Chasing Shadows Page 4

  “You would like a companion for your wife.” Ans had been surprised and pleased that no cooking or cleaning was required. It seemed too good to be true.

  “Yes, an assistant of sorts, keeping Eloise company when I’m at work or when I need to travel to conferences. You’ll escort her when she goes out and help her pass her days agreeably and be a friend by her side. Sometimes she will ask for help dressing for the day and preparing for bed at night.”

  “May I ask why she needs my help, Professor Huizenga? Has she been unwell?” The professor wasn’t old, probably in his early fifties. Surely his wife had friends and family members who could accompany her.

  He took a moment to reply as if searching for a place to begin, running his hand over his reddish-blond hair, stroking his trim goatee. “You wouldn’t know it from meeting Eloise, but she is a very fragile woman who struggles, from time to time, with melancholia.” He spoke as if it pained him to disparage her. “You were recommended to me as a bright, cheerful young lady, who I hope will be good medicine for her. Have you ever known someone with melancholia?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Ans wondered if the truth would cost her the job.

  “Eloise goes for days, weeks, even months at a time when all is well, and no one would ever guess that anything was wrong. But then something triggers her sadness, and she falls into a pit that she can’t easily climb out of. It isn’t your task to keep her happy but to walk beside her in the darkness and make sure that she doesn’t . . .” He looked down at his desk for a long moment before looking up again. “That she doesn’t harm herself.” His words fell as soft as snowflakes. “Does that possibility frighten you, Miss De Vries?”

  “To be perfectly honest, yes. But I took care of my grandmother during the final months of her life, and that was often difficult too.” Ans paused, then decided to take a chance. “May I ask why your wife might choose to harm herself?”

  “Yes, of course. Her background is important to know.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “Eloise grew up in Belgium. She was a young woman like you when the surrounding nations decided to wage a war in the middle of her country. She lost her home and her parents to the violence and then her only brother, who was very dear to her. He was gassed and suffered horribly before he died. I’m not sure one ever recovers from such tragic losses, but Eloise has spent her lifetime trying. Valiantly.”

  Ans had read accounts in school of the Great War in neighboring Belgium—the hellish trench warfare, the poison gas attacks, the endless devastation. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I can’t imagine suffering through such a terrible war. What can I do to help her?”

  “There are certain events . . . sounds . . . even smells that distract her mind from the present and hurl her into the past. Into the pit. In time, you will learn what some of those trip wires are. You must become her lifeline, her tether, linking her to the present. You serve as a reminder of what is real and what isn’t. I need you to be a companion and a friend without giving the impression that you are her jailer.”

  “I see.” A niggle of fear burrowed into her stomach. The job would be challenging, but hadn’t she wanted something different?

  “In recent months, the darkness has been calling to her more and more often,” the professor continued, “triggered by the looming threat of another war. It’s impossible to shield her from all of the news. She has read about the German invasion of Czechoslovakia and heard about it on the radio, and she is well aware of what will likely happen there because she knows what happened in her own country. I can’t always be with her, Miss De Vries.”

  “I hope you will both call me Ans.”

  “Yes, of course. Much of your time will be your own when I’m able to be with her, Ans. We will pay you a weekly salary in addition to room and board. You would still like the job after everything I’ve told you?”

  She drew a deep breath. “I would. Your wife sounds like a remarkable woman. It would be a privilege to walk alongside her.”

  “Thank you . . . thank you.” The relief on his face was touching. Tears glistened in his eyes. He must love his wife a great deal. The professor cleared his throat and pushed papers around on his desk for a moment as if gathering himself. “Now, if you will give me a minute to finish up here, I will take you to meet her. Our home isn’t far.”

