Girl in the Blue Coat(71)

“My mother said I should invite you,” she said finally. “She said weddings mend fences. But I’m guessing you won’t want to come.” I couldn’t figure out the emotion in her eyes: Hope? Anger? Was she wishing that I would come, or was she making it clear that she wanted my answer to be no?

“No,” I said. “I don’t expect I’ll come.”

“All right, then,” she said. “I guess this really probably is good-bye.”

It was so dignified. That was what made it so sad. To end a twelve-year friendship like this, while she sat in my kitchen with a wedding invitation in her hand. It was nearly unforgivable, and I’ve spent the past year wondering whether it was more or less unforgivable than the person Elsbeth wanted to marry, and which one of us should apologize to whom.

There are so many ways to kill things, it turns out. The Germans killed Bas with mortar. Elsbeth and I killed our friendship with words.





THIRTY-TWO




My heart has come loose from my chest.

Amalia. Amalia.

Amalia was the girl who Ollie brought to Mr. Kreuk’s in the quiet of night. Amalia is the girl who is dead in the ground. The girl I have been looking for this whole time. The photograph of the birthday party is sticky in my hand; without meaning to I’ve left fingerprints all over it, touching the faces of these dead and disappeared girls.

In the other room, I hear the front door open again, letting in a whistle of air. Mrs. Janssen? But I don’t hear the soft bump of her cane. It must be Tessa Koster again.

“I’m back here,” I call out. My voice is a croak.

“Mrs. Janssen?” a confused voice asks. “It’s Christoffel.”

“Oh, Christoffel, it’s Hanneke.” Reflexively, I sweep the photographs off the table, folding them back into the envelope they came in. I’ve just stuck the packet under the tea set when Christoffel enters the kitchen. He’s still wearing the formal clothes he wore to escort Mrs. Janssen to the funeral earlier today.

“Where’s Mrs. Janssen?” He uses his sleeve to wipe perspiration off his forehead. “When I stopped by a little bit ago, she said she needed me to take her somewhere. I told her I had to do another quick errand and I’d be right back.”

“Mrs. Janssen…” I trail off. I’m having a difficult time finishing my sentences. Was Amalia imprisoned in the Hollandsche Schouwburg? Amalia, Mirjam’s best friend? Amalia, who was supposed to be in Kijkduin? Vaguely, I realize Christoffel is still waiting for me to finish my sentence. “Mrs. Janssen was gone when I got here, too. Did she tell you where she wanted you to take her?”

He wrinkles his eyebrows. “She said she needed to go see you. But you’re here. It sounded urgent; she was upset when I told her I couldn’t go right away.”

“Right. Right. I guess she and I got a little mixed up about who was coming to see whom.” Dammit. I should have told Mrs. Janssen on the phone to stay put, no matter what. But I don’t know how she would have gone to see me; Mrs. Janssen doesn’t know where I live. I don’t even think she knows my last name. If Christoffel wasn’t here, I could go through the house to see if she left me a note somewhere, explaining more.

“It sounded like she was really worried about something,” Christoffel says. “I’ll wait here until she gets back.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do, Christoffel. Why don’t I give you some money for your trouble, and you can get back to your life?”

But, irritatingly dutiful, he takes the other seat at the table, fiddling with one of the teacups. Minutes tick by. When Mrs. Janssen couldn’t find me, what would she do next? Something rash? Would she try to go find Mr. Kreuk? Or Ollie? How much have I told her about him, and the resistance?

“Do you really think it’s all right if I leave? I do have another place I’m supposed to be,” he admits finally.

“Of course you should leave. I’ll tell her you stopped by.” Even the scraping of my chair sounds eager as I usher him out of his seat.

“Did I leave my hat?” he starts to ask, looking around his seat.

“Here,” I say, exasperated, thrusting the gray cap at him that he’d set on the table.

We’re almost out of the room when a squeak emits from the pantry, an un-oiled, plaintive sound. Verdorie. I remembered to shut the outer pantry door when Tessa Koster came in, but I don’t think I locked the secret shelf inside. It must be swinging, loose, behind the closed door. “Old houses make the strangest sounds,” I say.

We’re at the front door now. All I have to do is shove him through it, and then I can figure out where Mrs. Janssen is. I’ll start with Mr. Kreuk. That’s who introduced us to begin with. Mr. Kreuk handled the memorial service for her husband.

“Next time I come I’ll bring some oil,” says Christoffel as I open the door for him. “That shelf always squeaks when the latch is open.”

And.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s said. He doesn’t realize it at all. It was just a sentence to him. A string of words, a helpful comment. He’s putting on his cap. The door is open.

Slowly, like I’m watching my own actions in a dream, I close the door again, and it shuts with a whisper of a click.

“Hanneke?”