“I get it already, I’m done with computers!” Zelda screamed as ceiling tiles crashed down all around her. She dove under her boss’s desk seconds before another seismic wave rolled through the plush carpet floor, tossing her body around like a bean bag. Office supplies and CDs hurled through the air as a computer slid off the bureau above her and crashed into a potted palm tree. Broken pottery shards and wet soil spilt onto the floor, burying the employment contract her boss handed her to sign, mere seconds before the earth started to shake.
She could almost feel the tectonic plates pulling apart under her feet as the Puget Sound widened. Was this Seattle’s predicted ‘Big One’ finally breaking loose? Could one earthquake really decimate the Pacific Northwest, as experts loved to theorize it would? Gripping the thick metal legs of her boss’s desk with all of her might, she rode the bucking earth, screaming her vow to make a change – as long as she survived.
Zelda jolted awake, sweaty sheets twisted around her legs, her heart pounding. Her eyes rapidly scanned her bedroom; nothing appeared to be swaying. The incessant beeping was just her alarm clock. And the earthquake was only a memory, she reminded herself. A memory of a real event still sketched too vividly onto her psyche. It had been almost a year since Seattle’s one and only recorded major earthquake struck, changing her life forever. She hadn’t dreamt about that day for almost a week. How many more months would it be before that fateful morning stopped invading her dreams?
She picked up the glass of water on her nightstand, sloshing it onto her bare skin as she brought it to her lips. Her body was still trembling – the terror she’d felt during the earthquake rushing back through her like an unwanted adrenaline kick. For Zelda, that awful morning had been a wake-up call: life was too short to spend your time doing something you despised.
Four years before the earthquake she’d tried to leave the computer industry behind for good, without success. After working eighty-hour weeks for months on end to meet impossible deadlines imposed by her employers, she’d suffered a massive burn-out. The remedy had been to quit her job and fly to Kathmandu to volunteer as an English teacher for two months. It was her way of breaking free from her demanding work routine and materialistic shackles to try and figure out what would really make her happy in life.
After a turbulent time in Nepal, she’d backpacked around Vietnam and Thailand, only returning to Seattle when her travel funds had run out. She’d seen and done so much on that amazing journey she felt like a different person, one who was more adaptable and resilient than her former self. All she wanted to do when she’d gotten back was throw her old life aside and begin anew.
At first she’d refused to go back to her old profession, certain she could apply her vast array of computer and project management skills to another vocation. Yet everything that interested her required extensive formal training or long, unpaid internships she couldn’t combine with a full-time job.
After her fifth rent payment brought her savings account to an all-time low, she’d sent her resume off to a placement agency and had a job as a website developer within a week. Less than a month later, she was experiencing the same levels of boredom and stress she’d felt before she’d left for Nepal in the first place. But she’d stuck with it, saving as much as she could, telling herself she could always take another long vacation if work got to be too much again.
Three years later, she was skimming an online brochure for a month-long kayaking trip around Belize when her boss popped into her cubicle to see if she’d be interested in a full-time contract.
If Seattle hadn’t gotten its rumbling of the Big One, she probably would never have dared to quit her well-paid job to study art history in Amsterdam. It was a decision that changed her life in more ways than she could ever have imagined, so far only for the better.
Zelda closed her eyes and took three deep breaths, ordering herself to relax. As the tension dissipated, she looked around her small apartment again, taking in the tiny sink, two-person table and one-person bed squeezed into the attic of an old canal house, and smiled in satisfaction. Sure, her entire studio was roughly the size of her old bedroom, but she didn’t mind. Right now this cramped box represented a new-found freedom and endless possibilities.
Even after living in Amsterdam for nine months, she was still enamored with her new hometown. How the early morning sunlight shimmered off the canals’ rippling surface as she biked to the university, a cool wind often twisting through her long brown hair. The simple pleasure of eating a chocolate-filled croissant underneath the Westerkerk as its Carillion bells chimed out modern melodies most afternoons. Or the intense joy she felt wandering through the city’s plethora of museums and galleries. She was definitely not ready to leave yet.
Kicking the covers off her bed, she turned off her alarm clock and stood up. Through her postage stamp window, she could see two broad wooden boats chugging up the Singelgracht as they passed by the Heineken Brewery’s headquarters. She watched until the boats glided out of sight before slipping into her bathrobe and heading off to the communal shower, two stories below.
