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  For Eyse and, of course, David

  “In talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.”

  WILLIAM MAXWELL,

  So Long, See You Tomorrow

  IF I HADN’T turned eighteen twelve years after a distant uncle in his bungalow in Spain sensed his end was near; if he hadn’t been childless and, on his deathbed, nostalgic for what might have been; if he hadn’t therefore sent his ring, his only piece of jewelry, to my grandmother with the instructions to bequeath it to a future family namesake; if my grandmother hadn’t forgotten to buy me a present for my eighteenth birthday and if I hadn’t dropped in on her that day; if she hadn’t anxiously glanced around the room for something that even vaguely resembled a present; if her eye had not fallen upon the small black leather box with the ring that had been waiting for twelve years for the right finger; if I hadn’t saddled myself with a promise that meant my first pregnancy would be completely dominated by a bomb attack on December 5, 1946, then this story would have remained the tenuous, slippery myth it had been for some seventy years.

  27 WEEKS LEFT

  “WE’LL NAME HIM Frans,” I say. “Frans Julius Johan.”

  I’m startled by the volume of my voice.

  “I’m standing right next to you,” D laughs. “You don’t have to shout.”

  He opens the passenger door. “Need a hand?”

  “I’m pregnant, not handicapped.”

  Grinning, he walks around to the driver’s side. Before getting in, he raps twice on the roof of the car. Superstition. D thinks that with too much happiness, you have to ward off mishaps. I try to feel relieved. The uncertain weeks have passed: a heart is beating, a child is growing. But alongside the relief, a fear nestles in my chest, the fear that has been skulking around in my body ever since that blue plus sign appeared on the pregnancy test. It is a menacing void that seems to grow along with the baby. Big and blank and white, like the map of Antarctica a friend gave me last year for my birthday. A vast patch with the name of the continent at the upper left, the scale on the lower right, and otherwise nothing. No roads, no lakes, no villages. The friend thought he had found the coolest map ever, but it gave me goose bumps. Ever since we’ve started counting down the weeks, I can’t get that white blotch out of my head, that terrifying combination of something and nothing.

  I sink into the seat and clench my teeth at the stabbing pain in my hip. Thirteen weeks pregnant and already pelvic instability. D flops down next to me and points to the folder of photos I’m holding. “Let’s have one more look.” Together we examine the images the ultrasound technician had printed out for us (“New snapshots of your little one!”) after she’s clarified the various splotches of light on the screen. An arm, a stomach, a pumping heart: our child manifested in glowing body parts. I nodded dutifully at everything she named, but I could not make out anything human in the shapes drifting in the darkness. They looked more like primitive creatures in the primordial soup. The photos resemble a misty nighttime landscape. D thumbs through them. I know which one he’s looking for: the one with the two long blotches—legs—and a small protrusion in between. The photo where the technician exclaimed, “There you are: a son!”

  D was relieved. The possibility of a daughter scared him. So vulnerable. I fear just the opposite. Boys, I once read, more frequently die a reckless death—cars, alcohol, war, fireworks, brawls.

  “So quiet in here,” D mumbles. He puts the key into the ignition and tunes the radio to 10 Gold, his favorite station. When he’s found the photo, he traces the contour of the shapes with his finger and hums contentedly along with Elton John. I look at my hands, at the thick gold ring with the blue stone that my grandmother solemnly slid onto my middle finger on my eighteenth birthday, exacting from me the promise that I would name my first-born son after the family hero whose ring it had been. She uttered his name as though she were revealing a secret. Frans Julius Johan. It was the first time I had ever heard his real name; I only knew him from the sobriquet the family had given him: Bommenneef, “Cousin Bomber.” A hero of the Dutch Resistance who, more than a year after the war’s end, carried out an attack on a Dutch Blackshirt who had escaped prosecution because he could not live with the idea that justice was found wanting. His last wish, according to my grandmother, was that the ring be worn by a namesake. “That thing’s been sitting in the cupboard for twelve years. We could wait for an eternity until this family produces a namesake, but I could also just give it to you with the agreement that you’ll name your first son after him.”

  “We’ll name him Frans.” That strange, loud voice again. “Frans Julius Johan.”

  D looks up from the folder, smiling. “Aren’t we supposed to spend months agonizing over a name? Let alone three first names?”

  I shake my head. There’s no doubt in my mind. “We’re naming him after Bommenneef. The world could use a bit of courage and self-sacrifice these days.”

  D is taken aback. “Are you serious? I thought that whole Bommenneef thing, that namesake promise, was more like a …” He’s searching for the right words. “A juicy story, you know, for parties and all. Not something you really wanted.”

  He’s right. It was that kind of story. The perfect anecdote to contribute to half-drunken debates over lawlessness and retribution, the tale of the hero after whom I would one day name my son. And, to be honest, also just an attempt to impress people with my illustrious family history whenever they noticed that eye-catching ring on my middle finger. For fifteen years it’s been a noncommittal topic; Bommenneef always felt as distant and intangible as the child I would name him after. The one no longer existed, the other did not yet exist. All they had in common was the story. But now that the future son has presented himself as an as-yet-unknown reality, I need a legend for my map. A name that will put things into proportion, a story to fill that gaping white hole. And this is just the story I need. A hero as the blueprint for my son.

