Page 17

A sudden wind howled, and she looked up to realize there were patches of snow here in the deep woods. She buttoned her hooded jacket to the neck and wound a woolen scarf around her head .

In the dim light, she saw Leela Bakker and her husband stamping their feet to keep warm. Behind then were bicycles fitted with high-sided wooden carts. She waved, and Leela ran toward her, pulling her wool cap down over her ears.

“There are fifteen others here with carts like ours waiting to get into that train,” she said. “Is it on time, do you know?”

“I do not, Leela.” She could see her breath.

“But we will all know soon, I hope. Once the train blows up, there is a good chance there will be more of us than of German survivors. But we will have to be quick to grab up the cargo and be out of here before the Germans are able to dispatch more troops.”

She paused. “Our people have studied the map, yes? They know to spread out on the way back to Heemstede, to look out for possible roadblocks?”

Leela hugged herself for warmth. “These are smart people, Zoe – and they are angry and hungry. We will do what needs to be done.”

...

It was just after dark, sitting on the cold ground in the silence of the woods that Zoe felt, rather than heard, the train approaching – a low thrumming deep in the earth that slowly gave way to sound. She prayed Daan’s calculations were correct.

In moments, she heard the train drawing near, could almost see it rushing forward beyond the clearing in a rush of wind that rustled the treetops. The sound was nearly past her before she heard the blast, a great, thunderous splitting of the air that lit up the sky and turned the world red and hot.

She brought a hand up over her nose and mouth, ducking down as far as she could, bringing one arm up to protect her head, and listened as the ear-splitting sound and the eerie light gave way to intermittent rumblings and occasional small bursts of flame.

Finally, as the smoke and the acrid smell began to clear, Zoe pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth and ventured toward the tracks .

Nearing the scorched earth nearest to the mangled train, she took in the mass of torn and twisted metal, felt the hot breath of the still-smoking wreck spread-eagled over the rails.

She thought briefly of the lives lost in the blast, the Germans who had been beating and starving and killing her countrymen for years, and stealing crops from their farmers.

She marveled at the sheer power of the explosives that had produced the twisted wreckage and blessed the precision of the crew who had placed them.

Slowly, as the smoke began to clear, she saw men and women cautiously approach the track, leaving their carts and wagons to inspect the ruins and assess the best ways to manage their assignment.

One by one, they clambered aboard the rubble of smoking box cars, and there were low-throated shouts and frenzied gesturing, and the carts and wagons began to fill. Zoe moved close enough to see cartons of powdered eggs and dried beef, and crates of winter cabbage and beets.

She cheered silently. The bounty would feed hundreds, including the displaced Haarlem families and the children in hiding at the hospital.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a slithering form coming toward her in the darkness. Her blood quickened. She did not have a pistol, and would not know how to use it if she did. But lieve god, was that the barrel of a rifle?

“Shooter!” she screamed, praying to be heard above the chaos. “Shooter! Look to my left!”

She looked around, searched for a boulder, something large enough to stop the advancing form.

Then she heard it – a shot that pierced the air, so close that it echoed in her ears, and she fell to her knees.

A split second of silence.

“Got him! Nazi bastard!”

It was a voice Zoe did not know. She looked up to see a barrel-chested farmer inspecting the now-still German .

“He’s dead,” the man shouted. “But if one survived the blast, there could be others. Best to have a good look around!”

The chaos increased, people milling about, more pistols at the ready. Zoe watched, wondering again if she could ever bring herself to shoot.

Finally, the uproar faded. “I don’t see any movement,” someone shouted. “Quickly, now!”

“ Ja , please!” Zoe cupped her hands and yelled. “We need to be quickly out of here.”

...

She waved at Leela, who hurried past, hauling a wagon full of food.

Her husband followed, and others came up behind them, cycling off in different directions and disappearing beyond the tree line.

Zoe prayed. She wished she had had a cart to hitch to her own bicycle, though she wasn’t sure now that her tires could have borne the extra weight.

She blew a stream of air into the night sky, wondering how long it would be before the train wreck was detected, before firefighters and railroad men and Nazi personnel arrived at the grizzly scene.

