The Tulip Eaters

The man blocked Anneke with one arm, holding the baby just out of reach of her desperate arms, taunting her with crazed black eyes. He thrust the infant high above him. Rose howled even louder, her face a florid red as the blanket fell to the floor. He then yanked off the baby’s yellow hair band and threw it onto the carpet.

“Stop!” Anneke fell upon him, her fists pummeling his arms and head, but her blows were futile. The man struck her across the face. It was as if a hammer had slammed into her jaw. God, he wasn’t going to stop until he killed them both!

“Get out of my way.” He pushed Anneke aside and dumped Rose in her bassinet.

Anneke rushed to the baby, who was purple from screaming, and clutched her precious Rose to her breast. I have her safe—in my arms! She whirled around and felt fury rise in her. “What is it you want! If it isn’t money, then what?”

He smiled at her, a twisted grimace. “I’ve waited for this moment for over thirty years.” His voice was soft and cruel. “You know me from the war. Can you guess now?”

Anneke quickly laid Rose in her bassinet, trying to breathe. Who could he be? “I don’t—really, I—”

He glared at her. “Isaac.”

Feeling shocked and confused, she stared at him. And then it hit her. “Isaac? Can it be?”

He smiled at her, a twisted grimace. “Remember me now?”

Her hand went to her throat. “Abram’s brother,” she whispered.

“Don’t even say his name, you Nazi! You and your husband.” He laughed. “What a shame he’s already dead. Killing him would have been a true pleasure.”

“What are you saying? I loved Abram—”

“You’re a goddamned liar!” He shook his fist. “You’ve always been a liar. Hiding here like the assassin you are, Mrs. de Jong. Your filthy name is Brouwer. And your husband—his was Moerveld.” He strode closer and stopped a foot away. “You ran away. You knew you’d be arrested for the traitor you are. Your neighbors would have hacked off your hair, marched you down the street in disgrace and thrown you into prison!”

“No!” she cried. “That’s not true!”

He pulled out a pair of scissors from his jacket pocket. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you now.”

Anneke ran, but he thrust his foot out and tripped her. When she hit the floor, she screamed and scrabbled to fight him off, but he knelt on both of her arms. She was a pinned butterfly, desperate to escape.

With one hand, he grabbed her hair. With the other, he clutched the scissors and began savagely slicing off clumps of her fine, silver hair. With each cut, he threw the locks up into the air like a madman.

“Stop! Oh, God, stop!” she shrieked, watching her hair snow down around her. The more frantic his motions, the less precise his cuts. Black terror consumed her. She felt shooting pains as he gouged her scalp. Blood ran into her eyes as she screamed and tried to twist away. As if in communion, Rose began wailing from her bassinet.

As he hacked, Isaac ranted on. “No, dear Anneke, you tricked Abram into falling in love with you and then you betrayed him—and my entire family.”

“I did not!” she cried. “You, of all people, know I would never do that! I loved Abram and your family! I tried to help in every way I could—”

Isaac threw down the scissors and stood. Anneke tried to get up but fell back, sobbing. Struggling to her knees, all she could see were bloodied clumps of her hair strewn across the white carpet. She sat and cradled her head in her hands. When she pulled them away, they were covered in blood.

“Isaac!” She moaned and held up her crimson hands. “What in God’s name have you done?”

Isaac stood above her, pulled the pistol from his pocket and spat upon her. Anneke recoiled, sobbing. He was mad! What would he do to her—to Rose!

“Now admit it, all of it!” He pointed the gun at her head. His eyes speared hers, his voice molten metal. “Including what that bastard of a husband of yours did.”

“Hans?” Anneke looked up, unable to stem her tears. “He married me and brought me here. I was so numb and hopeless about Abram that I didn’t care where I went, as long as it was out of Holland.”

“You married your lover’s murderer!”

“Are you crazy?” she cried. “Abram was killed by the Nazis. Hans had nothing to do with it!”

“Can you truly sit here in front of me and deny it? Your boyfriend was jealous and shot my brother between the eyes. All the neighbors heard them raging at each other—over you.”

Anneke raised her bloody hands, imploring. “You’re wrong, Isaac. Hans could never hurt anyone. Yes, he was jealous of Abram. And Hans wanted me to love him. But I didn’t.”

“No, no, he killed my brother and you turned us all into the Groene Politie.”

“No! I was there!” she cried. “Abram and Hans were fighting, that much is true. But the police shot Abram—not Hans. I came running to try to stop them—”

“Stop lying!” His voice was a razor cut. “Your lover killed Abram and you brought the police with you in case that son of a bitch didn’t finish the job.”

“Isaac, I don’t know why the police were there!” she sobbed. “They must have followed me. You have to believe me.”

Suddenly he slapped her so hard she fell. It felt as if a bullwhip had sliced her face.

“How stupid do you think I am? We had witnesses! They came running when they heard that bastard of yours threaten to kill my brother if he didn’t leave you alone. By then Abram was dead.” Anneke put her bleeding head into her hands and moaned.

“What they did see was you standing there with the Politie by your side. Did you know that two days after Abram was murdered all of us were arrested, thrown on a train and shipped to Mauthausen?” He wiped away his tears with a rough gesture, his other hand still pointing the pistol at her. His voice was broken. “My whole family was gassed. Amarisa and I made it out.”

“Amarisa,” whispered Anneke.

“Yes,” snarled Isaac. “My brave sister. Would you like to hear what they did to her?”

“I can’t—”

“Can’t what? Hear that she was raped every day? That they smashed her leg when she took too long in the food line? That they slit her face from lip to ear?”

Anneke felt vomit rise in her throat. “Oh, God, Isaac, please believe me—”

He grabbed her by the collar with his free hand and pulled her up until her eyes were level with his, now pressing the cold gun barrel against her forehead. “Don’t you talk to me of love! You seduced my brother, promising you would find a way to get him out of the country.” He shook her hard. “‘Foul spawn of a Nazi,’ my father said. ‘Apples don’t fall far from the tree, especially rotten ones.’”

She tried to pull away, but every wound he had inflicted had left her in agony, helpless. “Isaac, I wasn’t lying to you, or them! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you were a Nazi, just like your father. You haven’t forgotten about Joop, now have you?”

She sagged in his arms. “No,” she whispered, “that part is true. My father was a Nazi.”

He flung her onto the couch. “All you good Dutchmen kissing the Nazis’ boots. In 1940, there were 140,000 Jews in the whole country. Lucky for you and your SS father, almost all of us were rounded up in ’43 and forced to live Amsterdam. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Anneke hung her head. “But I’m innocent.”

“You know damned well that you went to every Dutch Nazi rally, every march, wearing your brown NSB shirt and swearing allegiance to that maniac! Pretending to steal coal and food from your SS father for us, when all along you were just reeling us in for the kill.”

“No, no!” Her eyes searched wildly around. She felt that her shame must be stamped in her eyes. “I was in the NSB and did go to the rallies,” she whispered. “My father made me.”

“And did he make you go out with charming SS officers?” His snarl was a cobra strike. “Don’t bother to deny it. I saw you myself, walking with some gallant German killer.”