The Safekeep(56)

“Isn’t it?” he said, like he’d now decided that was a good thing, and that Mary was good, in turn, for having recognized it.

She called Hendrik. Hendrik said, “How was it, tell me everything!” and Isabel couldn’t. She was quiet on the line. She breathed heavily. “Isabel?” Hendrik said. “Isabel?”

She hung up. He called her again, she did not pick up. In bed that night, her stomach turned in terrible knots, nauseous and tight. Something creaked under the floorboards—a mouse or a bug or simply the pull of heat cooling at night. Isabel reached under her pillow and took out Eva’s book. She turned on the reading lamp. She wanted to see the list again. She wanted to be reminded, she wanted to be angry again, she wanted to let her heart do anything other than devour itself, shrink and shrink and shrink. She opened it and there was no list. An unfamiliar name on an otherwise empty page. She felt fever-confused, blurry, and then turned the book over—opened the back, and there: the list. The list was at the back, not the front.

She paged through it quickly and saw: the first half of the booklet full, entries upon entries. Eva’s handwriting, curt and to the point, each entry quick, none more than half a page, most just a few sentences. Days, days, months.

Isabel went back to the beginning. Her hands were clammy and unsteady. She read the name once, read it again. Passed a hand over it, as if trying to see whether it would change, as if the ink was a trick—an illusion, a game.

It wasn’t. Isabel stumbled out of bed and opened a window. She stuck her head out and breathed. A breeze passed, ran through her with a shiver. Her nightdress clung to her spine, to the sweat down her back.

If found, said the single line on the opening page, return to:

And then a name, unknown and known at once:

Eva de Haas.





PART III





12




January 5, 1960


She’s been gone ten years today. New diary. When she passed it snowed badly. It took very long for the rabbi to arrive. Tante Malcha got nervous and opened all the windows for the spirit to leave and Mum’s body turned blue in the bed. It was so cold. In the picture I have of her it’s summer and she’s in the garden. Anyway it’s not snowing today, it’s weirdly warm for this time of year. I took the tram to Malcha and took off my scarf. It was too hot.





January 10, 1960


Basje hurt her ankle going down the stairs so we were missing a girl at the line today. We had to package at twice the speed. Terrible. Barely had time for a smoke during break! My second and third finger on right hand were swollen before but now better. Writing hurts, will not say much. Geertje wrote back, found no trail, will put in touch w someone. Sometimes I





January 21, 1960


Infection better now—fingers no longer size of sausages! Missed week at factory. They will take me back, Jan owes me. Called with Geertje’s guy today. Just like the last one: ?150 up front. Fuck them up the ass. Sometimes I think: I will go to the old house myself. I will take the train and I will go to the house. I will knock on the door and they will open the door. I will walk inside and I will not leave. What will they do? Call the police? So the police will come. I will say: try, drag me out. I will say: show me the papers. I will say, show me the deed. I will scream if they touch me, I swear I will scream.





February 3, 1960


Rice

39ct.

?9.80 -





Beans

89ct.

?4.45





Bongo coffee

1.69

?4.08 ???





Matches

39ct

5.35 -

Marianne? .45



Eggs (12)

1.09

1.00 - (Ruben)

?? Fish



———————



0.22 - (Basje)

* let landlord know





?4.45

0.05 - (LM)





————

tl. 05202-6 P? Ank. yl.





?4.08





February 10, 1960


Walked by an open window and smelled polishing oil and remembered hiding under Mum’s desk while she was writing letters. Her leg hairs through her stockings. Before we left she had me clear out my room and fold my clothes into a suitcase and put all my toys into a box. She had packed her good shoes. That’s what we thought we could take with us in case of an emergency: a box of toys! Good shoes and a suitcase of dresses! I used to think about that box a lot, the way you think about the bit of the sandwich you dropped on the floor long after you’ve eaten the rest of it. I used to wonder whether anyone found my toys, and if they would send them back to me.





February 20, 1960


Mark, the donkey, came by this evening. The stove is broken. He said his cousin has an old one he can bring here. Okay, I said. I let him put his hand under my shirt. He wanted under my bra. No, I said, and he said: Have you never done this before? I put on big eyes and acted so scared. Never, I said, and shook in his hands. Be gentle, Mark! Take it easy on a virgin like me! Donkey. He will bring by the stove tomorrow.