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“Glory be,” he said. “The food will be a blessing. I will arrange for the loading dock to be open and have someone on site to help.”

Zoe settled back in her chair. “So, dear cousin, how are you managing?”

“It’s frantic,” Gerrit said, running a hand through his hair.

“With dozens of people secreted on one floor – including children being children – we have constantly to remind them to remain quiet or risk being discovered. Add to that the inconstant food supply, and I find myself lying awake even on rare quiet nights.”

“I understand, Gerrit. But you are saving lives. I hope this food will help.”

He nodded. “If you would like to see how our ‘patients’ are faring, Zoe, I can take you on a tour of the top floor – which, as I am sure you recall, is once more closed for renovation.”

They took the service elevator to the top floor and wove their way through an intimidating jumble of stacked hospital beds, furniture, and medical equipment.

Midway down the corridor, ladders rested against a wall and paint cans were scattered about. Three ‘workmen’ in overalls chatted softly, seemingly on break from the job.

Beyond them, behind what looked like a solid wall, Zoe walked into another universe.

In the unthinkable event that the hideaway was discovered, the room needed to look as much like any other ward as possible. But the reality of so many displaced men, women and children living in such chaotic conditions nearly brought Zoe to tears.

A sea of cots sat close together, little more than inches between them.

There was an antiseptic smell in the space, and a palpable, unnatural, quiet.

A few people napped, others read, some sat staring at the grey sky outside the tall hospital windows.

The ‘patients’ were dressed in dull blue hospital gowns, the staff, mostly Jewish doctors and nurses, Zoe guessed, wearing white coats much like the ones she wore at work.

In a far corner of the room, a lightly bearded man with expressive blue eyes was reading animatedly, if quietly, to a group of children of assorted sizes who sat silently at his feet .

Gerrit moved aside to speak to someone, and Zoe moved closer to the storyteller.

“But as spring came, the ugly duckling realized something quite surprising,” the man read in accented Dutch. “He had become as beautiful a swan as any in the clear blue lake.”

The children looked at the picture he displayed, seemingly mesmerized by the familiar tale and the mellow voice of the storyteller. Zoe smiled, watching the face of the reader, nearly as regretful as the children seemed to be when the story wound to a close.

“The end,” the storyteller said, closing the oversized picture book. The children groaned, and the man put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” he admonished. “Remember? We must be quiet.”

He suggested a bathroom visit, and perhaps a glass of water before he read another story. One by one the children, some as young as three or four, rose and silently dispersed.

Zoe smiled. “You are the Pied Piper of Haarlem, it seems. He was always one of my heroes.”

“Thank you, I think.” He rose from his perch on the side of a bed. “I am not certain I deserve the title, but I would be honored to be your hero. Kurt Schneider.” He held out a hand.

Zoe recognized the accented Dutch. Her eyebrows rose. A German?

He seemed to sense her surprise. “Yes, I am German – a fallen German, if you will, and an identified enemy of the Reich.”

Zoe thought of Herr Zeller, the concert pianist. “You are not compelled to answer, but I will ask anyway. What did you do to earn the wrath of Hitler?”

He smiled, and the sun shone through his blue eyes. “My brother and I built yachts in Cologne, with a regular route into Rotterdam. Over time, we smuggled dozens of Jews and German dissenters like myself across the border – until the SS got wind of it and came after us.”

Zoe studied the neatly trimmed beard, the slightly crooked smile. “You were lucky to escape with your life.”

He raised his hands in a futile gesture. “My brother was not so lucky.”

Zoe nodded. “I am sorry…”

He inclined his head. “Thank you. As am I. ”

“So,” she went on to lighten the moment, “were you always a storyteller, Kurt Schneider?”

He found his smile. “Alas, no. But I do love children, and reading stories helps to keep them from becoming unruly.”

Gerrit came up behind her. “Ah, Kurt, this is Dr. Zoe Visser. She is a veterinarian who works for the Resistance – and my very dear cousin. It was she who persuaded us to create this erstwhile hiding place.”

“Our gratitude,” Schneider said, putting a hand over his heart. “This is the second time I have been forced to flee from the Nazis. When I fled Germany, I settled in Haarlem, but my home is in the path of the defensive line they are rushing headlong to complete.”

His gaze settled on Zoe. “Fortunately, the bastards who pounded on my front door and gave me twenty-four hours to evacuate seemed to have no knowledge of my previous brush with the Gestapo. But I would not be surprised, somewhere up the line, to find myself still in their sights.”

