Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Amsterdam, Netherlands
When a lie becomes life and all that it encompasses, the truth has never felt so far away. The convent—the walls around me—were supposed to keep me safe. They have.
I’m not sure why Mother Superior has chosen to take mercy on me over the two-and-a-half months following my loss, but she has.
She’s done more than offer mercy. A private room just outside the infirmary with a bed, a window with a view of old trees that dance with every passing breeze, and most importantly…
silence. Time to think. About what could have been, should have been, and never will be.
As a child, Mama and Papa would tell me to go to my room when I wouldn’t listen or disobeyed them. Mama would say, “Go and think about what you’ve done so you don’t make the same mistake twice.”
She never made me sit in my room for long, and I learned my lessons just as most children do.
But here, I could sit in this room for the rest of my life and not understand what I’ve done to deserve the loss of my husband and daughter within months of each other.
My lies were to protect my life and my baby’s.
I rest my hand on my stomach, telling myself her soul is still inside of me.
I need her to know I’m still here and always will be her mama no matter what.
I wish my mama were here with me now too.
A quiet knock raps against the door. I never reply with a welcome.
I never reply at all. I’m not sure if it’s proper to do so, or not.
Regardless, Mother Superior still enters.
Still pulls a chair up to my bedside. She places her hand on mine, traces the sign of the cross over herself, kisses her crucifix, and closes her eyes before praying.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, may God grant you healing, in body and in mind. We praise the life of your late husband to His mercy, and your child to His boundless care. May they rest in His light until the day you are reunited.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“We must talk, child.” Her words no longer filled with the confidence of prayer.
“As you know, your role as a postulant is ending. Not because you are unworthy, but for the life you lived outside these walls. Those choices cannot be set aside in the way our vows require.” Choices…
meaning devoting my life to the man I love, marrying him, and becoming pregnant with our baby.
Living like this, now, was never a choice for me.
“I understand.” My heart races, wondering what she’ll say next. This is the first time she’s confirmed my assumption that I won’t be rejoining the others as a postulant.
“I wouldn’t allow you to leave without knowing you are physically well and have had time to grieve your losses.
You are a good soul. A frightened woman.
Though the infirmary has long since declared you recovered, I made exceptions to our common guidelines due to the conditions of war and your displacement as a widow. ”
“I thank you for your kindness, Mother.” I wish my words were enough to prolong her kindness, but I fear that’s impossible.
I’ve written to Christoph several times, but my letters haven’t been answered.
He hasn’t written to me or updated me on whether he’s found information about Noah.
I don’t want to think he’s forgotten about me, but I didn’t expect silence.
I’ve stopped writing to Mama and Papa in case they’re hiding, but they wouldn’t know where to find me if they were to look—if they could look. I’m truly alone.
“I have taken your circumstances into consideration, child,” she begins, her hands pressing firmly against her lap.
“The church maintains quiet connections that sometimes lead to placements in trustworthy households for vulnerable women, where they may be kept safe and employed.” She straightens her shoulders and fills her lungs with a breath before saying the rest. “I have arranged a position with a family who has graciously donated to the church while seeking a young Dutch woman to care for their four children. Mr. and Mrs. Drexel will arrive tomorrow morning at eight o’clock to collect you and bring you to their home. ”
Mother Superior stands from her seat and quietly glides out of the room, the door merely hushing closed behind her. Again and again, I’m given no say in the direction my life moves. Every form of safety I encounter is temporary.
A nanny isn’t a job I would have considered if asked. The last thing I want to do is go sit with children after just losing my own. They’ll be a constant reminder of what I should have had and never will.
I can’t imagine what Mother Superior was thinking when choosing this connection for me. She isn’t a woman of cruelty. In fact, she’s done nothing less than show me loyalty and kindness.
I should be grateful she isn’t pushing me out the door onto the street. Any position where I’ll remain safe and employed is more than I can ask for while still desperately trying to protect my identity…
* * *
Morning always comes too quickly when I wish for the night to last longer.
For every change I go through, my past feels as though it’s shattering behind me, making it impossible to carry any part of it forward.
I tiptoe back into my room after making a quick sweep through the sisters’ kitchen to pack my pockets full of bread.
Noah was keen on telling me to always keep food on me, just out of precaution.
The more we could collect, the better off we’d be.
I started to feel like a chipmunk during the year leading up to—the last day together.
I pull out my small tweed suitcase that Christoph had gathered from my flat after I refused to leave his, fearful of getting shot for no reason like Noah.
