Chapter 13 Aleida #2
She could not afford to be careless. Maybe none of the information she had written had been obvious, but she might not be
so fortunate next time.
Dinner proceeded without incident, and it was late when the last guest finally vacated their home. A warm summer breeze swept
through the living room window when Aleida opened it to air out thick clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke, then she collected
scattered glasses and emptied the ashtrays. As the one who never partook in the reveling, the task of cleaning often fell
to her.
From the dining room, she heard a shattering glass followed by Mother’s peal of raucous laughter. She bit her lip to contain a curse. Mother never laughed over ruined finery. Meaning she was terribly drunk.
Red wine and crystal fragments spilled across the table, glinting in the light. Aleida picked up a white cloth napkin to clean
the spill. She hoped the wine would ruin it. Then, every time she looked at that stained napkin, she would imagine it was
Dietrich’s eyes turning blood red when one day—one day—this war ended. On that day, when he no longer held power over them, she would tell him everything she truly thought
of him.
“A Jew still works there,” Dietrich was slurring as Aleida cleaned around them.
She cleaned more slowly. After almost two years of living here, Dietrich had never spoken of his work, not even when drunk,
even though his companions often did. Tonight was finally the exception.
“At the Muziekschool. Have you allowed your daughter’s dance training to come from a Jew? Dancing under a subversive influence,
carting cryptic messages back and forth, then what will be next? Defying the Reich in the middle of your next dinner?”
She almost dropped her cloth. No, not this, not the resistance or the Muziekschool or Madame Bellamy. There had always been
a chance this time would come, but now that it was here, she pictured her kind, devoted instructor dismissed from her position,
or led from the dance studio in handcuffs, or beaten and bloodied. What would they do to her? And then what would become of
their little group of resistance members?
Was this because of her note? Did Dietrich really believe Aleida and Madame Bellamy were engaging in subversive behavior,
or was he simply drunk and overly suspicious?
“Cryptic messages?” she repeated with a faint laugh. “Herr Polizeiführer, the notes are just a little system I devised to
help my memory because I’m far too forgetful. And it works, it really does.”
Dietrich made a little sound of acknowledgment—one that did little to indicate whether she had convinced him—while she returned to cleaning as if nothing was wrong.
“And the instructor?” he pressed. “If a Jew remains, she must be replaced.”
Aleida had no escape, nothing except the shards of crystal pricking her skin when she pressed her palm against the table.
Keeping her opinions to herself, despite her silence benefiting the resistance, already felt like enough of a betrayal to
the Jews and those like her grandfather who defied the Nazis outright. She could not, would not betray them with her words.
“Darling, isn’t Madame Bellamy married to Dr. Janowitz?” Mother asked while she tapped a manicured finger against the table.
“I suppose she would be registered as Mrs. Janowitz, then . . .”
For God’s sake, what was Mother trying to do? The Janowitzes were registered. They wore yellow Stars of David on their clothing,
ever since the order became effective in the spring. They complied with every law. Yet something struck Aleida’s core, staining
these assurances the way the wine stained the cloth gripped tight in her white knuckles.
“Answer your mother, Aleida.” Dietrich’s blue eyes were narrow and hazy with drink, although they never left Aleida as he
swallowed another sip. The scar across his neck bobbed and stretched.
She picked a crystal fragment from her palm, stared at the drop of blood left behind. “She’s an excellent instructor, Herr
Polizeiführer. Who is not subversive and follows the laws,” she added, because she wouldn’t allow her defense of Madame Bellamy
to cost the woman her job. Or worse.
Pleading for her friends was hardly grounds for Dietrich to accuse her of resistance sympathies. Even if he did, she no longer
cared.
“Madame Bellamy has been at the Muziekschool for years, has trained me since I was a girl. There’s no need for that to change.”
Not when she didn’t deserve this persecution, not when she was doing so much good for so many. Ingrid was already gone. Aleida could not lose Madame Bellamy too. She caught her mother’s hand.
“Please, Mother, tell him. Tell him she’s not a threat.”
If Mother cared for her, truly cared for her, regardless of her political loyalties, she would not allow Dietrich to take
this from her daughter, would not let him destroy an innocent woman’s livelihood.
Mother was already rising unsteadily to her feet. If she had heard Aleida’s request or felt her touch, she gave no indication.
