What World is Left (20 page)

That dream was so real that when I woke up the muscles in my legs ached. As if I really had kicked him.

Theo and I will return to Holland by train. Dr. Hayek has examined us and pronounced us strong enough to make the journey home.

“We still have some business here, and your Opa needs to be a little stronger before he is ready to travel,” Father explains. The Russians have set up a temporary office and are interviewing inmates in order to decide whether and how soon they can be released.

They have some questions for Father. They know about the other artists who died, and they want to know how he managed to survive.

“Can't we wait for you?” I ask Father.

“It's better this way. The Lunshofs will meet you in Haarlem. Mother and I will join you there. Don't worry so much, Anneke.”

“I thought you always said the most important thing was to stay together.”

“Not right now, Anneke.”

“Will everything be all right?” I ask Father. I am watching his face.

Father nods. “Of course it will.”

“But the Russians. They'll want to know...” I don't finish my sentence. But Father knows what I mean.

“I haven't done anything wrong,” he says. “I did what I had to do. There was no choice.”

And so, two days later, Theo and I board a train bound for Holland. This time, we have proper seats, and there is a bathroom in the next carriage. I wonder whether, like me, Theo is remembering our last train ride. But I don't ask, in case he isn't. I don't want to remind him of it. Right now, Theo has no one but me to look after him.

I gaze out the window at the bright green fields and the puffy clouds. The landscape still looks the same. But everything else has changed. Theo falls asleep. I try to sleep as well, but my mind is too awake. I keep seeing pictures of Theresienstadt and the people I've known there: Frau Davidels in her white bonnet, Hannelore the first time I saw her climb out of her cauldron, Franticek giving me his necklace, the Bialystok orphans dressed in rags, Berta watching over me at the infirmary.

Will my mind ever settle down or will these images stay with me until my dying day? I've left Theresienstadt, but it seems I've taken the place with me. I shake my head as if that will make the pictures go away. But it doesn't work. Now I see Ronald's purplish blue eyes.

Once we leave Czechoslovakia, we have to pass through Germany before we can reach Holland. The train screeches to a halt at the Bremen station. A girl with thick glasses is waiting on the platform. She gasps when she steps into our carriage.

She takes the seat closest to the door. I can see she is watching us, watching her. She crosses her legs. “
Guten tag
,” she says in a quiet voice.

That is all she has to say.

“You're one of them, aren't you? A no-good Nazi!” one of the older boys in our carriage cries out. The boy sitting next to him leaps to his feet. The commotion wakes Theo. “What's going on?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

One of the Dutch boys has got his hands on an ink pen. Was it also a gift from the Russians? If so, I think it is a much better gift than Theo's Luger, now safely stashed at the bottom of his rucksack. An ink pen can be used to make drawings or to write down stories. A gun is only good for scaring people—or worse.

The boy with the pen forces the German girl to her feet. “Turn around,” he tells her. And then he uses the ink pen to draw a swastika on her back.

“I'm not a Nazi,” the girl protests, her voice trembling.

“Of course you're a Nazi,” her attacker says. “You
moffen
are all Nazis. Every last one of you! Now give me your shoes! Now!” The way he says it reminds me of the Nazi soldiers who came to our apartment looking for illegal art.

Whimpering, the girl unlaces her shoes. I did not notice them before, but now I see that they are black and scuffed. But unlike mine, they have no holes. I stare at them. Shoes without holes. I've forgotten what that looks like.

The boy sticks his nose inside one of the shoes. “They don't stink too bad,” he says, laughing, “for
moffen
shoes!” Then he tosses the pair of shoes in my direction. “Here,” he says, “a gift from the Fatherland.”

The girl is sobbing now. Her shoulders shake. One of her white socks has a hole at the toe.

The shoes land in my lap. The boys return to their seats, calmer now that they have turned on the girl. The shoes will probably fit me. I could put them on, or I could go over and kick the girl. Like in my dream. But this is nothing like my dream.

