Chapter 13 Aleida
Aleida
Blood thrummed through Aleida’s veins when ballet class ended and she stepped to the mirrored wall, complaining of a hairpin
driving painfully into her scalp. While dancers filed from the studio, removed pointe shoes, and pulled bandages from blistered
feet, Madame Bellamy assisted her and freed a single hairpin. The one around which Aleida had wrapped a slip of a note, which
her instructor discreetly tucked into her own bun.
Thursday evening was what she had written. An indication of Mother’s next dinner party. Madame Bellamy usually took the opportunity to stage
a blackout performance, since dinner provided a guaranteed distraction for the Gestapo agents, SS men, and Ordnungspolizei
in attendance.
“Our next performance will be on Thursday,” Madame Bellamy said the next day when she called a resistance meeting at the dance
studio. “Aleida, will you conduct rehearsals this week?”
She nodded. “And I’ll bring a report after my mother’s dinner—names of those in attendance, information they reveal about
Jews or subversive activities, whatever I can gather.”
“Good. All of you, spread the word to those who wish to donate to our cause and forget the war for a short time. And remember: No music, no applause, nothing to alert the soldiers to our presence, so those attending must agree to abide by the rules.”
Heads bobbed in a collective nod, though a few dark looks found Aleida. Over the last months, she had attended countless resistance
meetings, during which the same proposal often arose: If so many SS men would be gathering at Aleida’s house, why not stage
an attack against them? Yet Madame Bellamy insisted the information Aleida provided was too valuable; therefore ambushing
the De Vos home was not worth risking her exposure.
Sometimes Aleida wished Madame Bellamy would approve the attack. After months of evenings with Mother, Dietrich, and their
friends, listening to the conversations and seeking information even as she feigned disinterest, Aleida was running out of
strength.
If exposed, she no longer had to pretend. If exposed, perhaps Mother’s act—if it was one, as Aleida so desperately wanted
to believe—could end too.
She could not run out of strength, though. Until the war ended, she had a role to play. Her silence was protection—and not
just her own.
As the meeting adjourned, the door to the Muziekschool burst open.
Footsteps pattered down the hall toward the studio, keeping time with Aleida’s heart as she and the other dancers gathered
their belongings, as if finishing a late rehearsal. Hopefully the Gestapo would consider it an acceptable excuse, if they
were the ones who had rushed inside.
A noticeably pregnant woman entered the room. Aleida breathed more easily as she recognized Madame Bellamy’s daughter, who
had attended dance classes prior to her marriage and pregnancy. Usually she participated in these meetings.
“Maman, you must come quickly,” she said, then continued in rapid French.
Aleida watched as Madame Bellamy stilled. The look of a woman who had received news too devastating to grasp.
Even as her heart raced with concern, Aleida joined them. “Go. And tell me how I can help.”
Madame Bellamy’s eyes were vacant, one hand pressed against the piano as if for support. “My son . . . He was attacked by
a group of soldiers. Not because he violated a law, simply for being Jewish, and he . . . his injuries are extensive.”
Aleida could hardly breathe. Violence against Jews had increased since the occupation, but this could not be happening, not
to this woman—both strict and gentle, eloquent and courageous, a woman who treated her students like her own children. No
one deserved this, she and her family least of all.
Suddenly Aleida wanted to go home, to throw Dietrich out, to curse him for the hatred and violence his regime perpetrated.
“Go to your son, madame,” Aleida said, gently but urgently. Her instructor seemed too dazed to comprehend anything, so Aleida
steered her toward her daughter, who took the elder woman’s arm. “Be with your family for as long as you need. I’ll make sure
the blackout performance goes well, and I’ll deliver the funds.”
Madame Bellamy shook her head. “Let someone else deliver them—someone you trust, and tell them what to do. You’ll be missed
if you aren’t home in time for your mother’s dinner.”
“Then I won’t be late.”
Maybe she trusted her fellow resistance members, but there was no need to share information with them unless it was essential.
Those who knew little could not compromise the work as severely if caught and interrogated by the Gestapo.
In time, they would need to delegate tasks and information more broadly.
Jewish citizens were increasingly persecuted, having their jobs taken and rights stripped, and as the resistance work expanded, it was becoming too much for Aleida to be the only one sharing full awareness with Madame Bellamy.
