Chapter 1: Amsterdam
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Henrik Kessler arrived in Amsterdam just after eight. He had been traveling all night across German occupied Holland and his feet were killing him. Thankfully the marshal had big feet. Better a shoe that was two sizes too big than two sizes too small. The rest of the marshal’s uniform was equally useful and he had very little trouble convincing the local Gestapo that he was a man of great importance that must not be delayed. His jacket had more medals on it than most divisions would receive in a year. Henrik almost felt guilty for having stolen it. The old general had obviously been a brave and honorable man at one time despite what he had become.
“Papers?” asked the gate warden without looking up. Henrik’s subsequent silence forced the warden to lift his head and then his eyes widened with sudden apprehension. He stood immediately and saluted. “Oh, I’m sorry, general.”
“Nonsense. You were just doing your duty.” Henrik feigned the heavy drawl and deep jowl of the marshal’s voice that effectively added ten years to his appearance. It was a fun accent, not unlike his father’s Prussian growl. He took a step and the warden coughed nervously.
“Your papers, sir?” the warden asked again meekly. So the young warden was not to be put off by a fancy uniform. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it.
“Of course, son.” Henrik smiled and reached under his jacket. It had been a stroke of good luck that the old marshal had left his parade jacket in the infirmary. After listening to Henrik’s wondrous tales of international intrigue and high adventure for several hours, the enraptured general had grown hot, removed his jacket and not noticed when Henrik had covered it with his bed covers.
But a jacket and a convincing accent could only get him so far—just past the sentry in fact. Henrik knew he had a long distance to travel that night and so he’d taken the time to break into the marshal’s office and pick up a few things—the marshal’s shoes, for instance, and his Luger pistol. Even now as he reached under the marshal’s heavy jacket, he felt the comforting cold steel of the pistol against his fingertips. It might come in handy yet, but not now.
He released the gun. Fortunately for the city gate warden, Henrik had also found a set of old travel papers, which he now handed over with great confidence. They were out of date, but Henrik was able to fix that problem with a few well-placed smudges. The warden gave the papers a cursory glance and then handed them back.
“Everything is in order, marshal. You are free to go.”
“Why thank you, lieutenant. Keep up the good work. The Fatherland is counting on your vigilance.”
The warden smiled shyly and Henrik walked past him through the gate.
Amsterdam had changed a lot since he’d seen it last. The beautiful spring tulips and geraniums that once decorated every windowsill, doorway and sidewalk café, were conspicuously absent. The sound of children playing, the smell of fresh baked pastries, the call of the milkman making his daily rounds from the local dairy—all gone. There was still business, but it was sedate and joyless under the ever watchful eye of armed German soldiers.
In the back of his mind, Henrik had hoped that the German occupation of Holland would have been more peaceful, more of a political change rather than a social one. He had hoped that the American newspapers were simply exaggerating the effects of the German invasion as part of the propaganda campaign against Hitler and the Third Reich. But there was no denying his senses. The evidence of martial law was everywhere. The Dutch were an oppressed people under an intolerant military regime.
Despite his private meditations, Henrik continued to maintain his cover. He marched down the Prince’s Canal with the confident stride of a proud German officer, his nose stuck in the air, an impatient and arrogant look in his eye, until he reached the Jewish quarter, the ghetto, and then he found it doubly hard not to show his true feelings. This area had been hit worst of all.
Large yellow stars were painted on the shop windows, at least the ones that weren’t broken. Although it was already nine o’clock in the morning, the streets were virtually empty. Those few citizens that were brave enough to venture out of doors, fled quickly at the sight of the German officer walking down their street.
After a few minutes, Henrik stopped before a small apartment complex. He was relieved to see that here at least the residents had been spared the broken windows, although the yellow star was plainly visible on the heavy oak door. He contemplated removing his jacket before ringing the doorbell but if anyone were watching, which was sure to be the case, they would find this behavior a bit odd for a high-ranking officer on official business. So he left the jacket on and pulled the bell cord.
The old brass bell made a loud noise that must have carried easily throughout the apartment, but no one came immediately to answer it. Henrik rang it again and waited. If only they would poke their heads out the window and see his face, they would know it wasn’t a raid. He thought about calling out to them, but that again would be risking detection. At last the door opened a crack and a diminutive old man looked up through half-blind eyes.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Rabbi, it’s me, Henrik.”
