The Dutch Orphan by Ellen Keith

Author:Ellen Keith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2023-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Seven

Liesbeth de Wit

August 7, 1943

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Dirk had moored his boat to the side of the quay, not far from his house. Liesbeth reclined in the bow, resting her legs on the thwart while Dirk tinkered with the engine and cleaned off a smear of motor oil. The still surface of the water mirrored the vivid sky and the buildings across the canal—the towers of the Rijksmuseum and the indoor pool where Johanna liked to swim.

Liesbeth rubbed her bare calves, adjusting her skirt to find a balance between demure and daring. Her house was fifteen minutes away, but all it would take was one nosy neighbor walking back from the market to ruin things. She tried to think of a good excuse in case Maurits happened by. He was supposed to be at an NSB meeting.

“How come you didn’t go today?” she asked Dirk.

“And get stuck passing out flyers in Dam Square? I told them I had a personal emergency.” He moved to massage her thigh. She glanced around before leaning over to kiss him. Dirk grinned. He folded some loose washers and a screwdriver into an old rag and tucked them into the compartment next to the engine while he whistled a cheerful little tune.

He poured her a glass of cordial, placing it on the thwart in front of her. “Staring at a pretty girl all morning will make a man thirsty.”

Liesbeth recalled the wine she and Maurits had drunk when they’d borrowed Dirk’s boat. How they’d left it on the thwart when they’d shimmied out of their clothes and jumped in, laughing and splashing one another. That version of Maurits felt lost. Feeling a sudden stitch of guilt, she opened her handbag for her Pervitin. She popped a tablet into her mouth and moved closer to Dirk. The boat rocked beneath her, throwing her off balance. Dirk reached out to steady her.

“Not much of a sailor for someone from Zeeland,” he said.

“No, I sure haven’t earned my sea legs. I’ve never understood the appeal of venturing far from land.” Again, she thought of that day with Maurits, how his eyelashes had glistened with water droplets while he held her in the shallows, laughing and kissing her neck.

“Come on,” she said, “your repairs can wait. Let’s go inside.”

* * *

Dirk’s apartment was not at all what she’d expected. Her husband was a man of regimen; he kept books shelved by subject and author name, his hats hung from casual to formal. She had assumed a bachelor would fall into bad habits, but this was something else.

Disarray. Newspapers three days old strewed across the floor, a glass candy dish filled with enough pipe ash to suggest a volcanic eruption. The kitchen, oddly, was tidy, but knickknacks and paraphernalia cluttered the other rooms. On a windowsill, a schooner in a bottle. On a side table, a pair of brass binoculars. And on the bookshelf, a small menorah. Liesbeth touched its branches, the dark spot where a candle once sat. “Why do you have this?”

“I’m a collector,” he said, as if that explained everything.

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