No Greater Love (16 page)

After a lightning quick check of the babies, Janan hurried to the library and, as she had expected, found Carl sitting by the fireplace reading the morning paper. Without speaking, she handed him the letter.

As he held the envelope to the light, a smile lit up his face as he recognized the handwriting. “It’s from the dear boy.”

The happiness in his voice stunned Janan. She had not realized how much he missed Pieter. Because of her, he had lost the closest thing to a son he had ever had. Clutching the back of the nearest chair to control her trembling, she explained how the letter had been delivered.

He spoke slowly as he read the letter. “Pieter says that she is Turkmen and lost all of her family in Iraq.” He was silent for a moment after he finished reading the letter and then said, “She’s been granted asylum but she will soon be eighteen and must leave the refugee center.” He looked up at Janan. “He seems to think that young Sophia might be able to help you with your babies.”

“Yes.” Her voice quavered. “If she doesn’t find work and a place to live, she’ll be alone, on the streets of Amsterdam.”

“Then, my dear child, we two battle-scarred refugees must save this poor child, yes?”

Janan dropped to her knees beside his chair and kissed his hand. “Thank you, Carl.”

He patted her shoulder clumsily as he handed the letter back to her. “Perhaps you will be a little less lonely, eh?”

Janan slipped the letter into her skirt pocket and hurried back to the living room, her mind working rapidly.
Sophia would not be able to earn money legally until she passed the language proficiency test. She’d offer her the job of mother’s assistant contingent on her passing the exam, and until then, she’d ask her if she would like to live with them and work as a mother’s assistant in training.

Both women stood as she entered the living room.

Janan spoke quickly. “We’d be happy to have Sophia come to live with us and serve as a mother’s helper.”

When Janan repeated it in Turkish, she saw tears fill Sophia’s eyes as she said, “
Zaman
? in Turkish and then asked when in Dutch.

“We’d like you to come as soon as possible.” Janan took pity on the trembling Sophia. “Tomorrow, if possible.”

“Yes, yes, tomorrow.” Sophia struggled with the Dutch.

Janan felt the letter against her hip and fought the desire to write a return message. “Do you have train fare for tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Sophia answered shyly, drawing an envelope from her pocket. “Dr. Bentinck gave me money yesterday.”

Janan felt a sudden blaze of jealousy sweep through her.
Sophia had seen Pieter yesterday, talked with him, and taken the envelope from his hand. She knew how he looked, how he sounded.
Janan walked them toward the door, “Please convey my regards to Dr. Bentinck,” she said formally to the volunteer as she opened the door with one hand and smoothed the letter in her pocket with the other.

Pieter had not forgotten her! He had sent help. The help she needed desperately but had not known how to find.

Later that afternoon, feeling stifled by the narrow gray house, Janan wrapped the babies warmly before tucking them into the double stroller and fastening the weather-shield so that they would be well protected
. A walk would settle her down.
She stopped by Carl where he sat looking out of the living room’s picture window at the canal as he did every afternoon, as he had done as a child waiting with his mother for his father’s return from work. “I am going to the market. For some reason I fancy some lamb shanks for dinner.”

He smiled at her not mentioning the other time that they had lamb shanks. “With
gremolata
?” he asked hopefully.

“Oh yes,” she replied, pushing the stroller toward the door.

“Do you think we could have them with
pititm
pasta?” Carl asked with a dreamy look on his face.

Pititm. Where would she find the toasty Jerusalem couscous in Leiden?
“I will look for it,” she promised.

Chapter 14

Pieter had just poured his first cup of coffee when Saskia laid the morning delivery of mail at his elbow, a square white hand-delivered envelope with black writing on top. He picked it up with trepidation and turned it over. There was no return address. He checked the front again.
Dr. Pieter Bentinck
. He seldom received mail at home. All professional correspondence went to his office at the University. He slit the envelope with his knife and read the black-bordered card. An invitation to attend Carl Ahern’s funeral the next day in the Synagogue at 16 Levendaal, Leiden. Pieter closed his eyes as he relived the last time he had seen Carl, the evening he had railed at him, accusing him of betraying him, of robbing him of his children. He shivered, mortified at the memory. Maarten was right. Carl had tried repeatedly to contact him but his mother had blocked his attempts. Then, forced by the urgency of Janan’s health problems, Carl had intervened to save Janan and the babies. Now, he had lost the chance to ask Carl to forgive him for his harsh words. He would have to live with the knowledge that he had injured a friend unjustly.

