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Mam’s ear was glued to the Radio Oranje broadcast, her face inches from the contraband radio that sat on the table between them.

Evi listened with dread. The Germans had broken through the American front in almost the same spot where they had broken through years ago.

But this time, apparently, the American troops had been depleted and unprepared, giving the Germans an opportunity to seize key crossroads on their march to the Meuse River.

So fierce and determined was the onslaught, the British commentor said, that some Belgian townspeople were already taking down their Allied flags and displaying swastikas.

Mam began to cry. “How could this happen?” she sobbed. “Only six months ago, after Normandy, we were so certain liberation was near!”

Evi took her hand. “God knows,” she murmured, close to tears herself.

...

When she could listen no more, she picked up her mug of tea, went to her sleeping quarters and sat heavily on her bed.

Then she set the mug on her nightstand, pushed open the curtain at the front of her closet, and fingered the silk scarves and taffeta dresses Mila had given her to wear for her rendezvous with German officers.

She recalled every moment of each encounter, the first one that went exactly as planned, the second less so, but successful in the end, even if it had taken an American airman appearing out of nowhere coming to her rescue.

She fumed for a moment. She would learn to shoot.

She might not yet be seventeen, but she had proven herself to be capable under pressure – and picking off Nazis one at a time was not enough in the scheme of things.

She wanted to kill dozens – maybe even hundreds, until there was food enough and freedom in the Netherlands.

It was clear from the Radio Oranje broadcast that the Americans needed help. They needed the French, the British, the Americans, the Dutch, all of them, to step up their efforts in whatever ways they could. How fast could they respond – and would they?

She sat on her bed and sipped the cooling tea. She would try to reach Mila tomorrow – or perhaps she could talk to Zoe Visser, who was near enough to Daan Mulder to plead Evi’s case for learning to shoot.

ZOE

She was halfway to Heemstede, just past the Franz Hals Museum, when she came suddenly upon a makeshift German check point. She felt her heart begin to hammer. Had news of the train wreck spread so quickly?

She was too near, even in the murky darkness, not to have been spotted by the guards. But l ieve god, what of the others, carrying all that food?

“Approach and halt!” The guard spoke in rapid German, but there was no mistaking his intent. His rifle was pointed in her direction and her blood froze.

She managed to slow the bicycle to a stop and put both her hands in the air.

A younger guard, who looked barely old enough to shave, joined them. “Papers , bitte . ”

She reached inside her jacket for her identification papers, keeping one hand in the air.

The younger guard examined them, looking up more than once to check her face against the photo.

“What is your purpose?” he said in passable Dutch.

Zoe tried a smile. “I was out for some exercise,” she said. “I fell asleep, though, when I stopped to rest. I am horrified to be out after curfew – and look, my bicycle tires are damaged. I am afraid to pedal too fast.”

The older guard looked at her sternly. “Your bag, bitte .”

Evi could not remember all that was in her shoulder bag, but she handed it over and held her breath.

“I am a veterinarian – an animal doctor, in Haarlem,” she said, with as much friendliness as she could manage. “I take care of pups and kittens who are sick.”

The guard was not impressed. He pored through her bag, trained a flashlight inside, examined everything in the inner and outer pockets.

“Where are you coming from?”

She paused. “No place, really. A little clearing a kilometer or two up the road When I woke up and realized how late it was, I turned around to go home.”

He regarded her through narrowed eyes.

“Please,” she said. “ Bitte , you must believe me. I fell asleep. I meant no harm.”

“Sit.” He motioned her to a bench.

Zoe sat, huddled into her coat, anxiety gnawing at her belly.

The pair of guards conversed in German, glancing back at her from time to time. They kept her sitting there for nearly an hour. It was all she could do to sit still.

Finally, the older guard beckoned her.

“ Gehen ,” he barked. “Go!”

She moved to her bicycle, her mind working.

“My bag, bitte, ” she began .

But the stern-faced guard motioned her through, whacking his stick against the back of her bicycle as she passed.