For now, though, Aleida was enough. She could stage the performance, deliver the funds to their contact, and be home without Mother missing her and without putting her fellow resistance members at an unnecessarily increased risk.
Leaving Madame Bellamy no time to protest, Aleida departed, mounted her bicycle, and pedaled down Boulevard Heuvelink toward
home, her blood pumping hard and fast.
For every month she spent engaging in resistance work, it felt as if the next brought more hardship. First the occupation,
then harm to Jews. Nothing worse would be next, surely. But if it were to come, she was certain to hear about it at one of
Mother’s parties.
The men came. They drank. God willing, they talked. And Aleida listened.
If only Ingrid were there to assist her—though Ingrid would never have the patience to sit through a dinner party, nor would
she keep her opinions to herself or her temper in check.
A cool late-afternoon breeze swept the painful thought away. More than a year since Ingrid and Lars had left, and still Aleida
had not received news of their safety. But she did not permit herself to think of what might have happened to prevent her
sister from contacting her. She would write. Until then, Aleida would remember why she had stayed.
For Ingrid, her twin sister. For the Netherlands, her country. For Madame Bellamy, the Jews, and the resistance. And for herself.
Because someday this war would end, and she and her countrymen would be free.
Someday felt more distant than ever as the months dragged by and 1941 transitioned into 1942.
Even Mother had been forced to make some adjustments throughout the winter’s strict rationing, despite Dietrich providing her with more than the allotted rations.
Aleida’s countrymen suffered, all while the occupiers indulged and wasted every resource.
Yet, to Aleida, Mother never spoke about Dietrich, Ingrid, or the war. So Aleida never spoke to her about those topics either.
The truth was obvious enough, she supposed. That Mother was everything Ingrid feared she was. Or maybe, just maybe, if Aleida
was living a story, perhaps Mother was too.
Perhaps Aleida was not the only one pretending.
The possibility was too delicate to discuss, however, so Aleida never did. They were simply two people existing within the
house on Jansbinnensingel, going about their lives, keeping their secrets. Mother had said to trust her, to not ask questions.
Just like Aleida kept information from her fellow resistance members for their safety, she prayed Mother was doing the same
for her daughter. Because if Mother truly did support Dietrich and everything he did, Aleida would never forgive her.
One evening, Mother was hosting another dinner, so Aleida hurried home immediately after ballet class to help her prepare,
as she usually did. She found Mother in the living room with Dietrich, who was smoking and reviewing a few documents. Aleida
refrained from attempting to steal a glimpse. Dietrich kept his work in Papa’s old study, and it was always locked, the key
always on his person. Instead she sat beside Mother, relaxing before the evening’s festivities while Mother took down Aleida’s
bun. A gesture that always reminded Aleida of her childhood, when they would sit together and discuss her class while Mother
removed the pins and brushed her dark locks.
“Darling, what’s this in your hair?” Brow furrowed, Mother held up a pin with a tiny slip of paper wrapped around it.
Aleida’s heart stilled as Mother removed the message—one she had forgotten to deliver to Madame Bellamy.
She had been late to class, having stopped on her way to check with a contact planning to smuggle a family out of Arnhem tonight, then she left early to make it home in time for Mother’s dinner and forgot about the note.
Mother unfurled the paper. “‘Tonight, R. W.,’” she read aloud. Nothing damning unless one knew it meant a family would be
escaping this evening, escorted by a contact whose initials were R. W. Still, it was not information she wanted in anyone
else’s hands, certainly not Dietrich’s. Already, he was puffing slowly on his cigarette, watching while Aleida took the note
with a forced chuckle.
“Oh, this was just so I wouldn’t forget about dinner, and the initials are for Richard Wagner. I want to practice some of
his pieces so I can play the piano this evening. The men always enjoy the music, don’t they? And isn’t the hairpin clever?
The paper would have gotten lost in my bag, but this way I’m certain to remember everything.” She was explaining too much,
she knew, so she sprang to her feet and gathered her belongings. “I’ll change so I can help you before the guests arrive,
Mother. What are we serving for dinner? I’m famished.”
She did not listen to the answer, her heart pounding too much as she felt Dietrich’s eyes following her toward the stairs.
Only once she was in her bedroom with the door safely closed did she tear up the paper and let out her breath.