Chapter 8 Aleida
Aleida
The morning after Ingrid fled with Lars, one sound made Aleida’s heart thud: her mother’s heels clacking against the hardwood
floor. A sound she had known would come soon enough. Time to perform.
The theater had been a part of her life since she’d been a girl. Ballerina, actress, entertainer. She was prepared for this,
wasn’t she? She needed only to keep to her role.
A gentle rap, then the door opened, accompanied by Mother’s sigh. “My darlings, you’re late for breakfast.”
A fashionable aubergine skirt and jacket hugged her tall, thin frame while her dark hair curled into a neat chignon. She stilled,
looking from Aleida to the empty, neatly made bed across from her.
“Where is Ingrid?”
“Downstairs, I suppose. She was gone when I woke up. Haven’t you seen her?” When Constance de Vos pressed her small mouth
together—a look her daughters always tried to avoid—Aleida sat up straighter. “My class starts in an hour. If she isn’t home
by the time I come back, I’ll look for her.”
Mother lowered the open window, centimeter by calculated centimeter, silencing the trill of birdsong. It clicked shut quietly, deliberately, almost making Aleida wince.
“Find your sister and bring her to me straightaway. Her and that boy . . . I will not allow Ingrid to behave like a common
whore.”
What a terrible name to call anyone, particularly one’s own child—and certainly not a name Aleida would allow anyone to apply
to her sister. Of course Mother assumed Ingrid had spent the night with Lars. Still, she almost felt Ingrid’s hand over her
mouth. Rebuking their mother was not part of the act.
When Mother passed a hand over her eyes, the venom left her tone. “Forgive me, it’s . . . well, that child has never been
easy, has she?” She placed her hands on Aleida’s shoulders, eyes glassy. “Please find her. Bring my daughter home.”
Aleida resisted the urge to look away or shift beneath her touch or blurt out that Ingrid was fine, honestly—unless she and
Lars had been caught, a notion Aleida refused to contemplate. It was one matter to tell Mother harmless little stories. Ingrid
went shopping, Ingrid met friends for lunch, Ingrid took her bicycle to remedy a flat tire, all while she was actually with
Lars. From such outings, she always returned after a few hours, so Mother never knew the difference. Ingrid never disappeared
in the middle of the night, certainly not for days, weeks, months, however long she would be away.
It really was cruel to worry Mother like this. Still, it was safer for everyone, her included, if she didn’t know the truth.
After a shaky breath, Mother cleared her throat. “Do be home in time for dinner. We’re having company. Dress properly, act
like a lady, everything just as I’ve taught you. It’s—” An indiscernible look passed over her while something in her tone
shifted. “It’s quite important.”
Aleida nodded. Best not to ask about the unexplained dinner guest.
“You know how much I love you. And your sister.” The unusual edge lingered in Mother’s voice. “Darling, I need you to trust me. And do not ask questions. Not under any circumstances, no matter what happens, until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”
Again, Aleida nodded, although the tension in her mother’s grip set her heart pounding even more than the strangeness in her
tone. Mother held her gaze a moment longer, then slipped out and closed the door softly behind her.
Whatever Mother meant, perhaps she would find out later, although Mother had never looked at her that way before. For now,
Aleida brushed her curiosity aside. So far, all was carrying on according to plan. After ballet class, act 2 of this play
would commence, in which she would play the distraught sister in a performance worthy of an Academy Award. Returning home,
acknowledging Ingrid’s continued absence, embarking on her fruitless search for her sister, then frantically bursting into
the house, delivering choked lines through tears: I looked everywhere, Mother. I simply couldn’t find her.
Ingrid and Lars must be far from Arnhem by now. Aleida certainly prayed they were, because if not, then this whole charade
had been for nothing. She couldn’t bear the thought that her sister might have been caught. Or worse.
The rest of the day progressed as expected, and Aleida played her role spectacularly. Remaining in character was much easier
than she thought it would be. Despite the guilt brought on by Mother’s obvious worry, Aleida focused on Ingrid, on her promise
to help, and did not succumb to the urge to allay Mother’s concerns.
“I know what this is about,” Mother said after Aleida had poured out her story and her tears. “I know precisely what she’s
doing. This is because of—” She stopped, swallowing hard, but Aleida knew what she had been preparing to say.
Because of the Reichsparteitag photo having been returned to the foyer.
The uncomfortable silence was broken only by Aleida’s lingering sniffles.
She did not like the photograph any more than Ingrid did, nor did she understand why Mother had hung it up again.
Mother was not a fascist anymore—despite what Ingrid feared, and despite the little flicker of uncertainty that threatened to take root every time Aleida walked by the image.
But given Mother’s recent instruction not to ask questions, she resolved not to pry until she had been granted permission.
“Ingrid is punishing me, isn’t she? All to prove a point, just like he would do . . . That child has always been too much
like her father.”
Aleida’s final little sob hid a giggle. The expected reaction, precisely why she had predicted it last night. Her imitation
of Mother always made Ingrid laugh. A sound Aleida wanted to capture, to return to time and time again when her sister was
no longer here to laugh with her.
Mother sighed, then she kissed Aleida’s cheek. “Not to worry, darling. Ingrid will come home soon enough.”
As Aleida went upstairs to change for dinner, a tight ache found her chest. Until now, she had not entirely considered what
life would be like without her twin. It was as if one of her own limbs were missing. A sensation to which she would never
grow accustomed. But once she heard from Ingrid, knowing her sister was safe would ease the ache. Someday they would find
each other again.
