Girl in the Blue Coat(13)
“Mrs. de Vries,” I finally break in, gesturing toward the window, where outside the sky is cloudy but not raining. “I’m sorry, but I really should go soon. It was pouring earlier, but it looks like there’s a break in the weather now. May I leave your things?”
If the nosy neighbor weren’t here, Mrs. de Vries would insist on inspecting the contents of the parcel. As it is, she just raises one eyebrow. “I didn’t realize your schedule was so important, Hanneke. Fetch my handbag from the hallway closet.”
She hands me a few bills, and I don’t even bother to count out her payment before putting it in my pocket and leaving, traipsing wet footprints over her parquet floors.
The Jewish Lyceum. Should I go there now? It’s a little after 3:00 PM, on a day that began with me delivering lipstick to a woman at her grandparents’ house and has become something very different, and all at once I am exhausted. I am exhausted by the enormity of the day. I am exhausted by the things I’m always exhausted by: the soldiers, the signs, the secrets and strategies and effort. I’m exhausted enough to know that I probably shouldn’t go to the Lyceum right now, because being exhausted means I won’t be thinking as quickly on my feet. I’ve learned that through working the black market.
On the other hand, now is the perfect time to sneak into a school. Classes will likely be dismissing for the day, with enough commotion that nobody would notice an out-of-place person walking the halls. The Lyceum is only a few blocks away; I’d practically have to ride past it on my way home. And when you’re trying to find things, it’s better to find them as quickly as possible, before someone else takes what you’re looking for. I’ve learned that through the black market, too.
I roll my bicycle to a stop in front of the Lyceum. The school’s architecture reminds me of the school I attended.
Three years ago: My friends and I would all have been sitting on the steps outside right now, arguing about where to go before our parents expected us home. Elsbeth would announce that she didn’t have enough money to go anywhere, then sit back while two or three boys fought over who would get to pay for her coffee or pastries, and then she would wink at me to show she really did have enough money—she just liked the dramatics. A few others would try to protest that they couldn’t come because they had to study. Finally, Bas would announce that we were all going to Koco’s, and that he would personally fail the test to help the grading curve for the people who were so concerned with studying.
Now Elsbeth is gone, in the way I don’t like to think about.
And Koco’s had Jewish owners. Nine months after the invasion, a fight broke out in the shop, which led to the earliest major roundup and hundreds dead.
And Bas will never have to study again.
My whole life has been demolished, brick by brick. It happened two and a half years ago, but standing in front of this school makes me feel like it happened two weeks ago. Or like it’s still happening, again and again, every day.
In the school, it’s quiet. Eerily. No students in the halls, no sounds from the classrooms. At first I think I’ve misjudged the time and the day is already over, but when I peek into one classroom, there are students; they’re just so few in number. Only five pupils are left in this room. The rest must be gone, taken by the Germans or in hiding or worse. A whole school, torn apart. This was Mirjam’s world. Until she went into hiding, this was where she went every day, leaving traces of herself behind, I hope.
Two students, girls of twelve or thirteen, look up when I walk past their classroom. I wave to show them I mean no harm, but their faces fill with fear and they watch me until I pass.
In the next room, a thin man in spectacles lectures in front of a chalkboard while a girl in one corner studiously takes notes. That was where I used to sit, in the front right corner, and Bas would try to get my attention through the window when he passed, pressing his nose against the glass or mouthing Booor-ring as he pointed at the teacher. In the other corner, one of the boys catches my eye. And he winks at me. He winks and then laughs, and the instructor whirls around, barking at him to be quiet. The boy is dark and moon-faced and looks nothing like Bas, but the gesture is so much like him that immediately I step away from the window, trying to stop memories from flooding back.
It wasn’t a good idea for me to come here. I don’t know why I didn’t listen to my instincts. It was unsafe and poorly planned. Anyone could see me, and I don’t have a good story to tell if they do. I need to come back later for the photograph. I’ll come with real coffee; I’ll come with bribes.
Booor-ring, he used to say through the classroom windows.
This school feels like a maze. I can’t remember the turns I took when I came in the building. There’s an exit straight ahead of me, and even though it’s not the one I entered through, I head toward it.
“Can I help you with something?”
A woman stands in the doorway of what I assume is the school office. She’s taller than I am but looks only a few years older, with sharp, wary eyes and her hair piled in a knot on top of her head. She wears a cardigan with a yellow star sewn to it. Jood. “Are you lost?”
“I was just leaving.”
She hurries to catch up with me, planting herself between me and the doorway. “But why were you here? You’re not a student.”
“I was…” But a lie won’t come, not as easily as it usually does. “I was looking for a photograph.”