Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (5 page)

Jihad is too exhausting.

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When the broadcast is over, Lars turns off the radio, walks to the steps that go to the wheelhouse, and presses one of the risers, which pops open to a hidden space.  He hides the radio, then steps on the stair to close it.

“Our next objective is France,” says Janz, who comes in with Garret and sits across from me.  Janz is in charge of sabotage for our group.  T
all and dark, with a face ravaged by acne, trained in the German army, he is the only one of us with military experience.  He looks terrifying when he wants, his voice big and authoritative. 
He and Garret adore speculating about military strategy, double-guessing our superiors. 

“What we need to do is convince the UNI that instead of attacking France from the eastern side of the Mediterranean,
Coalition
Forces intend to invade Turkey in the west.  We'll pretend that we plan to over take Crete and the Peloponnese, with the intention of moving into Turkey from two fronts—over the Sea of Marmara and the western coast of Turkey.”

Garret nods, tearing off a piece of bread with his teeth.  He is thin with brown curly hair and small intelligent eyes. 
At thirty-seven, he is the oldest among us, and looks like one of the narrow-faced goateed doctors in Rembrandt's
The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp.
 
“Instead, we'll invade Sardinia and Corsica, quietly amassing troops on the Spanish and Italian borders into France.  When they invade, Reynard will meet them with the unified secret army.”

Reynard is the code name for the Chief Liaison Officer of the Combat movement.  He has been traveling secretly to each European country, organizing Resistance leaders into an underground army.  None of us have met him or know his real name, but he is a hero to us all.

Garret continues, wagging his bread crust, as if pointing out troop movements on a map.  “France is the linchpin.  Once we have France we can keep Islamic English Forces from crossing and sending aid to Islamists in France and Belgium.”

“How do we convince them Turkey is our target?” asks Lars.

“We'll feed them false information through double agents.  Make it look like we amassing troops in Greece.  Release fake troop movements, fake radio traffic, recruit Greek and Turkish interpreters and officers.  Tip them off so they make raids where there are stashes of Greek and Turkish maps and currency.  Then we'll have the Americas send troops to Greece.”

“Meanwhile,” Janz adds, “we'll be landing on France's southern coast and storming up the Rhone Valley.”

“Precisely!”  Garret hops excitedly in his seat.  “If we succeed in convincing them that Turkey is our target,
UNI
forces will reinforce Turkey and Cyprus, leaving Sardinia, Corsica, and the southern coast of France lightly defended.  Their forces are weaker in France anyhow, and their instincts will be to protect where they are strongest.”

“By the time the real target becomes obvious, it will be too late to reinforce Sardinia,” says Janz, grinning.  “It plays on their greatest fears.”

“What's that?” asks Berger, leaning over to refill their soup bowls.

“That democracy rebels in Turkey will join
Coalition
Forces, beat back the UNI troops, and defeat the Islamist military regime.  If it happens there, they're afraid it will happen in Egypt, and they'll have another Arab Spring on their hands.”

“As I see it,” pronounces Garret, “Islamic thinking as two fatal assumptions—that whatever territory they take will remain Islamist, and that democracy movements in the Muslim countries are completely extinct.”

Janz nods.  “That makes them vulnerable.  Wishful thinking, and a lack of back up institutions to move in once they've taken a country.”

“Which is why we took back Spain so quickly.”

“Exactly.”

Nasira tugs on my shirt and tells me she likes my top, then says, “Gerda wants to talk to you.”

I give a forlorn glance at the soup in front of me.

“After you finish eating,” she adds. 

I sop up the last of my soup with bread and pop it into my mouth.  I get up and walk up the steps and through a door to a small office in the wheelhouse.  It is cool, unlike the cozy warmth of the common room. 

Inside Gerda and Hansen pour over a map.  They could be captain and navigator contemplating a nautical chart.

“Lina, come in,” commands Gerda.  “Don't leave, Hansen.  This will only take a moment.”

Hansen moves to the samovar, pours himself a cup of tea, and stares off into the canal.  A fog is rolling in. 

Gerda gestures to a chair, and I sit.  She is a Viking of a woman, six-four, 170 pounds.  Even in a
burka
, she would be identified, which is why she leaves operations to the rest of us women.  She has short white-blond hair, a square face, and ice blue eyes.  She seldom goes outside during the daylight and her skin is pale. 

