The Safekeep(66)

Isabel had a curling thing in the lowest part of her belly. It rose to her lungs, took her by her throat: an argument. She was going to have to form words soon. She was sweating under the cool midday sun, half in the shade of town house roofs.

Karel said, “We bought the house, Isabel. It is our property. We did not cheat our way into it. There is a deed, there is—” He slowed himself. He took a loud slurp of his tea, continued: “The house was empty. What do you think happens to empty houses? In times of hunger, of war? Who wants to see empty houses when there’s people on the streets? Would you rather I not have given you a home? Would you rather you stayed in Amsterdam, starved, bombed, God knows what—” He cut himself off again. He looked off to the side for a while. He had a mole in the middle of his cheek, same as Mother had had. His hair was thin and combed over, skin soft over his jaw. He had always seemed old to Isabel, long before he was truly old.

“What does it matter,” he said, still looking to the side, “that someone has lived there before? They’re gone. They did not come back for it. Every house has a history. What house doesn’t have a history?”

“How do you know?” Isabel asked.

“Hm?”

“That—they’re gone. That they didn’t come back.”

“How do you know someone has returned, do you think?”

Isabel looked at him. Under the table, she held the skin on the back of her hand in a tight pinch.

Her uncle said, “They knock.”

Something must have shown on Isabel’s face. Karel made an exasperated sound, gave her a quick smile, said, “Isabel, what is this game? Would they won’t they, meisje: reasonable people would contact the council, it wouldn’t be an unsurpassable hurdle. You call, you send a letter, you—act. And besides.” He reached for a biscuit—realized in movement that he’d already eaten his share. Leaned back again. “There were outstanding payments. The bank took it back. Parate execution—a standard procedure. You know what I think, meisje?”

He called her meisje in moments like this. In moments where he wanted her to remember who he was, who she was. Little girl. Darling girl.

She said: “What?”

“If they wanted the house, they would’ve come back for it. If they cared about it, they would’ve come back for it. No. They’re gone. They’re gone or they don’t care. So many are gone. You don’t know, Isabel. You were so young.”

An image came to Isabel: Eva, a child. Cheeks like dough. Alone in a field, alone in an attic. Mothers with numbers on their arms. Young, he said.

“I want the house,” she said.

Karel said, “Pardon?”

“I want the house. I want the house to be mine. I live there. I care about it, I keep it in order, I want—” It got caught in her throat. She licked her lips. “I want to grow old there.” She said, “Give it to me.”

“Sweetheart.” The word was said expansively—too slow. Uncle Karel gave her concern with a frown. “The house is promised to Louis.”

Isabel let go of the back of her hand. She flexed her fingers, put both her hands on the tabletop. She kept them there, said, “I know. But what if Louis doesn’t want it? He has no use for it.” She tried not to move, to look strong, to look determined: “What if Louis wants me to have it?”

“Isabel…”

“Can you change that? If we all agree on it?” She licked her lips again. “Can it go to me?”

“Have you and Louis had a falling-out?” Karel asked. “Is that—Isabel. Is that what’s the matter?”

“Not at all.”

“I know the two of you haven’t been—as close as you once were. I know that you and Hendrik—”

“No,” she said. “Louis and I are well. We—” She took a tight breath: “We’ve actually grown closer recently. I really…”

Birds in the plum tree. A thin weave of clouds over the sun, and everything went a muted shade, a bright and muted shade. “I was wrong about him,” Isabel said.

Karel’s frown changed in nature. “Were you?”

“Hm,” she said. “Perhaps we should both visit you soon. Perhaps that would be nice.” She pushed the plate with the one biscuit a little end toward him. “You can have mine,” she said.

“Oh!” He wanted to reach, hesitated, said, “If you’re sure?”

Isabel said, “Yes. It’s yours.”

“Thank you,” he said, and ate the biscuit.

“I’ll ask Louis,” Isabel said. “About visiting you.”

Karel gave her a look but did not push. There were crumbs on his sweater-vest again. He brushed them off again. In another garden, fenced off, some children screamed out something in joy. The birds startled out of the plum tree. Isabel and Karel turned to watch them in unison: their flurry of wings, their turn about the sky, the search for a new place to settle down.



* * *



Napkin rings. Picture frames, the small ones, from mother’s bedroom. The big blue oven dish. A vase of marble. Five plates, good china. The ones with the hares. Six soup bowls. A salad bowl. The sugar pot, the milk jug, the menorah. Isabel found that one in the wine cellar: wrapped in a cloth, within a cloth, within a suitcase. The silver had gone gray, brown.