He stared at the card in his hand and read again the line saying that Carl had wanted him to serve as a pallbearer. Carl was honoring him, showing his forgiveness. He had accused him unjustly of robbing him of his children! How could Carl have forgiven him for his angry allegation?

His thoughts turned to Janan.
The planning that he and Maarten had done would help her but even so she would be alone as she arranged the funeral and burial. She would have to manage all the details without any help.
He groaned as he visualized the funeral.
Most likely she would be the only family member there. His mother had told him how difficult it had been to convince the uncle and his children to leave the house so that Carl could return. It was unlikely that they would come to the funeral, but if they did, Janan would have no one by her side to help her face them.
He would do anything to help her but what could he do?
Pieter took a sip of the now cool coffee and made a decision. He had to make sure that she did not have to endure the funeral alone even if it meant humiliating himself in front of strangers.

It seemed so long ago that Janan had told him how much she missed her friend, Emine, who had spoken Turkish with her before she married a Dutchman and moved to Amsterdam. Without knowing why, he had written Emine’s husband’s name, Dr. Marc van Etten, in the notebook that he always carried with him. He was still staring at the name when Saskia stepped quietly into the dining room.

“You uncle asks that you join him in the library as soon as you’ave finished your breakfast.” Her voice was hushed, as though she already knew the news.

“You’re going, of course.” Maarten sat upright in his customary chair by the fireplace gripping a similar black-bordered card in his hand.

“Yes,” Pieter answered, his thoughts on the telephone call he would have to make in a few minutes. “Will you come with me?”

Maarten coughed nervously. “I would like to go but I don’t know . . .”

“We can manage with the travel chair.” Pieter added quietly, “Levendaal is not a busy street. I think we can park across the street from the Synagogue.”

“There may be a problem with steps at the synagogue and then there will be a long walk in the cemetery to the burial site.” Maarten sat slumped in his chair, his face pale and his hands trembling. “It would be too much for you to push me all that way.”

“I will ask my brother, Crispin, to help us.”

“Your mother may want him to accompany her.”

“She is capable of driving herself to Leiden if she decides to go.” His voice was frigid. “Or she can ask Dirk to drive her.”

Slowly, Maarten relaxed. “I knew Carl’s parents so many years ago.” He took a starched white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his eyes. “They were quite a bit older but Carl’s mother came to have coffee with Mei Ling from time to time.” He wiped his eyes again. “After I came back from Indonesia, I tried to convince them that war was coming, that they should leave Leiden. At first, after the Germans occupied Holland, changes came slowly and then, in the end, everything happened so fast that I could do nothing to help them.” He sighed deeply. “Over the years, Carl stayed in touch with me. I think I was one of the few people still living who had known his family.”

Pieter closed the door to his office that usually stood ajar and opened his note book to stare at the number his secretary had found for Dr. van Etten. Perhaps there was no need for him to call. Janan might have already contacted her friend. He closed his eyes and saw Janan’s face.
No, she was too proud to ask her friend for help.
Still standing, he tapped in the number for Dr. van Etten’s office, and, as he listened to the phone ringing, his mind raced struggling to think of the words that he would use to explain why he was calling. When a secretary answered, he gave his name and added that he wished to speak to Dr. van Etten.

After a wait that seemed to stretch for several minutes, Pieter heard a firm voice say, “Van Etten here. How may I help you, Dr. Bentinck?”

Nearly overcome by the enormity of what he had to do, Pieter clung to the phone with one hand as he dropped into the desk chair. Propping his head up with his other hand, he began, “A year ago, when I went to the States, I visited an old friend, Carl Ahren.” His voice choked and he swallowed hard to clear his throat. “At his home, I met Janan Coers and she told me that she had a Turkish-American friend, Emine.” He leaned his head against his fist not knowing what to say next.

