The Tulip Eaters (7 page)

9

Clutching the metal box, she clambered down the folding attic stairs and ran into the living room. “Marijke!” she cried. “Come quick!”

Marijke hurried in from the garage with a sheaf of papers in her arms. “
Wat is er?
Are you all right?”

Nora grabbed her arm. The papers Marijke held fell as Nora pulled her down onto the couch next to her. Hands shaking, she put the metal box onto Marijke’s lap.

“What is it?”

“It’s insane! It’s about my parents, the NSB...during the war, my mother, their names—” She tried to catch her breath. “Everything I ever knew about them was a lie!”

Nora saw Marijke’s eyes widen as she stared at the box. “What do you mean? Where did you find this?”

“In the attic, in a corner. It doesn’t matter. Read!”

“Okay, okay, I will!” Marijke pulled the sheaf out of the box, placed it on the floor and stacked the papers on her lap.

“For God’s sake, Marijke, hurry up! It’s so awful, I can’t stand it!”

Marijke held up her hand. “
Wacht even,
Nora. I want to read these carefully.” Minutes dragged like hours. Nora felt like jumping up and pacing, but she didn’t want to miss the moment when Marijke finished reading. Other than her widened eyes, Marijke didn’t say a word. When she finished, she sighed and turned to Nora. “You had no idea about this? They never mentioned any of it?”

Nora gave a harsh laugh. “Would you tell your daughter that you were a Dutch Nazi? Or that you killed a Jewish man and were wanted for murder? That you fled the country and changed your name?” She raised her hands. “Of course they didn’t tell me!”

“But what could all this mean?” asked Marijke. “For your mother’s murder? For Rose’s kidnapping?”

Nora rose and paced, clenching her hands into fists. “I don’t know, but it’s all connected. I’m sure of it. What if this killer was related to this Abram Rosen?” She suddenly stopped. “But that doesn’t make sense, either. If Papa killed this man, then why did the murderer kill my mother? What had she ever done to this Rosen? And if Mama was a Dutch Nazi—” she turned to Marijke as she felt a hot flush on her face “—which I still can’t get my head around, then what role could she have played in all of this?”

“Nora, stop pacing, for God’s sake. You’re driving me nuts. Sit down and let’s try to think this through.”

Nora let herself drop into a chair. Nazis, NSB, murderers and kidnappers raced crazily around in her mind. What if it was all true? “Tell me what you think. I can’t connect the dots.”

Marijke sat back and took out a cigarette. She lit it and inhaled. Nora watched blue smoke escape her lips and spiral away.

“Okay. Let’s assume everything you found in that box is true. We’ll start with your father. His papers show he changed his name before he came here, so I think we can assume he fled either because he killed this man or there was enough evidence to accuse him.”

“I don’t believe it. He would never kill anyone!”

“Nora, we have to take these papers at face value so we can try to link them to your mother’s murder and Rose’s kidnapping.”

“Okay, okay.”

“So,” continued Marijke. “It seems logical that someone has taken revenge.”

“But why would that bastard wait over thirty years? That’s crazy!”

“Crazy, but not impossible.”

“What if the killer couldn’t find my father?” she asked. “He’d changed his name and covered his tracks. There had to be a lot of confusion after the war. No easy way of tracking him. But wasn’t it hard to enter the U.S. back then? Didn’t you have to have a sponsor? A job?”

“Then how did he do it?”

“No idea.”

“And how would Anneke figure into this?” asked Marijke.

Nora drew a deep breath. “The only document of Mama’s shows that she was an NSB-er. So no matter how badly I don’t want to believe it, the fact remains that along with Papa, she changed her name and ran away after Liberation Day. And you know what happened to those women after the war. It would explain why her hair was shorn.”

Marijke nodded, her face grim.

Nora rose and began pacing again. “Okay. So he’s accused of murder, whether he did it or not, and she’s an NSB-er who will surely be arrested. They change their names and somehow end up in Houston.”

She saw Marijke tap her cigarette against the side of the blue ashtray that had been Papa’s and watched the ashes flutter. “So after they moved here, they somehow got jobs and left everything—their families and friends—behind.”

“And then they had me,” said Nora bitterly. “Whoever I am.” She held out her hand in silent request for the sheaf of damning papers.

