Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (41 page)

Allegro
rocks gently, water slaps the canal wall. 

I fall asleep immediately, reliving the gloomy midnight passage. 

Gouda

I wake with a jolt and sit up.  Jean-Luc is missing.  I am absolutely panicked.  He must've wandered off.  Of all places, the area around Schiphol is the most patrolled.  What is he thinking?

I don't dare leave and try to find him.  What if he's picked up?  What if
Kroots
follow him back?  Damn him! 

Yesterday, while the family was catching some air on deck, I found my dad's Walther in a secret drawer in the cabin.  I hid it under sail-mending supplies in one of the cockpit benches.  I take it out now, load it, and place it by the wheel.

Just before 5 AM, Jean-Luc wanders back, arms full of bread and pastries with a huge grin on his face.  “I got them coming straight out of the oven.”  I want to throttle him, but hunger forgives quickly, and I scarf down two croissants.  I'll lecture him later.

The VHF radio crackles awake, and the bridge keeper announces the opening of the Schiphol bridges.  The boats begin to line up in convoy.

After the bridges at Schiphol Airport, the convoy breaks apart, each boat going its own speed.  We'll meet again at the next closed bridge.  There are twenty-three more for us to get through before Gouda.  The next five bridges are open when the boats arrive, as are the six bridges in the town of Alphen aan den Rijn.

“What's wrong?” Kazan asks, seeing my crinkled brow.

“The bridges,” I answer.  “When the Islamists want more control of a town, they open all the bridges to keep people from moving around freely.”

“Maybe they just didn't have anyone to open the bridges, so they've left them open.”

Another unexpected discovery about my husband.  He's an optimist.  As we sail past the first bridge, my uneasiness only compounds. 

“I can understand them being open during curfew, but they should be down by now so people can get to mosque for
salat
.”

Kazan shrugs.

The family begins to move about, and I open a hatch.  One of the women brings us coffee.  Jean-Luc, after chatting excitedly about his sight-seeing tour, heads down into the cabin for much needed shut-eye.  

Dawn brings a milky misty stillness.  A mesh of moisture clings to our faces.  Kazan has sparkles in his eyelashes.  The eerie cry of a muezzin, calling for morning prayer echoes through the still streets.

No sign of trouble.  But it doesn't feel right.

Seagulls circle above the fifth bridge.  A chill runs through my body.  At first it looks like large dark buoys hanging from a bridge, but there is no mistaking it. 

Six bodies, suspended by their necks, dangle over the steamy water, heads blue-faced and swollen.  Signs across their bodies read
Verrader. 
Traitor.  Another sign reads
Smokkelaar. 
Smuggler.

Kazan and I exchange looks.  If towns outside the big cities are cracking down, then something major is happening.  There is no way to find out what.  Not that there is much of anything we could do about it.  I fight a nagging urgency to finish our mission and get back to Amsterdam.  Fretting is no good.  That's when you get caught—when you're all flummoxed and frightened.  I take a deep breath and calm myself.

We float on.  I'm glad our refugees are all below, and didn't have to see that.

Leaving Alphen aan den Rijn, we enter a rural area of cultivated fields, narrow canals, and old windmills.  Wildflowers—yellow buttercups, blue columbine, and pink flowering grasses—line the paths beside the canal.  It's the height of the tulip season, and vast ribbons of red, purple, orange, and pink lay over the land like the tails of great kites fallen to the earth.  The Islamists banned the Dutch flag, but daring farmers have planted tulips and irises in stripes of red, white, and blue.  It cheers my heart.

The sun breaks through the mist, a warm golden light suffuses the brilliant colors. 

A lone bicyclist passes on a bike path.  I see no one else.

I feel guilty about keeping the family couped up in the cabin.  “Come on out and stretch your legs for a few minutes.  We won't come to another bridge for forty minutes.”

