The rain came down in bone-chilling sheets and attacked Stella’s window with gusto. If this was what they meant about April showers bringing May flowers, it wasn’t worth it. She stood at the window, holding a coffee cup and cursing the fact there wasn’t a big enough umbrella in the world to protect her from that mess. She only had two pairs of shoes and one pair of boots, and they would be waterlogged. It took forever for anything to dry out in The Netherlands or Europe in general, if she was being honest, and now she had a laundry list of things to do with getting a new dress on top of it.
Once upon a time, she’d loved rain and snow especially. Those were the best days with her mother. Francesqua would come into her room and announce in a dramatic way that wasn’t typical of her at all that it was raining or snowing or hailing or sleeting and they couldn’t possibly be expected to do anything at all. Then Stella and her brothers would run down the hall to her parents’ room because their father would be long gone. Nothing kept Aleksej Bled from the brewery. Without his presence, they’d jump on the big bed and wrestle until the housekeeper brought them breakfast in bed. They’d eat together with Francesqua and then she’d bring out the games. They’d play The Landlord’s Game, Reversi, and Stella’s favorite The Wonderful Game of Oz. When they tired of those, they’d get the cards and play Whist and Hearts. They’d stay in bed all day, listening to the storm rage, warm and safe until Father came home. Fifteen minutes before his usual time, they’d pack everything up, run to get dressed and rush to various spots around the house to act like they’d been doing something constructive. Aleksej wasn’t fooled, but he pretended he was and Stella never knew how much her father knew about those wonderful days. Maybe Francesqua told him what they did or maybe seeing Stella with her French workbook was enough to give it away. She wished she’d thought to ask her mother about it, but she was only just now remembering all the wonderful things about Francesqua Bled. She’d been so busy being thwarted and stubborn she’d forgotten who her mother was.
Weronika seemed like that kind of mother. Stella could imagine her playing games with the children on whatever kind of cobbled together bed they had and telling them stories about how happy they’d be in England. It was a good day for it. Stella watched a man run across the square with a golfing umbrella, but he needn’t have bothered. He was soaked to the thighs and just as he passed her window, he slipped in a puddle and fell in spectacular style. His umbrella broke and his briefcase skittered across the cobbles to land in a bigger puddle.
“This is going to be miserable,” she said and went to pack up her basket. The cloth over Masło and the jewelry box wasn’t enough. She tucked a towel over the Dereczynski’s family treasures and put on her coat before setting her breakfast tray outside the door.
She double checked to make sure nothing important had been left out and then locked her door, pocketing the large brass key. The elevator operator was waiting and greeted her familiarly as most of the staff did. They talked of her invitation. There was no one that didn’t know about it apparently.
“I hear you will have a new dress for the occasion,” he said.
And no detail had been left out of the tale.
“I think I will.”
The elevator stopped with a jolt and he opened the door. “Do you have to go out right now? It’s a terrible morning for shopping.”
She patted her basket. “I made some purchases for my clients in America. I have to ship them immediately.”
“Surely there is no rush.” His face went all somber and she hated to ruin his mood.
“Maybe not, but my clients are not patient people.”
He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Americans.”
She laughed and went off past a couple coming for the elevator. Instead of going straight into the lobby and out the front door, Stella went toward the winter garden like Anna Bikker had, past the café with Marga strolling around giving guests their morning coffee and papers under the watchful eye of a stern-faced Dirk. Stella had been hoping to ask her a question or two about Lotte and why she avoided her office, but with Marga’s boss there, she couldn’t.
Gritting her teeth, she walked on, following what she thought was Anna’s path into the guts of the hotel. She took two turns and found a row of offices down a dimly lit hall. A young man with a harassed expression came hurrying toward her with a stack of folders. He saw her and stopped short. She couldn’t tell if it was because she looked like a guest or because perhaps she didn’t. The worst thing was, he’d slow her down.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.
“I do hope so,” said Stella laying on her accent a bit thick. “I’m looking for where Lotte works.”
“Are you a guest?”
“Yes. I’m Micheline Dubois. I only wanted to ask her something.”
The young man beamed at her as different as different could be. “Congratulations on your invitation. I hope you’ll tell us all about it. The baron’s parties are legendary in Amsterdam.”
Maybe this wasn’t such a waste of time.
“Would you please tell me why? Everyone says they are exciting parties, but no one says what they are like.”
“We can’t say because we don’t know. I don’t know anyone who’s been to one and his staff is very discreet.”
