Chapter 12
TWELVE
Amsterdam, Netherlands
Notices are up all over the city, each blaring like a new landmark.
Don’t look. Just keep walking.
Noah had a trade to make at the port, and I wanted to mail my parents a letter. God only knows when I’ll see them again now that the borders are closed.
A crowd stoops around a lamppost, reading the crookedly glued paper with just a small corner rattling in the canal’s breeze. It’s taunting people, a blatant shout for attention.
The words are in an elegant font, one that may be seen on a formal invitation. I can’t help but stop and read, despite my efforts to ignore the others. My hand slips out of Noah’s as I stare between sets of shoulders.
All Jewish men sixteen to fifty are hereby required to report for Westerbork
Only necessary personal belongings may be brought
Noah retakes my hand into his and guides me away from the crowd and around the corner before I could read any of the smaller print.
“Don’t stare,” he murmurs in my ear. “Never stand still. We’ll become targets.”
“I wasn’t staring, but—” I fib, knowing he saw me reading the words. Knowing I was standing still. I couldn’t look away from the bold fact that Noah is within the age range that’s being required to report for labor service. That notice is directed at him.
We turn onto a side street, away from the canal between two towering buildings.
A whiff of fried onions mixed with river water poke at me, adding to the unease brewing from within.
Noah steps ahead, holding me close behind his back as if shielding me from the empty alleyway.
His focus is never steady, always checking every direction, his jaw square and tight.
He didn’t want me to stare at the notice, but he’s defensively walking around as if someone is going to reach out and grab us both.
“Westerbork?” I utter, the word sour on my tongue.
He doesn’t respond right away, but answers with the three infamous pops of cracking knuckles.
He already knew what the notice said. As we’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that he tries to protect me by informing me only of what’s imminent and important.
He tells me he doesn’t like to cause unnecessary panic.
To which I say, I’d rather know everything he does, but my doctor told me stress could be the reason we’ve had trouble conceiving.
We turn the last corner toward our quiet street and Noah tugs me out from behind him and up to his side. “We’re not going anywhere.” I stop walking, as if someone has pulled me from behind, but Noah wraps his arm around my back and hurries me onto the curb as a bicycle rushes by.
“We?” I repeat part of his statement.
His forehead strains with deepening lines between his brows and his gaze flickers at my lips as if I’ve insulted him. “The two of us,” he says. “We aren’t turning ourselves in to anyone.”
There’s more to that notice. It seems obvious now. Turning ourselves in—he makes it sound like we’ve committed a crime.
Neither of us say another word until we’ve locked ourselves in our flat. He places his warm hands on my cheeks and stares down at me with his luring gaze. “I promised I will always take care of you.”
He lowers his hands, reaching into his left pocket, and pulls out a brown envelope, bending the flap backward to show me the crisp, folded papers.
“Our new papers.” His hand trembles—so slightly that someone else wouldn’t notice, but I do.
His nerves are clear as he pulls out the papers, unfolds them and presents the altered work.
I didn’t realize how long the process would take, and I’ve felt like we’ve been holding our breath for almost three months while waiting.
The ink doesn’t match perfectly, or maybe I just know where it’s different and not supposed to be.
My stomach grows uneasy, realizing the time has come to give up our identities as if they are merely just names on paper. “This is all we need?”
“Yes, these papers will be the only proof of identity we have, and we rely on papers as fact.” Noah brings them into the kitchen and sets them down on the table side by side. “But lies can dry in ink too, and people will believe them.”
I reach for the one on the left. “So, this—” I stare up at him, feeling our flat spin around us—our lives shifting.
“This is your new identity.” He points to my paper, then moves to his. “And this is mine.”
Janseen, Peter
Janseen, Kaatje
Strangers, but still us.
I stare at mine first. A stranger’s name, a birth date in the wrong season, a trade I know nothing about. Seamstress. And his says he’s a printer and dock worker. A summer birthday instead of spring. At least our surnames match.
I reach down to take a closer look at one, but he snags them both up and slips them back into the envelope. “I’m putting this where it’s safe.” Under the floorboard between my side of the bed and the wall. Where our money is, letters, jewelry, watches, even photographs.
We plan in silence as much as we do out loud, both of us knowing we won’t be safe here, or anywhere, for much longer, but regardless, we’ll do everything we can to avoid danger.
“Do you think the police will believe these?”
Noah’s throat tightens and he rolls his shoulders back. “At a quick glance, yes.”
My throat tightens with a growing knot I want to push away.
I want to have complete faith in everything he believes in.
I can’t help my fear, though. My hands lower to my belly, a protective gesture, one I didn’t plan.
So quick and unnoticeable, but nothing gets by him.
His gaze drops to my stomach, staring as if he can see through my dress and flesh.
My cheeks burn, then my throat tightens again as tears fill my eyes. I can’t control the tears. They keep falling without my permission.
“You’re still feeling…” His words flicker with excitement before fading into a whisper. We don’t know how thin or thick the walls around us are.
I nod and smile, even as a tear skates over my lips.