The old man squinted, his weak eyes struggling to see past the sparkling medals and razor sharp creases of the marshal’s uniform, and then his wrinkles seemed to soften and his old eyes lightened.
“Henrik! Is that really you? But what is this uniform? Are you a general now?”
“It’s a long story, Rabbi Jacobs. May I come in? Is Esther here?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The door opened wider and Henrik slipped inside furtively. He gave the quiet street one last glance. There were figures emerging again from the morning shadows. Had they seen something out of place? Would they report it? Henrik closed the door.
Once inside the small apartment, Henrik was astonished by the degradation of the once elegant town home. Gone were the gold lamp stands and brass coat hangars, the crystal chandelier and the bronze figurine at the foot of the stairs. The sitting room was almost completely void of furniture except for an old mattress with sparse bed coverings. The kitchen had an old table but only one chair with a broken leg. Rabbi Jacobs waddled slowly to this chair and sat down. It rocked precariously under him.
“Look who’s here, Esther,” the Rabbi said coyly but Esther was already peering shyly through the kitchen doorway. She said nothing and Henrik felt immediately uncomfortable. Her dress was old and tattered and there was a smudge of grease on her face. She had grown thin, even thinner than she was when Henrik had seen her last three years ago. He wondered if she was sick or had been eating properly. Her eyes looked tired or sad, he was not sure which, but the sparkle of joy and teasing wit that Henrik had so loved was gone from them.
“Esther,” Henrik said softly. He wanted to say more, but he felt his voice catch in his throat. Esther said nothing at all. She just looked at him, looked through him with those half sad, half angry, brown eyes.
When Henrik left Amsterdam almost three years ago, the Jacobs were a prosperous, middle-class family. Esther’s father owned a small but prosperous engineering firm downtown and his wise business acumen had provided a good life for his wife, two daughters and aging father. Esther and her older sister, Sarah, were enrolled in an ivy-league private school and had an active social life with plenty of male paramours.
At their first meeting at the opera, Henrik had been more than a little intimidated by her confidence and stunning good looks. It had taken him the overture and almost entire first act to work up the nerve to finally talk to her. And when he did speak during the intermission, he could say little more than his name. Fortunately, Esther spoke fluent German and was more than capable of carrying the conversation until Henrik finally regained his tongue. And then they spoke openly about a wide range of topics—politics, religion, society, and especially American movies.
Henrik found her to be a fas
cinating person and his attraction to her went far beyond her outward beauty. As things grew more serious between them, he invited Esther to visit his father’s villa in the country. Henrik’s father, who was a staunch German nationalist, did not openly discourage Henrik’s infatuation with the pretty Jewish girl, but he did warn his son to keep things casual.
“Love is blind,” he would say, “but never forget who you are.”
Henrik did not pay much attention to his father’s proverbs, however. As the months passed, they spent more and more time together and even became secretly engaged. Henrik had fallen hopelessly and completely in love with the pretty Jewish girl. Or perhaps he had already lost his heart that night at the opera when he first looked into her bright, intelligent eyes and saw the world through them. Now he was seeing the world through those eyes again, but it was no longer a place of beauty and wonder. Once again he was speechless, but for an entirely different reason. He felt an uncomfortable tingle under his starched collar and looked away.
“Well?” Esther asked at last. “Aren’t you going to say anything other than my name?”
Henrik coughed. “You look nice.”
Esther flushed, rubbing at the grease on her cheek self-consciously. “Go into the sitting room and wait for me. I’m not . . . I’ll only be a minute.”
Henrik nodded and walked obediently into the next room. He didn’t wait long, but it seemed like an eternity. He wondered who slept in this room now that it was no longer a sitting room. And what had happened to all the furniture? Henrik heard a noise behind him and turned around. Esther was standing quietly in the doorway. She was still wearing her old blue dress, but now her face was clean and her long, brown hair looked as if a comb had been hurriedly run through it.
“Is that the same dress? The one you wore at the opera?” Henrik asked softly.
Esther played with the tattered sleeve. “It’s the only nice dress I have left,” she said sadly and then she seemed to shake herself. She looked up, but her gaze never made it past the medals on Henrik’s chest. “It looks like you’ve done well for yourself, Henrik. Only three years and you’re already a general. I suppose even war can have a silver lining for some.”
“What? No.” Henrik suddenly remembered the marshal’s pompous uniform. “It’s not mine. I just needed it to get here. I had to see you.” Henrik took a step forward and Esther stiffened.