It's the first I've seen them in the daylight.  Tentative at first, they move about.  Jean-Luc seems feisty after the excitement of yesterday.  Of the other three men, the oldest is in his forties and burly.  He looks like he might be good in a fight.  The other two men and two women still look enervated.  That's what fear does to you.  I've seen it before.  The two kids are curious, and explore the boat. 

We arrive at the railway bridge at Gouda at around 2 PM.  Supposedly the railway bridge opens every two hours, but they tell us 4:30 PM is the next opening time. There are already fifteen other sailboats waiting.  Kazan settles down and reads a book on sailing, which he found in the cabin.  I'm too nervous to read.  Jean-Luc turns out to be a master at tying knots and teaches me some new ones.  He's also better than I at answering nautical questions when Kazan gets stumped by the sailing jargon. 

Two hours later, the VHF radio says there is a delay, but gives no reason. 

The bridge finally opens at 6:30 PM.  It's growing dark. 

Everyone is beat, and we need to moor for the night, but I want to get to the small marina in Gouda.  We motor on to the Nieuwe Gouwe canal, our progress stymied.  The lock leading to the canals of Gouda center closes at 6 PM.  We pull up alongside the waiting pier.  Overnight mooring is illegal and I am nervous about it, but there are several other boats in the same position, settling down for the evening.  They don't seem concerned.  Several wave and call out greetings.

Sailors are friendly folk.  As Kazan and Jean-Luc secure the boat, two men on a 42-foot Beneteau invite us over for a dinner of roasted eel.  A sailor never turns down such an invitation.  To do so is highly insulting.  I am a little worried about leaving the
Allegro,
our family unguarded, but we are right next door.  Kazan, Jean-Luc, and I take turns washing our faces in the cabin, then head over.

I am tempted not to veil, but at the last minute, I velcro on my niqab
. 
We don't know these people.  There's no reason to take chances.

They set up the cockpit table with a tablecloth and candelabra, which seems terribly extravagant.  Kerosene lamps and torches glow all around.  I bring over turkey sausage and fig preserves, left over from Marta's basket, which go excellently with the roasted eel.

Our hosts introduce themselves as Jan and Bert, both in their sixties.  Both with the faded blue eyes of longtime sailors.  They are on their way to Brugge.  Charming hosts, warm and chatty.  It seems remarkable to me how some people manage to live their lives totally oblivious to the Occupation.  Perhaps it is the only way they can deal with it.  To pretend it doesn't exist.

More often than not, when sailors visit they discover they know someone in common—a famous eccentric who haunts a village pier, a barkeep, a champion racer.  Turns out they know Hans and Marta, and sailed against Hans one August during the Flevorace.

As we are feasting, another captain stops by with a wide fixed smile.  He looks the part—a week-old beard, rumpled clothes that smell a bit, a Greek captain's hat.  Jan and Bert invite him aboard for dessert.

The new guest calls himself Barbarossa, which is also the name of his boat.  He greedily sits down, looking at our dirty plates, not with hunger, but curiosity.  “Sausage.  How excellent.  It's been ages since I've eaten pork sausage.  The
Kroots
are maniacs.  There ain't nothing wrong with pork.  Stupid antiquated laws.”

“It's turkey sausage.  You're welcome to one,” says Jan graciously.

“No, thanks.  I just had dinner.  Who owns the Salona?” he asks, pointing at the
Allegro.

“I do,” blurts the fool.

“A woman sailor.  How unusual.”

He looks at me boldly as only
matuween
do, testing me.  I drop my eyes instinctively.  “My father left it to me.  The title is in my husband's name, of course.”

I get a prickly chill up my spine.  Barbarossa constantly runs his right hand over his short beard, as if missing fullness and length.  I realize his beard is only a week old, which means he has recently shaved.  No Muslim man would dare do that, unless he had been trying to pass himself off as a Christian or a Jew.  Yet only Muslims are allowed to have boats.  His teeth are too white, too perfect.  Old bachelor sailors never have good teeth.  It's too much of a hassle to floss and brush on a boat, especially if you're manning the boat alone.

“It's a beautiful boat,” he says.