  I look at the ultrasound photos again, and for a moment it’s as if Bommenneef is floating there in the darkness. Half swallowed up by history, yearning for light and life. I don’t feel like telling D about Antarctica and spoiling today with my fear of the unknown. D starts the car and drives us out of the parking lot.

  “It was his last wish,” I say.

  “But he’s been dead for almost thirty years.”

  “I promised my grandma.”

  “She’s dead too.”

  “What have you got against it?”

  “I can think of nicer names.”

  “It’s the story behind the name that counts.”

  “But you hardly know anything about him.”

  I lay our misty landscape on the dashboard.

  D is right again. What I know can be summed up in a single sentence: Resistance hero delivers a parcel bomb disguised as a Sinterklaas present to an ex-Nazi.I

  I write “bomb,” but according to the family narrative, the bomb was always a “little bomb,” the Blackshirt was a “rat,” and Bommenneef “a rascal.” It was my grandparents’ generation that kept the tale alive, repeating it every chance they got, to whoever would listen. Rascal startles rat with bomblet.

  A tale full of diminutives, to which my grandmother attached two more diminutives: loontje and b
oontje.

  She was the one who first told me about Bommenneef. I was seven. We were in The Hague, on the way to a cocktail party at one of her hundreds of friends or shopping at the Bonneterie, I can’t really remember. I was the only of her ten grandchildren she took with her on such outings. Probably because I was the kind of child who could entertain herself for an hour with paper and colored pencils under a table, but also because I was named after her. I always noticed how she glowed whenever I introduced myself. “Same as me!” she would cry, as though the existence of a small version of herself were a permanent marvel. I don’t know if our passing along the Prinsengracht was a coincidence, or whether she took an intentional detour, but either way we found ourselves standing in front of a brownstone. Grandma pointed to the door where the “little bomb” had been delivered and told me about our family hero. She drew my attention to the color of the façade, a few shades lighter than the neighboring houses. “They had to rebuild the house, you see.” She ended her story with a jolly Boontje komt om zijn loontje—“Tuppence gets his comeuppance.” I had no idea who Boontje was, and what kind of loontje he came for, but I nodded because it sounded right. Only later did I discover the proverbial power of full rhyme. Haste makes waste. No pain, no gain.

  Since then, I have retold the Bommenneef story countless times, and the more I told it, the more detailed it became.

  In fifth grade I even presented it in a largely fictitious show-and-tell. The rat in this version had been expanded to a gang of twelve Blackshirts whom my super-uncle blew to smithereens one Sinterklaas evening with his parcel bomb. I had practiced counting down at home in the mirror, my voice pregnant with pent-up tension—four, three, two, one, kaboom!—and then sank to the floor with grand, dramatic gestures—four, three, two, one!—where I played dead until the applause broke out. I got an A+ and a standing ovation from my classmates. An added reward for my direct kinship with a hero of such stature was a monthslong romance with the most popular boy in school. And although the incident was the culmination of coincidences—a birthday, a forgotten present, a death twelve years earlier—becoming the heir to the ring on my eighteenth birthday seemed entirely logical. Historical justice. Full rhyme.

  “Well?” D asks as we drive into our neighborhood. He gracefully maneuvers the car through the narrow streets.

  Perhaps it’s crazy to cling to an old hero, to a simple childhood rhyme. But when D asks which ultrasound photo we should hang on the fridge, I once again feel that vast white void under my navel.

  “You’re right, I don’t know much. But I’m going to find out.”

  D smiles his big, contagious smile, the smile that got him cast for a Mentos ad that has been showing on prime-time TV for some five years now. The Freshmaker. I love that smile, and the carefreeness with which he replies that I’d better get cracking, then.

  I. Sinterklaas, or St. Nicholas Day, is celebrated annually with the giving of gifts on the evening of December 5.

  26 WEEKS LEFT

  WHERE DOES A heroic tale begin? With the evil that is eventually defeated? With the deed itself? With the hero? With the courage required to do what needs to be done, putting oneself on the line? And what sparks that courage? Injustice? Fear? The desire to capture that fear, to hold it up to the light, to be able to say, “I am not afraid”?

  * * *

  I start my quest for information about Bommenneef’s life by calling the oldest aunt in my family. This one phone call sets off the grapevine of well-to-do seniors who knew Bommenneef, or who know people who knew him. Word of my search travels at lightning speed through retirement-home coffee nooks and golf club canteens.