“Well, good morning to you, young lady!”
Despite Zelda’s early arrival, Rita Brouwer was already downstairs waiting for her in the hotel lobby. The older woman’s scuffed shoes were highly polished and her threadbare clothes perfectly ironed. She obviously took pride in her possessions, though she had little money to spend on them.
“Come on, I’ll sneak you into the breakfast room. For the prices they charge, the hotel staff can’t really complain,” Rita’s hearty laugh and warm smile melted Zelda’s reservations about the day almost immediately. There was something so likeable about the old lady. Her quick sense of humor and no nonsense way of looking at the world reminded Zelda of her own grandmother, or at least what she could remember of her. That similarity made it so much harder to spy on the old lady. Well, spying was probably too big a word to use. But she had promised Bernice Dijkstra she would keep her ears open for any new information Rita provided that could help the museum prove – or disprove – her claim.
Zelda still didn’t understand Huub Konijn’s reluctance to believe Rita Brouwer. As intrigued as he was by her father’s supposed collection of Dutch modernists, he was clearly having a hard time understanding how a simple frame maker could have owned so many important pieces. Not that she expected to learn anything more about the missing paintings during their walk around Rita’s old neighborhood. More likely she’d spend the day patiently listening to long stories about ‘the good old days’, nothing more.
“No thanks, Mrs. Brouwer, I’ve already eaten breakfast. Shall we go or do you need to go back to your room first?” Zelda almost asked if she needed to go to the bathroom before they left. She’d have to watch that, Rita wasn’t her grandma no matter how similar their personalities and she shouldn’t treat her as such, she chided herself.
“Young lady, Mrs. Brouwer was my mother-in-law, God rest her soul. You can call me Rita,” she said, looping her arm through Zelda’s and propelling her out the front door.
Rita turned right at the first intersection, onto a street lined with mansions. As they crossed over the tramlines and stepped onto the Museumplein, the old lady stopped in front of the reflecting pool. The wind was so still that the tourists climbing up the red-and-white ‘I Amsterdam’ structure positioned at the end of the pond were mirrored in the water, the majestic Rijksmuseum soaring up behind them. The overpowering smells of ice cream, hot dogs and grilled hamburgers wafted up from the food tents lining both sides of the pool.
“How I loved to skate here.” Rita glowed. “I was just a little girl, even for my age I was small, but I could skate all by myself by the time I was three. A natural talent, my daddy used to say.”
“Oh, did the pool freeze by itself back then? Was it cold enough?” She’d heard stories about the brutally cold winters and frozen canals of the past, but global warming seemed to have put a halt to that some years ago. Last winter, Zelda remembered watching how a chilling system involving tubes and a generator turned this same pool into a mini-ice rink, weeks before a single snowflake had fallen.
“This little pond is new to me. As are most of those buildings over there,” Rita gestured towards their right, at the Van Gogh Museum and Albert Heijn supermarket. “Back then there were no fancy lighting systems or pathways crisscrossing the square; only grass and trees. The city’s ice skating association paid to have the entire field flooded every winter and nature did the rest. After a good freeze, the whole square would be filled with kids and adults skating and sledding.”
Rita sounded so happy as she got lost in her memories of better times. “It was so much fun seeing all of your friends out on the ice like that. At least it was, until the German army confiscated most of the buildings on the square. Heck, their embassy was right over there,” Rita pointed to a large house at the far left-hand side of the Museumplein.
Zelda blinked in confusion, pointing at the same building just to be sure. “You mean the one on the end? Are you certain?”
“Sure I am,” Rita chuckled. “I didn’t expect to see our embassy there either.”
Zelda shook her head in disbelief. She’d been inside that mansion, now the home to the American Consulate to the Netherlands, a few weeks ago to renew her passport.
“The last winter we lived in Amsterdam, that would have been 1941, my daddy wouldn’t let us kids skate here anymore. All the big Nazi party rallies were held here. Most of the buildings, including the Rijksmuseum, had those red banners with the swastikas hanging off of ’em. It gave him the creeps. As a matter of fact, he didn’t want us going anyway near Museumplein after the Nazis came to town. There were too many of them hanging around, trying to recruit the boys and pick up the girls. Later they put barbed wire around the whole square, for security reasons, they said. That was after we’d already left for Venlo. But there were still bits of it strung up when we came back to Amsterdam after the war had ended.”