  The Huizengas lived in a tall four-story town house on a tree-lined street overlooking the Witte Singel canal. Eloise Huizenga greeted Ans as if she were a relative who had come to visit. “Welcome to our home. Come in, come in! What a pretty young woman you are! I hope you’ll feel very much at home with us.” Eloise Huizenga was a beautiful, elegant woman in her forties with fair skin and dark hair cut in a stylish bob. A striking streak of white blazed through her sideswept bangs. She gave the impression of boundless energy, yet at the same time, she seemed as fragile and delicate as the fine Meissen china pieces that decorated her home.

  “I’m very glad to be here, Mrs. Huizenga. Please, call me Ans.”

  “And you must call me Eloise. Come in and we’ll have tea.”

  “I’ll leave you ladies to get acquainted,” Professor Huizenga said, kissing his wife’s cheek. “Tell the cook I’ll be home around six.”

  The town house was so beautifully decorated with antiques and artwork and luscious carpets that Ans was almost afraid to walk into the sitting room. She knew she was gaping like a country peasant, but she’d never been in a home like this one before. Eloise poured tea from a sterling silver teapot as they sat at a tiny table overlooking the street and the nearby canal. “What do you think of Leiden so far?” Eloise asked.

  “It’s wonderful. I’m very excited to be here. To be honest, I was eager to leave the small village and the farm where I grew up.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “I love my parents very much, and they’re wonderful people, but I want to see new things and do new things. After I finished secondary school last spring, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do in the future. I’m hoping that coming here will help me figure it out.”

  Eloise gave a clap of delight. “What a marvelous place to be in, Ans! You’re a lovely young woman with your whole future ahead of you and endless possibilities to explore. I hope we’ll become friends and that you’ll let me show you all the things I love about this city. It will be exciting for both of us.”

  “That’s very kind and generous—”

  “We’ll explore Leiden, then take the train to Amsterdam and Den Haag. We’ll attend concerts and see artwork—the greatest artists in the world are from the Netherlands, you know. I believe you’ll see the exquisite beauty of your farm life in a new way when you view it through their eyes. Are you familiar with the Impressionists?” Her pale skin grew flushed as she spoke, her voice breathless. She didn’t wait for Ans to reply as she gushed on. “You must see the Impressionists’ artwork. I could lose myself in their vision of the world. And there are a host of lectures on a fabulous variety of new ideas. Like phrenology! Are you familiar with phrenology?”

  “No, I—”

  “I find it endlessly fascinating! Oh, there are so many astonishing new ideas to explore. I will make you my apprentice and fellow sojourner in their discovery!”

  “I would like that.”

  “You aren’t eating, Ans. Here, you must try one of these pastries. They’re from my favorite coffee shop near the university, and although they aren’t quite as good as the ones back home, we must make do when we’re in exile, mustn’t we? No one makes a croissant like the French do—even the Belgians, sad to say. Please, try one.”

  Ans was overwhelmed by everything—Eloise’s home, her zest for life, and her generosity in sharing them. Yet something about her glittering enthusiasm seemed out of proportion to their brand-new friendship. After learning of Eloise’s fragile mental state, Ans felt as if she were trying to sip from a teacup filled dangerously close to the brim.

  They toured the house when they finished their tea, and Ans wondered how long it would
take to feel at home here. She carried her own bags and suitcase to her bedroom on the second floor, a room every bit as lush and elegant as the rest of the home, the suite of a guest, not a servant. She would have the luxury of a bed all to herself, not shared with her little sister. Ans would miss Maaike’s warmth on cold winter nights but not her sprawling, poking elbows and knees. Her room was on the same floor as the Huizengas’ bedroom suite, even though there were two more vacant bedrooms and another bath on the third floor. It seemed surprising until Ans recalled that the professor wanted her near Eloise when he couldn’t be.

  “Please, take your time unpacking and getting settled,” Eloise said before leaving. “There’s no hurry at all. I need to attend to some correspondence downstairs.” She closed the door behind her. Ans was unsure what to do. Should she follow Mrs. Huizenga around like a lapdog, checking on her, making sure she was all right? Was it okay to leave her alone for a few minutes? The professor said to be her friend, not her jailer, but did that mean it was okay to leave her alone sometimes? And if so, for how long?

