Chapter 48 Ada
Ada
After greeting her sister with criticism as their mother often does, Ada looks at Ingrid, only Ingrid, regards her with her
best imitation of Mother’s judgmental frown even as her heart thuds.
All Ada can do is play her part. Subtly this time, not the somewhat exaggerated caricature of her youth. Just enough so Ingrid
will understand, because even though they were unable to prepare this plan, surely she will recognize that this is an act
and Ada needs her help.
Ingrid stares as if she can’t quite comprehend what’s occurring. Then Ada catches it, the slightest shift when Ingrid’s eyes
return to hers—curiosity, uncertainty, then something dangerously close to hope.
Clever girl.
Still, the pit in Ada’s stomach tightens. Ingrid entered with Dietrich, meaning she probably had no time to speak with Gordon
or anyone else. Meaning the message Ada gave Gordon will yield nothing. The little robin on the shelf is listening and has
no one to tell its secrets.
But they have one more asset in this room: a gun. Surely Ingrid will remember its hiding place inside the empty cigar box on the mantel. If needed, Ada can distract Dietrich, allowing Ingrid time to recover it.
“Sit down, darling,” Mother says, but Ingrid does not. Before Mother can insist, Ada draws a breath, as if letting her fury
go.
“Can’t we forget all this, Inge? It’s in the past—the war, the hearing, everything you and I have done to one another.” Now
for the most unbearable line of all, certain to make Ingrid recoil. Ada stands, reaching out to grip Ingrid’s shoulders, hoping
Ingrid will trust her eyes, not her words. “We must stop pursuing the war crimes case.”
Heavy silence fills the room. Even if Ingrid concedes, Ada is not certain Dietrich will permit them to leave here alive.
They might have a chance, though, if only they can seize it. She tightens her grip on Ingrid before releasing her, willing
her to understand. Both stand by the fireplace. By the cigar box containing the gun.
Dietrich’s scoff breaks the quiet. “You can’t build a convincing case even if you try.”
“Your FBI file and the documents are proof.” Ingrid glares at him, moves slowly toward the chair Mother offered, away from
the mantel. Distracting him. Giving Ada the opening she needs. “Do you think the American government will show mercy to someone
who deceived them? You’re a murderer who lied to enter this country, and I will see you held accountable.”
The moment she finishes, Ada grabs the box, opens it, reaches inside, closes her fingers around—nothing. Emptiness. She stares
in horrified silence, then looks to Dietrich.
He holds up the small pistol, shows her it’s empty, and tosses it into a chair. He is always thorough, meticulous; of course
he searched the room. Ingrid returns to Ada’s side, and they glance at each other for the answer neither has. They have no
defense, no weapon, nothing.
His hand moves to his hip, then there is only Mother’s deafening silence, Ingrid’s gasp, and Ada’s sudden desire to change everything about this night, anything to keep her sister away. Because now both stand before Dietrich’s pistol.
Beside her, Ingrid grabs Ada’s arm, as if her grip could prevent him from firing. He holds the gun level at Ada, then his
eyes fall briefly to her chest, nearly prompting her to flinch. She won’t allow him to conjure those memories, to distract
her, to maintain the hold she’s finally managed to break.
“Darling, this isn’t necessary,” Mother says with the slightest edge of concern as she steps to the twins’ side. “Aleida has
agreed to cooperate, has she not?”
“I’m not risking the lives we built on the word of a frivolous girl who just tried to use her own weapon against me. Until
she fulfills her end of the bargain, she can’t be trusted.” He focuses on Mother, keeps the weapon steady. “Get out of the
way, Constance.”
Behind Mother, Ada grips Ingrid’s hand, holds tight. Maybe her sister has always been right; maybe Mother will never be the
parent Ada wants her to be. Yet this time, for once, she dares to hope, to believe, to pray Mother will choose her daughters.
With a small sigh, as though this is all quite exasperating, Mother steps aside.
The sorrow that slices through Ada’s core is almost enough to bring her to her knees.
“First I find a gun.” Dietrich watches Ada for the reaction she does not give, though her next breath skips in anticipation
of what comes next. “What else might you be hiding?”
He knows exactly what was missing from the materials she surrendered to Mother. If he’s searched the room, he’s likely found
them. He’s probably destroyed them already, meaning he’s right. She and Ingrid have no case, and now they’re trapped here.
“Are you going to return my property, or shall I encourage you?”
Ada keeps her eyes on the barrel of Dietrich’s gun. He might know where the evidence is. He might not. It makes no difference. Last time he used her dance instructor to force her compliance; this time, he will use her sister. The only way to protect Ingrid is to do what he wants.
