Needles glittered on the streets in the soft Dutch dawn,
like shards of broken glass catching the light.
Children drifted in and out of narrow passageways,
their movements sluggish as the canals,
like something waiting to drown.
Behind the street where Anne Frank’s House stood,
a small, brown building crouched—
the hostel, ten bunks crowded into a room
heavy with the stench of dope and damp.
The showers sputtered when you forgot your coins,
cheap shampoo burning your eyes,
clouding the world into oily blurs.
Jakob, the owner, wore purple eyeshadow,
smoked maroon cigars that left the air thick and bitter.
Behind the front desk, a menorah stood,
its red candles unlit and melted,
wax globs like forgotten rubies.
On the opposite wall, a photograph:
a family, dark-eyed, arms crossed
in a field of sunflowers, waiting.
Each face marked with a bold red X,
sharp as a blade.
No one asked why.
Bill, the American boy who helped Jakob,
checked our passports, handed out keys,
cooked breakfast, inspected for bedbugs.
His face, a battlefield of purple acne,
flushed every time someone said thank you.
Five years ago, he checked in and never left,
becoming part of the place like the wallpaper.
Jakob adored him—
squeezing his shoulder, murmuring,
“Bill, Bill,”
as if speaking the name too loudly would make him vanish.
Bill wore long sleeves,
but the scars on his wrists, pale as ghosts,
were impossible to ignore.
One night, we missed curfew.
The bell rang, slicing the silence like a siren.
When Jakob answered, mascara smeared,
his bloodshot eyes wide,
a violet scarf unraveling from his neck,
he whispered,
“Bill is gone.”
His mouth opened and closed,
like words were too much to hold.
“Leave Amsterdam. Leave now.
It is the city of the dead.”
We ran upstairs,
locked our doors.
In the morning,
the hostel was empty.
Suitcases tumbled down the stairs
like forgotten promises.
I looked for Jakob, for Bill,
but the only thing left
was the photograph—
the family, the red Xs,
burning so bright
I had to close my eyes.
Penny Jackson
Penny Jackson is an award-winning writer who lives in New York City. Her books include Becoming The Butlers (Bantam Books) and a short story collection, L.A. Child and other stories (Untried Reads.) She won a Pushcart short fiction Prize and was a McDowell Colony Fellow. Penny is also a playwright with plays produced in New York, Los Angeles, Edinburgh, and Dublin. www.pennybrandtjackson.