That was true. Even Cornelia was quiet on the details even after a good deal of Jenever.
“Someone must know something,” said Stella. “I’m getting quite nervous about it.”
“Well, people are seen going in and there are often costumes. Very elaborate. Once, I heard, the baron hired acrobats and flame throwers.”
“That’s extravagant. How do you know?”
“They set the house on fire and it was all over the papers. It took months to repair and then he threw another party and had the flame throwers on the roof instead. All the best people are invited.” The young man practically glowed. “And now you’re one of the best people and a guest of ours.”
Stella was very sure she’d never brought so much joy to anyone without even trying. It was a little overwhelming to realize the invitation was a social coup and a triumph that the hotel shared by association. She couldn’t be quiet little unknown Micheline anymore and that wasn’t good for the mission or her.
“I’m told I must be interesting to get an invitation, but I don’t think I’m very interesting,” she said.
“Well, you’ve got one, so you must be,” he said. “Please excuse me. The chef is waiting.”
“Wait. Lotte’s office?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. Down the hall on the right. Mr. De Jong’s office.”
He hurried off and Stella went for the office, trying to formulate an excuse for going in. She didn’t know who Mr. De Jong was or what he did for the hotel. Unfortunately, the names on the door didn’t clear up the question. Mr. Luuk De Jong and Mr. Willem Elek. That’s all it said and she couldn’t claim a billing problem or give a compliment on bedding or service.
She took a breath and knocked gently.
No answer, so she opened the door to find a little room with a desk and typewriter. On either side of the room were two doors. One for Mr. De Jong and one for Mr. Elek. Still no clue what they did for the hotel.
“Hello?” she called out since neither door seemed the better option.
To her surprise, both doors opened immediately and she knew exactly why Anna was coming there.
“May I help you?” both men said at the same time and then laughed. Mr. De Jong wouldn’t be the office Anna Bikker was interested in. He was about sixty with a pot belly and a beard that resembled steel wool. On the other hand, Mr. Elek was tall with a chiseled jawline and dark hair that went back from his face in glossy waves.
“I don’t know which way to turn,” said Stella.
The men chuckled again and the older one said, “I’m Mr. De Jong, the hotel manager, and this is Mr. Elek, the assistant manager.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Stella. “Did you used to have a girl here?”
“Oh, yes. Lotte,” said Mr. De Jong. “She’s gone and broken a tooth, poor girl. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
“That explains it.” It wouldn’t pay to be too pointed in her knowledge of the unknown Lotte. “She helped me with directions once and I thought I’d come back and say hello before I went out for the day.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Mr. Elek. He had a musical voice, a touch foreign. Hungarian. That was it.
“It’s fine. Sorry to bother you.” Stella quickly stepped out in case they, too, knew about the invitation. Anna knew Mr. Elek very well unless she missed her guess and she didn’t want him telling her anything about Micheline Dubois. That would not help her cause at all.
“That’s all?” asked Jelle. The workman hefted a hammer and looked at her expectantly.
Stella held up her palms. “I haven’t been as successful as I hoped.”
“It’s no trouble,” said the manager, Jacobus.
He looked worried, but then again, Jacobus always looked that way. Stella wondered what his expression would be when the Nazis rolled in. His forehead simply couldn’t crumple any more than it already was.
“You’ve always been so helpful,” she said. “I’m going to look at some stained glass, but I’d like this group out immediately. Do you have any crates going to England that it can go in?”
Jacobus’s head jerked up. “England, not New York?”
“My American clients don’t care for jewelry, but vintage pieces are still popular in London. I think I have a buyer. Why?”
“No reason. It’s just rare for you to send things to England instead of New York.”
“That’s true, but I must fill each client’s list.” She smiled and asked, “Will it go out soon?”
“Immediately. We have crates of bulbs and it can go with them.” Jacobus did manage to frown more deeply. Stella thought for a second that the skin of his forehead would fold over his eyes. “You are concerned your purchases won’t get out?”
She straightened her shoulders and became more businesslike. “Frankly, I am. I heard a day or two ago that your government is negotiating with the Reich. Who knows how that will go.”
Jacobus gripped his clipboard tighter. “I had heard that myself.”
“Isn’t that good?” Jelle asked. “They must be discussing our neutral status and making arrangements for goods and services.”
“Many countries have negotiated with the Reich,” said Jacobus. “It only gets them invaded.”
“We will not be invaded. We’re neutral.”
