My Enemy's Cradle (9 page)

I took the back ways and regretted it. This close to the harbor, the water carried the hard odor of metal from the Germans' constant welding. It was too close to the smell of blood. The thought of Karl slammed into me—his lie and the blood Anneke had spilled over it. If I had seen him at that moment I would have torn his throat out with my teeth. Twice, I dropped from my bicycle and pressed my hands to my chest, it hurt so much to breathe.

Although it wasn't yet dark, Isaak didn't say a word of reproach when I collapsed into the doorway. In his work he had learned to recognize the look of ravaged humans. He led me to the bed and eased me down, then sat beside me.

"What?"

I crawled onto his lap, curled up in his arms, and sobbed into his chest. "I want her back, I want her back, I want her back!" Isaak waited. "She was so beautiful," I whispered finally, my throat raw. "I used to feel she pulled the sunlight from the air. I was so jealous. Now I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"What's happened?"

It was so hard to put words to the horror we'd found, to make it that real and that final. Almost impossible to speak the violence Anneke had committed on herself. Each word tore my heart open and I ached for Isaak to tell me I was wrong, this couldn't have happened.

But instead, he only listened to what Anneke had done with a frown. "Stupid." He muttered it under his breath when I was finished, but I heard it. "Stupid and selfish."

I pulled away, wiped my eyes and stared at him. "Isaak, are you ... blaming her?"

"She took a life. It was inconvenient and—"

I jumped up to face him. "How can you say something like that? Think of how upset she must have been, how desperate to ... to take that risk. She didn't deserve any of this. This is Karl's fault, not hers. She died, Isaak! She was beautiful and full of life and kind and generous. She made everyone smile; everyone she met! And oh, Isaak ... I loved her and she didn't tell me. She didn't trust me."

I began to cry again and Isaak softened. But all he said was "I'm sorry. I know you loved her."

Until that moment I hadn't realized how much it had damaged Isaak to be raised without a family. How much distance he kept from people. It wasn't his fault, I reminded myself. But I would keep my grief from him now.

I gathered myself and sat beside him again. "There's more. I need your help." I told him about the notice that had been slipped under my door. "My aunt's out of her mind. She made Oom Pieter leave—she blames him for all of it. And Isaak, she won't talk about Anneke's death. She told the funeral home that it was me who died, not Anneke. She thinks this will protect me; she actually thinks she can keep this a secret and I can go away and use her papers and that whoever left that notice will give up. I don't know what to do. Will you come back with me?"

Isaak got up, went to the window, and pulled the blackout shade aside to look into the night. Then he turned.

"Cyrla, what if ... look, you wanted to stay in Holland, you were planning to dive under, right? But it's much safer to live with papers, an identity—"

"Did you hear what I said?"

He picked up the chair from his desk, placed it in front of the bed, and sat facing me. He braced his elbows on the arms and rested his chin on his clasped hands—the reassuring position I imagined him in when he met with people at the Council. Relief melted over me: He was going to hear me and find a solution, logical and sound.

I was wrong.

"Let me finish. Real papers are much better than false ones. But they're almost impossible to come by. Someone near your age and description has to die or disappear, and that person's family has to arrange for the exchange—it doesn't just happen. Now here you have what every Jew in Europe wants: legal papers from someone who looks enough like you she could be your twin, and a family willing to go along with it."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was standing at the edge of a cliff, and the people I trusted most were trying to push me off. "I can't even talk about this. Anneke's dead, and I can't imagine my life without her! I can't remember the last thing I said to her. I want her back. I just want her back!" I felt hysteria rising, but I swallowed it. "My aunt's out of her mind. Could you come back with me and help with her?"

He ignored me, still working through her idea, I could see.

"Isaak, it would never work. I don't even look that much like her."

"Of course you do. You could be twins. You even have the same..."