I see him glance at our closed hatch, taking note.  Unless it is stormy, most sailors keep their hatch open, even if it is cold.  We're right next door, so it is a little unusual for it to be closed up tight.  

“She looks to be riding a little low,” he observes.  That smile again.  He's suspicious, alright. 

Kazan senses my distress, and answers for me.  “We may have a little water in the bilge.  One of the through-hull fittings might be leaking a bit.  Or a keel bolt.  We'll have it checked out when we get to our destination.”

“Where's that?”

“Rotterdam.”

Well done, I think, squeezing Kazan's hand.  He
has
been paying attention.

Barbarossa brags about recently sailing the North Sea through Lashy Sound, then asks more questions of us.  We tell him we are on our honeymoon.  Jean-Luc is Kazan's cousin, who is helping with the boat.  His questions are not unusual or inappropriate, but there's something about the way he asks that feels like an interrogation.  I don't like it.

“Well, it is only fitting that I contribute to this celebration.”  He pulls out a large unopened bottle of Jenever gin.  “We can't let those Islamic fascists keep us from enjoying ourselves.”  Our hosts clap their hands and get out glasses. 

Now I know something is off.  No one whips out alcohol among strangers.  Not even booze-hound sailors.  That's suicide.

I kick Kazan, and he stands.  “Thank you for your wonderful hospitality,” he says to our hosts, “but we must retire.  We've had a long day.”

“You went through Amsterdam at night?” asks the captain, delaying us with more questions.

Kazan gives him one of his dazzling smiles.  “It was a great pleasure to meet you. 
Salam alaikum. 
Peace be with you.”

Nice touch. 
I squeeze Kazan's hand in gratitude.

Jean-Luc looks forlornly at the gin, but follows us back to the boat.

“What do you think his deal is?” Kazan asks, as we check the dock lines and bumpers for the evening.

“Probably looking for smugglers.  The way he looked at our hatch, I am sure he thinks we're hiding something.  All those comments about pork, baiting us with gin, talking smack about Islamists.  Did you see his hands?”

“What about them.”

“Soft and manicured.  Sailors have thick callouses and scars from line cuts.  And sun spots.  He is no sailor.  And the boat he's on?  A twenty-five foot motor-sailer?  It has a high topside, lots of windows and windage, and a small keel—not real stable.  It doesn't sail well up wind or off the wind or in light air.  It's fine for the canals and coastal waters, but you don't take a boat like that into the North Sea, especially not Lashy Sound.  Did you see his sail cover?  Those sails haven't been up in months.”

“Why would he lie about sailing the North Sea?”

“To see if one of us would come back with a story about sailing through the Scottish Islands.  It's a favorite smuggling route.”

“What does he want from us?”

“I don't know, but I'd feel better if we had another place to moor for the night.”

Barbarossa stays a half hour longer on our neighbors' boat.  After he leaves, we untie the
Allegro
and motor back up to Gouda's industrial marina.  We moor alongside a huge steel barge.  The captain is parked there for a week, and is grateful for the company.  After a half hour of chatting, Kazan and I cuddle up together in the cockpit and fall asleep.

The next morning, we wake to a sunny Saturday. 
When we motor back down to the lock, we see only one of the boats we moored with last night.  Our hosts are gone, as is the
Barbarossa
.  After we tie up at the dock, the captain from the only remaining boat scampers over in a scandalized panic.  “We got rousted this morning just before dawn.  Two inspectors and a half dozen
Kroots.
Two captains were arrested.  My boat was tossed.  I don't know why they always make such a mess.”

“What about the
Barbarossa
?
”
I ask.

“It pulled out about a half hour before the raid.  He got lucky, I guess.” 

Lucky?  I can't help but think our Greek-capped visitor had something to do with the raid.  I guess our hosts Jan and Bert weren't as innocent as they appeared.  Could they have been smugglers?  Bert did tense a bit when Barbarossa pointed out that
Allegro
was riding low.  I am very sorry they got arrested.