Her breathing slowed, but her thoughts were frantic. Was there anything in her bag that could feed information to the Germans – a business card, a scribbled note, anything that could mark her as a Resistance fighter – or implicate someone else?

Were the Germans yet aware of the wrecked train? Where were the farmers and their carts? She prayed they were more vigilant than she about watching for, and dodging, German road blocks.

Pedaling hard, worried about her tires, she headed in the direction of the hospital. She sensed, rather than saw, a second check point on the approach to the city limits, and managed to circumvent it, certain now that the Germans were already hunting for connections to the demolished train.

...

At the hospital’s loading dock, to her great relief, she saw half a dozen carts and wagons being offloaded – nourishment enough for weeks, perhaps longer. She looked for Leela or her husband, did not see either, but she recognized Lukas Jensen’s mother.

“ Mevreow Jensen ,” she said, approaching. “The German check points. Godjjzdank, y ou were able to avoid them.”

The woman did not stop unloading goods. “We were careful, ” she said heavily. “We left our wagons behind, passed through the check point, then circled back and took another route. My husband stayed behind to warn the others.”

“ Lieve god -”

“Do not think of it, Dr. Visser. He will be fine. We would do it again in a moment.”

It was dark, but Zoe scanned the horizon and saw another bicycle and wagon approaching. Other volunteers were leaving as their carts were unloaded, so it was not possible for her to know for certain how many were accounted for .

She decided to circle the property to be sure they were not being observed. The parking lot was sparsely filled, little movement this late in the evening, and the only uniform she saw belonged to the guard posted at the door, who waved at her as she approached.

By nine, the approach of volunteers had slowed to a trickle. Zoe shivered in the cold night air.

MILA

If she walked quickly, she would reach the Cinema by nine, she thought, counting her steps, looking for stars in the dark night sky, anything to keep her from thinking about what she was about to do.

In her mind’s eye, the street would be deserted, all those Reich bastards packed like sardines in the cramped seats of the Cinema.

She would walk past casually, across the street from the building, depress the detonator she held deep in her coat pocket and walk away quickly, undetected, as the theater burst into flame.

She gingerly fingered the small device, just to be sure it was still there, careful to avoid the lever. She was going to be fine…absolutely fine…assuming the connection worked. Assuming there was no one around to see her… Assuming her father did not find out and murder her if the Nazis did not…

The little she had eaten threatened to come up in her throat. She closed her eyes and swallowed. What had she been thinking, volunteering for this mission, what made her think she truly had the nerve to do this?

She reminded herself these were ruthless Nazis, the same leering pigs she had toyed with and loathed during her father’s endless dinners, their polished boots firmly planted on the necks of the innocent, the Reich slowly smothering them to death.

She wished Herr Hitler himself were in that Cinema. How satisfying would it be to annihilate him… ?

That was the thought on which she would focus. She could do it. Of course, she could…

...

To her distress, as she neared the Cinema, she saw three SS men in heavy black coats standing outside, smoking cigars. In the dark, she could not see their faces. It was not likely they could not see hers.

Head down, a scarf obscuring her face, Mila crossed, head down, to the other side of the street. She wished she had thought to take Hondje with her. Just a woman out walking her dog…

But she had not . Lieve God , she had not thought to do so. And now…now it was time.

EVI

Evi haunted Radio Oranje for news of the fighting in the Ardennes, but no amount of hoping or praying changed the disheartening fact; the Germans’ surprise attack had overwhelmed the depleted American forces.

Hitler’s army was advancing, more or less unimpeded.

On top of that, bad weather was prohibiting aerial reconnaissance, and American forces were suffering high casualties.

On the verge of tears, she stashed the radio in its hiding place and paced the barge’s cramped spaces. The day was gray under an overcast sky, and from the window, she could see the river waters rippling under the might of a persistent wind.

Mam was at the Dans Hal, boxing up a supply of food that had appeared there out of the blue, and there was no one presently in the hold.

Unable to contain her own restless energy, she wrapped a woolen scarf around her head, put on gloves and her warmest winter coat, and let herself out the barge. She hopped on her bicycle and headed to the main road, pedaling fiercely against the wind with no destination in mind.