The Tulip Eaters (21 page)

46

Dirk waited impatiently as the few passengers exited the bus for the ferry to Schiermonnikoog. He picked up his overnight bag and could hear his binoculars and camera jostle inside it. And his pistol. Never left home without it.

He had missed the earlier train. Amarisa had kept him too long with her bitching. No matter. He would be there around six. Before he left Amsterdam, he had called the
van der Werff,
the only decent hotel on the island, and had confirmed that Nora was a guest. He had asked for her room number, saying he was her brother and would be joining her, and was surprised when they gave it to him.
Small town. No crime.

Once in Schiermonnikoog, he took a bus to the side of the island opposite from her hotel and rented a small cabin, making sure that the clerk was aware that he was an ornithologist, there to observe and photograph birds and wildlife for a few days. It was one of the island’s main attractions, even in winter.

He would case Nora’s hotel to see if he could slip in later that night. If not, he would wait until he could find her alone.
Goddamned Amarisa.
He still didn’t know if he had the guts to kill this Nora, but then he thought of the money. He knew Amarisa was good for it. And he’d be flush for the first time in years.

He’d make quick work of it before he lost his nerve.
But what if he failed? What if, at the last moment, he couldn’t do it? What would Amarisa do to him then?
No, he had no choice.
He had to be rid of that bitch once and for all.

47

Nora walked out very early the next morning and found a cab at the hotel entrance. She had slept fitfully, waking often during the night. She kept wishing Nico were here, but she would see him soon. Knowing that he was so busy yesterday, she had not called him.

She handed the address to the driver. When they reached the convent, Nora tried to peer out of the window, but the hard rain blurred everything. She paid and stepped into a bitter wind that lashed her hair into whips and stung her face.

She looked up at the massive edifice that seemed as if its stone had been hewn in medieval times. The rain made it appear black, foreboding.
Het Huis van Onze Heilige Moeder
was carved into a wooden plank above the narrow entryway. To her left, a small, sad statue of the Holy Mother held out delicate hands from a niche in the wall.

Nora pulled on the rope that hung in the doorway. A low, deep clang reverberated through the heavy door. Moments passed. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. The temperature had dropped and the clouds were low and full, promising no end to the foul weather. She reached again for the rope, but before she could grasp it, the door opened with a grating sound. An old nun appeared in the cramped doorway. A tiny woman, she wore somber, black robes, her wimple wrapped so tightly about her face that her plump cheeks seemed ready to burst. An enormous crucifix hung from a braided chain and bumped against her black belt.

“I am Sister Magdalena.” Her voice was clear and strong. “May I help you?”

Nora had trouble understanding. Her Frisian dialect was strange to Nora’s ear. She knew Frisian more closely resembled Old English than Dutch and when there were Frisian programs on television, they had Dutch subtitles.

The sister held out a cool hand. Nora took it. “I am Saartje Steen’s great-niece,” she said. “I called you yesterday?”

The old nun nodded. “Oh, yes. Please come in.” She silently led Nora to a small office near the entrance and ushered her in. Nora sat and watched as the old woman took a seat behind a massive wooden desk. She cleared her throat as she fixed Nora with a calm gaze. “Saartje Steen has been with us many years. She is Sister Josephina now. After losing her husband in the war, she left her family and gave her life to the glory of service to the Lord.” She shook her head. “Sadly, it appears that she is now near the end of her path.”

“Is she dying?”

The sister smiled. “We are all dying, of course. But no, Sister Josephina’s body is sound for someone her age. It is her mind, you see. It has begun to leave her. In that respect, I believe she is truly blessed.”

“But...how can that be a blessing?”

There was a light knock. Sister Magdalena stood and walked to the door. A sleeved hand passed something through the opening. When she returned, she handed Nora a clay cup of aromatic tea and returned to her chair. She peered at Nora. “You are very young, my dear. Let us just say that when God sees fit to heap intolerable tragedy upon one of His true believers, one is fortunate if, by whatever means, that pain is lifted.”

Nora felt like crying.
Another dead end.
She looked up at the nun. “Is she insane?”

The nun smiled her quiet smile. “That depends upon whose definition you would employ.”

Nora put down her cup, feeling so, so weary. “I would be happy to accept yours.”

“I would say that Sister Josephina is caught in time and space—between heaven and earth.”

Nora felt as if she would burst. She had had such high hopes. Now they were dashed like the waves on the rocks outside. “May I see her?”

The nun’s blue eyes were a laser. “I will permit that, with one proviso. My concern is for Sister Josephina’s soul. It has been entrusted to me and I must see it pass easily from this life to the next. You must promise not to disturb her. You must agree to enter her time and her mind.” She paused. “If you cannot do this, I must ask you to finish your tea and leave us.”

Nora felt as if she were a specimen under a microscope. “I have no wish to disturb her.”