“Barbed wire fence? Here?” Zelda stammered.
“And bunkers with anti-aircraft guns mounted on top of them set up on each corner.”
Zelda looked around the peaceful field of grass filled with lounging locals and picnicking tourists. She could hardly imagine how it must have been during the war with concrete bunkers jutting out of the earth and German soldiers standing guard, fortified to the teeth.
“But why? Because of the German Embassy?”
“The Gestapo and SS had their headquarters here, and most of the high-ranking SS officers took over the houses close to the square,” Rita said, referring to the large homes lining the streets around the Museumplein. “It was an important target for the Allies.”
“But weren’t people living in those houses when the Nazis arrived? Or were they offices back then, too?” Almost all of Amsterdam’s free-standing houses were located in the direct vicinity of Museumplein, making it one of the most prestigious – and expensive – neighborhoods in the Netherlands. Nowadays, only lawyers, notaries and small corporations could afford to buy them, save the odd millionaire who’d set up house.
“Yes, they were, but by rich folk who’d had lots to lose once war broke out. I imagine most of the families who’d been living here used their wealth to flee Amsterdam before the Germans arrived.”
Zelda didn’t know what to say. She knew so little about the city’s wartime past. And after a visit to Anne Frank’s house, she hadn’t wanted to learn more. It was all too depressing.
“So, how do you like working at the Amsterdam Museum?” Rita asked.
Relieved the older woman had changed the subject, Zelda swiftly responded, “I’m not really working there. I’m an intern for the summer.”
“Are you studying art history or Jewish religion?”
“Neither,” she sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got the time,” Rita smiled encouragingly. “We’ve got a little ways to walk before we get to my old neighborhood.”
“Well, I’m trying to get into a master’s program in Museum Studies at the University of Amsterdam. It’s a combination of art history, exhibition design and museum management. With this master’s degree I could work as either a curator or exhibition designer at any museum I wanted to, or really any other place that presents objects or ideas to the public.”
“A curator, that’s wonderful. I always wanted to do something like that but never had the chance. I’d married young and had a baby before our first anniversary,” Rita chuckled, adding, “Good for you.”
“Well, thanks,” Zelda mumbled as she studied her left shoe intently.
“You think I’m pulling your chain, but it’s true. I’ve always been interested in art history. That’s how I found my painting; I read all of the new art magazines as soon as they come into the library where I volunteer. It’s such a wonderful way to keep up-to-date,” Rita sighed wistfully, dreaming about a life that could have been.
“If all goes well, I should be starting this September.”
“A master’s degree is a two-year study, right?” Rita asked.
“Yeah, well, eighteen months of classes and a six-month internship.”
Rita nodded slowly. “You know, for so many years my mother, sisters and I, well, we all pretended it wasn’t important knowing what had happened to my daddy’s art collection. It was missing, just like he was, and that was that. But having Irises turn up after all of these years made me realize I do want to know why he never came to Venlo, and finding his paintings may help us figure that out. I’ve tried to tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore, he’s dead either way. But it does matter. To know how he died or even where he’s buried would offer some sort of relief to both me and my sisters.”
Zelda could feel her eyes tearing up. How difficult it must be, not knowing what happened to a loved one – especially a parent. She couldn’t even imagine the depth of Rita’s pain.
“I still don’t understand why Irises was found in that house close by here, but it’s the only new piece of information we’ve heard about in many years. Me finding Irises was pure dumb luck. With my pension and social security there’s no way I could hire some fancy art investigator to try and hunt down the rest of his paintings. But I do have my mama’s list, with all of the titles and artists’ names. Maybe you could check some of the local archives and see if you can’t find any mention of the rest. My sisters and I’d be happy to pay you for your time and troubles. It would be easier for you to find new leads here in the Netherlands than it would for me back in Missouri. Heck, I still can’t check my email without one of the girls from the library helping me out, let alone search all those electronic databases they have nowadays,” Rita laughed.
Zelda could hardly believe her ears. What a wonderful opportunity, she thought, money or not. It would be fun to play detective and see what she could find. “I’m honored you asked. I’d be happy to help, in any way I can,” she squeezed Rita’s arm affectionately. “To be honest, I don’t really know where to begin either. But I can search through the exhibition’s database and the national archives for you and see what I find.”