Isaak's hand lifted, as if to touch the nape of my neck where my braid was pinned up. I had a mole there. Anneke did, too, but hers was hidden by her curls—Isaak couldn't know about it. "Hair," he said. "You have the same color hair. But never mind. That's not the point. The point is that someone knows—that notice was a threat. You need to leave. There are legal papers available to you. If you don't take them, I'll ask your aunt to release them for someone else. This is what I do. I know fifty women who would take them today and be grateful. A hundred and fifty. They wouldn't look anything like Anneke, but they'd take them for the chance to survive. Things are going to get worse here, Cyrla. No matter how much you want to deny it, it's true. And you're going to need papers now. I could get you a set from the Free Netherlands, but it would take a week and they'd be forged."

"Isaak," I interrupted, grabbing his hands. I took a breath and felt it cut through me, as though I were made of nothing more substantial than ash. I tried to hide my panic. "Please listen. It's not the papers. My aunt is in shock. She wants me to step into Anneke's life. She's planning to take me to that maternity home—it's in Nijmegen—next week, in her place! That's the part that's so ... if I did take Anneke's papers, if by some miracle my aunt could convince everyone it was me who died, couldn't I just disappear in Amsterdam? Would you help me do that?"

Isaak got up and went back to the window. "I forgot about the Lebensborn. There's one in Nijmegen? I didn't know that. She passed the tests, then? Yes, you could go to Amsterdam, but it would be dangerous. Because if the Germans are expecting Anneke next week, they'll investigate when she doesn't show up. Each baby is that valuable to them. If you didn't take those papers, if I could get them for another woman, yes, that's what I'd tell her to do: Disappear into a city with them and just hope to buy some time. Because no one else would look enough like her to pass in the maternity home. But Cyrla, think about this: Of all the places to hide, perhaps this is the best. Living right in the midst of them, with them caring for you. Surrounded by nurses and doctors and other Dutch girls—"

I jumped up and turned away from him so he wouldn't see me force back tears. "Stop it! How could you possibly consider my going to a place like that? We're not going to talk about this anymore."

Isaak came up behind me, but he didn't touch me. I yearned for him to fold me into him and tell me of course he wouldn't let me go there.

"It would only be for a little while—until I could arrange something permanent. I still think a passage to England is best, especially now. Until then, the maternity home sounds safe. I can't imagine the Germans hunting for Jews in a place like that. In fact it may be the only place in the whole country they would never look. There are
doctors
there, not the Gestapo. Think about it: Anneke's papers say not only that she's Dutch, but that she's passed every test of Aryan heritage they require for entrance. You would be safe there, I think. And remember, it's only for a few weeks. A month at most."

I spun to face him. "A
month?
Isaak, are you asking me to try to pass as Anneke in that place for a month?" I bit down on my lip but it was no use. I began to cry.

Isaak wiped my cheeks with his fingers. Even then I was aware: This was the first time he had ever reached out to touch me. It had taken my tears. "I am telling you I don't have a better solution right now. And it might be longer," he said. "No one can predict these days. It's best to be prepared."

Anneke was gone. My uncle was gone. My aunt was gone, too, in her way. Isaak wasn't going to help me. I had only myself to get out of this. And then I saw I was all I needed.

I began to laugh, still crying. I couldn't stop. I fell back on the bed weeping and laughing. The answer had been there all along, so obvious we had missed it.

"What?" Isaak asked. "What?"

"Oh, Isaak!" I wiped my cheeks with my own hands, the way I was used to. The way I would have to my whole life. "I'm not pregnant!"

And then I stopped laughing.

Isaak and I looked at each other without speaking. I saw everything pass through his mind. I saw him reject the idea. I saw him search for a better place to hide me than the home. I saw him consider the risk of having me stay in that place without being pregnant. And I saw him come back to the obvious.

I hoped Isaak didn't see my thoughts: Once more, I was leaving my home, but this time I had a choice: I could create a family for myself before I left, or I could go alone. There was no choice.

"Your child," I whispered. "I would take your child to safety in England." A promise of flesh and blood to a man who had never known it.

I saw him fall into my promise.

I had loved Isaak from the day I met him, the day I arrived in the Netherlands.