“Yes, go on.”

He took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Janan does not know anyone in Leiden. She is going to be all alone at Carl’s funeral tomorrow and I thought . . . I hoped . . .”

The firm voice broke the silence. “I think we should talk to Emine about this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Pieter answered in a low voice.

“I will call her now and tell her that a friend will be joining us for lunch.” He gave Pieter the directions. “You can tell her the whole story.”

Tell her the whole story? How could he do that? She would despise him for what he had done.
“Thank you, I’ll be there.”

Pieter climbed the broad stone steps and paused at the door of the venerable four-story brick home on the Reguliersgracht Canal with its bell-shaped gable roof. He leaned on the railing to rest and took another look at the graceful bridges arching over the canal. Pulling himself erect, he rang the bell and gave his name to the black-clad man who opened the door and identified himself as Deman. At his bidding, Pieter stepped into the vestibule and followed him across the black-and-white tiled hall as a tall man walked toward him with a slight limp.

“I am Marc van Etten,” he said with his hand outstretched. “I remember you now. You were a year or so ahead of me at Leiden.”

Pieter nodded, grateful for Marc’s attempt to put him at ease. “It is very good of you to let me come,” he managed to say.

“The ladies are in the library,” Marc said, leading the way.

As he followed Marc into the library, Pieter was acutely aware of three women studying him: a tall, beautiful woman with an oval face, dark hair, and sapphire blue eyes that were measuring him, an older woman with white hair sitting erectly in her chair braced for any more problems life might bring her, and a little girl who was regarding him with shy interest.

“Emine,” Marc said quietly, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulders, “may I present Pieter Bentinck? He has brought us news of your friend Janan.”

Her voice was grave as she acknowledged the introduction, her eyes questioning.

“My grandmother, Mevrouw Beatrix,” Marc said, leading Pieter to the chair where the matriarch of the family sat.

With a bow, Pieter took the hand that was extended to him and shook it gently.

“Our daughter, Mina,” Marc said with a hand on Mina’s head.

“
Juffrouw
, Mina,” Pieter said in a soft voice as he took her hand.

“Come,” Marc said briskly offering his arm to Mevrouw Beatrix. “I think”—he nodded in the direction of the housekeeper standing in the doorway—“Nehls is trying to tell us that lunch is ready to be served.”

As Emine, holding Mina’s hand, walked beside Pieter across the hall to the dining room, she said in a low voice, “I must know. Is she all right?”

His response came slowly. “She is well.”

It was Mevrouw Beatrix who broke the silence as soon as the soup had been served. “Bentinck?” She considered Pieter thoughtfully. “I met a Maarten Bentinck a long time ago. He had a beautiful new wife but I can’t remember her name.”

“Mei Ling. Her name was Mei Ling.” He took a sip of the chilled Chablis that had been served with the fish chowder before continuing. “I live with my Great-Uncle Maarten . . . now.” He paused and then continued, “He has told me how, as a young man, he was sent to Jakarta and how he met a lovely young lady named Mei Ling there.”

“He is alone now?” Mevrouw Beatrix asked softly.

“Yes.” Pieter glanced in Mina’s direction and said carefully, “He had been estranged from the family until very recently when he asked me to come and live with him.”

She also glanced at Mina. “I don’t believe I knew your mother and father.”

“My mother is well and working as a solicitor,” he answered briefly.

“I see.” She took his lead. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“I have two brothers, one older and one younger, but unfortunately”—he turned to Mina with a smile— “there are no girls in my family.”

Marc brought Mevrouw Beatrix’s personal questioning to a halt. “I have been away from clinical practice for a few years and so am somewhat out of contact with that side of psychiatry. What are you are doing now?” he asked with customary Dutch directness.

“I was teaching at the University but now I am working part time at the refugee centers in Amsterdam. Mostly in Osdorf . . . with the child refugees.”

“How is it that you know Janan?” The question slipped out before Emine could stop herself.