Two weeks had gone by. An unbelievable amount of time and Stella cursed Oliver Fip for being right. It would take a month to get what she needed on the baron and the businessman and she’d be lucky if it only took that long. She’d wasted two days visiting her business contacts to see if anyone knew the baron or Bikker. One or two had met the men, but nobody ran in their elevated circles. An elderly watchmaker that Stella had purchased an antique clock from described Bikker as a cold fish when he’d come in to pick up a repaired wristwatch. That wasn’t a good sign, but he did have several antique clocks that the watchmaker had serviced.
So, Stella went to Bikker’s office and tried to make an appointment. She said she had some fabulous clocks he might be interested in and was summarily rebuffed. It was obvious that without someone Bikker knew introducing her, he wouldn’t consider a meeting. She had to turn to observation and tracking. Both were wholly unsatisfying with such a dull man as Jan Bikker.
On the other hand, the baron was rumored to be friendly, if you were lucky enough to accidentally run into him, so Stella started hunting around Amsterdam for him in bars and restaurants, not daring to go directly to his house without an introduction or a legitimate reason. She knew enough about aristocrats to know not to just show up. The earl had taught her that.
Stella put miles on her shoes going from café to café, restaurant to restaurant, but the Dutch were nothing if not discreet. She couldn’t find out what places he frequented or when he’d last been seen. She needed a way in, but the best she could do was to plant herself across the canal from the baron’s elegant address to see if she could spot him. The house wasn’t what Stella expected for a baron. Despite being three times the width of the average canal house, Baron Van Heeckeren’s was rather dull with a flat roof, typically large plain windows, and a front door with a glass oval, simply etched.
She watched the Baron’s front door for hours on day four. It never opened, not once in seven hours and Stella felt herself sinking down. The sadness returning. She wasn’t getting anywhere and she had to. Men could fail and no one would mind. If she did, it was a black mark that she couldn’t erase. It didn’t help that the battle for Norway continued with the British engaging. Nicky could be there, even though the fight was so distant. There were aircraft carriers. He could be on one and she wouldn’t even know.
Just when she was considering giving up, the servants’ entrance opened. The double doors were directly under the formal entrance down a set of wide steps so that Stella could only see the top of the highly polished wood panels. People had gone in and out of those doors all day with small deliveries of the papers, milk, and other essentials, but this was the first time someone was coming out that wasn’t a delivery person. She sat up straight and put some coins on the café table.
She was in luck. Three women came out and Stella recognized the sturdy practical coats and shoes. Maids. That front door still hadn’t opened and maids didn’t go out en masse when their employer was home, so Stella jumped up and hurried after the women, tracking them to a neighborhood bar. After slowly working her way into the women’s group, two young girls and an older lady, by accident that, of course, wasn’t an accident, they began to chat about the bar, the food, and the weather. Not the most exciting topics, but Stella could keep them going for as long as necessary until she could turn to something better. The young girls weren’t cooperative since they were in pursuit of a barman who had no interest in them, leaving her with the tired older woman, a stocky redhead with white at the temples and plenty of smile lines.
Stella chatted up the maid only to find out that the baron was off in St. Moritz supposedly enjoying the last of the ski season. The maid confided that the baron really didn’t ski. He was there to enjoy the spas and seduce a young woman lately married to a man older even than the baron and ugly as a walrus.
“Will he be successful?” Stella had asked, trying to get the measure of the baron.
The maid chuckled. “Maybe, if she’s bored.”
That told Stella a lot and the maid was helpful, if a bit expensive. It took a lot of Jenever to loosen her tongue. Cornelia did like her gin. Stella thought she might have a problem, but it was to Stella’s advantage and she took it. They accidentally ran into each other twice more over the weeks and became friends, since they were about the same age, or so Cornelia thought. Stella was able to convince her that while she was a successful businesswoman, they were really two of a kind. Women who worked and had to get by on their wits instead of looks and connections.
Since Stella had assumed Micheline as a cover, she’d gained a new respect for women like her and Cornelia. Stella’d been blessed with connections, money, and a certain amount of looks. Micheline had none of those advantages and it was evident every time someone met her for the first time. She had to prove herself, make herself important and heard. It was tedious and exhausting.