I don’t know for sure, but nothing feels as it did a few weeks ago. The strong smells, uncontrollable emotions, an odd tenderness in my chest. Plus, a cycle that stopped cycling more than two weeks ago. I’m scared to have hope, terrified the world will have the final say over what life brings us.
Noah wraps his hands around the sides of my neck and pulls me in, his lips gently brushing mine until the kiss becomes tender and full of unspoken words that define the sheer happiness growing between us.
The world on the other side of these walls can’t matter. Only us. Here.
When our lips part, he reaches toward my belly, touching me as if I’m as delicate as glass. “Two hearts in one soul.” His voice crackles as a tear falls from his eye. He takes a deep breath and sweeps it away. “I almost forgot. Christoph will be here in a few minutes.”
The trades between them have become more frequent, sometimes nightly, but it’s our income and livelihood. It’s the only form of income, being Jewish people who are no longer employable.
“I’m not ready to tell Christoph,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Of course,” Noah says, his voice pinched. He’d never argue a decision such as this one, but the corners of his eyes squint—a flicker so small, I’m not sure it was intentional.
“What is it?” I ask, reaching for his hand.
A smile stretches along his lips. “Nothing. I’m just imagining all our dreams coming true.”
A knock at the door startles us out of our dream haze. “I’ll prepare a pot of tea.”
Noah tends to the door while I fill a pot of water. Just as I turn the faucet off, I hear their quiet exchange from the hallway.
“Did you get the—” Christoph asks.
“Yes, I have them,” Noah agrees.
“This envelope needs to go to Mr. Lowenstein,” Christoph continues, his voice softer than a whisper.
“And this envelope,” Noah says, his voice close to the same volume, “is for you to hold on to.”
“What is it?” Christoph asks, the envelope flap crinkling. “Your old—real papers?”
“I can’t have them here. I need you to put them somewhere safe,” Noah says.
“Of course.”
I suppose that makes this official now. Our identities no longer belong to us.
I place the kettle on the stovetop and make my way to the kitchen opening to poke my head out.
“Christoph, is that you?” I’m not sure why I’m acting as though I didn’t know he was coming over, but it seems as if I’m supposed to be out of earshot, or acting like I don’t know they’re talking quietly in the hallway.
Yet I’m the outsider who just asked Noah to keep our secret.
I greet Christoph with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How was work today?”
“I see the ideal of a wife, Noah,” he jests.
“She’s something else. That’s for sure,” Noah says with a raised brow and a chuckle.
“Oh hush, you two. I just put on a pot of tea. Christoph, can you stay a while? I know Noah has just been dying for a chess rematch after this past weekend.”
Christoph laughs—a boyish snicker. “I would love to. Thank you.”
“If you cheat again—” Noah says, bringing him into our small sitting room across the hall from the kitchen. “How can you be a lawyer with habits like that?”
“Some say that trait makes for the best type of lawyer. And it isn’t cheating if it’s simply a rule overlooked.”
“Hmm,” Noah relents.
Those two never give it a rest.
I pull out the tea canister and set cups and saucers on a porcelain tray.
When I bring the tray toward the sitting room, I can’t help but notice the volume of their voices still being uncommonly quiet for everyday common chatter. And I do what any wife would do and listen in before turning the corner.
“If anything happens to me…” Noah whispers.
My stomach drops, nearly bringing me to my knees.
“Don’t—don’t start with that,” Christoph argues.
“Listen to me,” Noah says, his voice harder, filled with more air.
Except for a moving chess piece, silence falls between them, and for a moment I wonder if they know I’m standing here with my eyes closed, gripping the tea tray firmly to restrain a rattle.
“You have to promise me something,” Noah continues. A second passes, a second that feels like a hundred. “Promise me you’ll look after her.”
“You aren’t going anywhere. We’ve worked too hard for this. For you to talk like it’s already over.” Christoph exhales a sigh of frustration. “We’ll get through this.”
I miss the certainty his words used to carry.
“She won’t be on her own,” Noah says. “You won’t desert her. If I’m taken—if I don’t come back…you will not let her be on her own.”
I grit my teeth, tears filling my eyes, and I press my back against the wall, pleading that it holds me up.
“I’m not blind to what’s happening out there,” Christoph growls, anger clear in his tone.
Hands fall to the table in thuds, and the coffee table scrapes against the floor, chess pieces collapse.
Then there’s a breath of silence. Christoph rights a chess piece, placing it down gently on the board with a soft tap.
“She’s pregnant, isn’t she…” His words are quiet, but heavy with knowing.
“I’m not sure.” Noah replies too quickly to be the truth. “Any young wife could be.”
My throat tightens around a sob and my chest bucks with a silent cry.
“Promise me,” Noah begs. “Brother to brother—my closest lifelong friend—we’ve known each other since we were five, getting into trouble before we even knew what trouble was. You’re my family. You’ll look after her.” Each word is more brittle and broken than the last.
“Stop,” Christoph mutters. Then quieter, he says, “I promise…brother.”
I tiptoe back to the kitchen and set the tea tray down on the table and fall into the chair. The single chair across from the other single chair. We’re supposed to need a third, but now he’s talking like that might never happen.
What does he know that he’s not telling me?