Chapter 8
EIGHT
Amsterdam, Netherlands
The summer season with its warm weather, flowers in bloom, and street markets has arrived as if nothing has changed in Amsterdam. People and boats soak up the sun along the glistening canals. Bikes whir past our building with the sound of damp laundry snapping along clotheslines.
Yet we feel like intruders in the only city we’ve ever called home.
It’s as if people can sense we’re Jewish. Maybe they know. Word of mouth is like a contagious disease here. People stare when we pass by, or worse, try to act like they aren’t staring.
I keep looking in the mirror, wondering how people know. I trace my finger down the length of my nose, searching for a bump, questioning if it’s too long, or if it’s my eyes that are deep-set, or just my dark hair. Something must make me stand out.
The sun spills in through the windows of our flat, flooding the walls with light until even the floorboards feel warm beneath my feet. We keep the windows open despite knowing we should close and drape them for the sake of our privacy. The air feels too peaceful to shut out.
“Good morning, my love,” Noah says, coming up behind me. His arms loop around me, hands settling at my waist, fingers furling into my closed fist. He kisses my neck then the tender spot just below my ear—his favorite spot, and mine. “What time did you want to visit your parents this morning?”
“Soon. Their train leaves mid-afternoon.” Papa’s sister isn’t well, and they’ve offered to go stay with her a while.
“I’m glad they’re only going to Zurich.” Noah breathes a quiet sigh, hiding yet another thought I may never hear out loud. “No safer place than there.”
“Yes, but there’s no saying what might happen—here or there.
” I turn toward him, placing my hands on his chest. “I suggested they bring Aunt back, but they said the trip would be too much for her.” Noah’s lips press into a smile that doesn’t quite stick.
The uncertainty still lingers behind his confidence despite the reassurances he’s been bringing home.
“I need to run an errand near the market after our visit with them. Would you mind joining me?”
“Of course not.”
An errand is now a word used for a private job that brings in money, and I don’t ask for details.
* * *
Mama and Papa’s flat is barren, artwork taken down, personal items stored away, and the fine china is missing from the dining room hutch. “It looks as though you’re leaving for good,” I say, holding Mama’s hands in mine.
She stares back at me with her mirroring gray-blue eyes, pink cheeks, and bronze locks pulled into a twist. “You know your father. He doesn’t like leaving anything around when we’re out of town.”
“Can’t trust anyone these days,” Papa echoes.
“You have the address if you need anything, though it’s a comfort to know you’re always well cared for by this handsome man.
” Mama gushes over Noah—has done ever since we became inseparable years ago.
Mama kisses me on each cheek, then moves to Noah.
“As for you, sir, if you need anything, please call on us.”
Papa grasps Noah’s shoulder before giving him a hug, one longer than necessary, the way he did when Noah helped him repair the shop window after someone shattered it a couple months ago.
“Everything will be just fine while you’re gone. I’ll ensure Celina doesn’t wander off into the tulip fields without me.” Laughter ensues at my expense, but I won’t argue or disagree. I’d gladly become lost in a tulip field any day, so long as I have a canvas or sketch pad.
“When we return, might there be news of our family expanding?” Papa asks, his question so casual it’s as if he’s asking about new furniture.
“Papa!”
“We aren’t getting any younger, dear,” Mama follows. This might be the first time my parents agree on anything. Of course.
The tension is silencing until the pop, pop, pop of Noah cracking his knuckles. His cheeks blush at the corners of his constrained smile. “How long do you expect to be away?”
“It’s hard to say,” Papa replies, rubbing the back of his neck. A clear indicator of stress. “We’ll have a better idea once we assess my sister’s condition. Securing help for her is a priority.”
Noah takes Papa’s arm and leads him across the living room, not out of earshot. “Keep a close eye on the headlines. Don’t assume all are false.”
“It’s weighing heavily on my mind, but I’m confident we’ll be back soon enough, son.”
“I’ll write if I hear something that doesn’t find its way to a newspaper.”
Mama clutches my hand. “Should we reconsider?” she asks Papa.
“How can I? My sister needs us,” he argues.
Mama shakes her head, her jaw firming as it does when she refrains from commenting—something she’s been trying to do in recent years.