As she watched Cornelia walk into the café two weeks after returning to Amsterdam, she knew it was the same for her, only she’d been fighting that fight for a lot longer than three months. The maid spoke to a waiter at the door who had his mouth turned down as he greeted her. Stella watched him question Cornelia the way he questioned her and Stella had the urge to walk over and give the pretentious little prig a good smack. Yes, he was young and handsome and Cornelia was middle-aged and dumpy, but that gave him no right to act like she couldn’t have a coffee and a pastry with a friend.
Stella was about to give in to the urge when Cornelia pointed her out and the little snot gave way reluctantly. Cornelia stomped over, yanked out a chair, and dropped down, making the chair creak.
“What a day I’ve had,” she said.
Stella leaned forward and asked, “Was he giving you trouble?”
“Yes, of course. He knows I’m a maid and doesn’t think I’m good enough to eat here.”
“Ridiculous. If it makes you feel better, he wasn’t happy about me either.”
Cornelia lifted a woolly brow. “Really? You in your fancy coat and bag?”
“They’re not that fancy,” Stella whispered. “I got them from an estate sale for guilders.”
“You are a smart one.” She glanced at the door. “Look at that.”
Two young women, dressed at much the same level as Cornelia, came in and went directly to a table. The snotty waiter didn’t intervene, but he did rush to take their orders. Stella was still waiting. She was lucky to get a menu, which she shared with Cornelia.
“Oh, to be young and pretty,” Stella said.
“And dimwitted. The tall one might be out of a job soon.”
“Really?”
“She’s been stealing from the corner shop, but he’s on to her now.”
“Who is she?” Stella asked.
“Marga Kübler and the other one is Ester Isaksohn. They work at your hotel. Haven’t you seen them?”
Stella had, but the girls made no impression, certainly not as much as the waiter. She had to wave at him for a third time in an attempt to get some service. He looked annoyed but came over reluctantly after he brought coffees to Marga and Ester.
“Yes?” he asked with a sneer.
Stella ordered the most expensive coffee and pastry and offered the same to Cornelia who agreed offhandedly like she ordered the best daily. He raised his pomaded brows and pursed his lips.
“Problem?” Stella asked.
“You’ll be paying for this?”
“Who else?”
He spun around and went back to Marga and Ester. Soon the three of them were sharing a laugh presumably at the older ladies’ expense. The manager came out and spoke sharply to the waiter and he rushed back into the kitchen.
“Finally,” said Stella. “What an obnoxious trio.”
“They wouldn’t be a trio if they knew anything about each other,” said Cornelia.
“Do tell. I’ve had a terrible day trying to drum up business and getting nowhere at all.”
“Well, those two flapdrols are Jews and Siert, he’s the last person they would want to know.”
The manager came over with a tray and served their coffee and pastries with an apology and an excuse.
“Yes, he is young,” agreed Stella.
“Not that young.” Cornelia was a good deal feistier than she looked.
The manager’s cheeks colored and he apologized again before dashing off to wipe down the bar.
“As if Siert is some sweet young man right off the farm,” said Cornelia.
Stella sipped her coffee and kept an eye on the window. She’d picked that café because it was near Jan Bikker’s home and she’d been trying to pin down his movements. “Definitely not sweet. Does he not like Jews?”
Cornelia laughed. “He’s in the NSB. You know about the NSB?”
“Certainly, but I don’t know any National Socialists, not here anyway,” said Stella, perking up. This could be useful.
“You don’t know that you know any, but you do. They’re everywhere. They have seats in the senate now.”
“What would he do if he knew about the girls?”
Cornelia grimaced. “I don’t like to think. They’re silly and Marga’s a thief, but I wouldn’t want them to get hurt.”
I wonder if they’d say the same about us.
Stella caught the girls giving them superior looks, quite full of themselves. How could they be so unaware? Young and pretty meant nothing to the Nazis. For a second, Stella could hear Hanni’s pleas, her sobs, and she was a German, an Aryan.
Cornelia touched her hand. “Micheline? What is it?”
