The Tulip Eaters. Antoinette van Heugten

honor of Rose, who had also come after a great storm, one in Nora’s life. Anneke put the plant gently into the ground, filled the hole with potting soil and tamped it firmly with the trowel. As she reached for the next flower, she heard the doorbell.

      “Verdomme,” she muttered as she took off her dirty gloves and walked inside. Deliciously cold air hit her at the door, causing her to shiver slightly. She stepped to the bassinet and bent to give Rose a kiss. Her baby scent made Anneke smile. It was even better than the rain lily’s blooms. The doorbell rang again.

      “Coming!” She hated her quiet afternoons with Rose to be interrupted. It was a golden, sacred time, not to be broken by some lost deliveryman who needed directions or, worse, a zealot who wanted to lead her to Jesus. At the door, she looked through the peephole, opened it and clapped her hands. “Flowers! Oh, how wonderful!” She saw a tall man with white hair and a craggy face holding a brilliant arrangement of tulips—yellows, reds, whites—looking as if they would burst from the silver paper wrapped around them.

      As she reached for them, the smile on the man’s face disappeared. He threw the flowers inside and lunged for her. In seconds, he had gloved hands around her neck. He kicked the door shut and forced her backward.

      Terrified, Anneke opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. His hands were tourniquets. She couldn’t breathe. She felt herself passing out, but then he released his grip. She stumbled, fell to the carpet and took deep, hacking gulps of air. Her mind reeled in horror. Who was this monster? What did he want?

      The man stood over her. “Look at me, you bitch!”

      Gasping, Anneke slowly hauled herself up and stared at the furious man, his white hair and black eyes. Dutch! He was speaking Dutch!

      “Don’t you recognize me?” He grabbed her shoulders and then shook them—hard. When she did not respond, he shook her again in a wild rage.

      “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know you.”

      “Speak Dutch to me, you bitch. Or have you forgotten that, too?” He yanked her toward him and then shoved her down onto the living room floor. She tried to scramble away, but he was quick and kicked her fiercely in the ribs.

      Anneke screamed and writhed on the white carpet. Her heart slammed in her chest, her legs would not obey her. “Stop!” she cried in Dutch. “Take what you want. My purse is on the counter! Just please, please, don’t hurt the baby!”

      As if she knew what was happening, Rose began wailing. Anneke held up her arms, as if to ward off another blow. The man moved quickly to the bassinet and picked up the baby, swathed in a soft yellow blanket, and stood grinning at Anneke. “And who is this? The grandchild of a whore?”

      “No!” He had the baby— Oh, God! She struggled to her feet and tried to wrest Rose from his arms. Rose’s screams became screeches. Every cry was a spike into Anneke’s heart. Rose! I have to get her—now!

      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