“They invaded Norway and Denmark. Norway will fall anytime now.”
The little group went quiet and then Jacobus said, “I will make sure your purchases are on the next ship out.” Then he handed her the inventory. She checked it and signed. The Dutchman quietly left, deep in thought and she suspected in need of a dram of the Scotch he kept in his desk drawer.
“So, I’m closing it then?” Jelle asked.
“You are. Thank you.”
He looked down at Masło’s woolly face and said without looking back at Stella, “You bought a Jewish child’s bear.”
The shipping company knew who Micheline Dubois was and where she was getting a lot of her purchases, but Jelle was the first to comment on the fact.
To soothe him, she said, “I bought a woman’s bear. She had a greater need for money than a stuffed toy. I was fair. I always am.”
Jelle was mollified and placed the wooden lid over Masło’s face and positioned a nail. “I thought you would be.” He hammered in the nails one by one and then asked, “Why aren’t you gone? I thought your buying was done.”
She sighed heavily and said, “I thought so, too, but things change. My company asked for more and I had a lead, so here I am.”
“You’re tired. You should go home.”
“I will as soon as I can.” Stella tipped him and then headed back out into the rain that had not relented one bit. She was soaked to the knees, but there was a cab driving by the warehouse and stopped with a jolt when she waved. She just jumped in and shook her umbrella before folding it at her feet. There was a time when she wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, but she could barely remember it.
“Where are you going, ma’am?” the driver asked.
Stella pondered the question and searched for the right answer. Close was as safe as she dared to be. She named a café safely outside the Jodenbuurt but walking distance to her destination. Sometimes close was too close.
“Yes, ma’am. Terrible weather we’re having. You ought to be at home,” he said with fatherly concern and she wondered if he’d be so kind if she gave him her real destination. People surprised her, but not nearly enough.
“I wish I was, but business takes precedence.”
“You are in business?” he asked with surprise that wasn’t insulting and Stella took comfort in that at least. She explained her business and the wealthy Americans taste for all things European. He nodded with interest and drove her to a small house on a backstreet so narrow that they had to wait their turn before driving down it.
The driver peered up through the rain-spattered windshield. “You’re buying here?”
“One can hope,” she said.
He stopped and she gave him a perfectly appropriate tip so that he would have no additional reason to remember her and hurried away to the café while trying to listen through the pounding rain on her umbrella to see if the cab left. He did without hesitation and she dashed down the street until she almost entered the Jodenbuurt and knocked on the plain but well-made door.
After a few minutes, a maid answered. She threw up her hands and said in her strong Greek accent, “Micheline, what are you doing out today?” Rena pulled Stella inside and relieved her of her umbrella, coat, and hat.
“You have come for more information? You are still buying? I thought you would leave.”
“I had a new request and I thought Mrs. Keesing—”
“Elizabeth. It is the Dutch way. You are friends. You must be familiar,” insisted Rena. She’d come to The Netherlands shortly before the Nazis moved on Czechoslovakia, knowing she’d lose her job. Rena could’ve returned to Greece, but she’d taken to the Dutch people with a vengeance, just the way she did everything. Full commitment. That was Rena.
“Elizabeth. You are right. I should forget my formality.”
Rena nodded primly. “Good. While you are here, you must be Dutch.”
Stella couldn’t help but think Rena would make a fine agent. She was fearless if nothing else. Stella had once seen her smack a young NSB member right across the mouth for being nasty to a Jewish bookseller and Stella feared for her safety once the Nazis invaded. That kind of thing had to put the Greek maid on some kind of list.
“I will do better,” said Stella. “Is Elizabeth here?”
“Where else would she be in this weather?” Rena led Stella through the narrow house to a toasty sitting room where Elizabeth Keesing sat on a lounge covered in blankets and reading a Dutch edition of The Little Mermaid.
“Elizabeth, look who is here, Micheline,” said Rena in an odd tone she often took with her mistress.
“Rena, do not speak to me like I’m a child,” said Elizabeth. “I’m ill, not an idiot.”
“Children are not idiots.” Rena crossed her arms. She was mother to six, all bright bulbs and seriously troublesome because of it.
“Some are. Have you met the butcher’s new boy, Johann?” Elizabeth looked at Stella. “I was able to go out to the shop last week and that boy believed that a chicken thigh was veal. I couldn’t persuade him otherwise.”
“The boy is ignorant,” said Rena. “It is not the same thing.”
“Johann is both,” said Elizabeth and Rena’s lower lip poked out slightly.