  Every day I receive new snippets of information by phone, email, and old-fashioned post. I decide to make two folders on my computer: “Facts” and “Other.” The first one consists of a single document containing no more than a few sentences. Bommenneef—Frans Julius Johan—was born in Haarlem in 1909 and died in 1987. He was my grandfather’s second cousin. He had two older sisters, both now deceased; his father was in the army; his mother died young. He worked as a consultant for Staalglas Amsterdam and as a salesman for Citroën. After the war he became head of the motor vehicle facility at the military garrison in The Hague. Almost everything else ends up in the second folder, a colorful miscellany of memories, hearsay, and loose scraps of information.

  His sisters’ children—his nearest relatives—appear to know the least about him. They only saw Bommenneef infrequently. None of his nephews or nieces can tell me any more about the bombing than I already know. It is with the periphery of the family and vague acquaintances where the most vivid memories endure. As though to really know him required a certain distance.

  Someone tells me how Frans swam around his houseboat—with slow strokes, like a lethargic frog; someone says he almost crashed his race car at the 1936 Monaco Grand Prix; someone knows for sure that he was given a life sentence for the bombing and got into a brawl with a cellmate in a Leeuwarden prison who had refused to serve in Dutch East India (“Communist scum,” Frans called conscientious objectors); someone knows for sure he got away with the bombing; someone says Queen Juliana pardoned him; someone says he committed suicide in his jail cell; various people claim he ended up in Spain, which, considering the attack was committed on Sinterklaas Eve, I find too silly to take seriously.I A niece of my grandfather’s describes Frans as a Casanova, dark and handsome, “the heartbreaker of Haarlem.” An uncle says he was short and stocky. No one has any photographs.

  I learn that there are various versions of the bomb legend. One good-natured uncle is convinced that the Blackshirt was killed instantly. He soft-pedals: “He was an old man anyway.” A scandalmonger aunt tells me that after the explosion, the man lay for hours on the stoop, fighting for his life. Someone says that Frans acted on a government directive, another says that after the attack he never uttered another word. Every version has its own shade and slant, with two uncontested main ingredients: Frans’s heroism and the villain’s well-deserved death. Why he sent the ring to my grandmother in particular, no one can say. They assume it had to do with her role within the family. My grandmother was the family fixer, someone known to be able to finagle anything. Even an heir.

  Details come to light that link his life to mine via the most unexpected places and people.

  I also know he frequented Amsterdam cafés, and he regularly walked along the same route I took every day while cycling to classes. He lived one street behind the house where, sixty years later, I rented my first room. A good friend of mine has an atelier in the garrison where Frans started his postwar military career. Now I roam through the hallways where he must have walked; for the first time I study the bland, gray stone walls, and try to imagine that Frans, too, touched these tiles and trod these floors. I sneak a cigarette (the last one, the very very last one!) through an open window and think back on the slugs on my grandmother’s patio. How they slid over the paving stones, across the dirt, the plants, seemingly from nowhere to nowhere, but as soon as the sun broke through, there was suddenly a glistening trail of slime that connected everywhere the snails had been in the course of their sluggish trek.

  * * *

  D and I go to city hall, where he has to acknowledge paternity. It is the same counter where, a few months from now, we’ll have to register the baby’s name.

  D is still skeptical about naming him after Bommenneef. He says there are plenty of other Dutch heroes to choose from. Floris. Willem. Maurits.

  “But he’s our hero,” I say.

  “Your hero. And do you really like that name? Frans?”

  “It’s not about whether I like it or not. It fits.”

  D says that a name always fits in the end, that a name is like a leather shoe that forms itself to the foot.

  But in my mind, it’s the other way around: A person grows into his name. The name is the foot.

  “You’re making too big a deal of it,” D says.

  “It is a big deal.”

&
nbsp; He places his hand on my belly. “Four inches is not that big.”

  “But it’s growing. It’s growing by the second. Eighteen years from now we’ll have six feet of person.”

  The numbers on the electronic screen jump ahead. It’s our turn. The civil servant behind the gleaming counter asks what the child’s last name will be. D looks questioningly at me. “Mine, right?” I nod. That’s what we had decided. I get the first name, he the last. After D has signed the form, the official congratulates us. “Now the child is officially both of yours.”

  * * *

  Back home, we start clearing out the junk room that will become the nursery. D claims veto rights regarding the first name. I disagree. Irked, he asks why we have to name our child after anyone at all.

  “Because it gives you something to go on. It’s a framework, a story you step into.”

  “So why this story?”

  “Because it’s a good story, the most reassuring one I have.”

  I am surprised by my choice of words. Is it really reassuring? As a child, the story of Bommenneef confirmed my sense of justice. Reward and retribution. The certainty that good wins in the end.

  “He’s not even here yet,” D sighs, “and you already want to reassure him.”

  I nod. “Something like that.”

  “Or reassure yourself.”

  “I want a moral compass, a name to navigate with.”

  “It’s a kid, not uncharted territory.”

  I don’t tell him this is exactly how I feel.

  D shakes his head, mutters something about hormones, and starts screwing together an antique cradle we picked up last week from an aunt. He calls it the “horror crib” because the combination of the creaking dark wood and the faded pink flowered awning fabric gives him the creeps.