“It’s their religion,” Wim explained.
But Marie protested. She had never been able to tell from Nico that he had anything to do with religion. In truth, even though they were helping to hide one, neither of them understood what it truly meant: a Jew. A human being like everyone else. But… But what? It was hard to be so close to someone, to spend so much time in the same house with him, without finally, eventually, asking about his background, about who he was. They didn’t want to cause problems and draw boundaries where there hadn’t been any before, in their naïve interactions. But both of them would have really liked to know why their Nico was still a Jew. Surely not because other people said so?
“Do you think I could ask him sometime, Wim?”
“If you put it carefully. You never know whether it might be embarrassing for him. Anyway, even normally, it’s kind of a difficult business, asking someone why he’s like this and not like that. And kind of a funny question too.”
And so Marie, when the occasion arose, while washing dishes in the kitchen, asked him once if he would tell her why he still…
“You can tell by looking at me,” was his first answer.
Marie shook her head. “In France or in Spain, or even here, in the south near Belgium, no one would notice you.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right.”
“And why didn’t you just change countries?”
She’d meant to say “change religions.” It was a slip of the tongue. But when she noticed it herself, she didn’t correct it.
“First of all, it wouldn’t be much help now,” he had said calmly, drying a soup plate with big circular motions. “They’re taking everyone, even the converts.”
Pause.
“And secondly, Nico?” It was almost an interrogation. Except that Marie, the interrogator, was trembling inwardly more than the interrogated.
“And then — ach, Marie, to tell you the truth I’ve thought about it very, very often. You know, I don’t observe any of the customs anymore.”
“And why not, Nico. Why didn’t you do it?” She imperceptibly turned a little toward him without taking her hands out of the basin.
“And what did he answer then?” Wim asked when Marie told him about the conversation.
“Something very strange. Actually, I don’t understand it very well. I almost think it’s a little preposterous. He said, ‘I always imagined what my father would say about it.’ ”
“He said that?”
“Yes… what his father would say about it.”
Wim was silent.
“What do you think of that?”
“I don’t think it’s as senseless as all that,” Wim said after a while.
Marie hesitated.
“To understand it, I would either have to be a son — or have one. Don’t you think?” She laughed and stood up a little on her tiptoes.
“Maybe,” Wim replied, and he lightly tapped his forehead against hers.
After Marie had finished the usual housework, she came across the laundry bag in the hall on the second floor, clothes still inside as if it had just come from the laundry. With everything else that had been going on in the last few days, she hadn’t got around to putting it away. It was a quarter past eleven, and she was thinking that before making lunch she would quickly take out the laundry and put it away in the closet, when Coba appeared.
“Coba?” Marie almost shouted, and all at once she felt pain again about everything she thought she had put behind her. Her face looked so serious and sad that right away Coba knew everything.
“My God!” —Coba put her hand on her mouth with fright. Five days ago, the last time she was here, he was still alive. So fast! “Tell me,” she said, and sat down on the second-to-top step. “Where is he?”
When Marie had finished, Coba fell silent too for a long time. She stared dully into space, and Marie had more than enough time to marvel that someone who was so lively and full of ideas could be so quiet.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Coba said at last, and stood up—“best for the two of you and for him… poor man.” She took off her coat.
“I’ll brew up some coffee,” Marie said, “but I was just about to put away the laundry. It’ll only take a minute. Wim’s coming home for lunch.”
“I’ll help,” Coba announced, and slowly climbed the last steps.
She took the laundry out of the bag and gave it to Marie, who put it in the closet.
“What did he have on?” Coba asked, grabbing a tall stack of well-folded shirts of Wim’s.
“Pajamas — a pair of Wim’s,” Marie added, taking the stack of shirts out of Coba’s hands and going to the closet.
“I see.” Coba bent down again and took hold of a pile of brightly colored terry-cloth towels from the very bottom of the bag. The towels were marked.
“… I hope you cut off the number from the laundry first.” She stood up and waited for Marie, who was still busy at the closet.
“Oh, Coba—” Marie said in a monotone. She felt like she was falling against the closet. She turned around and Coba looked into two wide-open eyes that were filling with fear from one corner to the other, from one second to the next, fear overflowing the eyelids over her whole face and down her neck and running down into her arms and her whole body.
Coba let the towels drop unheeded onto the laundry bag and hurried to the closet. She grabbed Marie’s upper arms and stepped right in front of her. All the melancholy memories had vanished, now that there was a new danger.
“Think hard,” she whispered, her voice tense; maybe it was a false alarm… “Beforehand, did you…?”
Marie closed her eyes and shook her head. In the grip of Coba’s two strong, decisive hands, in which she felt all the energy of the other young woman, it was as if every bit of Marie’s energy left her. She felt it flowing out of her. “No,” she whispered.
“Come here,” Coba said, and pulled her onto a chair. “Calm down… What a thing to find out!”
When Marie sat down she felt better, but the shock still drained all the strength from her limbs. It came so fast, with no transition, especially after all the weeks and months in which she had had to play the helpful role. Now she felt helpless, utterly ashamed of this new part she so unexpectedly found herself playing, which she had not even started to learn.
On the floor, a little distance away from her, lay the towels, scattered and no longer folded. She could see the laundry numbers in the middle of the top edge, red on white.
“What now?” she asked.
“When does Wim get back?” Coba asked.
“Around noon, quarter past. Do we have that long?”
“I hope so,” Coba replied. “I don’t know how your police are anyway, are they ‘good’?”
“I think so. Wim said something like that.”
“Pack up the things you need, I’ll tell Wim when he gets home,” Coba announced.
Marie let her have her way.
“Hi, Coba, you’re here? Where’s Marie?” Wim said when he walked into the house a little later. “Did she tell you…?”
“That and something else—” his sister answered. “Listen to this!”
“Dam—… is it true?” Wim cried, and turned deathly pale. He began to pace heavily around the room.
“There’s no time to lose,” Coba said. “I assume your pajamas have not just the laundry number but your monogram embroidered on, as is only proper in any house with a good housewife.”
“Of course. I—”
“Never mind. You have to disappear… you have to go into hiding.”
A short, sharp laugh, like a cough. In the middle of the room he jerked to a complete stop. “Do you have an address for us?” So it had come to this. Now it was their turn. Yesterday still the hosts, giving comfort; today the guests themselves, asking for others’ pity…!