She saw worry on Marijke’s face as she handed them over. “But we still come back to the same question. What could any of this have to do with Rose?”

“I don’t know.”
Would she ever?

10

Ariel Rosen sat in a cramped motel room near Houston Intercontinental and stared out the window. Darkness had finally settled over this strange city. He checked his watch and gazed at the sleeping infant. How could this morning ever have happened?
Murder, his father dead!

She lay next to him, swaddled in his jacket. He had managed to tuck her into its warm lining and zip it up so that it formed a crude but soft sleeping bag. Just her small head peeked out. Her calm face belied the hours of wailing that had racked her tiny body. Only faint tracks remained of the tears that had streamed down her face when he’d run out of the house and roared off in his father’s rental car.

Panic struck him. Did Isaac use a fake passport before Ariel flew to America to find him? But what about the rental car, and a driver’s license? If he had stayed in a hotel, the clerk would have insisted he provide a license plate number. Surely the police were already checking all the rental companies and hotels in town! Ariel calmed himself. Isaac had certainly forged the passport and license before he had left Amsterdam. His father was no fool. A customs agent for years, he knew all about forgeries. Besides, he had obviously planned this for over thirty years.

He took a deep breath. Houston was enormous. Even if the police eventually traced Isaac’s passport to the rental company or a hotel, it would take time to discover that it had been forged. By then Ariel would be long gone.

He walked to the small sink, wet a washcloth with warm water, sat down and patted away the traces from the baby’s soft, pink cheeks.
Rose.
She was aptly named.

He shut his eyes tightly as his mind replayed the past twenty-four hours with cruel clarity: the awful murder, his crazy, crazy father collapsing and dying, and now the bizarre fact that he had kidnapped a tiny, defenseless child. He felt wetness on his face, not realizing that he had been crying.

What could he have done to prevent this?
He thought of the evening he had seen Isaac in his Amsterdam apartment before the murder. It was the last real conversation they ever had.

* * *

Isaac sat on his worn couch and stared at the carpet, as if lost in another world. Ariel studied his father’s clenched, veined hands, rutted face, angry eyes. When Papa spoke, his words were rough river stones brought out again and again, rubbed, polished and then carefully put away—until the next time. Papa drew a ragged breath and began.

“It was during the war,” he said. “It started in 1940. It took the Germans only five days to conquer our Dutch army, such as it was.”

Ariel groaned and drained the glass of
genever
that he and Isaac shared during their weekly visits. “Papa, not again! Can’t we talk about something else?”

“If you don’t like the conversation, then leave.”

It’s always the same. Just shut up, get it over with, go home.
“Never mind.”

Isaac pointed his index finger, an eagle’s claw. “You have to remember every detail. It is your heritage. I won’t be alive forever.”

Ariel rose, walked to the
ijskast
and opened the freezer. Shot glasses were lined up like frozen soldiers, a bottle of
oude genever
next to them, the silent general. Ariel poured two drinks, his hands burning from the cold. One wasn’t enough. Not if he had to listen to the whole goddamned story again. He handed Isaac his glass and sat down. The first sip almost knocked him on his ass. Well, he needed it. Why did Papa insist on buying
oude
instead of
jonge?
He knew why.
Oude
tasted like gasoline, but the brand Isaac bought had the highest alcohol content. Took less to get him drunk.

Isaac bent over the table, supported himself with his palms and put his lips to the frozen glass, in the old way. Somehow the gesture made Ariel sad. There were so many old men sitting on bar stools doing the same thing—downing gin, reliving their pasts, telling Ariel’s generation how they had it so easy. It was true, of course, but Ariel was sick of hearing it.

Isaac straightened, his cheeks flushed. “And then the Queen took her Cabinet and ran away to London. Everyone crowded around the radios, listening to her tell us to hang on.
Ha!
That stupid woman left without telling anyone to destroy the government records! The name and address of every Jew in Amsterdam at the Nazi’s fingertips. Sitting ducks!”

“Papa, shall I tell you what happened at Immigration today? There was an arrest—”

“I worked there for thirty years—who gives a damn?”

“Papa, please—”

Isaac slammed his glass down on the old wooden table. “Tell me the names!”

Ariel felt anger flame in his cheeks. “Stop it!”