The nun studied her, stood silently and walked to the door, letting Nora pass before her.

* * *

Nora followed her through dark, winding hallways, their footsteps the only sounds on the cold stone floors. Sister Magdalena explained that there were only twenty elderly sisters left at the convent. Their order required that they spend their days in silence, prayer and meditation. She instructed Nora not to speak to any of the other sisters if she should see them. She was to avert her eyes so as not to distract them from their prayers.

They climbed a narrow, pitched staircase. Nora thought she could feel the wind blow right through her. She glanced behind them. There was no way she could ever find her way back to the entrance without a map—or a nun. The wind was howling outside, the rain pelting on the roof. She shivered.

After what felt like an hour, they came to the end of a long hallway. Another elderly nun sat upon a hard chair outside of an arched doorway, a black rosary in her hands. She stood and left them, never raising her eyes.

Sister Magdalena turned to Nora. “I shall leave you to enter and greet Sister Josephina. More than one person at a time is too much for her. It would be best if you enter silently and permit her first to acknowledge your presence.” She gave Nora a flinty look. “I must remind you of our agreement.”

Nora nodded.
What in hell was wrong with Saartje? Was she schizophrenic or just your garden-variety demented?
It didn’t matter. Nora had to reach her.

As she began to enter, Sister Magdalena grasped Nora’s arm. The old nun held out her white hand, palm up. “Please give me your watch.”

“My watch?”

“Time disturbs Sister Josephina.”

Nora unclasped her watch and handed it to her. The nun seemed satisfied, and yet she did not leave. “Is there something else?”

“One last thing.” She pointed at the raging storm outside. “The lightening. It frightens Sister Josephina. Please try to comfort her.”

Nora nodded and watched as the nun disappeared down the dark hallway. She braced herself and opened the door.

The room was larger than she had expected, all white, with high ceilings and a black slate floor. It had a single bed, a small wooden desk, a sink and a toilet, dimly lit by a floor lamp in the corner. Three thick candles glowed as if to ward off evil spirits. An icon of the Virgin Mary hung above the bed, surprisingly rich in its reds, blues and shimmering gold. Her sad eyes seemed to follow Nora as she approached the bed.

It was perfectly made, white sheets pulled tight. A flat, white pillow lay uncreased at the head, a thick woolen blanket folded neatly at the foot. Nora spied a bell on the nightstand.
This is ridiculous. No one is here.
She stepped back toward the door. She’d find Sister Magdalena.

Then she heard a thready voice from under the bed. A tremulous Dutch voice reciting prayers.
“Beloved Virgin, protect your servant. Oh, Heavenly Mother, do not abandon me now! Keep me safe from harm.”

Nora crouched down, her knees on the icy floor. She peered under the bed. The dark was partially lit by the soft glow of the candles on the night table. From Nora’s angle, they looked almost like stars. Gradually her eyes adjusted. Under the far side of the bed, Nora saw the slight, crooked form of an old woman who wore a thin white nightgown. Her eyes were closed as the words came softly from her lips.
“Mother full of tenderness...”

Nora felt moved with pity. “Saartje,” she whispered. The woman’s eyes were sealed shut. Nora reached forward and took her arm. She pulled the small creature toward her. The old woman did not resist, but let herself be moved like a rag doll. When Nora had finally maneuvered her out, she saw a face as fine as porcelain and milky blue eyes that did not focus on hers.

Nora lifted the almost weightless form and placed her on the bed. Saartje’s head lolled back on the pillow as Nora straightened her legs and tucked the rough woolen blanket around her chilled body. Still no response. Nora cupped the pale cheeks in her hands.

Suddenly, a blaze of lightning flashed in the window, followed by a clap of thunder. Saartje’s eyes flew open. She screamed—a hawk’s screech—and beat upon Nora with her small fists. She rose up to dive under the bed, but Nora held her tight. She kept her voice soft and soothing.

“Saartje, it’s all right,” crooned Nora. “You’re safe. Its just a storm.”

Saartje moaned, wrenched herself free and pulled the blanket over her head. “No! No!” she screamed. “It is the airplanes—the bombs! We have to hide!”

Nora gently pulled the blanket away from her face. The eyes that moments ago seemed lost to the world now locked on hers, clear and bright. Saartje began sobbing as she lunged forward and clasped Nora in a desperate embrace. Then the words poured forth. “Praise God!” She turned her gaze upward. “My prayers have finally been answered. You are here!”

Nora tried to soothe and quiet her, but the old woman was clutching her fiercely, her thin, cold face pressed into Nora’s neck. “It’s all right now, it’s all right,” whispered Nora, her own tears flowing.

