marrying.”
“Who? Did he say who he was marrying?” Pieter’s voice was barely audible. How could Carl not let him know? But maybe he had in the letter his mother had misplaced.
“It was a non-Dutch name, not a name I knew. A foreigner. That is why he wanted me to register the marriage in Den Hague.”
“Can you look it up in your records?”
“Information between a client and his solicitor is private,” she said haughtily, but after a glance at Pieter’s ashen face, she capitulated. “It was an odd name. I don’t remember the last name but the first name was something like Jan Ann. I remember thinking that it was a strange name, certainly not a Dutch name.”
A surge of bitter desolation encompassed him. Janan was married, lost to him for all time. Beneath the sharp agony of his loss was the stinging pain of his mother’s deceit. Carl had tried to contact him and his mother had blocked his attempts. It must have been important for Carl to telephone him. “How long ago?’
“Oh, months ago.” She tossed her head. “It was just a small matter. I sent one of my assistants to do it.” She frowned. “You can’t expect me to remember the exact date.”
Pieter stumbled from the room . He had to get away from his mother. He had to reach the library before he fell apart. Everything he had dreamed of was gone. Janan was married to another and would never be his. All his struggles to stay alive were for nothing. He huddled in the corner of the leather Chesterfield sofa unable to stop shaking.
Why had Janan done it? She must have felt the same magic that he had that night. She must have known that he would come back as soon as he could. Why had she married Carl? To take care of him? To protect him from his nephew? But why marriage? He moaned as he tried to re-group. What was he going to do?
He stood, unsteady on his feet, and straightened his tie. How could he live when he had lost everything? Work. Work was all he had left in his life. Sigmund Freud had said that work was the last bastion. He would go to the Refugee Center and work until he dropped. They needed him, and he needed them.
As soon as Pieter settled himself on the train for the thirty-minute ride that would take him to the Osdorp refugee camp in the western suburb of Amsterdam, he took out his notebook and reviewed the next week’s work. He forced himself to concentrate. Twenty-three refugee camps in The Netherlands with over 14,000 refugees pouring in every year requesting asylum, nearly a third of them children. He rubbed his hand across his face. What irony. The only European country with more refugees was Germany, the country that had deported and killed so many people in the quest of a pure German population was now struggling with masses of people from diverse cultures seeking asylum.
He thought wearily of the child refugees he worked with . So vulnerable. He shuddered at the statistics burned into his mind. Two-thirds of the girls and at least fifteen percent of the boys would have experienced sexual abuse. No wonder the rate of posttraumatic stress disorder was so high. Under today’s date, he wrote the word, Osdorp , and then under the other days of the week, he wrote the names of other refugee centers in Amsterdam. Never enough time, never enough help.
As he approached the center with its 350 refugee occupants, he could see the three flags of the Osdorp camp in the distance—the flag of Amsterdam, the flag of the Osdorp borough, and the flag of the Agency for the Reception of Asylum Seekers. The sight of the three flags rippling in the breeze gave the illusion of competence and security that was belied by a black metal fence surrounding the compound that had been erected to reduce the risk of young women being abducted from the camp that was partially hidden by trees. The illusion would be shattered even further the moment he entered the small room with the worn wooden table and mismatched wooden chairs where he would meet the
“Who? Did he say who he was marrying?” Pieter’s voice was barely audible. How could Carl not let him know? But maybe he had in the letter his mother had misplaced.
“It was a non-Dutch name, not a name I knew. A foreigner. That is why he wanted me to register the marriage in Den Hague.”
“Can you look it up in your records?”
“Information between a client and his solicitor is private,” she said haughtily, but after a glance at Pieter’s ashen face, she capitulated. “It was an odd name. I don’t remember the last name but the first name was something like Jan Ann. I remember thinking that it was a strange name, certainly not a Dutch name.”
A surge of bitter desolation encompassed him. Janan was married, lost to him for all time. Beneath the sharp agony of his loss was the stinging pain of his mother’s deceit. Carl had tried to contact him and his mother had blocked his attempts. It must have been important for Carl to telephone him. “How long ago?’
“Oh, months ago.” She tossed her head. “It was just a small matter. I sent one of my assistants to do it.” She frowned. “You can’t expect me to remember the exact date.”
Pieter stumbled from the room . He had to get away from his mother. He had to reach the library before he fell apart. Everything he had dreamed of was gone. Janan was married to another and would never be his. All his struggles to stay alive were for nothing. He huddled in the corner of the leather Chesterfield sofa unable to stop shaking.
Why had Janan done it? She must have felt the same magic that he had that night. She must have known that he would come back as soon as he could. Why had she married Carl? To take care of him? To protect him from his nephew? But why marriage? He moaned as he tried to re-group. What was he going to do?
He stood, unsteady on his feet, and straightened his tie. How could he live when he had lost everything? Work. Work was all he had left in his life. Sigmund Freud had said that work was the last bastion. He would go to the Refugee Center and work until he dropped. They needed him, and he needed them.
As soon as Pieter settled himself on the train for the thirty-minute ride that would take him to the Osdorp refugee camp in the western suburb of Amsterdam, he took out his notebook and reviewed the next week’s work. He forced himself to concentrate. Twenty-three refugee camps in The Netherlands with over 14,000 refugees pouring in every year requesting asylum, nearly a third of them children. He rubbed his hand across his face. What irony. The only European country with more refugees was Germany, the country that had deported and killed so many people in the quest of a pure German population was now struggling with masses of people from diverse cultures seeking asylum.
He thought wearily of the child refugees he worked with . So vulnerable. He shuddered at the statistics burned into his mind. Two-thirds of the girls and at least fifteen percent of the boys would have experienced sexual abuse. No wonder the rate of posttraumatic stress disorder was so high. Under today’s date, he wrote the word, Osdorp , and then under the other days of the week, he wrote the names of other refugee centers in Amsterdam. Never enough time, never enough help.
As he approached the center with its 350 refugee occupants, he could see the three flags of the Osdorp camp in the distance—the flag of Amsterdam, the flag of the Osdorp borough, and the flag of the Agency for the Reception of Asylum Seekers. The sight of the three flags rippling in the breeze gave the illusion of competence and security that was belied by a black metal fence surrounding the compound that had been erected to reduce the risk of young women being abducted from the camp that was partially hidden by trees. The illusion would be shattered even further the moment he entered the small room with the worn wooden table and mismatched wooden chairs where he would meet the
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