“Rachel, Sara, David—”

“I won’t do this anymore!” He stood.

“You will sit! You will listen to your Papa!”

Ariel sat down and hated himself for it.
Weak. Just as Papa had always told him.

“Continue!”

“Evan, Miriam, Levi,” he whispered.

Isaac reached for the table, picked up his bag of
zware
shag
and rolled a cigarette. Ariel was grateful for a few moments of silence. His heart was still pounding. Isaac lit the cigarette, took a heavy puff and began coughing and sputtering.

“Papa. You know what the doctor said.”

Isaac shook his head and downed the last of his
genever.
“One heart attack. What do I have to live for, anyway?”

Me!
thought Ariel. “Never mind.”

Isaac watched the smoke rise into the air, eyes hooded.
Maybe he’s thinking about his family in the ovens,
thought Ariel.
Maybe about his own ashes when he dies. I should be more patient.

“Just five minutes. Is that too much to ask?”

Ariel now heard the slur in his father’s voice.
How much had he had to drink before Ariel got there?

“The world thinks that the Anne Frank story is how it was.
Ha!
By the end of the war there were 100,000 filthy NSB-ers, helping the Nazis every step of the way.” He picked up his
genever,
staring into the liquid as if it were a window to the past. “Then they took us—even the babies—marched us to the
Concertgebouw.
” A harsh laugh escaped him. “Our marvelous concert hall—a jumping point to annihilation.”

His cigarette had burned down and out, but Papa didn’t notice. He still held it pinched between his nicotine-stained fingers. Ariel felt trapped.
How could he get out of there? He had to wait for the end of the story. Like every time before.

Isaac droned on, his words slow, too deliberate. “At the end of the war, 120,000 dead—90,000 from Amsterdam—Auschwitz, Sobibor—” He looked at Ariel with tortured eyes, tears flowing freely down his craggy face. “Did I say that already?”

“Yes, Papa,” whispered Ariel. “It’s all right.”

“Cousins, nieces, parents—all dead.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Why
me?
Why did I survive? Or your
Tante
Amarisa?”

Ariel felt his heart wrench, as he did every time Papa told his hideous tale. Such a tragic waste of a life. He stood, sat next to Isaac and put his arm around him. The shoulders felt thin and pinched under his strong arm. “It’s all right, Papa. I’m here.”

Isaac’s head fell into his hands. “I am sorry, my son. You deserved a better father. And my precious Agathe, living her life with a dead man.” He looked up at Ariel with fresh pain in his eyes. “When she died, I begged her to forgive me.” His voice trailed off.

“Papa,” said Ariel softly. “You must rest. It’s all over now.”

Isaac gently removed Ariel’s arm and looked up at him. The agony in the black eyes tore at Ariel’s heart.

“No, my son,” he whispered. “It will never be over.”

* * *

Now another thought pierced him.
Amarisa!
What would she do when she found out that Isaac was dead? She had always terrified Ariel with her wild, black hair and deadly agate eyes, that hideous scar that sliced from mouth to ear. When angry, the twisted, ropy tissue turned a grotesque shade of purple.

Ariel felt cold sweat under his armpits. Isaac was everything to Amarisa, the only family he still claimed. She would go insane—wailing, furious, bereft. He imagined her charging across the room as fast as her crippled leg would let her, pummeling him with her fists, screaming at him for not saving Isaac, for being a coward.

He had felt her wrath all his life. She had had no use for Ariel, even as a child. She had never given him presents, even on his birthday or Hanukkah. He couldn’t remember a single time that she had kissed or hugged him. When he was older, Amarisa had waved him away whenever she and Isaac talked about the war, nursing their bitterness and rage. “You’re weak, just like everyone in your generation,” she had sneered. “Living the good life while we watched our loved ones being marched to the ovens. Go into the kitchen with your mother where you belong.” Ariel never understood how Isaac could let her speak that way to him, but he learned early that Isaac always let anything Amarisa said pass.

God, it wasn’t just having to tell her, a filthy rich diamond merchant, as cold and calculating in business as she was in life.
She had grudgingly given him and Leah a good bit of money over the years. He sensed that it was her way to control them and make them grovel, but his job didn’t provide the money they needed to live comfortably in Amsterdam, even with Leah’s job as a nurse. And now Ariel was certain that Amarisa would cut them off as soon as she heard about Isaac’s death.
Where would they be then?

