Free My Enemy's Cradle by Sara Young Page B

Mrs. Bakker's response. But I could almost see her take in this piece of news, the way she always did when she heard something she could tell others: head cocked and eyes glittering like a magpie who's found a shiny coin.
    "And dear Anneke?" she asked next. "They were so close."
    My aunt hesitated for only a second. "Yes, it's terrible for her. She's gone to Apeldoorn with her father to tell Cyrla's relatives in person. She wanted to do that. For her cousin."
    I couldn't imagine what that lie must have cost my aunt. How much she must have wanted to tell someone—even Mrs. Bakker—her daughter was dead. To spill some of her grief. But then I understood. My aunt wanted to believe this—that Anneke wasn't dead after all, that it was only Cyrla who was lost. A niece only, not a daughter.
    "She had relatives in Apeldoorn? I didn't know that."
    "Very distant. A cousin of her father's. He's much older. Pieter thought he should be told in person."
    "Of course, of course. But Mies, you shouldn't be alone. I'll tell the neighbors; I'll help you make the arrangements. And I'll bring you some supper; you must eat. There'll be a service, of course."
    Mrs. Bakker was planning to stay for a while. She ignored us all these years, but now we interested her. When the doorbell rang again she answered it and led in two more families from our street. She told them in reverent tones what had happened, and I loathed her for how she took on what wasn't hers to tell, for how self-important she sounded, for the false display of sympathy. Just for a second I thought that maybe it was a good thing if she thought I were dead: If she were the one behind the notice last night, I was glad to take that satisfaction from her. Then I realized how crazy that was.
    I needed to see Isaak. I looked out the window; the evening was settling in, the sky the deep blue of dusk. He would be irritated with me for coming to him before it was totally dark, but he would understand.
    I could hear Mrs. Bakker in the dining room with the neighbors, setting teacups on the table, making a fuss about things. I smelled something baked with cinnamon and apples. As long as everyone stayed at the table, I wouldn't be seen. I couldn't face going into the bedroom where Anneke wasn't anymore, so I buttoned one of my aunt's sweaters over her nightgown and slipped down the stairs, carrying a pair of her shoes, and opened the door as quietly as I could.

THIRTEEN
    I took the back ways and regretted it. This close to the harbor, the water carried the hard odor of metal from the Germans' constant welding. It was too close to the smell of blood. The thought of Karl slammed into me—his lie and the blood Anneke had spilled over it. If I had seen him at that moment I would have torn his throat out with my teeth. Twice, I dropped from my bicycle and pressed my hands to my chest, it hurt so much to breathe.
    Although it wasn't yet dark, Isaak didn't say a word of reproach when I collapsed into the doorway. In his work he had learned to recognize the look of ravaged humans. He led me to the bed and eased me down, then sat beside me.
    "What?"
    I crawled onto his lap, curled up in his arms, and sobbed into his chest. "I want her back, I want her back, I want her back!" Isaak waited. "She was so beautiful," I whispered finally, my throat raw. "I used to feel she pulled the sunlight from the air. I was so jealous. Now I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry—"
    "What's happened?"
    It was so hard to put words to the horror we'd found, to make it that real and that final. Almost impossible to speak the violence Anneke had committed on herself. Each word tore my heart open and I ached for Isaak to tell me I was wrong, this couldn't have happened.
    But instead, he only listened to what Anneke had done with a frown. "Stupid." He muttered it under his breath when I was finished, but I heard it. "Stupid and selfish."
    I pulled away, wiped my eyes and stared at him. "Isaak, are you ... blaming her?"
    "She took a life.