Rita stopped in her tracks and pulled her in close for a great big bear hug. Zelda was afraid the older woman was going to smother her with kisses, too. “Why, that would be more than kind of you to try!” After releasing the younger woman, she rummaged through her purse, quickly producing a single sheet. “Here’s a list of all his paintings, at least those my mama tried to claim.”
Zelda took the paper from Rita’s outstretched hand and quickly scanned the names before shoving the list into her bag. As she did, her hand slid over a thick envelope.
“Oh, I almost forgot to give you this.” She handed the older lady the envelope. ‘Rita Brouwer née Verbeet’ was written in gold letters on the front.
“Looks fancy, what is it?”
“Bernice Dijkstra asked me to pass this on to you. It’s your official invitation to the opening this Saturday. You did say you could attend, right?”
“Like I told your bosses, I’d be pleased as punch to attend. I already changed my flight so I can tell Iris the good news in person and see if we can find those letters daddy sent us. I’m not flying to Phoenix until next Tuesday. That’ll give me time to see more of Amsterdam before I go.”
“I’m sure the museum’s board of directors is going to love showing you off at the opening, you being their first claimant and all,” Zelda said, as Rita glowed with pride.
They soon exited the square, following wide tree-lined streets filled with expensive mansions until they came upon the Boerenwetering. A small metal bridge rose high over the canal, connecting the Museumplein with the Pijp neighborhood. On the other side of the water, the terraced houses were substantially smaller and the streets narrower, busier, livelier.
“My old neighborhood,” Rita exclaimed, pausing at the top of the bridge to take it all in. “I still recognize it after all these years.”
Zelda figured the older woman would want to rest a moment and catch her breath, but Rita charged on, eager to tell her about every building and business they passed.
“Simone lived in that green house with her aunt and uncle. She was always losing her mittens. That was where Marianne lived; I used to play there every Tuesday. See that house with the blue trim around the windows? That’s where Samuel the butcher lived with his brother. He used to save the best pieces of beef for my mama.” There was a new spring in her step and lightness in her voice as Rita was transported back seventy years in time. Zelda expected her to leap into a game of hopscotch at any moment. She just hoped the old woman didn’t break her hip doing it.
Rita grew quiet as they approached the next street, slowing to a stop as she gazed up at its name in wonder. “The Frans Halsstraat. This was where we lived. Frans Hals was a far better painter than Rembrandt van Rijn, at least that’s what daddy used to say.”
She pointed straight ahead. ‘The Rijksacademie is a few blocks that way and our house is around the corner,” Rita blinked as she slowly lowered her arm. “Sushi? Well, I’ll be,” she tittered, adding, “That used to be our frame shop,” as she nodded towards the ‘I Love Sushi’ bar now set up inside.
Rita charged on, rounding the corner onto the Frans Halsstraat at full speed, only to stop abruptly and gasp in horror, “Oh no, this can’t be!”
Zelda followed her gaze down the block towards an unusual opening in the long row of terraced houses. At least two had been demolished and the lots stripped clean. Tied to the rickety metal fence was a billboard announcing there were still apartments available to buy, though there were no construction workers or machines in sight. Large wooden beams were placed at ninety-degree angles against the sides of the neighboring houses to keep them from caving in. She felt sorry for the home owners on either side; not only did they have all the construction noise to contend with, their privacy had been seriously infringed upon. Their normally shielded backyards were clearly visible from the sidewalk, thanks to the large open space in the otherwise block-long row of connected homes.
Rita hurried down the street; Zelda sprinted to catch up. As the older lady approached the open lots, she paused momentarily, looking around in confusion before exclaiming, “Thank goodness, number 14 is still standing!”
She rushed over to the brick house situated to the left of the construction site, its façade painted a deep brown with dark green trim around the windows and door. A steel balk decorated with five metal rosettes, also painted green, spanned the structure. Chiseled into a stone block above the entrance was the number 1847, the year the house had been constructed. Next to the door was a short flight of stairs leading up to another apartment. Zelda immediately recognized it from Rita’s photo album. She looked over at her companion, now standing on the doorstep of her childhood home, tears streaming down her face.