“Henrik, what are you doing here?” She seemed impatient, almost angry and Henrik wondered what he had done to offend her. He thought she would be happy to see him. He had hoped that she would fall into his arms. In fact, his plan depended on it. He didn’t have time to waste with idle chatter. She had to trust him, and she had to do it now.
“I told you. I had to see you.” He didn’t know how else to say it, not with her like this—so cold and unresponsive. “Esther,” he pleaded, “what happened?”
“What happened?” she mocked. “What do you think happened? The war happened. The Germans invaded.”
“Yes, I know that. That’s why I came back—to get you out of here. I hoped things would have gone better, but—”
“Gone better?” Esther laughed harshly. Henrik had never seen her act like this before. It scared him. “How could they have gone better? You mean you don’t like the way the Gestapo has redecorated our houses and clothes with the Star of David? Or perhaps you are referring to the expropriation of my father’s business, or the polite way they removed me and Sarah from school, and from the library, and from the cinema and from every other aspect of society.” Her words dripped with bitter sarcasm.
“Come now, Esther. I know things are hard but . . .”
“No you don’t, Henrik, because you left. Remember? You said goodbye and you left.”
Henrik was struck dumb again and his surprise registered on Esther’s face. She turned quickly and wiped away an angry tear before it had time to bloom on her cheek like an ill born rosebud in January.
“I had to leave. You know that,” Henrik protested weakly to Esther’s back, but he was not sure that she even heard him.
“Perhaps you should just go,” Esther said slowly.
“Not without you.”
“Just like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t leave. Do you think we would still be here if we could leave. There are soldiers on every road. We’re prisoners in our own city.”
“I know that, but I’ve made plans. I can get you out.”
“You’ve been gone for three years and now I’m supposed to just pack up and leave with you. And what about my family?”
Henrik didn’t answer. His plans didn’t include the family. It was hard enough just to smuggle one Jew out of Europe, never mind four. Esther turned to face Henrik and he was surprised that there were no tears left in her eyes.
“I won’t leave without my family, Henrik. Maybe I loved you once, but they mean everything to me.”
Henrik didn’t know what to say. He had meticulously planned this operation right down to the last detail, his insertion, his cover, and the procurement of transportation for their eventual escape. But one thing he had not planned for was Esther’s stubbornness. What was he supposed to do now? Throw her over his shoulder kicking and screaming and run away with her?
Everything hinged on the assumption that she still loved him. If she did not, then all was lost. He should abort now before it was too late, but he couldn’t leave without her. There had to be a way. As Henrik searched his heart for one final argument to win her over, the old Rabbi popped his gray head around the corner.
“No! No! Esther you must go with him.” The old man shuffled into the sitting room oblivious of any impropriety at having eavesdropped on their private conversation.
“No, Grandfather, I will not. I will not leave you and Sarah and father. I will not!”
“But Esther, you must. You must survive. I am an old man, and your father would want you to live.”
“And Sarah?”
“If Sarah were given this chance and not you, I would tell her the same. At least one of us must survive this horrible tragedy. Go with Henrik. He is a good man and he will take care of you.”
“How can you say that, Grandfather? You never liked Henrik before. You and momma always said I should stick to my own people. God’s people, you called us like we were somehow special. Now what are we, Rabbi?”
The wrinkles on Rabbi Jacob’s face squished together like a spider caught in its own web, but his embarrassment did not last long. He seemed desperate to save his granddaughter. “That was different. Things were different. But this is life, Esther. Whatever the Almighty’s purpose in all this tragedy, I cannot know. But I do know this. We must choose life. You must choose to live.”
“No!” Esther screamed and then the tears did come to her eyes. She seemed immediately embarrassed and angered by them and covered her face with her hands. Henrik reached for her but she shook off his grasp and ran up the stairs. He watched her go, unsure of what to do. Was this the last he would ever see of her? He felt the Rabbi’s weak hand on his shoulder.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said in a low but comforting voice. “David and Sarah will be back from the black market by then and they will have a talk with her. They will convince her to go with you. Together we will convince her. Don’t worry. You will see.” Rabbi Jacobs patted Henrik on the shoulder.
“I would get you all out if I could. It’s just . . .”
“I know you would. You’ll do what you can. We all must do what we can.” The Rabbi walked slowly into the kitchen leaving Henrik to find his own way out.