My Enemy's Cradle (32 page)

Two new Belgian girls came in. They came over at once, drawn like moths to the finery on my lap. And drawn to Karl, I saw by their exaggerated gestures and flirty giggles. Well, he was handsome; I had to give him that. Karl stood back and watched, smiling, until everything had been admired. Then he offered me his hand. "Let's take a walk."

I kept Karl's hand as we walked across the room, and I turned back at the door and nodded to the girls to make sure they saw. Because Anneke would have done that.

I brought the clothes to my room and hung everything in the wardrobe, then buttoned the velvet jacket over my dress and went down to join Karl. I did a little twirl to show him how pretty the jacket was, but he only gave me a half-smile.

We walked to a patio at the back of the property and sat on a stone bench overlooking the lake. It was mild and sunny, but we were the only ones out. Karl took a lighter from his pocket and looked down at it for a moment, flipping it over and over, before lighting his cigarette.

"You know I'm a boatbuilder."

I nodded.

"Fourth generation. We always had four or five people working for us. Bengt designed our engines. We were known for our cabinetry—we made the finest sailboats and yachts on the Baltic. We had our own timberland—over three hundred acres of white oak for framing. Well, we still own that."

"You don't still own the boatyard?"

"No, not for a year and a half now. Until then, the navy sent us work. That's why I was able to avoid service for so long—I was 'essential labor.' But then in September of '40, they took the boatyard. It included my parents' home."

"Where did they go?"

"They moved in with Erika; she and Bengt had a house in town. He was in Russia already, and Erika was pregnant. They kept my father on to oversee things, but everyone else was conscripted. That's when I was sent to Holland."

"Well, when the war is over, you'll own the boatyard again, won't you? You have a place to go back to."

Karl shook his head and ran a thumb down his jawbone, over the light stubble of his beard. For a second I thought of the
Oberschütze
with his short bristle. But only for a second.

Karl mashed his cigarette out and watched while the last thread of smoke spiraled away. "It's gone. A bombing raid last summer."

"There's nothing left?"

"There's a lot of fuel stored at a boatyard, and varnish and paint and oil. The buildings went first—it must have been a firestorm. Once the boats started to blow up, there was fuel all over the water. The harbor caught on fire. They said the water itself was burning."

"Your father..."

"He went down to the boatyard that night. He didn't come back."

I put my hand over his. "I'm so sorry. They never found him?"

"There were bodies everywhere. Dozens. Charred. The worst thing, though—"

I saw Karl's eyes fill, saw him work his face to stop the tears. The way men do. I waited.

"They said ... they said some of the people who had burns ran to the river. They jumped in. They caught fire there in the river. When I think of that..."

He stopped again and I waited again, my hand stroking his arm.

"I hope my father didn't die that way. But in a way, well ... he was dead already. When the Nazis took over his boatyard, it ripped his heart out. Both of his brothers had joined the Party, so it wasn't anything that was ever spoken about, but the business was his entire life; it was what he had to give to me. He felt he failed because he let it go."

"He didn't have any choice."

"I know. But he felt it was his responsibility to pass it on, the way his father had and his grandfather."

"What about you?" I asked Karl. "Do you still want to build boats?"

"Yes. I guess it's in my blood. I was apprenticed there when I was fifteen. I had only one more year left before I'd have been a full master."

"Karl." I stopped him. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven. Maybe I'm too old to learn something new. But I'm suited to boatbuilding. I like everything about it: the feel of the wood as I shape it, the quiet of the work, even the tools. I have my grandfather's chisels—you should see them, how beautiful they are. And I love the ocean."

I knew what he meant. I loved everything about poetry. I had a fountain pen once—it was tortoiseshell and silver, and it was balanced perfectly. It felt serious in my hand. I'd sold it last year to make a contribution when money got tight, and I'd cried in secret for a week. I loved the feel of good paper, the smell of new books, and the look of a desk cleared for writing. I had never told anyone this, and I didn't tell Karl now. But I wanted to.

