if Aleida hadn’t steadied her.
“I beg your pardon,” she snapped, whirling to glare at the offender—a uniformed man. Further rebukes died, replaced by a knot
in her throat. Wehrmacht.
Ingrid sensed Aleida’s grip on her arm tightening. Lars held one man upright—presumably the one who had collided with her—while
another supported him on the opposite side.
“Good man, helping a soldier of the Reich,” the unsteady one slurred, flashing a giddy grin at Lars. “A wise position to take
now that we have your country. Next we’ll have your men in our military and your women in our beds.”
Ingrid stilled. Had she heard him properly? At once, Aleida dragged Ingrid along and grabbed Lars with her free hand, urging
them down the street. As if removing Ingrid from the situation would make her forget the taunt that, empty or not, had left
her heart racing.
“What did he say?” she demanded, craning her neck to look at Lars, whose face was red with suppressed outrage. “About the military? Our men? Is it true?”
“Keep your voice down,” Aleida replied, but Ingrid pulled free and stepped in front of Lars, bringing them to a halt.
She needed to hear it from the man who had given her the ring she wore around her neck and soon, God willing, around her finger.
Unless the answer stripped away the opportunity, took him from her a second time. This time, perhaps, not to return him.
“Are you going to be conscripted? Were you honestly not going to tell me?”
Crushing silence magnified her own shaking breaths as she held his steady gaze. Lars passed a hand over his jaw.
“Nothing has been confirmed, but it . . . It is possible.”
She knew what possible meant. Considering the Netherlands fell, hadn’t history and politics taught her to expect this? Yet here she was, vacillating
between shock and grief until fury consumed both while he continued.
“You and Aleida needed to stay focused on tonight’s performance, so I didn’t want to distract you or ruin the evening. I was
going to tell you tomorrow.”
“I don’t need to be protected from this war. You know that, know me. And instead of my own fiancé telling me the truth, I had to hear it from the bloody Wehrmacht.”
She announced the last bit far too loudly, considering they were on a public street. She didn’t care. With a look to warn
Lars not to accompany them the rest of the way home, Ingrid proceeded down the street, her breaths sharp. Moments later, she
sensed Aleida beside her.
To the front again. To face death again. Except she knew Lars; he would desert before he conceded to fight for the fascists.
A choice that felt far more dangerous. A transgression for which, if caught, he would be killed. She was at a greater risk
of losing him than ever.
At the house on Jansbinnensingel, all was quiet.
Mother must have gone out, thank God, or she was in the back garden.
This night had been trying enough without Mother demanding to know where the twins went or whose company Ingrid kept this evening.
Inside, something on the foyer wall caught her attention. She stopped.
The photograph was not a family portrait. Long before the twins had been old enough to remember Papa—a Dutch baron in name
only, absent the money Mother had expected—he had left home, so Mother had thrown out all evidence of his existence. This
photograph was from 1936 and depicted their mother, Constance de Vos, in Nuremberg, where she attended the Reichsparteitag—the
annual National Socialist German Workers’ Party Congress. There, surrounded by throngs of Nazis, Constance shook hands with
a dark-haired, mustached man: the Führer, Adolf Hitler.
A few years ago, a painting had replaced the photograph. Apparently Mother had decided to hang it again. Not surprising, really.