CHAPTER 15

The two older men walked along the sidewalk with a skip in their step. It had been the most enjoyable shopping day that either had ever had, and Hans was pleased to note that there was not even a hint of rain.

Hans carried the doll and Lars, the parcel containing the hair ribbons and nightgown. There were two embroidered hankies in the parcel too—one for Mrs. Vos and the other for Lieve.

“Look out!” Hans pulled his brother over to the curb.

A large Mercedes zoomed past them. These expensive cars were driven by the Nazi SS. A military truck covered in green and gray canvas followed close behind. Both vehicles were coming from the direction of their road.

Hans and Lars stood at the top of their cul-de-sac. At that moment, Mrs. Vos swung open her door and stumbled to her gate. “Hans, Lars, they took them!” Her face was stone gray.

Both men looked down the cobblestone road. Even from a distance they could see that Lieve’s front gate and door were wide open.

“Beatrix!” Lars cried. They ran past Mrs. Vos. Lars was tall and long-limbed, but Hans’s legs moved like wheels. The doll, the nightgown, the ribbons, the hankies slipped from their hands.

“Hans, Lars, wait!” Limping, her hand pressing down on her sore hip, Mrs. Vos did her best to catch up.

Hans and Lars reached Lieve’s house at the same time, barged through the gate, and into the house.

“Beatrix?” Lars called out.

“Beatrix?” Hans chimed in. And then “Lieve, Lieve!” No answer.

Lars climbed the inside stairs, two at a time. Hans looked into the parlor, then ran into the kitchen. “Beatrix!” he cried. He twisted the knob on the door that led to the back garden. Locked.

The house was empty. Beatrix and Lieve were gone. A cake, smashed into crumbs, lay on the floor.

Lars thumped down hard on a stair and slumped forward, his head in his hands. “No, no, no. Please, God,” he whispered. “Please.”

Hans fell against the doorframe. A small sob escaped his lips as he spotted Beatrix’s red tam on the floor. He reached for it, held it close, and bent his head over it. He hadn’t cried since he was a boy, and now he could not stop.

Mrs. Vos stood in the doorway. “It happened so fast. That dreadful automobile, and then the truck… I came… I came… The soldiers called me a nosy old woman…” Mrs. Vos, her hand to her chest, huffed and puffed. Only then did they notice Mrs. Vos’s dirty dress and her raw, scraped arms. Blood ran down from her knees and caked above her shoes. Her face was smudged.

“They hurt you.” Lars came out of himself for a moment.

Mrs. Vos shook her head. “They pushed me down. I am all right.”

“What did they want?” asked Hans.

“Perhaps there was an informer, but I believe that they were after Lieve. She said that her husband did ‘war work.’ I should have asked more questions. I should not have let Beatrix stay here.” Mrs. Vos’s voice cracked as she tried to draw in a breath. Grabbing the doorframe, she lurched into the house, fell into a chair, and covered her face with bruised hands.

“It is not your fault. It is war. There is no safe place,” Hans whispered. Thoughts raced through Hans’s mind—where would they take a child? Where could he go? What could he say? In the back of his mind was Westerbork, the prison camp.

“I should have asked Lieve more questions about her life, her husband. I should have…” sobbed Mrs. Vos.

“And what would she have said?” Lars shook his head. No one asked personal questions any more. It was dangerous to tell too much and dangerous to know too much. “Lieve would never have put Beatrix in danger. But if they wanted Lieve, why did they take Beatrix?” He rubbed his hand across his face. His hand was wet. Tears were sliding down his face.

Mrs. Vos shook her head.

“Did you see them take her?” whispered Hans. He was hunched in a corner. The strength in his legs, in his body, seemed to seep out of him.

“No, the truck—it was there.” She pointed to the road. “And that big, awful car—it was in the way. I saw the top of Lieve’s head, her blond hair. But I didn’t see Beatrix.” Mrs. Vos shook her head.

“You did not see them take her away?” Lars stood up.

“No, I told you. The truck…”

Was it possible? Lars scrambled back up the stairs to check in closets and under beds.

Hans jumped up and kicked open the back door in the kitchen and ran around the little garden. He looked in the privy. He peered into the shed. “Beatrix, are you here?” He opened the coal bin. “Beatrix, come out.” He looked to the end of the garden. “Lars, the gate—it’s open,” Hans bellowed. He didn’t care who heard. Nothing mattered now, nothing.

Hans ran through the gate and down the lane. He passed behind number 6, number 4, and came to their own back gate. “Beatrix?” he cried.

He heard whimpering, kitten-like. Hans stopped. The sound was coming from behind the dustbins. With more strength than he’d ever thought he had, Hans picked up two huge bins and tossed them aside as if they were made of feathers. And there she was, huddled into a little ball.

“Dear girl, dear girl…” Hans thought he might burst with relief. He reached out, picked her up, and held her.

“They took her, Uncle Hans. We heard the trucks coming. She told me to run. She pushed me out the back door and locked it tight.” Beatrix gulped air. “They took her away. They took Lieve away. They took away my mamma. Why? Why? I want my mamma!” Beatrix raised her fists and pounded her Uncle Hans’s chest.

The harder she pounded, the tighter he held her. “I have you. We love you. I have you. We love you,” he whispered in her ear, over and over.

Soon Uncle Lars’s arms were around them both, and Mrs. Vos’s too. Tears streamed down the old faces.

“My dress is dirty.” Exhausted, Beatrix rested against Uncle Lars. “Lieve made it for me.”

“Lieve. We have lost Lieve,” sobbed Mrs. Vos.