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Mam greeted Mila warily, watching from her chair, where she sat unraveling an old afghan blanket for yarn that could be repurposed.

“You have a strong and clever daughter, Lotte,” Mila sat. “You should be proud.”

She turned to Evi. “I am proud, Evi. You preformed a great service in a time when we all must fight just to survive. ”

Evi sat next to her, on the edge of her seat. “If you are here to ask me to do it again, Mila, the answer is yes. I will.”

“Evi, are you certain –” Mam leaned forward.

“I am as certain as you are, Mam, that taking the barge to Den Helder for tulip bulbs is worth the risk you will be taking.”

ZOE

Radio Oranje was calling it the HongerWinter – the winter of hunger – and justly so, with the Germans consistently shrinking rations, and starvation threatening all but the most self-reliant.

The worst of it, Zoe thought, as she turned off the broadcast and hid the radio behind a stack of linens in the closet, was that many Dutch farmers were more than willing to share what little they could grow in the cold – but even moving the food from the countryside to the city was difficult under German watch because the bounty was often commandeered.

Since Gerrit had come through with his promise to house the displaced Haarlem families, Zoe and a cadre of Resistance volunteers had somehow managed to move people, never more than a few at a time, into the hospital in Heemstede.

Today, if all went well, Zoe would transport several more, as always walking a circuitous route to avoid German scrutiny.

Because the SS and the Gestapo frequently shifted checkpoints to take the unsuspecting by surprise, Zoe planned to walk the route once by herself before moving anyone else. Even if she needed to recalculate, she thought, she should be at the pet kliniek by noon.

...

There were two men, three women and two children under the age of five in the designated area of the park, huddled in heavy coats and scarves. Among them stood a uniformed Royal Dutch policeman. Zoe sucked in her breath as he approached.

“ Mevroew Visser,” he said quietly. “My name is Lukas Jenssen. I have been sent to assist you in this transport.”

He looked young to be wearing the uniform. “Who sent you here?”

“The thane of Cawdor.”

She hesitated. They were the right code words, stolen from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. But she needed to be certain. “And why should I trust you?”

“Because these people trust me. Because the Resistance Council knows that a Dutch police escort will lessen the chance of German interference.”

Zoe relaxed. A mareschaussee…

A kerchiefed woman whose Persian cat Zoe had treated more than once rose from a nearby bench.

“Else Jenssen, Zoe,” the woman laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Lukas is my son. We are proud of him.”

“As you should be,” Zoe stepped away. “Let us not tarry, then. I will leave it to you, Lukas, to get these people safely to the hospital.”

...

She stopped briefly at her favored café, where she ate a quick lunch of boiled potatoes and came away with a Dutch driver’s license and a French passport liberated from a couple of winter coat pockets.

Daan was waiting when she arrived at the kliniek . “A moment in my office, Zoe.”

“Apologies for sending Lukas to your meeting spot unannounced,” he said when they were seated. “Pieter tried to telephone you earlier, but the call did not go through.”

She dropped the stolen driving license and passport on his desk. “I am always fearful of German roadblocks. But thanks be to God, nearly all our refugees have been transported. ”

Daan examined the purloined ID’s. “ Bedankt, Zoe. Two more lives perhaps saved.”

In the quiet that followed, Zoe realized what was missing – the low thrum of barks and animal sounds that had once always emanated from the kennels. These days, with food and guilders short, overnight stays for doctoring their animals was out of the question for most.

“Are there appointments scheduled this afternoon?” she asked.

“Nothing I cannot handle by myself.” Daan leaned forward and lowered his voice. Close the door, please.

Zoe did so, and dropped into a chair.

“Something has come up. An opportunity. It is urgent and dangerous, but worth the risk, we think – and we need all the help we can get.”

She nodded.

“As you are well aware, Nazi troops have been sweeping through our farmlands, seizing produce and supplies. We think some of that food is earmarked for German troops in Poland, because much of it was seen being loaded onto a train that is scheduled to leave Haarlem for Krakow tomorrow evening.”

Daan’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We have the means in place to blow the train off the tracks in a forested area to the north,” he said. “But we will need to take ownership of all that edible cargo – and quickly, before the German command gets wind of it.”

“I understand.”

