My Enemy's Cradle

  "You don't still own the boatyard?"

  "No, not for a year and a half now. Until then, the navy sent us work. That's why I was able to avoid service for so long—I was 'essential labor.' But then in September of '40, they took the boatyard. It included my parents' home."

  "Where did they go?"

  "They moved in with Erika; she and Bengt had a house in town. He was in Russia already, and Erika was pregnant. They kept my father on to oversee things, but everyone else was conscripted. That's when I was sent to Holland."

  "Well, when the war is over, you'll own the boatyard again, won't you? You have a place to go back to."

  Karl shook his head and ran a thumb down his jawbone, over the light stubble of his beard. For a second I thought of the Oberschütze with his short bristle. But only for a second.

  Karl mashed his cigarette out and watched while the last thread of smoke spiraled away. "It's gone. A bombing raid last summer."

  "There's nothing left?"

  "There's a lot of fuel stored at a boatyard, and varnish and paint and oil. The buildings went first—it must have been a firestorm. Once the boats started to blow up, there was fuel all over the water. The harbor caught on fire. They said the water itself was burning."

  "Your father..."

  "He went down to the boatyard that night. He didn't come back."

  I put my hand over his. "I'm so sorry. They never found him?"

  "There were bodies everywhere. Dozens. Charred. The worst thing, though—"

  I saw Karl's eyes fill, saw him work his face to stop the tears. The way men do. I waited.

  "They said ... they said some of the people who had burns ran to the river. They jumped in. They caught fire there in the river. When I think of that..."

  He stopped again and I waited again, my hand stroking his arm.

  "I hope my father didn't die that way. But in a way, well ... he was dead already. When the Nazis took over his boatyard, it ripped his heart out. Both of his brothers had joined the Party, so it wasn't anything that was ever spoken about, but the business was his entire life; it was what he had to give to me. He felt he failed because he let it go."

  "He didn't have any choice."

  "I know. But he felt it was his responsibility to pass it on, the way his father had and his grandfather."

  "What about you?" I asked Karl. "Do you still want to build boats?"

  "Yes. I guess it's in my blood. I was apprenticed there when I was fifteen. I had only one more year left before I'd have been a full master."

  "Karl." I stopped him. "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-seven. Maybe I'm too old to learn something new. But I'm suited to boatbuilding. I like everything about it: the feel of the wood as I shape it, the quiet of the work, even the tools. I have my grandfather's chisels—you should see them, how beautiful they are. And I love the ocean."

  I knew what he meant. I loved everything about poetry. I had a fountain pen once—it was tortoiseshell and silver, and it was balanced perfectly. It felt serious in my hand. I'd sold it last year to make a contribution when money got tight, and I'd cried in secret for a week. I loved the feel of good paper, the smell of new books, and the look of a desk cleared for writing. I had never told anyone this, and I didn't tell Karl now. But I wanted to.

  "What I love most of all, though," he went on, "is the feeling that I'm creating something so beautiful from these simple raw materials. There's a balance: I take things from the earth—wood, cotton, metal—and craft them into something that works with the air and the sea so perfectly it's almost magic. That pleases me."

  "With poetry, it's like that, too. All the words are there, the simple raw materials. It's the poet's job to string them together, to shape them, to produce the most powerful combinations of pain and joy, understanding and mystery. That's like being an alchemist."

  Karl shifted to look at me more squarely. He laid his arm along the back of the bench. If I leaned back just the slightest bit, my shoulder would graze his fingertips. I thought about how that might feel—those fingers that understood wood and beauty, touching me. How it might feel to him, my raw materials under his hand. What magic might happen? My gaze fell to his lips and my treacherous heart began to thud against my ribs. I straightened up and looked away quickly.

  "Vertel me wat je denkt," he said.

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. "Only that—Wait! You know Dutch?"

  "Not really. I asked Anneke to teach me a few phrases."

  "And 'Tell me what you're thinking' was one of the things you wanted to know how to say?"