  Ans opened her suitcase and began filling the wardrobe and dresser with her things. The shining enthusiasm she’d felt when she’d stepped off the train this morning had been dimmed by the realization of what a huge responsibility she’d agreed to. Ans wondered if she was in over her head.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Westerbork refugee camp was still under construction when Miriam and Abba arrived. It squatted on a bleak stretch of heathland, seven miles south of Assen, the nearest town. They were assigned to a small space in a long wooden barracks with two beds and two blankets, separated from the rest of the noisy, restless refugee families by a curtain. The space was open to the rafters above them, which were crisscrossed with strings of drying laundry. The dank odor of wet wool filled the air and stuck in Miriam’s throat. Sharing toilet facilities with the other women in her barracks robbed her of the last remnants of her dignity. With bare wooden walls, floors, and ceilings, the barracks were how Miriam imagined prison might be. But she wouldn’t cry. Or perhaps she couldn’t cry. She told herself it was no more a prison than her home in Cologne had been.

  With so few belongings, it didn’t take long to settle in. Abba fashioned a makeshift shelf for his books from a discarded vegetable crate and used his suitcase as a desk, where he sat for most of the day writing endless letters. Rain added to the damp mugginess in the barracks.

  “Are you writing to Mother?” Miriam asked as he sat scribbling.

  “Yes. She’ll be very glad to know that we arrived and that we’re safe.”

  “She would have hated it here, you know. It’s very primitive, and the lack of privacy would have distressed her.” Especially the toilets. Mother would have been appalled by them. The unfamiliar sounds of wildlife in the barren heathland would have kept her from sleeping, as they did Miriam. The construction racket would have gotten on her nerves. Miriam hadn’t expected luxury, but she found everything about the camp dreary and grim, including the tasteless food. Nevertheless, she knew she should be grateful to be here. To be free.

  Abba stopped writing and looked up at her. “Your mother will join us once we’re settled in our own place. After I find work and an apartment. The others will come, too. You’ll see.”

  Miriam remembered her debilitating fear as they’d crossed the German border, slogging across the wet fields until her feet were soaked and chilled, picking their way through the dark, dispiriting woods. If Mother knew what lay ahead, she would never agree to come.

  “Do you think it will be all right if I practice my violin?” she asked on their third day in camp. Isolated in her tiny living space, Miriam had been battling panic attacks ever since they’d arrived and hoped to find relief if allowed to play.

  “I think it would be lovely. This place could use a little music to brighten things, don’t you think?”

  The rain had paused, so Miriam found a secluded place outside behind the barracks, away from the play area, where the children squealed and splashed in puddles. The pressure in her chest eased as she lifted her violin from its case. She played the melody from Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major from memory and allowed the violin to weep in her place. Miriam closed her eyes and poured all of her fear and sorrow into her music. The sounds of hammering and sawing faded into the background. She felt lighter when she reached the end of the piece several minutes later, then a rustling sound behind her made her turn around.

  A young man in his twenties stood near the barracks as if trying not to be noticed.

  “Is my playing disturbing you?” she asked. “I’ll stop if it is.”

  “Not at all! Please, don’t stop. It’s beautiful.” His smile lit up his eyes and his face. Had she seen anyone smile in this place?

  “It’s just that . . . with such tight quarters here . . . I would hate to disturb anyone.”

  “No, please continue.”

  Miriam tucked the violin beneath her chin but couldn’t recall where she’d left off. She was self-conscious now.

  “Would you like me to go away?” the young man asked.

  She glanced at him again. “No, you don’t have to . . . but I need to keep practicing if I hope to stay in shape. Abba thinks I can apply to a music conservatory once we’re settled.”