“I will get you tea.” The maid turned around, stomped out, and practically slammed the door behind her.
Stella took off her wet shoes and put them next to the blue tiled stove in the corner of the room. “That’s going to be trouble.”
“Rena is always in a fit about something,” said Elizabeth. “There’s no avoiding it.”
“Are you bothering her on purpose?”
Elizabeth smiled, transforming her face briefly from pale and strained to mischievous. “Maybe a little.”
“How are you feeling?” Stella asked.
“The same.” That was Elizabeth’s standard answer and Stella had learned not to press in the three months they’d known each other. Rena had whispered once that it was her kidneys but hadn’t gone farther than that. Even the earl didn’t know and he’d been friends with Elizabeth for years after serving in the Great War with Elizabeth’s husband. The earl was there when the young man died and he’d kept in touch with his friend’s widow. Elizabeth’s dislike for the Germans who killed her husband was well-known. What wasn’t well-known was her love of children, particularly Jewish children. The Reich declared the Jews to be their enemy, so they were automatically Elizabeth’s friends. She’d never remarried and had no children of her own. She’d been helping Jewish orphans and refugees with her money and considerable gift of persuasion since 1933. Elizabeth Keesing was Stella’s main contact in The Netherlands and the only one who knew her connection to the earl.
“Glad to hear it, although your choice in literature had me thinking otherwise,” said Stella as she sat down in a plush upholstered armchair and put her wet feet up on the footstool close to the hot stove.
Elizabeth looked down at the book. “Oh, this. I’ve been thinking about the Danes.”
“And you wanted to be more depressed?”
She tossed the book on a side table. “You’re right. Enough of dying for love.” Then her eyes, so tired and worn, fixed on Stella with a sharp intelligence that most would miss due to the pallor of her skin. “You didn’t leave on schedule. I can’t say I’m pleased.”
“I’m not either, but here we are.”
“You were directed to make contact again?” Elizabeth was doubtful. She’d connected Stella with all her friends that could be reliably trusted to fight the Nazis once they took over and all of them had been evaluated. Stella had met with some and put others on a list of possibilities, depending on what she observed. “I haven’t met anyone new for you to contact or…has something happened? The rumors are flying. Rena keeps me well-informed.”
“Nothing’s happened. I do have some questions for you,” said Stella.
Rena knocked on the door and brought in a tea tray. She served and then ordered Stella not to tire Elizabeth out before leaving. Stella wondered if she’d made a mistake. She’d noticed Elizabeth’s hands were thinner. The veins and bones stood out in stark relief under bone-white skin.
“Don’t worry about tiring me out,” said Elizabeth. “I started out tired. You won’t make any difference. Ask your questions. You know I’ll do anything to help.”
“Is Truus here in Amsterdam?” Stella asked.
“No. I’m afraid she is traveling. She may be in Paris, but she mentioned Greece, too. I’m not sure where she is at the moment. Have you come across more children to help?” Elizabeth sat up straighter and her hands grabbed at the blankets.
“I have. Will she be going into Switzerland again?”
“I couldn’t say. How desperate is the situation?”
“Well, they’re all desperate, aren’t they?”
“They are, of course. Orphans?”
“No. Two children. Polish. In the Jodenbuurt. Six and three.”
“Are their parents healthy and able to care for them?” Elizabeth, always practical, asked.
“Yes, but you know what’s coming,” said Stella.
The two women looked at each other for a moment. Neither one wanted to say it out loud and Stella had told Elizabeth her instincts on what would happen to Jewish children. She’d managed to get rid of Oscar von Drechsel, but she wasn’t fool enough to think the Obersturmbannführer was the only Nazi to come up with a systematic plan to eradicate the Jews. She had only hoped to delay it and she had for the time being.
“When Truus comes back, I’ll see what I can do,” said Elizabeth finally.
“I’ll pay for the transport.”
“Will you?”
“I will.”
“Micheline, you can’t be connected. Your work is vital.”
“I’ve done this before,” said Stella.
Elizabeth pursed her lips. That wasn’t strictly true. She’d never paid. She’d merely told the families on Francesqua’s list who might be able to get their children out. Elizabeth thought she only came across them during the course of her regular work and it wasn’t a topic that came up often. Only twice, in fact. Most of the people on the list were aiming to get everyone out together and with the money and letters Stella provided, they were able to. Two families were still waiting in the enormous queue and they decided to get their children out alone. Stella didn’t know how it was accomplished, but five children were smuggled into England outside of any Kindertransport list. If it could happen for them, it could happen for Lonia and Ezra.