“Without my testimony or the evidence, there is no case for Ingrid or anyone else to pursue, so you don’t need her.” Ada fights
to speak calmly, reasonably, anything to prevent him from turning the gun toward Ingrid. “I’ll do as you say, but let her
and Mother—”
And then Dietrich’s eyes never leave hers as he applies pressure to the trigger, squeezing. Firing.
A collective shriek rises as she and Ingrid push and pull, each simultaneously fighting to spare the other, awaiting the bang,
the agony, someone’s cry of pain.
A snap, paralyzing and gruesome, then nothing. Ada feels nothing, smells no metallic blood, no gunsmoke. First she meets Ingrid’s
stunned gaze, confirms she’s unharmed. Then she looks to Mother, who remains frozen, her face pale.
Dietrich cocks the pistol again. “There was only one empty chamber. Next will be a bullet.”
Mother appears too startled to speak, while Ada’s pounding heart refuses to slow. He is tired of bargaining, of wasting time,
of delaying. Before she can act, Ada feels a light squeeze on her hand, then Ingrid releases her.
“Keep the gun on me, Agent Stieber—pardon, Herr Dietrich.” She steps aside, showing her palms to prove her compliance. “If
you keep it on me, Aleida will cooperate.”
Then she looks to Ada. A look that says Trust me.
Ada does.
Outside are so many who might help, none of whom know to do so. None of whom she wants involved. And the one she wants involved
least of all now has a gun pointed at her.
Ingrid moves away, step by cautious step, until she reaches Dietrich’s side. She is calm, focused, although Ada can almost feel how desperately Ingrid wishes to be far from the man who attacked her, harmed both of them. Dietrich adjusts his grip on the gun, watching as Ingrid’s eyes follow.
“Face your sister. Get on your knees. And do not move.”
Ingrid obeys while Ada’s breaths sharpen, then she looks to Mother—still pale yet her gaze stubbornly set, as if this is all
simply for show to encourage cooperation and obedience. No real threats, no real danger, no different from Ada’s Gestapo arrest.
Except Mother refuses to accept how real the danger was then and is now. How this man does nothing for show.
Dietrich touches the gun to the back of Ingrid’s head; she tenses as the rise and fall of her chest hastens. “You said she’ll
cooperate, Mrs. Van Essen. Prove it.”
Ingrid swallows hard. “Please, Leidje . . . Please give him the negatives.”
The look in her eyes speaks far more than the unsteadiness in her voice, communicating the trust they can place nowhere but
in each other. Ada clings to that look as she proceeds to the bookshelves, moves the stack of books and the robin figurine,
and reveals her worn copy of The Secret Garden.
With gentle reverence, she picks it up. The novel that saw her through long days at a boarding school in Kent, lonely nights
through a war in Arnhem, and an arduous journey to America. Now it must see her through this.
She opens to the correct page and finds the negatives just as she left them. Soon to be destroyed once they fall into Dietrich’s
hands. And once he has them, he will pull the trigger on Ingrid, then on Ada. Of that, she is certain. He will never be held
accountable for anything.
She trusts Ingrid; God willing, Ingrid will trust Ada.
Whatever it takes to get the gun off her sister.
Then she channels her role and descends into the memories—the war, Mother’s parties, the Oranjehotel.
Every moment overcomes and overwhelms her until he extends a hand.
She gasps and presses into the bookshelves, unable to hear Dietrich’s order over her own sobbing wail, then she feels an insistent grasp on her arm—Mother.
“Really, that is quite enough. Settle down and hand me the—”
“You trusted him, Mother! Every lie about the importance of his work, every promise not to hurt me, all lies. Every one of
them.” Ada pulls the book and negatives to her chest as tears streak down her cheeks. “Please trust Ingrid, trust me. Not him.”
Something shifts, something that Ada can only pray indicates understanding. Then Mother blinks and the look disappears.
Before either says more, Mother gasps as something knocks her aside, then a forceful shove pins Ada’s back against the bookshelves
and Dietrich is centimeters from her—his face blood red, his grip on her wrist like a vise. His other hand pointing the gun
at her.
One sister in front, the other behind. Out of his sight. Ingrid must go for help, for safety, for anything, because in seconds
Dietrich will pull the trigger again. And this time there will be a bullet.
She draws away from him with another sob. “Don’t, please! I won’t say anything, won’t pursue a case. I—”
“No, you will not. Neither of you will.” Dietrich plucks the negatives from her grasp while Ada cowers, then he grabs her
chin. “Eyes open. Watch your sister die.”