She was slipping. Feeling. She had to pull herself together. “Oh, just tired.”
“Of the world, like me?”
“Yes, but I think they’re coming.” Stella lowered her voice. “The Nazis.”
“I think so, too. Why would they not? We’re right here and our military is nothing to theirs.”
She gestured to the girls. “Don’t they know?”
“You’d think so. Marga came from Germany with her family years ago. They didn’t leave because it was good. And…”
Stella leaned in. “Yes?”
“They were fired from Bikker’s. That’s why they work at Kras.”
Cornelia knew all the details, the way maids who’ve worked in the same neighborhood for twenty years do. Marga and Ester had worked in the Bikker Grand Hotel on the Herengracht. The fashionable and expensive canal was the place to work and the girls had been lucky to get their jobs. Cornelia wasn’t sure how they did it. The Bikkers did not like Jews as a general rule, but somehow the girls managed to work for them for two years without a problem. But they were silly and bragged at a bar about having jobs when the refugees were flooding in. They got there first. Someone overheard, realized they were Jews, and told the hotel. This was just after the Polish invasion and anti-Jewish sentiment was running high with so many refugees flooding into the city.
“Stupid girls,” said Stella.
“That’s not the half of it,” said Cornelia with a grimace.
“What else could happen? This isn’t Germany.”
“But the Bikkers are like Nazis. They keep it quiet, but we know.”
Stella ate her pastry, her eyes alit with casual interest. “What did they do to the girls then?”
“I heard the son, the heir to the whole company, came and told the girls they could keep their jobs if they told them the truth,” said Cornelia.
“About what?”
“If there were any other Jews working there.”
“Oh, no. They didn’t,” Stella gasped.
“They did. Two cooks and a doorman. My friend Yannj was one of the cooks,” she said. “They were all fired. All, even the girls. Stupid fools. Yannj had to leave. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t find work.”
“Where did she go?”
“America. She’s in a place called Ohio,” said Cornelia. “She writes.”
“How did she do it?” asked Stella. “I buy from the Jews. They say they can’t get visas to America.”
It turned out Yannj was lucky and prepared. She and her husband had gathered all the necessary documents. It was a laundry list, including a sponsor to guarantee them financially and security documents to say they weren’t a threat to the States. The luck came in that Yannj had gotten to know a certain American diplomat who stayed at the hotel. He worked at the American consulate in Rotterdam and got Yannj through the endless queue quickly.
Stella held her breath. Help at the consulate. She could use that. The prostitute was useless in anything other than communications. She wasn’t going to give up her connection in the embassy. He was probably a client. “Who is this American? He sounds kind.”
“Oh, I don’t remember. He had a funny name. You know Americans,” said Cornelia.
“Yannj didn’t mention who helped them?”
She frowned slightly. “You’re very interested.”
“People fascinate me, like those two girls over there. They don’t think at all. The American must have broken some rules to get the visa for your friend. He’s interesting, too, in a different way.”
“He is now that I think about it,” said Cornelia. “And he probably has money. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Tell the truth.”
It wasn’t. Money was the last thing on Stella’s mind. Visas. If she could find that American, she could find a way to get him to give Bertha a visa and the others, too. The States weren’t filling their quota. There was space. They were just making it so damn hard to jump all the hurdles. Even Francesqua’s influence wasn’t as good as someone on the ground right where she needed them.
Stella smiled. “You know me too well. He might like antiques. Everyone has family. Maybe they’d like a souvenir of his time here. I’ve bought things and I have to sell them. If he has a wife, even better.”
“A wife that likes antiques.”
“A wife that likes jewelry. I’ve bought so much I don’t know what I’m going to do with it and buyers here are getting more scarce.”
“What about your American?” she asked.
“He wants art and things to decorate his house. Can’t get enough of it, but jewelry doesn’t interest him.”
Cornelia ate her pastry and pondered a man with a bride that didn’t want jewelry. She did not approve of Dilly Rutherford III, the big cheapo. “Why did you buy it then?”
“Well, I had to, didn’t I? It was such a deal. Too good to pass up and our other American clients might like it.”