  He reddened and I immediately regretted my teasing tone. "What else?" I asked, more gently.

  Karl looked away. "Nothing important. I've forgotten anyway."

  "Really. I want to know."

  Karl pulled his arm back and turned to face the lake. The ice had been thawing for weeks, and in places dark water, deep and alive, reflected the mountains above. A flock of geese skidded in and even from this distance we could see the spray. I waited.

  Finally he turned back to me.

  "I have to tell you something."

  There was such sadness in his face that I smiled at him encouragingly. I didn't sense the danger.

  "Do you remember the day we met? In the bakery?"

  I nodded. The smile faded from my lips as I remembered: He'd betrayed his true self that day, that first moment.

  "I couldn't look at you," he said. "Anneke said, 'This is Cyrla,' and I thought, Please let her not be like her poems. Please let her be plain, and silly, and shallow. I shook your hand and I had to look away."

  I felt a clutch of panic and stood.

  Karl followed and took my arm. "I had to look away so I wouldn't fall in love with you right there, in front of Anneke. I looked all around the bakery, I looked out the door, anywhere but at your face."

  "No," I whispered.

  "But it was too late. I knew. When you were standing there, I saw a fine light glowing around you, outlining you. Not the light from the window, because Anneke was right next to you and it wasn't around her. It was setting you apart for me."

  "Stop it. How could you?"

  "I have to tell you this—there's nothing more I can say to you until I've said this."

  "I don't want to hear anything else you have to say."

  "I knew more about you already, from your poems, than I knew about Anneke. But after I met you, I realized something: There was simply more to know about you than there was about Anneke. And that's when I decided it was wrong to go on seeing her. We had nothing in common, and in fact I had more in common with you—someone I'd known for only one minute—"

  "How dare you!" I spat, stepping away. "We have nothing in common. Except that for a little while you were lucky enough to know her. But you let her go."

  I left the courtyard then, left him standing there with his betrayal. Of course, I had let her go as well. And that night, in my bed, I wondered what I would look like with a fine edge of light choosing me.

  Betraying Anneke again.

  FIFTY-THREE

  "You have a telephone call."

  I left the lunch table and followed the Sister, thinking: Isaak, or my aunt. At last.

  "Where are you?" Karl's voice asked. It had been over a week since our argument.

  "In the hall by the dayroom."

  "Is there anyone around who can hear?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Good. Just listen, and don't repeat anything I say. Don't ask any questions. It's important."

  "All right," I promised, wary.

  "Tomorrow after lunch, find a way to get into the gardeners' supply building, at the west end of the property, beyond the garages. You know the one?"

  "Yes."

  "Take a walk, pretend you're interested in the new plantings. When no one is looking, slip inside. Find a place inside to hide where you won't be seen, but you can see. I don't think any guards patrol there, but just in case someone finds you, make up a story about looking fo
r a trowel, about wanting to plant some flower seeds. Something like that."

  "Why?"

  "Don't ask questions! Just be there tomorrow afternoon. I can't phone you again about this. Trust me."

  All that day I tried to work out what Karl was up to. I couldn't, but I was surprised to find that it helped the day pass more quickly than most—to have a small, harmless mystery to solve.

  The next morning, at breakfast, I kept glancing toward the western part of the grounds, where the gardens lay behind the tall lilac hedges, already bunched with cones of tight purple buds. A transport truck rumbled down the gravel drive—the kind that often brought details from the camps to work here—and then came back through a few moments later. This worried me.

  I asked the girl sitting beside me if she knew what was going on today, but she just shrugged and spread apple syrup over a piece of bread. "There's a naming ceremony at the end of the week. Maybe they'll hold it outdoors."

  I grew more nervous. I never liked surprises.

  By lunch, I couldn't eat. I sat facing the windows that overlooked the west gardens, watching, watching. Nothing happened. Several times, workers in prison uniforms came through the hedge carrying hods of bricks, but that was all.