  He approached and offered his hand for her to shake. “I’m Avraham Leopold—Avi.” He had wiry black hair and a thick beard and eyes the color of strong coffee. His high forehead and thin, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly look. He was perhaps two or three years older than Miriam, with the slim build of a long-distance runner. His smile warmed her and she smiled in return.

  “I’m Miriam Jacobs. My father and I just arrived from Cologne a few days ago. Where are you from?”

  “I’ve lived in Berlin all my life—until now.”

  “Have you been here very long?”

  He exhaled so wearily that Miriam was sorry she’d asked. “Nearly four months already. My barracks wasn’t even finished yet. And I didn’t have this beard!” He grinned and stroked his face. “I’ve been trying to get a visa to move to Palestine. They were right when they told me it would take a long time. The British have enough headaches trying to appease Hitler. They don’t want to stir up trouble in Palestine by letting Jews come back to their homeland. Where are you planning to go?”

  “I think my father wants to stay here, in the Netherlands.”

  He shook his head. “They won’t let us stay. This camp was built for Jewish refugees, but only until we can find a permanent place somewhere else. That’s why it’s way out in the middle of nowhere. We aren’t supposed to mingle with the Dutch people. It’s a small country, and there are hundreds of us. They would like us to move on.”

  “My father has been writing letters to his fellow professors in several countries, trying to find a position in one of their universities.”

  “I wish him well. I was an engineering student until they forbade Jews to study at the university.”

  “Is your family here with you?”

  He sighed again. “No, my parents couldn’t read the handwriting on the wall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you know that story? It’s from the book of Daniel the prophet.”

  “We’re not religious.”

  “Neither is my family,” he said, laughing. “Believe me! But I’ve had a lot of time on my hands here, so I’ve been studying the Bible. I’ve read through the Torah three times, in fact. Now I’m reading the Prophets.”

  “Papa thinks it’s absurd that we’re being persecuted for being Jewish when we aren’t even religious. We rarely celebrated Passover or the other holidays. We sometimes had dinner with Mother’s family on Friday night, but we don’t keep kosher or anything like that.”

  “I understand. My family is the same.” He sat down on the barracks steps and motioned for Miriam to join him. She hesitated, then sat beside him, her violin on her lap. He seemed nice. And she needed a friend.

>   “Anyway, in the story in the book of Daniel, all the warnings of a coming disaster were there, plain as day, written on the wall by a ghostly hand. But the people couldn’t interpret them. And my family couldn’t accept the fact that we weren’t wanted in Germany. That we were hated, even. We had no future there. The persecution will only get worse and worse, until . . . well, who knows what will happen to us. So I escaped by myself. Once I’m settled in Jerusalem, maybe I can convince the rest of my family to join me.”

  “My cousin Saul plans to leave for Palestine as soon as he’s well again. He was beaten by a gang of Hitler Youth and left for dead. He says nothing he might face in Jerusalem could be any worse than what the Nazis did to him. He isn’t going to wait for his immigration papers but plans to sneak into Palestine somehow.”

  “Maybe I should do that.” Avi scooped up a handful of pebbles and absently tossed them as they talked.

  “So how do people stay occupied all day while they wait for a visa or someplace to go—besides reading the Torah?”

  “They’ve given us some garden space to grow our own food. And we can volunteer to plant trees for the government. As you can see, there aren’t very many around here.”

  Miriam looked down at her hands, holding her violin. “I don’t think either of those choices are for me.”

  “I’ve also offered to teach mathematics in the school they’re setting up. I think they’d be grateful if you taught music classes.”

  “I would be happy to. Anything to keep busy so I can stop thinking about . . .” She faltered, desperate to erase the picture of her family and a way of life that had vanished. “To stop thinking of other things,” she finished.

  “I know. It’s hard not to dwell on the past, isn’t it? And all that we’ve lost?” Miriam nodded as tears stung her eyes. Avi gave an apologetic smile as he stood. “I’ll go away now so you can practice. It was nice talking with you, Miriam.”