Her friend stiffened slightly. If Stella hadn’t been paying close attention to her cues, she wouldn’t have noticed. “The Jews are selling. Yannj had to sell everything she owned to pay for their tickets.”
Be careful.
“Yes, I know. It’s a buyer’s market, but I’m fair. You can ask anyone.”
“But you’re a businesswoman.” Cornelia wasn’t satisfied and Stella had to thread the needle carefully. Oliver was right about her generosity getting out.
“I’m no Bikker,” she said.
“Thank heaven for that.” Cornelia laughed. “They’re coldhearted bastards.”
As if on cue, a coldhearted bastard walked by. Jan Bikker in an overcoat and hat walked across the street and out of view. Stella had followed him and studied him for days, looking for a way in, but there didn’t seem to be one. The man was discreet to say the least. He wasn’t social or at least hadn’t been in the last three weeks. He biked. He worked. He didn’t go out to restaurants or bars. Stella had yet to locate someone who called him a friend or even someone who knew a friend of Jan Bikker.
“Do you know them?” Stella asked.
Cornelia scoffed. “Nobody knows them.”
“Oh, I thought that you worked at the hotel or something.”
“I’ve always worked for the baron and his father before him. Good men. Kind. Generous.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Stella.
Cornelia gripped her cup. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing really. The baron doesn’t collect anything, so he’s no help to me.” She smiled and sighed.
The maid relaxed. “Oh, yes. The baron doesn’t care for art or antiques. You won’t sell to him, but…”
Stella smiled. “You have an idea?”
“Buy my coffee?”
“I would’ve anyway.”
“The baron likes parties. He loves a good time.”
“How in the world would that sell a diamond necklace? I’ve got three.”
“He knows people, all the best people and some of the worst.”
“Like the Bikkers?”
“Yes, that’s how I’m acquainted with them or her anyway. She comes to the house.”
“Who does?” Stella asked with feigned confusion. “Jan Bikker?”
“No, not him. He’s no fun at all. The wife.”
Stella made a face. “You don’t mean that the baron and Jan Bikker’s wife are…”
Cornelia smacked her arm. “You are as silly as those stupid girls over there. He’s old enough to be her father.”
“That doesn’t matter to some, like that woman in St. Moritz.”
“It would matter to Anna Bikker. She has ambitions and that’s why she comes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Stella.
Cornelia wiped her mouth and said, “You pay and we’ll take a walk.”
Stella shrugged and said, “All right, but I don’t know what you’re getting at.” She really didn’t, but the wife was a way in. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d been concentrating on Jan and had barely seen the wife. They didn’t do anything together.
“You’ll see,” said Cornelia. “Hurry up or you’ll have to buy me another pastry.”
Stella would’ve bought her dinner, a turkey, a ham, five pies, or whatever she wanted. Cornelia was worth it.
Cornelia stepped off the tram onto the wide and very busy Westermarkt. The street was double wide and packed with shoppers and people hurrying home after a long day. The smell of fresh waffles and Bitterballen filled the air along with flowers and a hint of exhaust. It smelled like car exhaust to Stella, but there weren’t any cars that she could see. Men bicycled by with large carts attached between their handlebars and front wheel. Handcarts were everywhere and hauling everything from firewood to children.
The women dashed between one barrage of bicycles and the next to make it to the Prinsengracht, a wide canal clogged with barges and boats. They crossed and walked down the avenue on the side, dodging a horse and wagon hauling bulging sacks. Stella had never seen horses hauling anything until she got to Europe and now the sight was so common, she hardly noticed it or the occasional pile left on the cobblestones.
“Have you been here before?” Cornelia asked.
“A few times,” Stella said.
“When you’re buying, not selling.”
She nodded. No one was buying in that area of the Jordaan. It was working class, not a bad neighborhood but not one where antiques and diamonds were seen either.
“This way.” Cornelia turned onto a narrow side street with weeds growing between the tall, skinny houses and the sidewalk. Rough wooden stairs led up to the plain first floor doors in this area and there were no servants’ stairs underneath, but there were quite a few bicycle carts. They passed one with a pair of chubby babies sitting inside sucking their thumbs. Stella couldn’t imagine leaving her babies sitting alone outside, but it wasn’t uncommon and the babies didn’t seem to mind.