“This was our house,” Rita said, her voice a whisper. As if in a trance, she began gently stroking the green-painted wood, murmuring to herself. Zelda looked around in a panic, sure someone walking or biking by was bound to call the cops, thinking the old lady had gone crazy. To her surprise, none of the passersby seemed to notice them. This is Amsterdam, Zelda reminded herself, Europe’s sin city. Stranger things happened here all the time.
Soon enough, Rita composed herself, standing up straighter, taller. “Let’s see if anyone’s home.”
Before Zelda could restrain her, Rita pounded on the door five times. “That should get somebody’s attention,” she said with a smug smile of satisfaction.
More like the whole neighborhood, Zelda thought.
A woman in her late thirties threw open the door. Her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail and there were stains all over her t-shirt and sweats. “Yes?” she demanded. In another room close by, a baby was crying.
“Hello, dear. My name is Rita Brouwer and I used to live here. I was hoping to come inside and see the house again if –”
All of a sudden the baby’s cries turned to howls.
“My son, I must go to him.” The home’s owner sized up the older woman and her younger companion for a moment before racing to her child, leaving the door open. “Come inside,” she yelled back as she jogged down a short hallway into the kitchen.
Rita took off after her as if she still owned the place with Zelda trailing slowly behind.
The screaming receded. The woman soothed her baby with kisses until he stopped crying enough to notice the two strangers approaching. He looked up at Rita and Zelda with open curiosity, smiling a toothless grin.
“Who did you say you were again?” the apartment’s current owner asked, as she returned her baby to its high chair and began shoveling applesauce into his open mouth.
“Rita Brouwer, although back then I was Margriet Verbeet. This here is my friend Zelda Richardson. I lived in this house when I was a little girl. I haven’t been back to the Netherlands since the war, you see, and walking along the Frans Halsstraat again brought back so many memories of my family, and especially my daddy, God rest his soul. I had to see my old home again. You do understand, don’t you?”
Zelda started inching back towards the door, sure the Dutch woman was going to throw them out. Instead, she gazed lovingly at her infant son – now happily smearing applesauce onto his high chair – then up at the old woman standing before her, grinning from ear to ear.
“Of course, you must come back and see where you grew up. How do you Americans say it, ‘to see your roots’?” She wiped her baby’s mouth and hands off with a wet rag before taking him into her arms once again. Then she turned to Rita and offered her a hand. “I am Eva and this is Cor. Why don’t we start our tour in his room? It’s time for his nap.”
Zelda, flabbergasted at how easily Rita got her wish, followed silently behind.
“How long have you lived here, Eva?” Rita asked, after the baby was tucked into bed.
“Klaas and I bought it a year ago, a few months after Cor was born. It was a rental unit before then and had not been taken care of properly,” Eva explained as she guided them back towards the living room, “we spent quite a lot of money renovating and modernizing it after we moved in.”
As they walked around the small house, Zelda began to recognize the rooms from the pictures Rita had shown them. Eva and Klaas had torn out a few walls, but in general the house looked the same.
“This is where my daddy started his frame shop, right here in this living room. He didn’t have a family back then. After Iris was born, he moved his shop to the end of the street, where that sushi place is now.”
After having seen the ground floor, Eva led them up a steep flight of stairs to the second story. To the left was a bathroom and storage closet, but most of the floor was taken up by the master bedroom.
“My parents slept downstairs, in your cute little boy’s bedroom. This was our room.” She stopped by the door’s opening, almost afraid to go inside. A wash of emotions crossing over her face as she slowly raised her hand. Finally, Rita pushed open the door, exclaiming, “Goodness, it all looks so different now.”
A queen-sized bed was placed diagonally across the large space, nightstands positioned on either side. His and hers armoires stood against one wall. French doors opened onto a small balcony, rays of sunlight spilt through their uncovered windows, warming the sparsely furnished room.
“We took out the built-in closets last year. It really opens up the space.” Eva said with a touch of pride.
“There weren’t any closets back then. All five of us girls slept up here. My daddy built bunk beds on both sides of the room and Iris’s bed was set up in the middle,” Rita crossed over to the French doors and opened them. The tiny balcony was filled with plants and two folding chairs. Rita stepped out and looked down into the garden.