When I get up, I know that now everyone in the car is watching me. I walk over to the girl and hand her back her shoes. “I don't want any gifts from the Fatherland,” I say, loudly enough so everyone will hear.

When Anita Lunshof sees us she bursts into tears.

Theo looks confused. “Father said you'd be happy to see us.”

“I am. It's just that, you look so...” Anita crouches down and gathers us in her arms.

Her husband, Jan, shifts from one foot to the other. “Let's get the two of you home—and into the bathtub.”

Because the Lunshofs live in the center of Haarlem, we walk to their house. Theo and I visited Haarlem before the war, and though it isn't home to us, the Dutchness of the city—the fishing boats moored alongside the canal; the narrow, linked, brown brick houses; the white lace curtains in the windows; the bicycles parked in the lanes—feels familiar. I wish Father and Mother and Opa could be here too, so we could share the feeling of being back in our own country.

In the streets, people glance over their shoulders at Theo and me. Some point or whisper when they see us pass. Perhaps it is our old clothes or because we are so thin, but they seem to know where we've been. Will people always be able to tell?

“How would you like some bread with syrup for your dinner?” Anita Lunshof asks when we are seated at the wooden nook in her bright kitchen.

“I'd prefer
poffertjes
,” Theo calls out. He hasn't forgotten the small pancakes Mother used to make as a special treat.

“I'm afraid it takes milk and eggs to make
poffertjes
,” Anita says, “and we haven't had either of those things in ages.”

“Bread with syrup sounds delicious,” I say.

Our rucksacks disappear. Flore, the Lunshofs' housemaid must have whisked them to the backroom
because soon I smell soap and a little later, I hear the creak of the wash line as Flore hangs out the clothes in the back garden.

When I can't eat any more bread with syrup, I go to look out the kitchen window. A black and white cat is lying on the grass, his belly exposed to the air. The wind is growing stronger; the clothes hanging on the line fill up like sails. That is when I see my cream silk dress, the one I wore when I was little and which I packed without Mother's knowledge. How could I have forgotten all about it? Mother must have found it and put it in my rucksack.

When I get up, I can hear the sounds of the household, and I realize I have slept late. Our laundry is neatly folded on a chair by the door.

“I need a hammer and nails,” I tell Theo, who is sharing the guestroom with me.

“I saw a toolbox in the hallway.”

When Theo returns with the box, I go straight to work, hammering six nails into the mahogany paneling. Three for me, three for Theo. I do my best to keep them in an even line. Now we have a place to hang our clothes.

There is a knock on the door. “Are you two sleepyheads awake?” Anita Lunshof asks. “I thought I heard sounds coming from up here. Did you sleep well?”

Anita puts her hand to her mouth when she sees my handiwork. “Why in the world have you gone and hammered into the fine mahogany, Anneke?”

I didn't mean any harm. I take my silk dress and hang it carefully on the first nail.

Anita shakes her head. “Why, Anneke, we keep our clothes in a closet. Have you forgotten what a closet is for?”

I am too embarrassed to admit I have.

“you are Anneke?”

The man is standing in front of me, but his voice echoes in my ears. The brass buttons on his jacket gleam, distracting me from his question. The buttons, the uniform, the shiny black boots and the man's sharp tone of voice all distract me. I feel the backs of my knees turn to jelly. My stomach churns.

Father pats my elbow, a quick warm pat that brings me back to reality. A pat that tells me everything is all right. The war is over. We are in The Hague in Holland, safely back in our own country. The nightmare is over.

Father has been summoned to the Dutch military headquarters to answer some more questions. In the end, he agreed to let me tag along. But he never said they might have questions for me.

“Anneke?” Father says, his voice not much louder than a whisper. He turns to the officer. “She's been through a lot,” he tells him. “She's only sixteen.”