“Here we are.” Cornelia pointed at an extremely narrow house, four stories tall with the usual hook on the pediment to haul up heavy loads to the higher floors and a set of stairs that sagged to the point of splintering. The whole structure leaned over the street like it was bowing to its inevitable disintegration and Stella wondered how it continued to stand.
“Why are we here?” Stella asked.
“You told me that it’s best if you know a lot about your buyers so that you might give them exactly what they want.”
“There’s a buyer here?”
Cornelia bumped her shoulder. “There was. This is Anna Bikker’s family home. She grew up here and her parents shared this house with two other families until she married Jan Bikker.”
“Where are they now?” Stella asked.
“Out in the country where no one need meet them.”
She’s ashamed. Shame is useful.
“So, this is a secret.”
Cornelia yawned and buttoned her coat’s top button against the early evening chill. “People know. We just pretend not to know.”
“I have an uncle that people pretend about,” said Stella, surprising herself and immediately regretting the admission.
“A bad uncle?” Cornelia asked with a smile. “We all have them.”
“A drunken one. He does things like wandering into other people’s houses and sleeping in their beds. Everyone knows, but they don’t say anything.”
“Nice neighbors.”
“Tolerant anyway,” said Stella. “So, if this is sort of a secret, how do you know?”
Cornelia took her arm and they walked down another block to a charming little house, painted blue with a bell-shaped gable. “This is where Yannj lived. She knew the family. Her landlord knew the mother, I think. My point is Anna Bikker is this place not that house on Keizersgracht, but she is doing everything she can to act like she’s not. She comes to see the baron to meet his friends, eat his food, and see how the house is run. He knows everyone and everyone knows him. Anna Bikker wants to be like that, but it takes more than study to attain it.”
“He’s a charming man then.”
“The most charming. He was born that way and has so much energy for life and fun. Anna Bikker isn’t like that at all.”
“What is she like?” Stella asked.
“She wanted Marga and Ester arrested. Yannj, too, as if the hotel had been harmed in some way. They were all good workers, except Marga.”
“She might’ve stolen from them.”
“If she had, I doubt she’d live to tell the tale,” said Cornelia.
“Sounds like some Germans I know.”
The maid nodded grimly. “Very like the Germans, the Nazis anyway.”
“But Anna likes jewelry and fine things?”
“She does and she has no taste at all.”
“How did she happen to marry a Bikker? It seems an unlikely match.”
Cornelia screwed up her mouth and frowned. “I don’t know, but we can find out, if it will help.”
It’s time.
“You are certainly earning your finder’s fee,” said Stella, beaming.
“Finder’s fee? I was just trying to help your business.”
Stella took her arm and squeezed. “And you are. Very much. I often pay a finder’s fee to those who help me with lucrative sales. It’s good business to help people who help you.”
Cornelia beamed back at her. “You are almost Dutch in your thinking.”
“Thank you. That is quite a compliment,” said Stella. “Now what was the mother’s name?”
“I don’t remember, but Flore will know.” Cornelia marched up the stairs of the blue house and pounded on the black wooden door.
Stella chased her and asked, “What are we doing?”
“Asking Flore, Yannj’s landlord.”
“Right now.” Stella feigned surprise, despite her heart leaping with joy. Information was good. The thin edge of the wedge.
Cornelia bumped her with her hip. “I have to earn my fee, don’t I?”
“You are and then some.”
The door opened a crack and a little old lady with white hair and a lace collar peeked out, squinting behind tiny wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes?”
“Flore, it’s me, Cornelia, Yannj’s friend. I thought I’d come for a visit,” said Cornelia in a charming social way that made Stella wonder if she learned it from her boss. It wasn’t Cornelia’s natural way.
“Oh, my dear. Of course,” said Flore. “Come in. Come in.”
The little old lady opened the door to reveal a narrow hall with rag rugs and smelling of floor wax. Cornelia introduced Stella as her dear friend and she was greeted as such.
“I was just going to have my evening tea. Come and join me,” said Flore and she led them into a tidy little sitting room with lace doilies on the furniture and old-fashioned oil lamps on the side tables.
