Girl in the Blue Coat(47)

Mina shakes her head. “We can’t—they’re Anscochrome.”

“What do you mean?” I’ve never heard this word before.

“They’re Anscochrome. It’s a color film, the special brand I was waiting for at my birthday. Most photographers won’t have dealt with it before; it’s a German-American brand. Even if we wanted to risk getting it across the border to a sympathetic German photographer, it would take weeks to come back.”

“But maybe a teacher at an art school, or someone who works at a newspaper… they could rush it, or—”

“It’s not a matter of hurrying. It’s that regular photographers might mess this film up.”

“But…” I trail off, frustrated. I can think of ways to find almost anything. But I don’t know how to find a photographer to develop a film I’ve never heard of.

“Give the camera to me,” Mrs. de Vries says. It had been so long since she’d spoken I’d almost forgotten she was still in the room. There she is, in the corner, her arms folded elegantly. “Give it to me,” she repeats, a note of irritation in her voice. “I’ll take it to one of my husband’s business contacts.”

“His business contacts?” I repeat blankly.

“He publishes a magazine,” she reminds me. “A fashion magazine, full of photographs.”

“But Mina just said that this is special film.”

“And he has special contacts.” She raises one eyebrow. “He knows all sorts of people with access to technology in private darkrooms. I won’t promise, but I’ll try. Give it to me.”

Mina looks at me again, and I nod at her to give the camera to Mrs. de Vries. “Please be careful,” she begs. “It’s so expensive, and those photographs are dangerous.”

Mrs. de Vries stares at her. She knows about danger; she is hiding three Jewish people in her house.

“Can you go right now?” I ask her. “Can you go this afternoon? Ollie said the next transport is in just two days. I need to know if the girl I’m looking for is in the theater, as soon as possible. Can you please go now?” I don’t know if it’s because Mrs. de Vries knows that I know her secret, and she thinks she has to obey me, or if it’s because she wants this over with quickly so I’ll leave her apartment. Whatever the reason, she now walks briskly out of the room, heels clacking on parquet floors, and by the time I catch up to her, she’s already pinning on a navy hat.

“I’ll be back soon,” she says. And then, because she’s still Mrs. de Vries, she says, “Please refrain from touching too many things while I’m gone.”

She slips on her coat, and then it’s just Mina and me, and nothing left to do but wait.





TWENTY




Mina and I stay in the playroom, perched uncomfortably on child-size furniture, while Mr. Cohen entertains the children, kneeling on the floor and letting them drive their cars up his legs and arms. Mrs. Cohen helpfully washes dishes in the kitchen and makes us cup after cup of ersatz tea.

“You need to be another mountain,” one of the twins informs me, rolling his car on my shoe. “So we can each have our own.”

I jerk my foot away. “You could each be your own mountains.”

Mr. Cohen smiles. “How about I tell a story instead? There will be lots of fast cars and fast horses and mountains in it.” He’s so patient with them; I wonder if he has grandchildren of his own.

“Hanneke, I’m worried about something,” Mina says, moving her chair closer to mine.

“What is it?”

She glances over to Mr. Cohen and the twins and lowers her voice. “The thing that I showed you when we went for a walk. It’s still there.” She reads my bewildered expression and raises both hands to her face, mimicking a gesture I immediately recognize. Her other camera. It’s in the carriage, and she didn’t have time to retrieve it. “Do you think it’s okay?” she asks.

Even if I didn’t, I don’t see what could be done about it, or what use there would be in me making her worry any more than she’s already worrying. “I’m sure that if one of your coworkers finds it, she’ll keep it for you,” I reassure her. The guards seem to leave the crèche alone anyhow.

After a while, the children start to complain that they’re hungry. Mina finds potatoes and parsnips in the pantry, and boils them along with leaves of kale. We all eat silently. The children start yawning, and Mr. Cohen goes to put them to bed.

“Hanneke, you’re going to miss curfew,” Mrs. Cohen warns me. “You should go.”

It’s too late to leave now. I want to be here the second there is any news. Have I done the right thing, pressuring Mrs. de Vries to go out the way that I did? Mrs. Cohen takes up a pile of socks from Mrs. de Vries’s mending pile and quietly begins to darn them. Mr. Cohen reads a book. The evening drags on. The sky outside turns from bruise-colored to pitch-black.

My parents will have started to worry an hour ago, with Mama turning white around the edges and Papa making loud jokes to cover up his own concern. After worry will come anger: Mama at me for being so selfish and not keeping track of the time, and Papa because I’ve worried Mama and because he’s mad at himself for not being able to go out and find me. I don’t know what comes after the anger stage. I’ve never tested their patience enough to find out. Tonight I’ll have to.