1
TILBURG,THENETHERLANDS
FRIDAY, MAY10, 1940
As soon as she escaped to England, Aleida van der Zee Martens would cut her hair and have her son photographed for the first time.
Sebastiaan approached from behind. Why couldn’t her husband ever wait until she finished brushing her hair? Sometimes he interrupted at seventeen strokes, sometimes at thirty-one, today at forty-three.
He wove his fingers into her hair halfway down her back, and she tensed.
In the bureau mirror, Aleida met his gaze. Warm gray today, not chilled steel.
Regardless, every muscle stayed taut.
He kissed her cheek. “Breakfast in ten minutes, Lay-Lay.”
“Yes, Bas.” A smile rose. She and little Theodoor would never breakfast with Bas again.
After he headed downstairs to listen to the morning news, Aleida finished brushing her hair. Only seven strokes remained to remove the feel of him. Not enough, but today of all days she couldn’t go above her customary fifty strokes.
She set her brush on the silver tray, centered between her comb and her perfume atomizer. At the base of her brush lay her rings. First she put on her grandmother’s sapphire ring. Then her engagement ring, which she would sell in London.
Her fingers trembled, and she drew back lest she knock something askew, knock her plan further askew.
With rumors of German troops massing on the Dutch border, she’d decided to move up her plan an entire week.
But it was a good plan.
For the last time, she coiled her hair the way Bas liked.
After Bas left for work, while the cook cleaned up after breakfast and the housekeeper scrubbed the downstairs floors, Aleida would sneak out a suitcase. She’d already hidden her essentials and Theo’s in bureau drawers, ready to pack.
When the housekeeper went upstairs to scrub the guest rooms, Aleida would announce she was leaving for her hair appointment, timed for when her mother-in-law across the street was away for her own hair appointment and wouldn’t see Aleida and Theo leave with luggage.
Tonight, she and her three-year-old boy would be safe with Tante Margriet and Uncle James in the English countryside.
Yet her fingers still trembled.
A voice climbed the stairs—Sebastiaan’s. Shouting orders, closer and closer.
Her chest seized, bile rose up her throat, and she gripped the bureau top. “Not today. Please.”
The bedroom door banged open, and Bas wrestled three suitcases inside. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Start packing. Only necessities and valuables. Hurry.”
“What?” The word poured out in a breathy haze. She did plan to pack—but not with Bas.
He heaved the suitcases onto the bed and flung open his wardrobe. “You have family in England, ja? A cousin? An uncle?”
She’d hoped he’d forgotten. “I—I don’t understand.”
“Don’t get hysterical.” Bas folded business suits into the largest suitcase. “The Germans invaded at dawn. Parachutists landed at airfields and bridges. Tanks crossed the border. I can’t possibly run a profitable business under the Nazis, but I can in England.”
Acid burned her throat, coated the inside of her mouth, corroded her hopes.
Bas flicked up his gaze to her. “Pack or don’t pack, but we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Cook is preparing a hamper of food, the chauffeur is warming up the automobile, and I already have visas in our passports. I planned everything.”
So had Aleida. Her plan covered every contingency.
