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Mila was relieved, if still puzzled, when the two of them were gone. She said brief goodnights to her parents and hurried to the sanctity of her bedroom.

She locked the door and, without bothering to change out of her silk dress, sat down in her clothes closet and pulled out the secure line. To her great relief, the call was answered.

“Pieter,” she began. “I was worried that I could not reach you earlier. I have the sketches you asked for, and I hope they are useful. But alarm bells are going off in my head.”

She lowered her voice. “Both the few German guards I saw this morning, and our SS dinner guests this evening appeared to be oddly distracted – and it appears some sort of meeting is planned for German personnel tomorrow evening at the Haarlem Cinema.”

Pieter took a moment. “Tomorrow morning if you can manage it,” he said finally. “Ten o’clock. My office.”

EVI

It was a different tavern, set far back from the street along the same small stretch of quiet highway just outside the city limits.

The same arrangements had been made with the Resistance bodyguards, and Evi had memorized the path to the rendezvous point where she was to lead her drunken German victim.

Mila, for some reason, was not in attendance, but Evi told herself it made no difference. She felt alluring and confident in the emerald green sheath dress, and she was in good hands, she assured herself as walked through the tavern’s rear door.

The interior was strikingly similar to the first, smoke-filled and dimly lit. She took a seat at the far end of the bar, and tucked a few stray hairs into her upswept chignon. The bartender took her order without hesitation.

She was nursing her Amstel, surreptitiously peering down the length of the bar to survey her prospects, when a voice whispered in her left ear.

“Bist du allein, fraulein?” He asked in German. “Are you alone?

She turned on the bar stool, a smile on her face. The young SS officer was lean and clean-shaven, with startlingly blue eyes. He gestured questioningly to the stool beside her.

“Ja, ja,” she said, encouraging him to sit, and hoping he spoke at least a little Dutch.

He ordered two beers and another for the fraulein . She asked, in Dutch, how long he had been in the Netherlands, and he answered easily enough.

“ Drie yaren ,” he said in perfect Dutch. Three years.

She tried her most seductive smile. “That is a long time. Do you like it here?”

“ Eine beautiful land mit many beautiful ladies,” he murmured in a mix of languages, leaning close enough for her to smell the beer on his breath.

It was difficult to tell how drunk he was. He did not seem to be slurring his words, though his gaze seemed oddly unfocused.

“Where in Germany do you come from?” she asked.

“ Munchen ,” he said, smiling sadly. “Munich. Also, beautiful. Ach , ya , meine beautiful Munchen . ”

“You miss your home, then?”

“ Ich vermisse mein familie.” I miss my family.

She brought to mind one of the German phrases Mila had taught her. “ Unt deine freundin ?” she asked, smiling coquettishly. Your girlfriend?

The German downed his fourth beer and slung a heavy arm around her shoulder. “ Sie , my beautiful fraulein ,” he murmured. “You will be meine fraulein, ya ?”

His fingers began to play with the neckline of her dress. Evi smiled. “ Een ander?” She held up her nearly full mug. Another? ”

The German had trouble snapping his fingers for the bartender. She took it as a welcome sign. After his fifth beer, as his gaze explored the cleft between her breasts, both his eyes and his smile looked decidedly off kilter.

“ Liebhaber - lover - she said in German, her fingers playing with his belt buckle. “ Wirst du mit mir kommen ?” Will you come with me?

In answer, he tried a wet kiss, which Evi barely managed to avoid. He slapped a wad of Dutch guilders on the bar and slipped crookedly off his barstool.

Evi stood beside him, settled his arm over her shoulder. “I ch lebe in der nahe ,” She whispered into his ear, silently thanking Mila for her language lessons. “ I live very nearby .”

By the time they reached the back door, she was certain the Nazi would have difficulty navigating. But as they stepped outside, he found strength enough to turn and flatten her against the wall of the tavern.

“ Nein, bitte,” she said, easing herself out from under him. “ Nein, liebhaber . Better in my house, in my bed.”

She stepped away, but he was stronger than he looked, and in one swift motion, he eased them both to the ground. He was heavy on her, clapping a hand over her mouth as his right hand searched for his zipper.

“ Bitte!” – Please, she tried, mumbling into his hand. He was pulling her dress up with his free hand, grappling with clumsy fingers to pull down her underwear. She could feel him hard and pulsing against her. Panic rose in her throat.