  As soon as I could leave the table without causing notice, I did. I went to my room and put on a cardigan, my belly bulging out below the three buttons which could still meet. It felt unprotected, so I switched it for the big canvas coat Leona had left. I hurried down the stairs and out the front way, nodding to the guards as usual. I was going for a walk in the spring air. That was all.

  Turning the corner to the patio, visible to anyone in the dayroom, I began to have doubts. Often, we would see Dr. Ebner standing at the windows there or in the dining room, binoculars raised, watching what the workers were doing.

  I walked down the path toward the lilac hedge, but then suddenly felt conspicuous. I stopped at the arched arbor and pretended to stretch, then pulled my arms in, knowing I looked guilty. This was foolish. Probably the whole thing was just another of Karl's ploys to get me to lower my guard to him, to win favor after our argument. Maybe he had arranged for a gift to be there, something he knew I'd enjoy seeing. Some potted flowers, maybe. No, that didn't make sense; why wouldn't he just bring the gift himself? I gave up. Really, why was I even considering following instructions from this man? Hadn't Neve and I sworn we would never again let someone else tell us what to do?

  I turned, walked back to the front door, and went inside. In the dayroom, some girls were playing cards. I took off my coat and joined them. Later, when I was sitting with Klaas, I found myself still thinking about it. "Never mind," I whispered to the baby. "If he didn't want to tell me what he was up to, what do I care?"

  A week later, Karl appeared. He had me sent for, and when I walked into the parlor, he was standing in the middle of the room, his coat over his arm. He closed the door behind me. "Well?" he asked.

  "Well, what?"

  "Did it go all right last week? You didn't get caught?"

  It took me a minute to remember. "The garden shed?"

  "Of course!" He stared at me, waiting.

  "Oh, I didn't go," I said, as coolly as I could. To take some pleasure from him.

  He stared at me. "You didn't go? You didn't go?"

  "No. Maybe if you'd told me what was going on—"

  "You never went to the shed at all?"

  "No, Karl, I didn't. Is it really such a big thing?"

  "Oh, my God!" Karl sank to the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. I felt my lips curl into a small smile I was helpless to hide. Another casualty of war: my kind nature.

  Karl looked up as though he was about to say something, but he caught sight of my face and scowled. Then he stood, picked up his coat and strode to the door. He turned.

  "I took such a risk for you. I asked other people to take terrible risks. And you weren't worth it."

  His look was furious now, but full of despair, too. It made me uneasy. "Wait! Before you go, tell me what it was, at least," I said, trying to be light.

  "I shouldn't. It will kill you to know. But I'm sick of trying to protect you and getting slapped in the face. I'm sick of your feeling righteous about not trusting me." He stared a moment, deciding something. The small muscles of his cheek knotted over his clenched jaw.

  "What was in the shed, Karl? Please tell me."

  "Fine." he said, his voice was low and icy. "You deserve this. He was in the shed. I arranged it. Your Isaak."

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Karl caught me before I fell and helped me to the couch. But he was still furious.

  "Tell me," I whispered, my mouth full of ashes.

  Standing in front of me, Karl seemed very tall. I reached up to pull at the buttons on his tunic, but he pushed me away, and every time he looked at me he winced and recoiled, his eyes cutting away as if the sight of me scorched them.

  "Here? Isaak was here that day?"

  "For several days, probably." Karl's voice was so cold and hard—a low hiss—I almost didn't recognize it. "My friend—the one who's stationed near Schiedam—I went to school with him and I trust him. I asked a favor from him, an enormous favor. You have no idea the risk we both took....Never mind that. His sister is married to a clerk at Westerbork. She knows I come here to see you. She told Werner that you'd be getting a new playground—her husband mentioned he'd seen a work order for this Lebensborn. When I heard that, I had Werner pressure his brother-in-law to alter the work-crew list, to add Isaak's name to it. And to get a message to Isaak, to tell him to find a way to get into the shed. I told Werner that Isaak had been helpful to me when I was in Schiedam, and I wanted to see that he was all right. Do you have any idea how dangerous all of that was? And you didn't go."