“Make me a grandma. It’ll be enough reason to hurry back,” Mama whispers. She pulls me in for a tight hug. “I’ll see you soon.”
Papa steals me next, giving me his usual bear hug and a kiss on the top of my head.
“I love you both. Safe travels,” I tell them as we part ways. Such a common thing to say when I’ve never had to worry much about them before. My heart says otherwise now as nothing seems certain.
Noah is quiet as we head to the market. My head is full of noise and concern for Mama and Papa. There’s no guarantee of safety anywhere, and it’s unsettling to know they’ll be too far away for us to help them if needed.
“They’ll be all right.” He takes my hand and presses a gentle kiss over my knuckles.
I hope to God he’s right.
* * *
As we near the vendor stalls, the aroma of fresh bread and overripe fruit fills the air. We step into the textile square as Noah inspects a roll of linen, hideous linen neither he nor I have a taste for. “What’s this for?” I ask, talking through my teeth beneath a fake smile.
“Just browsing.” Before I can call his bluff and ask what he’s truly doing, I spot a familiar face out of the corner of my eye—one lacking expression.
Christoph’s here and approaching us, though his pace is casual rather than intentional. He tugs at the same linen Noah is inspecting. “Quality is questionable, yes?” Christoph utters.
Noah’s hand finds the small of my back, steadying me, a silent way to tell me not to worry about their unusual conversation.
“Hard to tell how durable it is,” Noah replies. “It’s clear the trades still matter. They still demand the best.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Christoph claps his hand on Noah’s shoulder, then moves past us to another display. His tone is casual, and light. As if practiced—like he’s learned to say one thing and mean another.
Noah takes the roll of linen and makes a quick purchase. By the time I turn away from the counter, Christoph is gone. I see him walking away, but he doesn’t glance back at us. Not once.
Noah and I don’t exchange another word until we’re home and he locks the door and lowers the curtains.
He places the roll of fabric on the table and unwinds it until a slip of folded paper appears.
“What is this?” I take the paper, keeping my eyes on him—trying to keep up.
“The truth,” he says, “or a version of the truth that will keep a man alive.”
I brush my finger along the darker ink spots on a birth date and a mild ink-color change next to the word “occupation.”
“Noah…” I clutch the fabric of my blouse, pressing my fist to my chest. “The police could arrest you both for this, but you’re Jewish and Christoph isn’t. It’s dangerous.”
“Yes,” he says, “but even Christoph doesn’t believe in waiting for the law to fix things anymore.
This is more common than you think, and there’s nothing for you to worry about.
” Noah closes his eyes and releases a heavy breath.
“Christoph found him. He’s a Jewish man who ran, or still privately runs, a printer by the port.
He’s in debt to Christoph—more than he should be—for the help he’s given him.
He knows who to trust. It’s a good connection, one that will keep us safe soon too. ”
Noah has been altering papers for other Jewish citizens with Christoph’s help. This explains why his confidence in our safety has changed. He’s taken back his control. Noah will never sit back and accept the unjust.
I reach for him, my hands moving along his chest before relieving tension through a deep, needed kiss. My hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt as he presses his forehead to mine.
“This is what you’ve been so quiet about?” I whisper.
His arms tangle around me, lifting me until my legs loop around his waist. “I needed to see for myself how exact the forgery is before getting documents for us. This will be how I keep us safe, and how we continue living the life we deserve.”
“We could still have a little family of our own, you mean?” I ask.
The summer heat flourishes between us, something ferocious. His knuckles brush along my side. “Precisely. In fact, I think the only thing we should worry about is finding a third matching chair to go with our table.”
“How many—chairs—do you think we’ll end up needing?” I ask.
He peppers soft kisses along my bare shoulder, a tingle spearing down my spine. “However many you desire.”
After months of the world closing in, trapping us in a dooming shadow, light appears, pointing us in a new direction. We won’t sit and wait to see what comes. Instead, we’ll make the choice of what our life shall become.
I memorize the weight of him against me, the way he holds me in his arms, and stares so deeply into my eyes I can feel it in my soul.
It isn’t until my breaths steady and my body cools from the currents firing between us that my thoughts wander toward the shadow of doubt—to the place where failure is possible.
How quickly can we get new papers? Will they guarantee our safety?