Gerrit patted Schneider on the shoulder. “I will leave you, if I may,” he said. “I have matters to see to. Zoe, can you find your way downstairs?”

“Yes, of course – and thank you again, Gerrit. I will see you soon, I hope.”

Kurt Schneider bowed ever so slightly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Zoe Visser.” He smiled, and the room brightened.

One by one, the children trickled back. “More, Meneer Kurt, please?”

Zoe stepped back. “Do not let me keep you.” She was embarrassed to find herself staring

MILA

Mila withdrew the drawings from her artist’s portfolio and set them on Pieter’s desk. She had done her best to project angles and distances, and she knew from the expression on Pieter’s face as he examined them that he was pleased with what he saw .

“This is good work, Mila. Thank you for taking the risk. I will get these to London straight away.”

“The strange thing, Pieter, is how remarkably low risk it was,” she said, leaning forward across the desk “As I told you, the few German patrols I saw seemed totally uninterested. They were too busy conferring with one another to pay me any notice – and the pair of SS officers at dinner last night managed barely to sit through dessert. Apart from mentioning the meeting at the Cinema, they had very little to say,”

Pieter met her gaze. “It was more than good fortune, Mila. I think I may know why they seemed so preoccupied.”

He kept his voice low. “Our intelligence tells us that some two-hundred thousand German troops and perhaps a thousand tanks were massed yesterday in the Ardennes Forest in Belgium. We think they are preparing to launch an invasion on the American front – some sort of payback, as it were, for their losses in Normandy last June…and perhaps a last-ditch effort, also, to turn the tide of the war in Hitler’s favor. ”

Mila felt her blood quicken.

“We are doing what we can and we pray the American allies will prevail. If they do, it could mean an end to the war – and liberation.”

“But if not…”

“We can pray, Mila. God knows four years of hunger and misery have been more than enough to bear.”

His green eyes darkened.

“My guess is that news of the attempted siege is beginning to trickle down to the rank and file. The tension – and speculation about what is happening at the front – could account for this distraction you noticed.”

Mila considered.

“It could also be the reason,” Pieter went on, “why German officers will be meeting at the Cinema tonight. Undoubtedly, there is news to be shared, perhaps even a shuffling of troops. ”

Mila listened, excited to think an end to the war might be in sight, but reluctant to re-live the fading optimism that had followed the Normandy invasion.

She looked down at the drawings on his desk.

“In any case, thank you, Pieter,” she said, “for trusting me with this assignment. God speed to the Allied forces. And if there is anything more I can do…”

Pieter smiled. “That is very like you, Mila. As if you have not already done so much,” he tapped at the drawings.”

Mila placed her hands on the desktop, surprised to find months of rancor rising to the surface.

“Pieter, I am tired of being on the sidelines. That mission at the coast yesterday stirred my blood. I am capable and careful, and I am sick of this war and of an endless tide of Hitler’s Nazis sitting on our graves.

I pray the end of the war is near, but until it comes, I am ready to get my hands dirty. I ask again, what can I do?”

Pieter’s green eyes bored into her.

“I am a trained marksman, Pieter, in case you did not know,” she said. “I have trained at the shooting range, alongside my father, since I was twelve years old, and I daresay I can handle a firearm as well as anyone – and better than most.”

Pieter sat back in his seat. “So. A German speaker, a trained marksman, and a beautiful woman…perfect qualifications for a spy.”

It stopped her for a moment. Was he mocking her? But she kept to her purpose. “Good, then,” she said. “Throw me into the trenches. Give me the chance to show you what I am made of.”

Pieter was still for nearly a minute. The he leaned toward her. “You know Johan Steegen, ja ? He has an auto repair shop on the Damstraat?”

“I do. My father trusts his beloved Daimler to him.”

“Good. Steegen maintains for us a small arsenal among his stock of automobile parts. I will be at his shop in one hour. If you can meet us there – with the Daimler if you can, so that all seems legitimate – you may be able to help us to make the most of this evening’s German meeting at the Cinema. ”

Mila was prepared when her father asked why she wanted the Daimler.

“I’m taking it to Amsterdam,” she told him, “I will lunch there with my friend, Anna Nykerk. Never fear, Papa, I will be home in time for dinner – and I will send your regards to the Nykerks.”

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