Rose’s cry snapped Ariel out of his reverie. Her face was red as she wriggled unhappily.
Oh, God, was she sick?
He felt her tiny forehead. It seemed hot.
What should he do?
He picked her up gently, rocking her as he walked around the small, airless room. She stopped crying and snuggled deeper into her down nest. Relief coursed through him. Maybe she was all right. Exhausted, he looked at the infant he carried and tried to focus.
What now? What had he done?

After he had sped away from Anneke’s house, he’d driven as fast as he could toward the airport. He’d had no plan, just desperation. He had driven around until he found a nondescript motel and checked in.

Rose wailed again. “Shh, it’s all right, little one.” He picked her up and then understood.
Diapers. How could he be so stupid?
He carried her to the elevator and went downstairs, cooing to her.

The woman at the desk smiled. Ariel couldn’t help staring at her flashy red lipstick, fake eyelashes and blond beehive hairdo.

“‘Ounds ’ike ’umbuddy ain’ heppi.” The drawl that dripped like honey from her lips strangled any hope Ariel had of understanding her.

“Excuse me?”

“You a furrener?”

“Ah—yes. German.”

She leaned across the desk, her enormous breasts straining to free themselves from the prison of her low-cut blouse. She wiggled her fingers at Rose, her long red nails clacking against one another like shucked oyster shells. She raised her voice, as if Ariel were deaf. “I said, it sounds like somebody ain’t happy.”

Ariel felt his cheeks burn as he tried to wrest his eyes from her obvious endowments. “Oh—no, no she isn’t. Can you tell me where the closest store might be? Where I can buy diapers and formula?”

The woman snapped her gum and pointed a cherry fingernail across the highway. “There’s a FedMart right over there. They’ll fix you up just fine.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“She all right?”

“She seems a little warm to me.”

“Give her to me. I’m a granny four times over.”

Reluctantly, Ariel complied. Rose quieted the moment the woman held her. She placed a confident hand against Rose’s forehead. “Hey, darlin’,” she crooned. “Got a little cold?” She handed the baby back to Ariel. “Baby aspirin. Fix her right up.”

Relief coursed through him. “Thank you so much. I don’t know very much about babies.”

She gave him an amused look. “Where’s her momma?”

Ariel jiggled Rose and summoned what he knew must have looked like a plastic smile. “In Idaho visiting her father. We’re flying out tomorrow.”

“You’re a good daddy,” she said. “Anybody can see that. Most men wouldn’t fly alone with such an itty-bitty. How old is she?”

The words came from his mouth before he could stop himself. “I don’t know.”

The woman’s dark, penciled-in eyebrows raised. “What?”

“I mean—” Ariel wiped the sweat from his brow.

She hooted. “Oh, you men! Never know nothin’ about kids, not even if they’re your own! We don’t expect you galoots to count by minutes, hours and days like we do.” She stroked Rose’s fat cheek. “We don’t need ’em, now do we, honey?” She spoke in the high, excited babble women always seemed to use when addressing babies. “Yes, ma’am! I’d say you’re no more’n six, seven months old.” She winked at Ariel. “Close?”

“Next month,” he said quickly. “Now, I’m afraid we really must be going.” He stepped back.

“If I was you, I’d be addin’ some of that baby cereal to her feed. Don’t want her keepin’ you up on that long plane ride.”

“I—I will.”

“Be good now, hear?” One last red-nailed wave and she disappeared through the office door.

Ariel mumbled his thanks and almost ran to the car, Rose bouncing in his arms. Dodging heavy traffic, he drove to the store. It was only when the cold air-conditioning blasted him and he got Rose settled into the cart that he drew an easy breath.
God, I’ve got to be careful! It’s the simple things that will screw me.
He vowed to write out an entire history about Rose so he would know everything a normal father would.

Rose looked up from the cart’s blue plastic seat and gurgled happily. Apparently the diaper wasn’t bothering her now. He walked down aisle after aisle. It slayed him, America. These huge stores selling everything anyone could imagine. As he wandered up and down the aisles, a friendly Hispanic woman took pity on him and helped him pick out diapers, formula, a pacifier, baby clothes, blankets, a collapsible stroller and God knows what else.