Her attention was entirely on Dietrich as she leaned close and caught his chin. “Come, darling, I’m not finished with you.”
Wood scraped and shrieked across the floor as he pushed his chair back and followed Mother upstairs. Aleida gripped the edge
of the table so hard she thought her fingernails would puncture the wood.
In February 1941, a strike protesting the occupation and subsequent Jewish persecution had been quickly and brutally suppressed.
Madame Bellamy’s son had been attacked for his faith. Jews were being sequestered in specific neighborhoods, so it was only
a matter of time before Madame Bellamy was ordered to move. Every day, the situation worsened, and those working directly
against the Nazis would certainly face harsh punishment if caught.
Maybe Mother and Dietrich were drunk. Maybe nothing would come from anything they said. But she could not wager lives on maybe.
When the bedroom door closed, she fled. However much time she had, she needed every minute.
She traveled on foot through the woods and fields; a bicycle on the streets, though faster, included the risk of being spotted
by nighttime patrols. Fortunately, her destination was not far. When she reached the small house, she knocked.
“Madame, it’s Aleida de Vos. Let me in,” she urged as loudly as she dared. “Please, you must—” Her words were cut short when
the door opened.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” Madame Bellamy stood in a nightgown with Dr. Janowitz beside her. “Have the soldiers hurt you?”
Aleida was already hurrying down the small hall toward their bedroom. With shaking hands, she opened a dresser and pulled
out neatly folded sets of clothes. This was not the time for questions, explanations, anything other than action.
A pair of hands caught her shoulders.
“Look at me, Aleida.” At last she met her instructor’s light brown eyes. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You and the Muziekschool, that you’re Jewish, and Mother and Dietrich . . .” She couldn’t form coherent sentences, couldn’t
think until she sucked in a breath, then the elder woman nodded for her to go on. “He doesn’t approve of me dancing under
a Jewish instructor. They were drunk, so he might not remember, but I came as soon as I could because he also knows about
a note I forgot to give you today. I told him it was nothing, but I don’t know if I convinced him . . . He was carrying on
about subversive behavior, and now if I’ve compromised your safety—” She couldn’t finish, because she couldn’t bear what it
might mean if she had.
Madame Bellamy’s expression did not change. Rather, she glanced at her husband, who also appeared resigned to the news.
“You must go.” Aleida fought tears as they burned and blurred her vision. “If he asks, I won’t tell him anything, but he will
find you with or without me, so you must go.”
“You will do as he says without protest.” When Aleida tried to argue, Madame Bellamy held up a hand. “You cannot be foolish
when you live in the same house as that man.”
Though the words weren’t meant as an accusation, they stung as fiercely as a blow. She was a prisoner in her own home, subjected to the will of the fascists—and even if she did not bend to it by choice, did that matter when her circumstances could force her into feigned collaboration?
“And you?” Madame Bellamy pressed. “If he found your note, are you safe?”
She nodded. “They will blame you for influencing me, if it comes to that, but I can always feign repentance.” She was not
entirely certain it would work, but her safety did not need to be Madame Bellamy’s concern.
The elder woman glanced at her husband, visibly grappling with what to do. When Dr. Janowitz nodded, Madame Bellamy drew a
resolute breath, then turned to Aleida.
“Without me, the resistance will need you. For your safety and that of the work, you must not betray your loyalty. Promise
me.”
Aleida nodded, shaking too much to speak. For the work. She had to protect the work. She was still Madame Bellamy’s second-in-command,
the one who knew their contacts, the one who collected information from her mother’s parties. This was why she hadn’t fled
with Ingrid. Because she was needed.
“I should have prepared for this months ago and pretended I’d quit the Muziekschool, anything to draw his attention away from
you. I insisted you followed the laws, told him you did nothing wrong . . .” She swallowed a choked breath. “An apology will
never be enough. But I’m so sorry.”
Madame Bellamy cupped Aleida’s face between warm palms, her gaze absent any resentment, any animosity. The look of reassurance
she had once given a little girl who feared boarding school.
“This night, you have saved two lives by risking your own.” Madame Bellamy kissed her on both cheeks. “Thank you, dear girl.
And may God protect you.”
She was trying to save two lives, anyway. Such efforts could hardly be considered valiant when she was the reason those lives
were at risk.