Once ready, Aleida detected faint voices. The guest must have arrived. Tardiness would warrant a reprimand, so she smoothed
her dark locks, hurried downstairs to the foyer, and froze.
There, Mother stood with an SS officer.
Was he here because of the blackout performances? Because of the Orpo officer who had walked Aleida home and warned her against
associating with Madame Bellamy? Because Ingrid and Lars had been caught? Yet as Aleida’s heart slammed, she realized this
did not appear to be an official visit. This man appeared to be Mother’s dinner guest.
Constance had once been an ardent fascist: This Aleida had known ever since childhood, when Mother had vocally supported Hitler.
Along with her sister, Aleida had learned enough about her own country’s government and ideals to know she did not want a life under German rule, adhering to fascist ideology.
Unlike her sister, she had turned to music, dance, theater.
The arts were her escape from the world and her defense of all she held dear.
Perhaps Ingrid was right. Perhaps Mother remained a fascist after all. The photograph was the first indication, and now this.
At this very moment, she heard Mother regaling the SS man with the story behind the image, to which he was nodding in approval.
Then they caught sight of her, unmoving at the bottom of the stairs. Her grip on the banister tightened.
Mother gestured for her to come closer. “Darling, I’d like you to meet Gregor Dietrich, Schutzstaffel and Police Leader here
in Arnhem. Herr Polizeiführer, my daughter, Aleida.”
As she approached, Aleida studied the man—perhaps her mother’s age, wearing a decorated field gray uniform. His cap was tucked
under one arm, revealing a thin crown of light brown hair, neatly combed, peppered with gray. Thin lines surrounded his pale
blue eyes. Yet it was his neck that held Aleida’s attention. A scar stretched just above his uniform collar, as if someone
had attempted to slit his throat. When she reached him, Aleida felt as if she had a knife pressed to her own throat.
Dietrich took her hand and bowed. “A pleasure, Fr?ulein. You are as beautiful as your mother.”
She wanted to snatch her hand away, to scrub off the feeling of his clammy lips brushing against her skin. But this man oversaw
both the SS and police forces—green police like the Orpo, secret police like the Gestapo, and any others responsible for maintaining
order. If he suspected she harbored anti-Nazi sentiments, he held the power to inflict whatever punishment he saw fit.
Instead, she gave a small, polite nod in response to his compliment, then followed the officer and her mother into the dining room.
Over the meal, Aleida spoke only when addressed while the nausea twisting inside her stomach made eating impossible. She forced
down a few bites. If only Ingrid was in the distressingly empty place across from her. Someone to endure this dreadful meal
with her. Someone whose ankle she could lightly kick to catch her attention every time Mother leaned closer to Dietrich or
brushed her fingers across his arm. Someone who would echo Aleida’s request to excuse herself in search of privacy.
Upstairs, she closed her bedroom door, opened her window, and pressed her palms to the sill, gulping breaths of fresh air
as if her lungs would never be satisfied.
She should have fled with Ingrid and Lars. Why hadn’t she fled?
Because if not for the war, they would still be here. Jews like Madame Bellamy would not need help. The sooner the war ended,
the sooner Arnhem would be safe again. Until then, she would await news of Ingrid’s safety and commit to her reason for staying
behind.
I need you to trust me, Mother had said. Could she? Aleida was not certain of anything anymore—unless Mother had issued the order to protect her
daughter the same way Aleida kept her own secrets to protect Mother. Except Aleida’s secrets did not involve welcoming the
enemy into their home. Had the officer invited himself and left Mother no choice other than to comply? Or had Mother extended
the invitation? Aleida shivered at both prospects.
Still, if Mother continued to bring Nazis home, the men’s conversations might reveal their intentions for the Jews. Useful
information for her to relay to Madame Bellamy.
This was a new role, nothing more. A part in a play.
For the next few months, Aleida engaged in blackout performances, kept her work secret, and did not ask questions while Mother entertained. Luncheons, dinners, parties, all for Nazi supporters or SS men or Ordnungspolizei. And that Dietrich fellow was always among them.
All while Aleida listened. All without a single letter from Ingrid.
One would come, surely. Perhaps it had taken Ingrid and Lars much longer to settle on a destination and travel there than
anticipated. Ingrid had promised to write, and she would.
At last, one evening after Dietrich alone had joined them for dinner, Aleida excused herself early, blaming exhaustion on
a rigorous day of dance classes. Dietrich was a dull man who never spoke of his work; no need to remain in his company any
longer than necessary.
Upstairs, after readying herself for bed, Aleida was stretching her sore muscles when she heard two distinctive sets of footsteps—one
a heavy pair of boots, another a dainty pair of heels.
Dietrich’s low voice. Mother’s airy chuckle. The steps receded; bile rose to Aleida’s throat. They could not be moving in
the direction she thought. She held her breath as the steps ceased. Then her mother’s bedroom door clicked shut.
Aleida clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking a protest, then flung herself into bed and buried her head beneath
her pillow. If God was indeed merciful, let Him spare her from hearing anything else.
Even as she impatiently awaited sleep, Aleida’s heart pounded in her ears. A common whore, Mother had spat when she thought Ingrid had slipped out to be with Lars. How dare she condemn her own daughter—especially
now that she was in bed with a Gestapo agent.
Mother had always been far too critical of Ingrid. And if being with a good man like Lars made Ingrid a common whore, then
being a collaborator made Mother something far worse.