“ Nein, bitte ,” she mumbled, praying for someone to exit the tavern door, pushing hard against the German’s chest with every bit of strength she could muster.

He rose up slightly and, in that instant, she heard the pop of a pistol, and the German collapsed against her, the full weight of him pinning her firmly to the ground.

Evi gulped air, trying to ease herself out from under him, looking for the Resistance shooters. But the man who shoved the German’s body aside was a complete and total stranger.

“Are you okay?” he asked in English – American English, Evi thought – as he helped her get to her feet.

“I – ja, I think so,” she began, her heart beating against her chest. She heard the heavy pounding of boots against packed earth, and her bodyguards appeared out of nowhere and pinned the arms of her rescuer behind him.

“Who are you?” they demanded.

“Whoa,” the man struggled to break free. “I’m an American. American. United States Army Flight Officer Jacob Reese.”

There was no mistaking the American accent. The bodyguards loosened their grip. The airman began to back away, hands over his head. “My plane went down here in Dutch territory during a scouting drill, September fourteenth, nineteen-forty-four.”

Evi stared at the tall American, dark haired, lightly bearded, broad through the shoulders and dressed in civilian clothing. Her bodyguards seemed uncertain. But there was no time for discussion, with an SS officer lying dead at their feet only steps from the tavern’s back door.

The Resistance guards bent, each grasping one of the German’s arms, and the American needed no instruction to grasp him firmly by the ankles. Together, the three moved quickly into the woods, and Evi, still shivering, chignon askew, put one foot in front of the other and followed .

She watched, coming slowly back to herself, as the German’s body was stripped of all that was useful and tossed into the waiting grave.

As before, she had no idea if she might be asked to do this again. But she did know two things for certain. The first was that she might owe her life to this downed American airman.

The second was that she would demand a pistol of her own and she would damn well learn how to use it.

ZOE

With time of the essence and phone service unreliable, Zoe went directly to the Dans Hal. As always, there were women and children at work creating wall décor, chatting and laughing, creating a quite believable smokescreen in the event Nazi snoopers showed up.

She knew fewer than half of the women she saw, but she was greeted heartily by those who knew her .

“Doctor Visser, hallo!” called Leela Bakker, who printed underground communications for the Resistance, and whose rowdy little schnauzer had been a patient. “Are you here to help?”

“Actually, I’m here to recruit help,” Zoe kept her voice low. “We need volunteers for tomorrow evening. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Leela took her into the office, where they spoke above the noise of a mimeograph.

Zoe laid out what was needed. “The train will be detonated tomorrow after dark, at precisely five-twenty,” she said.

“We need at least a dozen people – strong people who can pedal for an hour and who understand the risk – to wait in the surrounding woods with wagons or carts secured to their bicycles. We will need to very quickly harvest food from the wreckage and take off in different directions, with the hospital in Heemstede as the end point.”

Leela nodded .

“We cannot know how quickly the Germans will react, so speed and caution are critical. Can we do this?”

Leela did not hesitate. “We can.”

She studied the map Zoe showed her and took it to the mimeograph to make copies.

“Again, Leela, we need to underline the danger…” Zoe spoke above the din.

Leela turned to face her. “The food on this train is food that was stolen by these Nazi bastards out of the mouths of our families. Every farmer in Haarlem will want to help A number of their wives are here right now. They can spread the word and I am quite certain we will have all the help we need tomorrow evening.”

...

Zoe checked in briefly at the kliniek , assuring Daan there would be enough manpower for the mission.

He nodded. “I leave it to you to inform your cousin, to be sure they are ready at the hospital. I will meet this evening with Pieter and the Council. There is more news. Good news, I think.”

It had been far too long since they had heard good news. Zoe prayed he was right.

...

She made her way home, where she soaked in a warm bath until the water cooled. At dawn, after a fitful night, she dressed for the walk to the hospital.

The streets were peaceful in the early light, almost eerily quiet, the rhythm of her footsteps on the cobblestoned sidewalks attuned to the beating of her heart.

A yellow bird perched on a mailbox watched her as she passed.

She took it as a sign of better days to come and increased the pace of her step.

She found Gerritt in his second-floor office and quickly apprised him of the plan .