"What I love most of all, though," he went on, "is the feeling that I'm creating something so beautiful from these simple raw materials. There's a balance: I take things from the earth—wood, cotton, metal—and craft them into something that works with the air and the sea so perfectly it's almost magic. That pleases me."

"With poetry, it's like that, too. All the words are there, the simple raw materials. It's the poet's job to string them together, to shape them, to produce the most powerful combinations of pain and joy, understanding and mystery. That's like being an alchemist."

Karl shifted to look at me more squarely. He laid his arm along the back of the bench. If I leaned back just the slightest bit, my shoulder would graze his fingertips. I thought about how that might feel—those fingers that understood wood and beauty, touching me. How it might feel to him, my raw materials under his hand. What magic might happen? My gaze fell to his lips and my treacherous heart began to thud against my ribs. I straightened up and looked away quickly.

"
Vertel me wat je denkt,
" he said.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. "Only that—Wait! You know Dutch?"

"Not really. I asked Anneke to teach me a few phrases."

"And 'Tell me what you're thinking' was one of the things you wanted to know how to say?"

He reddened and I immediately regretted my teasing tone. "What else?" I asked, more gently.

Karl looked away. "Nothing important. I've forgotten anyway."

"Really. I want to know."

Karl pulled his arm back and turned to face the lake. The ice had been thawing for weeks, and in places dark water, deep and alive, reflected the mountains above. A flock of geese skidded in and even from this distance we could see the spray. I waited.

Finally he turned back to me.

"I have to tell you something."

There was such sadness in his face that I smiled at him encouragingly. I didn't sense the danger.

"Do you remember the day we met? In the bakery?"

I nodded. The smile faded from my lips as I remembered: He'd betrayed his true self that day, that first moment.

"I couldn't look at you," he said. "Anneke said, 'This is Cyrla,' and I thought,
Please let her not be like her poems. Please let her be plain, and silly, and shallow.
I shook your hand and I had to look away."

I felt a clutch of panic and stood.

Karl followed and took my arm. "I had to look away so I wouldn't fall in love with you right there, in front of Anneke. I looked all around the bakery, I looked out the door, anywhere but at your face."

"No," I whispered.

"But it was too late. I knew. When you were standing there, I saw a fine light glowing around you, outlining you. Not the light from the window, because Anneke was right next to you and it wasn't around her. It was setting you apart for me."

"Stop it. How could you?"

"I have to tell you this—there's nothing more I can say to you until I've said this."

"I don't want to hear anything else you have to say."

"I knew more about you already, from your poems, than I knew about Anneke. But after I met you, I realized something: There was simply more to know about you than there was about Anneke. And that's when I decided it was wrong to go on seeing her. We had nothing in common, and in fact I had more in common with you—someone I'd known for only one minute—"

"How dare you!" I spat, stepping away. "We have nothing in common. Except that for a little while you were lucky enough to know her. But you let her go."

I left the courtyard then, left him standing there with his betrayal. Of course, I had let her go as well. And that night, in my bed, I wondered what I would look like with a fine edge of light choosing me.

Betraying Anneke again.

"You have a telephone call."

I left the lunch table and followed the Sister, thinking: Isaak, or my aunt. At last.

"Where are you?" Karl's voice asked. It had been over a week since our argument.

"In the hall by the dayroom."

"Is there anyone around who can hear?"

"No. Why?"

"Good. Just listen, and don't repeat anything I say. Don't ask any questions. It's important."

"All right," I promised, wary.

"Tomorrow after lunch, find a way to get into the gardeners' supply building, at the west end of the property, beyond the garages. You know the one?"

"Yes."

"Take a walk, pretend you're interested in the new plantings. When no one is looking, slip inside. Find a place inside to hide where you won't be seen, but you can see. I don't think any guards patrol there, but just in case someone finds you, make up a story about looking for a trowel, about wanting to plant some flower seeds. Something like that."

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions! Just be there tomorrow afternoon. I can't phone you again about this. Trust me."

