Girl in the Blue Coat(52)

“Rolf didn’t kill Bas. Rolf doesn’t even want to be in this country. He wants the war to be over so he can go home,” she said. “He doesn’t agree with what Germany is doing—he was sent here. You’re just upset right now.”

“Of course I’m upset right now,” I exploded. “Can you even hear yourself? Are you listening to what you’re saying? You want to marry a Nazi, after what they did to Bas.”

“I’m sorry, Hanneke, that I can’t sit with you and be depressed forever,” she spat. “I’m sorry that my life is going to move on.”

“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry because it should be your boyfriend who is dead, not mine. I hope he dies soon.”

She looked at me for almost a full minute before she spoke again. “Maybe I better go for now,” she said finally. “I’m supposed to meet Rolf anyway.”

“Go,” I said. “And don’t ever come back.”





TWENTY-TWO




The streets are still quiet when I leave Mrs. de Vries’s. A few schoolchildren, a few milkmen and street sweepers, but otherwise, our early-morning meeting is over before I would normally even leave for work. I’m somewhere between euphoric and half dead; floating spots drift in front of my eyes whenever I look too long at one thing.

Maybe my parents aren’t awake yet. Maybe they went to bed last night and left the door unlocked for me. They’ve done it before. Not often. But at least twice they’ve gone to bed early without making sure that I came in before curfew. I peel my shoes off on the stoop of my building, tiptoeing up the inside stairs.

Three steps from the door, it flies open.

“Where have you been?” My mother crushes me to her chest. “Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “I’m sorry; I was with some people, and I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. When it was past curfew, I just had to stay.”

“Which people?” Behind my mother, in his chair, my father’s face is flat and icy. He almost never gets angry, but when he does, it’s so much more terrible than my mother. “Which friend would let you make your parents worry?”

“Someone from work,” I elaborate. “I was helping Mr. Kreuk. It was for a funeral. He needed me to go talk to the family. That’s why I ran out of here so quickly yesterday; I almost forgot. They were grieving, and I didn’t feel like I could leave, and then curfew passed and I was stuck.”

“Mr. Kreuk?” she says.

“He apologizes, too.”

“I’m going to see him right now. I’m going to see him right now and tell him—”

“Of course,” I interject. “Of course you should go visit Mr. Kreuk. I only hope he doesn’t feel he needs to hire another person, if he can’t count on me to work nights in cases of emergency.” I’m praying that she won’t go see Mr. Kreuk. She won’t want to do anything to jeopardize my job.

“Do you have any idea what you put us through?” my father asks. “Do you have any idea what last night was like for us?”

“I do. I can imagine. But I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Mama releases me from her hug, turning toward my father. Her hands dart in front of her face, swiping. Is she crying? When she turns back to face me, there are no tears, but her face is red and blotchy.

“I’m sorry,” I start to say again, but she silences me with a shake of her head.

“Go and change your clothes, then come back for breakfast.”

“Go and… what?”

“Your clothes. I’m going to cook breakfast. You are going to eat breakfast. You are never going to stay out all night without telling us, ever again. But right now, you are going to change your clothes and comb your hair, and we will not speak of this morning.”

I don’t know why she’s offering me this reprieve—maybe it’s just that she’s as exhausted as I am, maybe she doesn’t want to fight today—but I’ll take it.

In the bedroom, I drag a comb through my hair and pull on a plaid dress that Mama loves but I hate. It’s an olive branch gesture, and she’ll recognize it that way. My bed is still unmade from yesterday morning, and I desperately wish I could crawl into it. Instead, I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and pinch life back into my cheeks. I want to see Ollie and the rest of the group, so we can keep making plans. But we’d been awake so long, we decided it was better to rest, change clothes, and freshen up. Ollie said he would find me later.

When I come out of my bedroom, Mama’s rushing around the kitchen, pulling food out of the cupboards, not just the porridge that we usually have for breakfast, but the rest of our eggs and a side of ham I didn’t even realize Mama was saving. Instead of the careful, responsible rationing she usually does, Mama is making breakfast like there is no war, like everything is normal.

“Bread?” she asks when she hears me come in, her upper body buried in the pantry. “If I sliced bread, would you eat it?”

I glance at Papa, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to respond, but he won’t meet my gaze. “If you want to, slice it. I’ll eat anything you make.”

We sit down at the table to more food than we normally have in a week. I can tell Papa doesn’t believe my lie. His eyes are on me with every bite I take, while I talk about any silly thing I can think of—the weather, the loose button on my skirt, the good price I saw on turnips—and secretly wonder how long I’ll have to wait for Ollie to arrive. Will he try to get in contact with Judith first, to see if she has any ideas? Did he even specifically say he would come to me, or was I supposed to find him? I’m so tired I’m not even thinking clearly. Should I go to Leo’s and wait?