They sat down and Flore hurried off to the kitchen, but then poked her head back in. “Perhaps coffee for you, Cornelia?” Flore asked with a wink.
“Lovely, my favorite.”
The ladies shared a laugh that Stella didn’t understand, but she was in on the joke a short ten minutes later. Flore offered both coffee and tea along with little sandwiches. Cornelia had coffee that Flore poured a generous amount of Jenever in.
“My favorite,” said Cornelia.
Flore gave her a wicked smile. “I know. Yannj’s too. She misses it.”
“Have you heard from her lately?”
“I had a letter last week. She’s got a new job and is making more money. It’s at something called a department store.”
Cornelia turned to Stella and asked, “What is that?”
“Oh, it’s a store with lots of different sections like one for hats and shoes and another for men’s coats.”
“All in one place?” Flore asked. “The store must be very large.”
“They are,” said Stella. “In New York, they are enormous.”
“New York? Are you American? You sound Belgian.”
Stella congratulated herself. It never got old. She loved her accents being recognized. “I am, but I work for Americans much of the time.”
“Do you?” Flore leaned in and Stella told the old lady about her business and she was properly impressed with all the travel and interesting people.
“That’s why we’re here,” said Cornelia.
“Really? I can’t buy two-hundred-year-old clocks or fancy necklaces.”
Stella smiled. “Actually, I was hoping that you could tell me about Anna Bikker. Cornelia thinks she might be a good buyer for me.”
The old lady’s face, so sweet and pleasant, balled up and her lower lip poked out. “That girl? She’s no good. No good at all. She was a Hartman, a good family. They lived right down the street. You couldn’t say a bad word about them, but the daughter…no. She married that Jan Bikker. Do you know that he never came to see them here? Never. Not once. They were allowed to go to the wedding, but then he shipped them off up north.”
Not a bad word about a rabid fascist father?
“What’s she like?” Stella asked. “The daughter?”
“Terrible. Always looking for a way up. No loyalty to her family or her neighborhood. What was the next thing, the better thing. That was Anna Hartman.”
“How in the world did she meet Jan Bikker?” Cornelia asked.
“Well, it wasn’t an accident. I can tell you that.”
Stella and Cornelia glanced at each other puzzled, but they didn’t have to ask for the story. Flore couldn’t wait to tell it. Anna’s mother, Isa, had told her the whole tale, embarrassed and bewildered by her daughter’s ambition. Anna had spotted Jan Bikker in the newspaper during the run up to the 1932 Winter Olympics. There were profiles of local athletes and Jan was a speed skater. Anna was working as a secretary at a tea importer. It was a good job, but it wasn’t enough. She was never going to be rich and she told her mother she wasn’t meeting the right kind of men. By right, she meant wealthy.
Stella had to give it to Anna Hartman Bikker. She knew what she wanted and she wasn’t afraid to give it all she had. The girl studied Jan Bikker. She followed him around town to find out where he liked to go, where he bought his suits and hats. Then she followed his dates, finding out what he preferred. She even befriended a few of them to get the skinny on how he behaved, his likes and dislikes. Then Anna Hartman transformed herself into what Jan Bikker wanted. She learned to hunt and ski. She dyed her hair blond and lost weight. She spent every dime on the right clothes and changed her accent to match his and when the moment was right, Anna Hartman began going to his skating club. From there, it was easy, Jan Bikker found her, a tall blonde who liked everything he liked, who ate the same foods, had a passion for sports, and Germany. He proposed before he had any idea who she really was or where she came from, exactly the way she planned.
“And he just married her?” Stella asked. “Without knowing her family?”
“Yes, he did,” said Flore. “Well…I heard he had them investigated first.”
Cornelia frowned. “For what?”
Flore grimaced. “What do you think? To make sure they weren’t Jewish. That’s what her mother told me. She was so upset.”
“Because it was insulting?” Stella asked, guessing an NSB family wouldn’t like the inference.
“Because it wasn’t love, it was a transaction. If Anna had been the smallest part a Jew, there would be no marriage. That’s what I remember the most.”
“What’s that?” Cornelia asked.