I gulp. It will be easier if I look at the man's face—his clear blue eyes, his rosy cheeks—and not at the row of
gleaming buttons. “Yes,” I say, “I'm Anneke Van Raalte.” There, that wasn't so hard.

The officer sits down behind his desk and reaches for his glasses. They have wire rims. Then he reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and polishes the lenses. When he finally puts his glasses back on the edge of his nose, he looks like an owl. “Tell me where you spent the last two years, Anneke.”

When I turn to look at Father, he nods his head.

I gulp again. “Theresienstadt,” I say.

When the officer jots something in his notebook, his pen makes a scratching sound. Then he looks up at me again. “So you and your father survived Theresienstadt?”

“Yes, and also my mother and my brother, Theo, I mean Theodoor. And my opa too. We all survived.”

The officer turns to Father. “I see,” he says. “All five of you Jews survived?” He rubs his chin. “It's highly suspicious!”

I can feel my heart pounding under my blouse. I cannot let myself be frightened by a row of brass buttons or a pair of shiny black boots, even if they look like the kind of boots the Nazis wore. No, I have something important to say to this Dutch officer.

Besides, what can this man with his owl eyes do to me? I lost much in Theresienstadt: my innocence, my belief that all people were basically good. But now I have the heady sense that I have nothing left to lose. I don't need to be afraid ever again—of anybody.

I've witnessed terrible things I'll never forget, but I survived. Surely that means I can survive anything. Even this man's rude remarks. Imagine him saying it's “highly suspicious” that all five of us survived! The nerve of him. What can he possibly understand about what we've lived through?

I meet the officer's eye. “What do you mean exactly,” I ask, “when you say it's ‘highly suspicious' that our family survived Theresienstadt?”

“Anneke,” Father whispers, “there's no sense in getting upset.”

The officer shuffles some papers on his desk. Then he looks up at me again. “What I mean, young lady, is so few of you Jews survived, surely you did something, or perhaps your father did something, to ensure your safety.”

So the officer knows about the drawings Father made for the Nazis!

When Father flinches, I pat his elbow.

I have always needed Father, even in Theresienstadt when I was most angry with him. But this is the first time I've ever had the feeling that Father may need me.

I keep my eyes on the officer. “Do you also know about Father's other drawings—the ones he hid—the ones that had they been discovered by the Nazis, Father would have been tortured...or killed?” Inside I'm a little shaky, but my voice is strong and steady. That gives me courage.

The officer jots something in his notebook.

But I still have more to say. “You're quite right. Father kept us safe. He did whatever he had to do to protect us, just as I hope you would do for your children.” I notice some gray in the officer's hair, near his temples. “And your grandchildren.”

On our way out of the building, I tell Father I am sorry.

Father's face is still painfully thin. “For what, Anneke? For what?” I'm afraid he is about to cry.

This part is harder for me than standing up to the Dutch officer. It's not that I've stopped questioning what Father did to keep us alive. In fact I think no matter how old I get, some part of me will always question what Father did to keep himself and us alive in Theresienstadt.

But something important has changed. Now I understand that Father really had no choice. And I know that he must live with that burden. Just as I shall live with it until I take my last breath on Earth.

I'm sorry if I have made things even harder for Father. But I couldn't help myself. I had to let him know how I felt about what he was doing. I had to stand up for what I believed was right. I suppose I had to learn.

“I'm sorry for waiting too long to thank you.”

Father smiles. “Oh, Anneke,” he says, “you haven't waited too long.”

His eyes look silvery blue in the sunlight. The swollen spot on his lip only makes him more handsome
in my eyes. “How did that poet you like so much— Heine—put it? ‘Think what world...'”

I take Father's hand and together, we recite the rest of the poem: “Think what world is left you still, And how lovely is that part.”

Father is right. And though Heine lived long before us, he knew it too. Even after all the senseless sorrow and suffering, there is still world left. I know I will never be able to forget all I saw and felt and lost in Theresienstadt, but there is still world left.

It will be up to me to find the loveliness.