After a time, the old woman stopped sobbing. The eyes that fixed upon Nora’s were sharp and lucid. Nora smiled nervously. “You don’t know me,
Tante
Saartje, but—”

The old woman sat bolt upright and clapped her hands like a little girl, her crooked smile wide as fresh tears streamed down her face. “What nonsense! Of course I know you!” She waggled her index finger at Nora. “Always playing games!” she chortled. “Come, after so long, you must not tease me.” She began muttering again, mumbling disjointed prayers and unintelligible exclamations.

Nora could feel only dismay. The poor woman simply wasn’t there. She had so hoped to talk with someone who would have known who Abram was and why her mother was killed, and why—
oh, why?
—someone had taken her Rose?

She tried to pull away, but Saartje rose and clutched her again in a desperate embrace. Nora could smell her sweat. They sat that way for what seemed like forever, each in her own prison of pain.

Suddenly, Saartje released her grip. Nora felt the woman’s body slump and then she sat up straight against the headboard, looking at her.

Nora sat there, staring, and then dropped her head, defeated. She could not stop her tears that fell onto the plain, cotton sheet. “I just wish you knew me—knew who I was!” she whispered fiercely.

Nora felt a cold, bony hand gently raise her face. “Of course I know who you are.” The voice was firm and clear. “You are my Anneke.”

48

Nora pulled back and stared at Saartje.
She thinks I am Anneke! What can she tell me? Can I believe anything she says?
Saartje gazed off into the distance, as if someone were calling her. Nora cupped Saartje’s pale face in her hands and made Saartje look at her.

“Yes,
Tante,
it is Anneke,” she said softly. “I have come back to get you. You are safe now.”

Saartje smiled and then gave Nora a reproachful look. “Why did you leave us?” Her voice was stern. “You made us hide that boy. And now my Gert is dead!” She pulled away from Nora, sobbing.

“
Tante,
who is Gert?”

Saartje looked at her with amazement. “Your uncle! Don’t you even remember your
Oom
Gert? He was so good to you!”

“Of course I remember him.”

“It was that Jewish boy.” Saartje sounded irritated. “It is all your fault.”

“What Jewish boy,
Tante?
What was his name?”

Saartje shook her head. “I don’t remember. It is all in the box—you know that. You gave it to me.”

“What box?”

Saartje smiled. “The box with the important things in it. Don’t you remember?” Her eyes wavered, looking confused. “It was when you brought that boy to us.”

“Was his name Abram? Abram Rosen?”

The old woman waved her away with a listless hand. “The one the Nazis were after.” Her gaze returned and fixed on Nora’s. “
Ach kind,
so many horrible things have happened since you went away.”

“What things? Tell me.”

Saartje sobbed quietly and stared at the flickering of the candles. “All you told us was that the Jewish boy would die unless we hid him.” She burst into tears. “And then one night I heard him arguing with Hans outside in the street and a gun went off!” She raised her arms as if to ward off the sound. “Then Hans came inside and told us to hide in the cellar.” She burst into tears. “That night the police came and took away my Gert. And I never saw him again!”

Nora sat, shocked. Then she leaned forward and gently put her hands on Saartje’s wet cheeks. “
Tante,
please. This is important. Did Hans kill Abram?”

Saartje shook her head. “I don’t know who killed him,” she cried. “You are the one who knows! You sent him to us!”

Nora didn’t know what to think. “Did Abram have any friends? Any family?” she asked. “Anyone who came to visit him while he was with you and Gert?”

Saartje pushed Nora away and stepped down onto the cold stone floor. She began to pace, wringing her hands. “Only the boy, the young one. He came a few times.”

Nora’s heart leaped.
This could be it! The connection!
She stepped over to Saartje, took her frail elbows in her hands and looked into those wandering eyes.
Not now! She has to stay with me long enough to tell me the truth!
“Saartje, what was the boy’s name?”

Saartje dropped her head. It felt to Nora that if she loosened her grip, the old woman would fall down. “Anneke, I am too tired. I cannot think about these things anymore. Please leave me alone,
kindje,
” she whispered. “We will talk later.”

Nora panicked. She shook Saartje gently and spoke more loudly. “Please,
Tante—
I’m begging you. Just think. What was the name of the boy?”

Saartje raised her head and gave Nora a reproving look. “Do you not know your Bible, child?”

“What do you mean?”

The old woman gazed upward. “Abraham’s promised son.”

Nora could tell she was fading fast. She knelt in front of her and clasped both of Saartje’s thin hands in her own. She looked up.
She was so close!
Saartje’s blue eyes grew dim. She placed her hand on Nora’s head and gently stroked her hair. “You must study your Bible,” she whispered.

“Please,
Tante,
” whispered Nora fiercely. “Do you mean than Abram had a son? Is that who visited him?”

“No, no!” said Saartje irritably. “That’s not it at all.”

“What was his name?”

Saartje pulled away, crawled back into bed and assumed the fetal position. Nora rushed over to her, but the old woman’s eyelids had drooped. Nora heard the last faded words fall from her lips. “Abraham’s promised son.”