Before the war, Gerda was a pro wrestler for several years before becoming a car salesman for Mercedes Benz.  Her ring name was Amazonia.  Now she uses the name Gerda, which means
firm spear
.  She has a dry wit.

“Is everything set for tomorrow night?” Gerda begins, her voice low and clipped.

“Yes.”  I wait for her to ask about specific details, but she doesn't.  It is unlikely the barge is bugged, but Gerda never repeats information that does not need repeating.

“Are you up for a homework assignment?”

I am surprised.  Then I recall Pim telling me about the UNI delegation scheduled for the
Grand Hotel Amrath Amsterdam.  Something important is happening.  Where was he, anyway?  He was going to fill me in?

Gerda hands me a sealed envelope.  “Three weeks, max.  The sooner the better.  But make sure your package is delivered first.”

I nod and open the envelope.  Inside is a name written on a scrap of paper.  I look up at her and realize she doesn't know the name she's given me.

“It will be done.”  I cross the room, open the potbelly stove, and toss the paper inside.

“Inshalla,”
she says.  God willing. 

I told you she has a dry sense of humor.

Gerda says no more, but glances at Hansen, who gets up and joins her again over the map.  I have been dismissed. 

I try to remember if I have ever heard Hansen say a word.

Four, July 2012

We Have Been Here Before

All across Amsterdam, people pack.  Jewelry and money into their clothes.  Cellphones and iPads into the linings of their suitcases.  Warm clothes.  Durable shoes.  Bars of soap.  Seeds.

It takes little time for them to remind themselves what the necessities are.  The Nazi occupation may have been seventy years ago, but to many it seems like recent history.

The Jews are the first to leave.  Most of the synagogues have been burned to the ground, shules vandalized.  The Jewish museum destroyed.  The Anne Frank house was torn apart with stones and pickaxes, then set afire.

South of the city in the suburb areas of Buitenveldert and Amstelveen, where many of the Jews live, is a hive of activity.  They cram their cars, rope trunks to the roof, and drive north.  Some will drive east, then north to Groningen, where they will abandon their cars at the shore and take ships to Iceland or Finland.  They assume, correctly, that the A7 across the IJsselmeer has been taken, guarded by IRH soldiers.  Even in Scandinavia, they must avoid the cities.  Malmö, Sweden, which is 45 percent Muslim, has declared itself part of the Islamic Northern European Federation.

Thousands flee, but millions don’t.  Most prefer to live under Islamic law rather than abandon their homes and their lives.  Holland, after all, has survived foreign occupation many times before.

Marta calls and begs Jana to bring Katrien and Pieter to Enkhuisen.  “Nothing much is going on here—a few women wearing head scarves, that's it.  If it comes to it, you can take
Allegro
and sail away.”  But Jana refuses.  “I want to be here to help.  Pieter feels the same.  If we don't fight, who will?”

Hundreds of hiding places left over from WWII are reopened and cleaned out.  Dutch houses are build like ships, with secret spaces built into every corner.  Attic spaces, back rooms, false floors, root cellars, rooms hidden behind bookcases, under staircases.  It is amazing how many have survived modern architects and their obsession for lofts and open spaces.  Seventy years later, these secret rooms are used again. 

In 1939, there were over 140,000 Jews in The Netherlands.  The Dutch tried to hide around 30,000 of them.  Half of those they secreted out of the country or were discovered, yet 16,500 were successfully hidden throughout the war.

That's a lot of hiding places.

At 16 Madelievenstraat, Jana shoves aside an enormous wardrobe, pulls open a wooden door stuck from the humidity, and enters a small room, twelve feet long, eight feet wide, with a single porthole window.  Mothballs and mousetraps sit in the corners.  It is not that dusty.  Jana keeps it clean, a treasure to show foreign visitors. 
This is how we survived.

Katrien comes home from school and finds Jana moving things into the secret room off their bedroom.  The bed is covered with books.  Jana has cleared off a bookshelf and is dragging it into the hidden room.

“Help me,” Jana orders.  They push it against one wall in the hidden room.  Jana wedges a matchbook under one corner and wiggles the bookshelf, satisfied.  “Bring up all the canned goods from the pantry.  Place settings for four.  Fill the plastic jugs in the mudroom with water and bring them up.”

Katrien is only mildly surprised.  She has heard so many WWII stories, she has often imagined doing this.  Preparing to hide.  Preparing to survive.  Part of her feels she's been waiting all her short life for this moment.  She is not afraid.