Three weeks earlier, my father had told me the plan: "The new regime," he'd begun. I'd hated those words already: He'd lost his teaching position because of the new regime; we'd had to move to Lodz because of it. And now, the
numerous clausus
—the closed-numbers law to limit the number of Jews who could attend the universities. "You'll be better off in Holland. You can get an education. Your brothers might not be able to."

"But I'm only fourteen, Papa," I'd protested.

"Just until things change," he'd promised. And then he'd closed the argument. No matter how I'd begged, he'd remained firm.

I hadn't understood any of it. And then, as I boarded the train, I remembered: My father had packed away everything my mother had loved. I pressed my face to the train window, the dirty glass wet with my tears, and watched him on the platform. His arms were clenched over his chest, his face set in angry lines. I was the last thing my mother had loved, the last thing to remind him of her. I'd ridden for two days frozen rigid in that thought.

When I stepped off the train, I saw my aunt. She looked so much like my mother that for a moment I felt as if I'd been given her back. In my exhaustion, and in the shock of seeing my mother's face, I began to cry again.

When I lifted my head from her shoulder, I saw Isaak standing behind her, watching. For the first time in my life I was aware of how I might look to a boy. I knew my face was streaked with tears and two days' worth of train grime, and my hair was a tangle escaping my hat.

Isaak smiled. "Welcome to Holland. I like your name. I have never heard it before."

I wiped my face with my mittens and stared at him dumbly. He nodded at the package he held. On the brown paper was my name in my father's script. "Cyrla," he said. I told him how to pronounce my name the correct way—with the Y sounding as if it were a U—and then wished I hadn't. I suddenly felt I would like my name to sound different coming from his lips than from all others.

"Cyrla," he repeated, then he handed me the package. "Your father sent it ahead. He didn't think it would be wise for you to cross through Germany with it."

I opened it. A framed photograph of my mother and father with me at four, reaching up to hold their hands. My mother's jewelry. The silver Sabbath candlesticks my father's father had given him.

"My father worries too much," I heard myself say.

Isaak shook his head. "I don't think so. I think people should worry more." He handed me a card. "When you write to your family, bring the letter to this address. The people there will post it. It's what your father asked."

I went the next day, and we took a walk. We fell into this habit. I would bring letters—more often, I admit, than I might have otherwise—and we would walk and Isaak would show me some area of Schiedam, although in a few months I think I knew the town as well as he did.

For the first couple of years, it was as if my new family had adopted Isaak, too—he came almost every night for dinner, and then afterward he and Anneke and I would listen to music, talk, visit friends. The closeness the three of us shared eased the pain of leaving my family, and in fact Isaak's height and dark curls reminded me so much of my father that it was a comfort. But then war became more and more the topic of Isaak's conversation and Anneke did or said something that irritated him—neither of them ever said what it was—and he abruptly stopped coming.

He and I stayed friends. He was an orphan and in a way, I was too. It was natural we would feel that bond. But there was more—it felt to me as if something had ignited between us on the train platform, and I still felt the heat every time he was near.

In the five years I knew Isaak, I was certain he never lied to me or failed to put my welfare first. Until that day after Anneke died, he could have said the same about me.

Isaak and I didn't talk about what we had just decided. I didn't want to—it was dangerous to talk about miracles, to hold them up to the light. And this was a miracle. I was about to receive everything I'd ever wanted after losing everything I'd ever had. My loss, in fact, had brought about my gain: a terrible twist I couldn't bear to face.

At last Isaak spoke. "When was Anneke due there?"

"Two weeks from the day she went for the interviews. So next Friday."

"Well. Ten—no, eleven—days, then," Isaak said.

"Eleven days," I agreed.

"And is it possible? I mean ... is it your time?"

"I don't know. It was over a week ago that ... yes, I think it's possible."

"And do you want to ... should we try..."

"No." I picked up my coat. "Tante Mies will be wondering where I am." I needed to go home first, although I didn't know why. Isaak seemed relieved, so perhaps he needed this pause also.