“Oh my,” she said aghast, clutching the balcony’s railing for support. Zelda ran to her side and grabbed her arm, afraid something was wrong with Rita’s heart. She glanced down to see what had upset the older lady so. All she saw was a concrete shed in Eva’s garden below, its crumbling walls in bad need of repair, surrounded by a patch of brown grass. The neighbor’s yard on the left was equally disheveled. Along the right side of Eva’s property ran two strands of barbed-wire, the only thing separating her garden from the construction site. From the balcony, she could see the lot had been leveled and a few holes had already been dug out for the pillars on which the foundation would be built.
Eva joined them at the window. “Terrible sight, isn’t it? If that project developer goes bankrupt I’m afraid those lots will stay empty for years. Living next to an open pit is not going to help our property’s value.” She clicked her tongue in irritation.
“Our shed, it’s so dilapidated!” Rita cried, her eyes locked onto the structure below.
“Oh, that. Klaas is planning on demolishing it one of these days, but he’s so busy with work I don’t know when he’ll have the time. Besides, the walls are so thick he can saw and drill without disturbing the neighbors. You can’t hear a thing, so long as the door is closed.”
“My daddy sure would be disappointed to see it in such a sad state of disrepair. He was such a good carpenter; he could make anything with those hands of his,” Rita sighed as she sat down on Eva’s bed, her girth sinking deep into the mattress. For the first time since Zelda had met her, Rita looked worn out and fragile, like the seventy-nine-year-old woman she really was. Seeing that shed in its rundown state seemed to have sapped the life out of her.
“I don’t suppose the dollhouse is still there?” Rita asked, a tremor in her voice.
“Dollhouse? I’m sorry, I don’t understand this word?” Eva seemed to sense the change in Rita’s mood as well, touching her hand to the older woman’s forehead. “Would you like a glass of water or something to eat? You do not look well.”
“No, I’m doing fine,” Rita smiled weakly at her host. “I almost forgot seventy years have gone by. Of course things aren’t the same as they were back then, when we lived here, when my daddy was still alive. Nothing is the same as it was.”
“But this dollhouse?”
“My daddy built one for us girls, out there in that shed. It was like a miniature house, but with no roof or exterior walls so you could move the dolls and furnishings around inside.”
“Oh yes, een poppenhuis. I have seen those in the Rijksmuseum before. They are very beautiful.”
“We thought so, too. Our friends loved to come over and play out there. It was so big it covered most of the floor. But daddy was so clever; he built it in an ‘L’ shape along two of the walls so he could still get to his root cellar. He used to make wine from the grapes he grew in our garden. If there were enough raspberries, he’d make schnapps. And my mama liked to make preserves out of her strawberries and rhubarb. That’s where they kept it all, in the root cellar. I’m sure that’s all gone, too. Though it would be a hoot to find one of mama’s jams or daddy’s wines on a shelf down there.”
“A root cellar under the shed? The real estate agent did not mention one. And there is no opening in the floor; it’s made of a heavy, concrete tile. It must have been filled in years ago.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Rita said pensively. “There’s not much use for root cellars nowadays. Nobody makes preserves or wines themselves anymore, do they? And with the Cold War finally over, bomb shelters are out of fashion, too.”
Zelda could see Rita was trying to make light of the situation even though it was clearly painful for her. She couldn’t imagine the emotional turmoil Rita must have been experiencing since she’d set foot in her old family home and been confronted with all the changes that had taken place since the Second World War. With nothing tangible left for her memories to grab onto, Rita had to face the fact that all she had left were the photographs and stories of how her life once was, when her father was still alive.
The older lady rose from the bed, grabbing onto Zelda’s arm for support. “You know, I think the jet lag’s finally catching up with me,” she tried to grin, unsuccessfully. “Maybe you could walk me back to my hotel?”
Zelda nodded.
Rita turned to her host. “I sure do appreciate you letting me see my family’s home, Eva.”
Before she could respond, Rita wrapped her arms around the Dutch woman and squeezed her tight.
As she dislodged herself from Rita’s embrace, Eva said, “It was a pleasure meeting you and hearing more about the history of my home. Are you sure you are feeling well enough to walk back to your hotel? I can call a taxi for you.”
“Heavens, no. A walk will do me good.” With a sad smile, Rita started down the stairs towards Eva’s front door, Zelda following close behind.