Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Amsterdam, Netherlands
“This city is magical, my little love. During the day, people are always passing by our windows. Children play on the curbs, hopscotch, and with jump ropes. Even when the sky isn’t blue, the city is always bright.
And at night, the canals reflect so many lights it looks like the water glitters.
I can’t wait to show it all to you,” I utter, rubbing the small swollen bump on my belly.
“The world and Amsterdam will look the way you describe again someday. Maybe by the time he, or she, is old enough to walk,” Noah says from behind, wrapping his arms around me and placing his hands over mine.
I talk to the baby daily, but sometimes I feel as though I’m trying to convince him, or her, that life will be wonderful and that the war has no effect on us or anyone. But it isn’t the truth.
Far fewer people are passing through the city than ever before, and the scarce Jewish residents are forced to wear a yellow star with Hebrew letters spelling out the word “Jood” in the center.
Many choose to wear dark clothing, as if it might help them fade into the background, become less noticeable.
However, Noah wears white shirts, and I opt for colored patterns on my dresses.
It feels as if we’re betraying the others, but Noah says it’s a matter of survival and that’s the only way to think about it.
If we don’t look like we have something to hide, we’ll be less suspicious.
We don’t even have yellow-star patches because Celina and Noah Felsheim no longer exist in the city of Amsterdam. At least on paper. We should consider ourselves safe, but if that were the case, Noah wouldn’t be so hesitant to leave the flat. We only leave when necessary now.
The ration cards and coupons sit neatly on the bedside table behind us.
“If we don’t go soon, there won’t be anything left.
” Since acquiring and registering our new papers and identifications, we’ve used them sparingly.
Christoph has been going to collect our weekly rations for us, but he’s come down with the stomach flu and can hardly stand.
We need to pick up some food for him as well.
“Poor Christoph. We should make him some soup if possible.”
“He looks terrible. I can only imagine how he feels,” Noah adds before taking the ration cards, studying them for a moment, then folding them neatly into a small square.
“Our assigned location is just a few blocks from here, so it’s closer than before.
” Before changing our identification, when we were Jewish on paper too, we had to go to the only few shops that didn’t restrict Jews within the Jewish district on the other side of the canal.
Those shelves have been barren since the segregation began last year.
“Remember, there’s no place or time for nerves. We both wear stress on our faces too well, and need to hide it,” Noah says.
I click my tongue. “Well, I’ll just tell myself we belong at the non-Jewish grocery store, like we always had before last year.” I huff, irritation and exhaustion from these unlawful rules implemented to inspire antisemitism.
The Germans of the Reich treat us as if we’re an insignificant thread of society—unwanted, and unneeded.
They treat us as if we’re weak and helpless, but only after they’ve stripped us of every human right, taken any assets they’ve been able to get their hands on, stolen our jobs and homes, and torn families apart at the borders.
For what? Power. Money. Fame. To create a legacy that someone else will think they should follow someday to take what they want when they can’t just have it? We have nothing to fight back with because they took all of that too. And that’s all this is.
“My love, you’re turning red. I know you’re angry. So am I. We should all be free to shop in any grocery store. They can keep taking from us, but we’ll continue to add to our reserves and continue to collect our rations. We’ll be all right.”
Noah saw this coming. He knew before the invasion of Poland. Then Denmark and Norway. He knew they were coming for us after that and he was right. Now he’s quiet. He doesn’t know what comes next. Or maybe he does, and it isn’t healthy for me to know.
We set out down the street, and I find myself paying more attention to the sidewalk than anyone we pass.
It’s hard enough knowing we don’t belong on this side of the canal, especially while all Jews are pushed to the other side into the Jewish quarter.
Our behavior—it’s an act of resistance. To go without wearing a Jewish star on our clothing is against the “law.”
Noah squeezes my hand every couple of minutes, a reminder that he’s aware of the silence, and how unnatural it feels.
“It’s all right to talk, isn’t it?” I whisper between passing others on the road.
“It’s better to keep our heads down,” he replies.
We find the end of the line to the grocery store, wrapped around the block. Just as I’d done the entire walk here, I avoid making eye contact with anyone in line. We’ve lived in Amsterdam all our lives and it’s too easy to recognize acquaintances.
After an hour, my back starts to ache from standing, a sign of things to come when the baby grows bigger. I don’t want Noah to worry though, so I’ve kept the complaint to myself as we make our way toward the entrance.
“We’ll stay together and go down the list,” Noah whispers in my ear as if checking something out over his shoulder.
Bread, potatoes, butter, and milk. Plus, one general item—flour if available.
The shelves aren’t as empty as they were in the Jewish marts, but they aren’t overflowing with goods either. People weave through the shop, up and down the small aisles collecting their allotted items, stacking them in their arms, protecting them dearly.
The two men at the counter stare at us, waiting for our ration cards and coupons even though our arms are full.
We place the items down and Noah pulls the folded cards out of his pocket.
The blonde-haired man working behind the register stares at the ration book then back up at us.
“New in the city? I never forget a face.”
“Yes, we are,” Noah answers for us.
“Why is it taking so long? If these gentlemen would move quicker, the line wouldn’t be wrapping around the building,” a woman behind me says.
“I heard they’ve been warned to ensure accuracy with the rations. They’re compensating people to report systematic errors,” another woman says.
“What does that mean?” the conversation continues.
Neither continue talking, leaving me wondering what the woman meant too.
The second man sorting through the items reaches for the tote bag I have pinched beneath my arm. I hand it to him, and he begins placing the food in the bag one item at a time. He also takes a moment to nudge the cashier with his elbow, no words exchanged.