“Isa calling it a transaction. She said Jan Bikker had no moral center. It was all transaction.”
“Everything was about looks then. He didn’t fall for a person at all.”
“That’s right, but Anna didn’t care. She gave the right impression. She said the right things and she got what she wanted.” Flore snorted. “Well, she hasn’t really, has she?”
“Why not?” Stella asked. “She’s rich.”
Flore offered her the sandwiches and Stella took a triangle of gouda and egg salad. “Because Anna Bikker is Anna Hartman and everyone knows it. She hasn’t got the taste and style that fancy people do. She can only imitate it and no one mistakes her for an aristocrat or a lady. I saw her just the other day in the Vondelpark. She was complaining about no one respecting her here. She likes it better in Germany. They have respect, she said.” Flore looked like she might spit on the floor she was so disgusted.
“She may get her wish with the way it’s looking,” said Cornelia. “I heard that the government is negotiating with the Nazis.”
Stella looked up. “Negotiating what?”
“Whether they will attack us or not.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
Flore sat frozen in her little armchair, seeming older than ever. “You don’t really think they’d attack. They consider us Aryans, don’t they?”
Cornelia patted her hand and then poured her some more tea. “Yes, they do. Don’t worry. The queen will think of something.”
“Where did you hear that?” Stella asked. “About the negotiating. I didn’t see it in the paper.”
“I know a maid at the palace.” Then her friend frowned. “Does it matter so much to you? You’re not Dutch.”
“Belgium can’t be far behind if they’re coming here. Many of the French think they will attack them to get to Britain and there we are right in between.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“We’re all in this together,” said Stella, making her hand shake slightly and Cornelia gave her back a rub, comforting them both at the same time.
“You’re right we are.” Then to change the subject she said, “Flore, can you think of anything that would help Micheline to sell to Anna?”
Flore poured Cornelia another jot of Jenever and nodded, “Tell her you have rich people’s things. She’ll like that.”
“They’re all rich people’s things. Who else would have diamonds?”
“I mean, tell her they belonged to someone special.” She put her cup down in the saucer with a clunk and gave them a grin. “I know, tell her the jewelry was stolen from German dukes or princesses. She’ll love that.”
Stella sat back and pursed her lips. “That would make them stolen goods. I could be arrested and they’re not stolen.”
“Who did you buy them from?” Flore asked. “That has to be a story.”
She hesitated, but Cornelia didn’t. “She bought them from the Jews, but she’s not cheating them.”
“I hope not. Some of those merchants wouldn’t give Yannj half of what her mother’s rings were worth. Poor thing.” Flore looked down into her cup and for a second Stella thought she’d changed her mind about Micheline, but then she looked up and said, “You know, Yannj’s mother was quite well to do.”
“I don’t think so,” Cornelia said.
“Yes, she was. Her grandfather owned several banks and they had summer houses and even boats.”
Cornelia drank her Jenever coffee and pondered that information. “Are you sure? She never told me so.”
“Well, she was a maid, just like you and she didn’t want to seem like she was anything else.”
“She didn’t want me to feel bad?”
“Or think she was too stupid to save the family fortune or something like that. Of course, she couldn’t. It was nothing to do with Yannj.”
“Did she mind being a maid?” Stella asked, thinking about growing up the way she had and ending up a maid. What would she think or do? She really couldn’t say, but she knew she could survive like Yannj. She’d proven that time and again.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Flore. “She was never bitter. She did mention that horrible Anna trying to get her arrested. Can you imagine? They knew each other, lived right here on the same street and there’s Anna Hartman screeching about how Yannj should be arrested for nothing. She didn’t wrong her in any way. Micheline?”
“Yes?” asked Stella.
“You should tell her they’re diamonds and sell her paste. She’s too stupid to know the difference.”
“I like the idea, but my merchandise is the real thing. I can overcharge though.”
Flore clapped her hands in delight. “Do that. Yes, do. Tell her you bought them from Jews who…who…foreclosed on some German aristocrats. She’ll love that.”
They all laughed and Stella thought about it. She could do that. Anna Bikker sounded like the type who would enjoy a story of wicked Jews falling on hard times, but she’d have to play the part. That was no problem, but Cornelia, so well-informed, would find out.