All that day I tried to work out what Karl was up to. I couldn't, but I was surprised to find that it helped the day pass more quickly than most—to have a small, harmless mystery to solve.

The next morning, at breakfast, I kept glancing toward the western part of the grounds, where the gardens lay behind the tall lilac hedges, already bunched with cones of tight purple buds. A transport truck rumbled down the gravel drive—the kind that often brought details from the camps to work here—and then came back through a few moments later. This worried me.

I asked the girl sitting beside me if she knew what was going on today, but she just shrugged and spread apple syrup over a piece of bread. "There's a naming ceremony at the end of the week. Maybe they'll hold it outdoors."

I grew more nervous. I never liked surprises.

By lunch, I couldn't eat. I sat facing the windows that overlooked the west gardens, watching, watching. Nothing happened. Several times, workers in prison uniforms came through the hedge carrying hods of bricks, but that was all.

As soon as I could leave the table without causing notice, I did. I went to my room and put on a cardigan, my belly bulging out below the three buttons which could still meet. It felt unprotected, so I switched it for the big canvas coat Leona had left. I hurried down the stairs and out the front way, nodding to the guards as usual. I was going for a walk in the spring air. That was all.

Turning the corner to the patio, visible to anyone in the dayroom, I began to have doubts. Often, we would see Dr. Ebner standing at the windows there or in the dining room, binoculars raised, watching what the workers were doing.

I walked down the path toward the lilac hedge, but then suddenly felt conspicuous. I stopped at the arched arbor and pretended to stretch, then pulled my arms in, knowing I looked guilty. This was foolish. Probably the whole thing was just another of Karl's ploys to get me to lower my guard to him, to win favor after our argument. Maybe he had arranged for a gift to be there, something he knew I'd enjoy seeing. Some potted flowers, maybe. No, that didn't make sense; why wouldn't he just bring the gift himself? I gave up. Really, why was I even considering following instructions from this man? Hadn't Neve and I sworn we would never again let someone else tell us what to do?

I turned, walked back to the front door, and went inside. In the dayroom, some girls were playing cards. I took off my coat and joined them. Later, when I was sitting with Klaas, I found myself still thinking about it. "Never mind," I whispered to the baby. "If he didn't want to tell me what he was up to, what do I care?"

A week later, Karl appeared. He had me sent for, and when I walked into the parlor, he was standing in the middle of the room, his coat over his arm. He closed the door behind me. "Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"Did it go all right last week? You didn't get caught?"

It took me a minute to remember. "The garden shed?"

"Of course!" He stared at me, waiting.

"Oh, I didn't go," I said, as coolly as I could. To take some pleasure from him.

He stared at me. "You didn't go? You didn't go?"

"No. Maybe if you'd told me what was going on—"

"You never went to the shed at all?"

"No, Karl, I didn't. Is it really such a big thing?"

"Oh, my God!" Karl sank to the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. I felt my lips curl into a small smile I was helpless to hide. Another casualty of war: my kind nature.

Karl looked up as though he was about to say something, but he caught sight of my face and scowled. Then he stood, picked up his coat and strode to the door. He turned.

"I took such a risk for you. I asked other people to take terrible risks. And you weren't worth it."

His look was furious now, but full of despair, too. It made me uneasy. "Wait! Before you go, tell me what it was, at least," I said, trying to be light.

"I shouldn't. It will kill you to know. But I'm sick of trying to protect you and getting slapped in the face. I'm sick of your feeling righteous about not trusting me." He stared a moment, deciding something. The small muscles of his cheek knotted over his clenched jaw.

"What was in the shed, Karl? Please tell me."

"Fine." he said, his voice was low and icy. "You deserve this.
He
was in the shed. I arranged it. Your Isaak."

Karl caught me before I fell and helped me to the couch. But he was still furious.

"Tell me," I whispered, my mouth full of ashes.

Standing in front of me, Karl seemed very tall. I reached up to pull at the buttons on his tunic, but he pushed me away, and every time he looked at me he winced and recoiled, his eyes cutting away as if the sight of me scorched them.