He was kind enough to find some of my sweaters, dresses, shoes, and coat, as well as our important documents that have no relevance now, a photograph of Noah, and a small ball of yarn with knitting needles attached to a single square of a baby blanket.
I’ve only had use for the clothing and coat here. My documents and photo of Noah live beneath the lining of my case, for safekeeping.
I remove the ball of yarn and the little yellow square.
Maybe if I had finished knitting the blanket…
I find a loose floorboard, lift it up just high enough to tuck the yarn, needles, and square inside.
They can stay here, in the place where life never began, a half-knit blanket that will remain incomplete.
A tear slips down my cheek as I clasp the suitcase shut and set it upright.
A knock at my door forces me to my feet. I take my coat off the corner of the bed and slip my arms through the sleeves. One of the sisters steps into the room. “Miss, Mother Superior would like you to meet her at the garden doors.”
“Thank you, sister.”
The stone walls in the corridor are damp and smell like old rain. In the distance, the organ plays a haunting tune, and then a choir picks up on a lost note. Mother Superior is waiting at the garden doors, staring outside into the winter air.
“Thank you for your kindness,” I say. “You didn’t have to take care of me, but you did and it’s something I’ll never forget.”
“Child, God has plans for each of us. Have faith that this end is only the start of another beginning. With time, our hearts—”
“Ah, this must be Mother Superior,” a man says, his voice oozing confidence. She moves to my side as a man and woman approach us from a direction that I don’t think Mother was expecting. “One of your kind sisters brought us in through the chapel so we could see the beautiful stained glass.”
He speaks English with an indecipherable accent. Both are well groomed; a gray wool petticoat lined with fox fur for the woman and a tailor-made taupe three-piece suit and matching tie for the gentleman. They’re older than me, but not by much.
“You must be Kaatje,” the man says, addressing the lying mask I wear with a gentle glance. I will only ever be Celina, despite what anyone calls me.
“This is she,” Mother Superior says, nudging me forward a step.
“A lovely young woman with a heart of gold who has a hunger for humanity and given back to her faith by taking care of God’s children.
” Mother Superior places her hand on my shoulder.
“We will miss her glowing spirit but know she will do good things for you and your family.”
“We will take care good care of her, Mother,” the wife says, her English sounding like her husband’s. “God bless you and all you do for our faith.”
Mr. Drexel opens the garden door, stepping to the side to allow his wife then me to pass through.
I turn to take one last look at Mother Superior over my shoulder, finding her hands in prayer and head bowed. “Goodbye, Mother.”
* * *
Mist from the canal fogs the air, blurring everything in the distance as I follow behind the couple. The couple who fell completely silent the moment the garden door closed behind us. Even their posture has changed. Straighter and more guarded.
We cross the bridge that winds toward the train station without any sign of where we’re going. Their quiet isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s deliberate. I tell myself it means nothing.
The unease I feel in their presence doesn’t compare to the discomfort rushing through my veins at the number of Nazis guarding the area. There are more of them now—twice as many as when Christoph dropped me off five months ago. Rifles hung low. Their hawklike stares overseeing every corner.
I want to ask where we’re traveling. The question forms on my tongue, but I bite it back, wondering why Mother Superior didn’t question where we would be traveling.
I have a feeling it would only take one wrong word, one wrong question, and I could be left standing here between Jew-hunting soldiers.
I’ll have an answer soon enough when we get onto the train.
The platform looks nothing like it once did.
Full of chaos and people weaving between each other seamlessly like a fabric gliding through a sewing machine.
Now, there are lines everywhere, segregation of families versus single women traveling with children, and single men, all separated toward different cars.
Soldiers tell people where to go rather than train attendants.
People seem to know where to stand despite the confusion and lines.
But we don’t go into any of the lines. We move around them.
The Drexels keep their sight straight ahead, never pausing or questioning where we’re to go, and don’t even stop before veering in toward an open car.
As if perfectly timed, a soldier steps out, nods at Mr. Drexel then gestures us to board the train.
No tickets requested.
We sit along two benches facing each other, me staring at them.
The train door closes.
The sound of the engine rumbles.
Mr. Drexel stands from his seat and moves between the rows, addressing a train attendant. I can’t stop myself from watching, curious about what he’s doing.
“Yes, Herr Drexel. All is clear,” the attendant responds.
Mrs. Drexel clears her throat, pulling my attention away from the center row. “My husband’s work requires discretion.” Her English vowels hardening into a German accent.
I should have known.
I wanted to think I was safe. I’m never safe.