“But I’d have to really do it,” said Stella dabbing at the corner of her eyes, careful not to smudge her faux crow’s feet.
Cornelia wiped her eyes aggressively with a big cotton handkerchief and then blew her nose lustily. “Do what?”
Stella wrinkled her nose. “You know, pretend to be like her. I told you I’m no Bikker, but she’ll like the story better if she thinks I am.”
Flore laughed. “Yes, yes. Be one of those NSB people. Say you love Germany and the Führer.”
“That might be too far,” said Cornelia. “Anna’s not crazy.”
We’ll see about that.
“I’ll play it by ear,” said Stella before turning on Micheline’s brand of charm and asking Flore about her life. She wasn’t disappointed. There were interesting people to be found in every country. Flore and her husband were retired bakers, but he’d died ten years ago. That was when she started taking in boarders for cash and company.
“I haven’t got anyone just now,” she said. “My last got married and dear Yannj has moved to America. It’s so nice to have you here. I do get lonely in this big house.”
The old lady was very chatty and they stayed long into the evening talking of everything from cheese to Italy. Flore and Cornelia had always wanted to go, giving Stella a chance to tell a multitude of stories. She gave them experiences she had before it happened in Vienna, before she lost Abel and became a different Stella, so different that it seemed like she was truly talking about someone else entirely. Stella managed to work in asking about Yannj’s American diplomat in Rotterdam, but Flore couldn’t remember the name either. She did promise to look through her letters to see if Yannj wrote about him and Stella went into a funny story about a misdirected letter that Florence had told her about.
The ladies enjoyed the stories and she enjoyed telling them about eating spaghetti for the first time and seeing the Trevi Fountain, even though it made her miss Nicky so much it hurt. He was part of her story, but more and more he seemed relegated to the past.
When Flore began nodding off, Cornelia and Stella stood up, thanking her profusely for letting them barge in and drink all her Jenever and coffee. Flore was delighted and asked them to come back soon. They said they would and stepped outside into the dark, chilly night, linking arms.
“Do you have enough information to sell to that dreadful Anna?” Cornelia asked as they walked back to the tram.
“I do,” said Stella. “All except one thing.”
“What else could you possibly need?”
“An introduction.”
Cornelia laughed. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. I tried to make an appointment at Jan Bikker’s office, but he wouldn’t see me. His wife doesn’t even have an office and from what you and Flore say she’ll turn her nose up at me straight away.”
“The baron is coming home on Friday.”
Stella’s stomach tightened, but she said with a yawn, “How is that helpful I’d like to know.”
“He’ll have a party, a welcome home. He always does and we’ve already started the ordering for it.”
“I’m sure Anna Bikker will love it if she manages an invitation,” said Stella.
Cornelia nudged her, smiling, and asked, “How much is my finder’s fee?”
“Fifteen percent of my profit on whatever pieces I sell to Anna.”
“She’ll be invited. I’ll see to that.”
“Nice for her, but what about me?”
A bicyclist came careening out of the dark and they jumped out of the way in the nick of time. Stella still couldn’t get used to so many bicycles. They were absolutely everywhere.
“You should come, too.”
“Me? At a baron’s party? You can see me, right?”
“I can and you are very respectable.”
“Cornelia, you’re very kind, but I’m not an aristocrat. I can’t pretend that I am any more than Anna Bikker can.”
“You don’t have to. The baron enjoys all sorts of company and you’re an interesting woman.”
“Am I?”
“Of course, you are. A woman working alone without any man at all and you know wealthy Americans. You’ve been to New York.”
“It’s not as exotic as you make it sound,” said Stella, feeling that it was probably quite exotic to most people and she’d always taken it for granted. Shame on her.
“I’ll tell him I met you at a gallery and he should send an invitation to your hotel,” said Cornelia. “He’s always after intriguing conversation and you never know who you’ll meet.”
“As easy as that?”
“Certainly. We’re talking about Baron Joost Van Heeckeren. He’s not like anyone else.”
“What should I expect?” Stella asked.
“Anything. Absolutely anything.”