In the quiet darkness, she hopped on her bicycle. She would not stay long enough to find out.

MILA

Mila left the Daimler at home and walked to the Cinema, arriving at three in the afternoon. She paid her admission, then loitered in the rococo lobby with a half-hearted crowd of ticket holders looking, she supposed, for any means to escape the struggle of daily life.

Anxious, she did her best to blend in, avoiding eye contact, pretending to smoke a cigarette in the lobby and studying her surroundings as she waited for the show to begin .

Three potted plants badly in need of care stood against a window near the entrance.

When she was finished with the cigarette, she approached one of the pots and tamped it out in the dry earth.

As she did so, she dropped in the small device she had secreted in her hand and half-buried it in the soil.

Glancing around her, she retrieved the used cigarette, dropped it into a trash can, and joined the twenty or thirty people making their way into the theater.

She sat through a thirty-minute travelogue touting the finest beer gardens in Berlin, Munich, and Hamburg, then an old Greta Garbo film about a wayward young woman being punished in a harsh reform school.

It was nearly intolerable, and by the time she got home at well after five, she was filled with a nervous energy. She took a bath to help steady her nerves, then dressed in a plain black skirt and sweater and moved quietly down the stairs.

She had picked up her coat and was nearly at the front door when her father’s voice stopped her.

“Mila? Where are you off to?”

She turned to face him, her expression neutral. “Out to have dinner with friends, Father. I will not be late.”

“A friend for lunch in Amsterdam and now friends for dinner.” His expression was clearly skeptical.

“No, Mila, I do not think so. In any case, it could be dangerous out there tonight. The Reich officers have called a meeting, as you are aware. You know how much they drink, my dear, and they tend to get unruly when they do.”

“But I promised, Father,” she felt her heart sink. “And we will not be out on the streets in any case.”

Her father was adamant. “No, Mila. Please indulge me and cancel. We have no dinner guests scheduled this evening. Just your mother and me. The three of us. Won’t that be nice?”

Mila thought frantically. “But father, I am to be the fourth at bridge. They will not be able to play without me. ”

“Then they will have each other for company. No, Mila. Dinner will be served at seven. Your mother and I will be delighted to have you to ourselves.”

...

At seven precisely, she took her place at the table, dressed, as expected, in a proper dinner dress set off with her father’s birthday pearls.

She had alternately raged and fretted and agonized, even considered alerting Pieter that the mission was in peril.

But in the end, she decided that if she could manage to sit through dinner, there should time enough for her to get back to the Cinema before the German gathering was over.

To her surprise, her mother was already seated. More and more frequently these evenings, she begged off with a headache and took dinner in her room. But tonight, she sat tall and elegant in navy blue silk, her steel gray hair in a fashionable chignon.

“You look lovely, Mila,” she said, her expression rueful. “As well you should. Your dressmaking bills have been enormous.”

Mila opened her mouth, but her mother shushed her. “It is not that we mind, for heaven’s sake, Mila. You have an admirable fashion sense. Are you still wearing your own designs?”

Mila swallowed. “For the most part, yes. Mother – and I do have a wonderful seamstress.”

“So you do…and in these trying times, the world is need of beauty.’

She leaned toward Mila as Reit filled her wine glass. “So, my dear, when this war is over, do you plan to go back to design school?”

Her father strode in. “Sorry to be late. I had to take a phone call.” He seated himself, signaled for the wine. “Do I hear something about going back to school?”

Mila held a hand over her glass. “None for me, thank you.” She looked at her father. “Possibly – perhaps some advanced classes in fashion design.”

To her vast relief, her mother signaled for dinner to be served before the wine glasses were refilled. “Pity,” she said, “for the universities to be closed just when we need them most. ”

As if, Mila thought, they had closed on their own simply to inconvenience the wealthy.

There was a roast of beef with potatoes and broccoli. Mila pushed the food around her plate, glancing at her watch under the table.

As dessert was served, she asked to be excused. “I can still make that bridge game, Father.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “All right then, Mila, go ahead. Take the car, if you wish.”

“I’ll walk, I think, but thank you.”

She said quick good nights, kissed her mother on the cheek, and hurried out of the room.

EVI