“This is a great risk for Truus, you know,” said Elizabeth.
“I know. I would do it myself if I could, but I’m otherwise occupied.”
“With the reason you came back?”
“Do you happen to know Baron Joost Van Heeckeren?”
Elizabeth frowned deeply. “You’re not getting involved with him.”
“I’m not getting involved with anyone,” said Stella. “Do you know him?”
“I know of him and I recommend that you avoid the man.”
“Why? He’s thought to be sympathetic.”
“Yes, but to what?”
“Why haven’t you mentioned him before?”
Elizabeth stiffened. “Why haven’t I mentioned a ridiculous fop who seduces married women and consorts with Nazis and gangsters? Why, you ask? Because he’s the sort of person a young woman should avoid at all costs.”
Stella smiled. “I’m not a young woman. I hardly think I’d be enticing to a member of the nobility.”
“Nobility,” she spat. “Would a true member of the nobility have dinner with Dries Riphagen?”
Stella had no idea who Dries Riphagen was, but he didn’t sound like a good contact for her. “I’ve heard only good things about the baron before this.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because he’s wealthy and throws outlandish parties, I imagine. He invites Nazis to those parties. Germans are invited.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting. He will collude with them against his own people.”
It was interesting. The reason Elizabeth hated the baron was the exact reason he might be useful. He knew Nazis. They liked him. Everybody but Elizabeth seemed to. If you wanted to find out what your enemy was up to, you had to get close. The baron was close.
“You don’t know that,” said Stella. “Perhaps he’s cultivating friendships for a good reason.”
“What good reason? To get special treatment when it happens, that’s why. Go home, Micheline. You’ve done your work. Go home.”
Stella hated to ask for fear of upsetting Elizabeth further, but she had no choice. “I heard something about a Jan Bikker. Do you know who—”
“You cannot be serious. Jan Bikker is practically a German. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s working for them.”
Stella sat silently and just looked at Elizabeth, who’d managed to bring a tinge of pink to her cheeks as she ranted about his trips to Bavaria. “We all know that he loves Germany. He probably lost at the Olympics to give them a better chance.” She paused to take a breath and then saw Stella looking at her calmly. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“You think he might be a…”
“I don’t think anything yet. When you say we, who do you mean?”
Elizabeth relaxed back into her lounge and took a deep breath. “Us. Our people. The anti-Nazis of my acquaintance.”
“Is it well-known outside that group?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably not. He’s not in any organizations that I know of.”
“Well, he’s not sympathetic to the Jews. I heard he fired some girls for being Jewish.”
“I hadn’t heard that, but I’m not surprised,” said Elizabeth. “It’s not unusual though.”
“He moves in elevated circles?”
“I don’t know what you mean by elevated, but the Bikkers are an old family. They know people in the government and the nobility, not to mention business.”
“Has he ever done anything that would be considered anti-Dutch?”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “No, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t.”
“It means there’s no reason for people to think he’d be working for the Reich in a quiet capacity.”
“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
“But would other people, not of your ilk, trust him?” Stella asked.
She sighed and the pink was completely gone. If anything, Elizabeth was paler than before and distressingly grey. “I suppose they would. He’s rich and well-known because of the hotels. You know how silly people are about money.”
Stella did, much better than Elizabeth could ever imagine. It gave people a predetermined opinion without having ever met you, good or bad. How many times had she said Bled only to see judgement cross someone’s face? Elizabeth was no different. She judged the baron and Bikker on their money and what they chose to do with it. Skiing in Germany and knowing gangsters didn’t mean those men would betray their country. It meant only that they had opportunities others didn’t have.
“I should go,” Stella said. “You’re exhausted.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “How long will you stay?”
“Not long I hope.”
“Micheline?”
“Yes.”
“They’re not stupid.”
“Who?”
“Those two men. We talk a lot, the people of my ilk as you put it, and nobody thinks they’re stupid. They could sniff you out. You are getting to be known. I was relieved when I thought you were gone.”
“I’ll be careful,” Stella said as she tugged on her still-damp shoes. “Try not to worry.”
“About the children…” Elizabeth trailed off.
“I’ll give the information to Rena.”
“She still doesn’t know about you.”
“Good.”
“But she’s not stupid either.”
Stella stood up and then took Elizabeth’s icy hand. “I’m counting on it.”