After Katrien brings up all the cans, she takes stock of what her mother has accomplished.  A futon lies on one side, pillows, blankets, boxes of warm clothes, a first aid kit, gallons of water, an antique chamber pot, candles, flashlights, batteries, thick gloves.  One shelf is for electronics, a laptop, two Kindles, cell phones, a radio.  A bow and arrows, competition quality—it had been Jana's sport in college.  A case of wine.  Books of fantasy—
The Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, The Hobbit, Moby Dick—
books that transport you a million miles away. 

“Your father put in an electrical outlet a few years ago.”  Jana points to a plastic box with carefully wrapped white and red wires—a sailor's work, neat and punctilious.  “He was thinking of making it into a study.  Then he bought the sailboat.”  An indulgent smirk lifts the corner of her mouth.

Katrien notices a squarish black machine in the corner.  “A typewriter?” she says, amazed.  “Where did that come from?”

“Pieter's mother used it to write her poetry.  He had planned to donate it to the university along with her manuscripts—when he got around to it.  I found it buried in his office.”

“Does it work?”

“Of course, it works.”

Katrien tests a few keys—they make a delightful clack—then meanders back into the bedroom.  She notices a thick wallet on the bed and opens it, counting.  “You have ten thousand euros sitting around the house?  Does Dad know?  He'll be furious.”

Jana shrugs.  “I could've invested in some web startup.  I preferred to invest in our safety.  I'm a mother.”

“Wow.”

Pieter comes home and peeks curiously into their bedroom.  He hops around the piles of clothing, slips around the wardrobe, and leans into the hidden room.  “You might want to leave some room for us,” he says wryly. 

He kisses Jana and leaves.  Katrien hears him banging around in his study.  He returns with three hunting rifles and ammunition.  Jana grimaces, then hides them behind the futon.

Pieter goes out again and comes back with an old gray cardboard box.  He lifts the top and shows Katrien.  Inside are Christmas tree ornaments, hand-blown glass bulbs, handcrafted Santas and reindeer.  And an angel.  They have been in the family for generations.  “A little frivolity,” he says.

Jana nearly cries.

From then on they refer to the room as the secret annex.

The Islamic Republic of Holland

Jana and Pieter invite Rafik over to watch t
he Grand Mufti deliver his first formal address to the nation on
Al Jeezera
TV.  They figure since Rafik is Muslim, he can help them understand it all.  How serious it is.  Katrien sits on the couch beside Rafik, holding his hand. 

A man in his sixties steps onto a podium, wearing a squarish beard with gray stripes on the sides, and a square black hat on this head.  His kaftan is white, with a green stole around his neck.  Like a Catholic priest.

“My name is Fawaz Jneid, Grand Mufti of the Islamic Republic of Holland.  I look forward,
inshallah
, to a peaceful transition to a new society under Allah.  It should prove a small hardship on those of you who obey the laws.

“Sharia law is now the law of the land.  In our new society of peace under Allah, all bars, coffee houses, cinemas, theaters, and houses of prostitution shall be closed.  Alcohol and drugs are banned.  Homosexuality is outlawed. 

“All cellphones, laptops, computers, electronic book readers, and radios are to be turned in to us at your local mosque immediately, as are all guns, explosives, and ammunition.  Do not risk your lives to keep an ebook reader or computer.  Whatever you keep—or hide—we will find, and if we find it, the punishment will be severe.” 

Fawaz Jneid goes on to say that “although we encourage everyone to convert to Islam, Christians and Jews, or
Ahl al kitab, '
people of the Book', will be allowed to stay in Holland.  However, non-Muslims must abide by Islamic law, and pay a penalty tax, the
jizya
.  Non-Muslims are forbidden from government jobs, teaching jobs, and from serving in the police or armed forces.  Only Muslims are allowed to own businesses. 

“All women, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, must cover their heads, faces, and bodies in public.  Younger females, under the age of maturity, may wear only a headscarf.  Punishment for inappropriate dress is public flogging.

“In addition, non-Muslim schools will be shuttered.  It is better to have no students at all then educate future imperialists.  Non-Muslims on the streets in groups of more than three will be arrested.  Non-Muslims are not allowed to own or to operate an automobile unless granted special permits.  Non-Muslims are banned from being in the following parts of Amsterdam
: Slatervaart, De Baarsjes, Geuzeveld/Slotermeer, Oud-West, Oost-Watergraafsmeer, Bos en Lommer, and Osdrop
.  Non-Muslims are to abide by a nine o’clock curfew. 