  I was crying now. "I thought ... I thought...."

  "You thought ... what? What did you think? That I have nothing better to do than set up traps for you? God! The people who risked so much for this."

  "I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I didn't know."

  "All the times I've come here, have I ever hurt you? Have I ever lied to you, put you at risk?"

  "Did he know I was here? Did he expect me?"

  "I assume he figured that out, yes. Cyrla, have I ever once done anything except help you?"

  "Please stop," I begged. "Please just tell me where he is now. Please bring him here again."

  Karl stared at me in disbelief. "Never. Even if I wanted to. For one thing, Werner's brother-in-law was transferred. Three days ago, he suddenly was sent to Amsterdam. There's no way to know if it's just a coincidence or whether someone got suspicious, and it's too dangerous to try to find out. No matter, there's no way I can have any contact at Westerbork ever again. I wouldn't bother, anyway. You had your chance. You got what you deserve."

  Karl turned from me and was at the door before I could get up.

  "Wait."

  He stood with his hand on the knob. But he waited. I hurried to his side and touched his arm.

  "One thing. Please."

  He hesitated, opening a small door to me. His arm relaxed under my hand.

  "Isaak. Is he all right?"

  Karl's face darkened and he bit back whatever he had been about to say. Then he stormed out, slamming the door, leaving me alone with a monstrous guilt.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Day after day, my remorse grew, as if it were a living thing. I imagined Isaak in the shed, waiting for me, waiting. Learning I would not come. I had been so close to him; to touching him. Where was he now? But I was stunned to find that when I closed my eyes, it was Karl's face that haunted me—the look he wore when he'd said, "And you weren't worth it."

  Finally, after a week, I called him. "I need to talk with you." I held my breath and pictured him standing there with the receiver pressed to his ear, his head bent, rubbing the space between his eyebrows with his middle finger.

  After a minute, he said, "All right. Go ahead," and I breathed again.

  "No, I need to see
you. Can you get away?"

  Silence.

  "Please."

  It felt like an hour before he answered. "All right, tonight. Eight o'clock."

  "Good. Karl, I'm sorry—"

  But he had hung up.

  I waited for him in the front hall. When he walked in, I searched his face but couldn't tell anything. "Do you want to take a drive?" he asked. There was nothing in his voice, either. The guard at the front desk looked up.

  "I can't leave. It's too late."

  Karl looked down the hall toward the parlor.

  "No," I said. "It's Tuesday." Before he could ask what that meant, I walked over to the desk. "This is the father. We have some things to talk about, but all the rooms are being used. Could I bring him upstairs?"

  The guard looked at his watch and nodded. "Be out by nine," he warned Karl.

  In my room, the air tightened to glass. When I spoke, I almost expected it to shatter. "On Tuesday nights, the League of German Maidens holds a session in the dayroom." I was stalling. "Homemaking and patriotism. All the German girls have to attend. The rest of us spend the evening in the parlor—it's our favorite night of the week, so peaceful without them. Except when they're singing."

  "I can imagine," Karl said.

  I wondered if he could. If he could know how chilling it was to hear those voices singing songs about their superiority, their destiny. But I let it go. I shut the door and leaned back against it. "Karl, I need to apologize. I didn't trust you and I should have. I'm ashamed of myself."

  Karl's face still didn't show anything. But he listened.

  "You've been nothing but honest and generous to me. More than that—what you did last week, bringing Isaak here ... oh, God. And such a risk! I ruined it—I don't blame you if you can't forgive me. I just needed to try to apologize."

  Karl crossed to the window and lifted the wooden slats. "I was angry," he said after a moment. "But if you're telling me that you trust me now, maybe we can put everything behind us." He turned from the window to look at me, and his face was warmer. "I'd really like it if we could start over. If we could be friends."