My heart races as the cashier tears the coupons from the serrated fold, moving too slowly for me to take a full breath. I can either hear my heart beating in my ears or Noah’s heart is pounding loud enough for everyone to hear.
The cashier tears the last of the coupons and switches back to the ration card, holding it up to catch the sunlight, staring at it for another long second, then hands it back to Noah.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Noah says, slipping the ration cards back into his pocket.
Despite the fresh canal air breezing by as we step out of the store, I still can’t find my breath. “Do they just stare at everyone, hoping they’ll leave their items on the counter and run?”
I hiss with frustration. Only guilty people would feel that way.
“Everything is fine. We have food,” Noah soothes in a whisper.
Food. That was all this was for. A necessity.
I loop my arm around Noah’s as he carries the tote in his other hand. He’s sweltering hot, but I may be too. The sun is blaring and reflecting off the canal like a prism.
“When we get home, I want you to put your feet up. Read a book or sketch. Something to clear your mind. I’ll make us some lunch while you do. Does that sound all right?”
“You spoil me,” I reply, keeping my voice as soft as his.
“No, I’m taking care of my loves. That’s all.” He peers down at me, a smile pressing into his eyes, possibly forced, but there for my benefit to ease my concerns and nerves so that we may continue convincing ourselves all is fine in the world.
He’s been doing all the housework, all the cooking, laundry, and keeping track of our finances. Anytime I’ve tried to lift a finger, he’s asked me to sit down and put my feet up. For him. I feel helpless, but however I can take care of our little love, I will.
“I’m going to send my parents another letter today. I think that’s what I’ll do with my time. I wish they would let me know they’re safe… or at least that they’re still in Zurich.”
“I’m sure the post is just slow right now. Nothing to worry about,” Noah assures me.
I try to assure myself too, but I’ve never gone so long without talking to them.
We turn the corner toward our neighborhood, hearing whistles shriek down the road. Noah locks his arm around mine, stopping me from going any further. “Take the tote,” he says.
Up ahead, two soldiers yank a man by the back of his collar, clawing at his pockets, searching for whatever is on him, or isn’t. Another woman drops her purse when another whistle sounds, followed by a direct command to show her papers. “What’s happening?” I utter.
Noah looks over his shoulder, behind us, then back to what’s happening up ahead. “They’re hunting.” That word. The meaning. I want it to feel surreal but all I sense is overwhelming fear.
A soldier points his rifle toward our end of the street, shouting for identification, while another studies the woman’s papers. The few people walking ahead of us slow down, bottlenecking the narrow road.
“They’re inspecting and verifying documents. Our forged papers will only hold up to a quick glance, not an inspection.”
He said that when we first got them.
“The Nazi’s looking right at me.” Noah keeps his stare straight ahead, speaking through his teeth.
“He isn’t looking away. He’s waiting.” Noah’s exposed in the middle of the road, and I’m half-shielded by two men arguing over how to conceal an expired document.
“Celina, listen to me. Go down that alleyway.” His voice is soft and frail, almost unfamiliar.
“If they pull me forward, they’ll pull you too. ”
A cloud casually drifts across the sky, clarifying a scene that makes my knees weak, my stomach ache, and the nausea I’ve been fighting return with ferociousness. “No, no, I’m not going to leave you. Come with me.”
“Take the back roads to Christoph’s flat and go right inside. He’ll know what to do.”
“We’ll both go to Christoph’s. Noah, no.”
“Celina, go now! I love you. I love you and our baby. I love you so much. I need… I need the two of you to live,” his voice cracks, eyes pleading. I’ve never seen such desperation on his face.
“You! Jood! Halt! Step forward,” a German soldier shouts.
Noah squeezes my hand once then thrusts me toward the mouth of the alley. He continues forward, reaching for his papers.
It’s not real.
But it is.
I’m hidden within the shadows of the alley. My heart stalls and my lungs forget how to work. The whistles and shouts grow louder.
Noah’s out of my line of sight as I shuffle along the wall away from the street.
I only know he’s making his way toward the barrel of a gun—toward the Nazis manhandling people with and without yellow stars.
More Nazis race past the narrow opening of the alleyway, too fast to notice me. None look down the alley.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sound rips through the air, bouncing between the brick walls.
I cradle my stomach and clench the tote in my other hand.
My eyes bulge, throat closing around a gasp.
I try to steady myself through a breath.
I need to know the unmistakable sound of bullets wasn’t meant for him.
I need to know. Please, God. Please. Don’t let it be him.
I shimmy along the wall, back in the direction I came, toward the edge of the buildings.
Toward the edge of the building.
Toward…
The road.
Toward…a man on his side, one arm bent beneath him.
White sleeve folded twice into a stiff cuff.
Dark hair parted slightly left, the way Noah has always worn it.
Brown leather shoes with the soles worn thin, and deep scuffs on the toes from pacing when he thinks.
I know those shoes. That shirt. The slope of his shoulder.
I would know him in the dark.
In death.
No.
It can’t be.
My Noah.
Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the street as my heart cracks down the middle.
The German soldiers continue to yell, the shouts coming from everywhere, snaking in around me, strangling me, and shoving me into the wall. More shots fire. More Jews drop dead in the middle of the street. No mercy. No second thoughts. No second chances.
Go now! Go now! I still hear his voice. It’s still with me.
“No, no… Noah,” I cry silently, clutching my hands around my neck. “Noah, please…please get up.”
Cold air burns through my lungs and my chest caves inward. I clutch the wall, nails splitting as I grind them against the stone, trying to stay upright.
I don’t know how to exist without you…