“All of those who do not want to live under these laws will have one month to leave.”

“Will we have to convert, Mom?” Katrien asks.

Jana and Pieter look at one another, and then at Rafik.

“Will Dad lose his job?”  

For fifteen years Pieter has been a professor of Photonic Materials at the Institute for Nanolithography, at the Science Center in the University of Amsterdam.  He is head of global semiconductor research and semiconductor lithography—the prime manufacturing technology for making the memory chips and processors used in PCs, smart phones and tablets.  

Rafik rubs his face.  “That's a pretty good bet, even if you convert.  You too, Jana.  Without an Internet, there isn't much use for web designers.  I'm afraid both of your jobs will be banned.”

“What about the university?” Jana asks.

“They will close it for a while.  When Shiite fundamentalists took over Iran in 1979, the universities were closed for two years.  I imagine classes will be scaled down considerably when they reopen.  Concentrating on Islamic studies.  Open to Muslims only.”

“Men only?”  Jana puts a hand on Katrien's shoulder.

“Probably.”

Fawaz Jneid takes a drink of water, his face sweaty under camera lights.  He continues.  “We hope,
inshallah,
to live together in harmony.  Any act of sabotage or resistance will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy, according to sharia law.”

In one five minute speech, the most liberal country in the world has become the most conservative.  He finishes with an Islamic prayer and a final
Allahu Akbar.

Everyone in the room is silent. 

Rafik clears his throat.  “I know it's not much to celebrate, but today I was made chief of police for the local precinct.”

“Because you're Muslim?” Katrien asks.

Rafik's heavy hand gently caresses her hair, and tucks a lock round her ear.  He looks at Jana.  “As long as I have a job, you will have half of my salary.”

“Rafik, that isn't necessary,” says Pieter.

“Yes, it is.”

Headscarf

Katrien and Joury sit on the floor in Katrien's bedroom, rummaging through a large box, whipping out scarves, flinging them around the room like demented magicians.  Huge paisleys from India, Mondrian geometrics, silk screen reproductions of impressionist paintings.  Valentino, Alexander McQueen, Givenchy, and Salvatore Ferragamo purchased from Gucci, Selfridges, and Harrods.  Silk.  Chiffon.  Pashmina.  

The room looks like a tropical wonderland, scarves covering every surface.  An orgy of scarves.

“These were all your grandmother's?” Joury asks.

“She bought one whenever she traveled . . . like souvenirs.  Look . . . some she made.  See the edges?  She bought material and stitched them by hand.”  Katrien shows Joury the narrow roll hem, the stitches so neat and even.

Katrien worries about school, which resumes tomorrow.  Girls are not required to go, but may attend girls-only
madrassahs
until age sixteen.  No further education is permitted.  She does not need to wear a burka over her uniform.  O
nly a headscarf.  Until she gets her period. 

“Maybe we should go with something not too flashy,” advises Joury.

“They're all so pretty.”

“I know.  How about this one?”  Joury selects a solid royal blue scarf with a wavy weave.

Katrien sniffs the fabric—it smells of her grandmother's perfume—then lays it over her hair.  Her bushy dark curls resist, trying to escape, springing out around her forehead, behind her ears.  Her hair will not be tamed.  She stands to look in the mirror over her bureau.  “I look like a mental patient.”

Joury giggles.  “Fold it into a triangle.  When you put it over your head, leave one end longer than the other.  Pin it under your chin, then take the longer side, hold it like this under the pin, lift it sideways over the pin, and tuck it under your ear.”

Joury's long eyelashes brush Katrien's cheek, her dark eyes full of mischief.  They turn and look into the mirror together.  “You still look like a mental patient,” says Joury. 

“Why do we have to wear these damn things, anyhow?”

“Because one glimpse of our hair drives men into a sexual frenzy.  When the sun warms our hair it releases pheromones, which stimulate the primitive parts of their brains and turns them into animals.”

“If hair drives men crazy, then Mevr. Brouwer ought to shave her mustache.” 

Joury squeals in laughter.  Mevr. Brouwer used to be their math teacher.  A supremely ugly woman.  It is hard to imagine her as an object of desire.

Katrien looks again in the mirror.  She barely recognizes herself.  She looks tamed, restrained, streamlined, deflated.  “I have too much hair.  I should just shave it off.”