“We need to have volunteers with handcarts and bicycles waiting in the woods just out of sight of the tracks. They will need to sift through the wreckage, strip whatever foodstuffs they can find, and transport the goods to the hospital loading dock in Heemstede. ‘

Daan paused. “Again, we cannot minimize the risk. It is an hour’s bicycle ride from the blast point to the hospital, more if the Germans are quick to reconnoiter, so our volunteers must be hardy and shrewd. But if we are quick to get in an out, the reward is worth the risk. Can you help? ”

Zoe wrestled for a long moment, weighing the image of the pistol in her face against the need to feed the hungry.

“We will need a map,” she said, finally, “The volunteers must study all possible routes. But people here are angry as well as hungry. Perhaps they will welcome the chance to act.”

MILA

Mila strolled just outside the restricted area early on a Saturday morning, her hair glinting red and gold in the cold December sunshine. An artist’s portfolio full of drawings and charcoals was slung over her shoulder, and under one arm she carried an oversized sketchpad,

She had expected to find the place alive with German soldiers ready to stop and question her, wary of running into an officer who had sat at her father’s table. In any case, she had prepared a cover story about needing to do a sketch of the old lighthouse for an art class.

But the whole area was bewilderingly quiet. Save for a few guards with rifles resting at their feet, there was little to impede her progress.

Opening her sketch book, she ventured casually beyond the orange-ribboned boundary, pulse quickening as she peered into the distance, sketching, listening for footsteps behind her.

She was prepared to flash a flirtatious smile, apologize for a stupid blunder, absorbed as she was in her work.

But to her astonishment, no one approached her, and she left as quickly and easily as he had entered, ducking under the orange tape with her sketch pad full of drawings stowed beneath her fashion drawings in her portfolio.

At home, puzzled, she tried reaching Pieter more than once from the relative safety of her clothes closet. But the secure line went unanswered, which left her even more uneasy. She dressed for dinner with equal measures of curiosity and dread.

Her parents and their guests were just being seated when Mila entered the dining room clad in a form-fitting, azure silk dinner dress with a neckline low enough to be noticed.

She did not know either of the two SS men who rose as she entered, but she saw their gaze move to study her curves as she took her seat and offered a welcoming smile.

“Mila, please welcome Hauptscharführer Ludvig Schluck and Oberscharführer Heinz Pfeiffer, who will be dining with us this evening. Mein Herren , this is our daughter, Mila.”

Mila studied them as she sat, the one bulky, straight-backed, with a Hitler-like moustache, the other with a bulbous, pig-like nose and blue eyes set too close together.

“ Mein Herren,” she gracefully inclined her head, amused as always at how her non-German speaking father managed to wrap his tongue around all those protracted German vowels.

Her mother offered low-key comments about the weather and the coming Yuletide, and there were short bursts of conversation as the dinner of pork roast and sweet potatoes was served.

But apart from the sound of silverware clinking and wine being poured, these officers, like the guards she had seen this morning, appeared to be oddly distracted.

“So, mein Herren ,” Mila tried. “Will you be going home for the Christmas holidays?”

The pair of Germans exchanged glances.

“Alas, nein ,” the larger man said finally. “I am afraid we may be needed here.”

His companion was absorbed in his food.

Mila leaned forward, revealing more bosom. “How awful, Oberscharführer Pfeiffer. And why is that?”

Her father cut her off with a comment about the roast – how succulent and perfectly spiced – and the Germans agreed, helping themselves to a second portion.

The conversation limped along despite Mila’s effort to spur it on. Finally, as the fourth bottle of wine was emptied, the older German laid his napkin on the table.

“I fear, Herr Brouwer” he said, “with many thanks for your gracious hospitality, we must make this an early evening. ”

His companion rose, clicked his heels together in the Reich fashion, and bowed from the waist. “Our thanks to you as well, Frau Brouwer, and your lovely daughter,” he said in passable Dutch. “The repast and the company have been a delight.”

Her father rose. “Of course, mein Herr . “Perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Cook will roast the goose you brought this evening.”

The pig-faced officer shook his head. “ Danke schoen , Herr Brouwer. “I wish it were possible. But we are summoned to a Reich meeting at the Haarlem Cinema tomorrow evening, and there is much to do in preparation.”

He rose and bowed again, first to her mother, and then to her. “Our gratitude again for this repast and your gracious company. We hope to see you soon again.”