Page 29

“ Amerikaner!” someone shouted as two of the Germans looked up at the whirling rotors and drew their pistols.

Evi could not see Jacob from where she stood, but she knew he was out there in the clearing, and as the helicopter hung overhead, and a rope ladder began to descend, she began to understand what was happening. Lieve god, how could she warn him ?

Panicked, she threw her bookbag to the ground, rummaged inside for the Colt.

The Germans shot first, the sound exploding in her ears. Could they see Jacob in the clearing?

Hands shaking, she raised the pistol, held it with both hands to steady herself. Grateful for even the bit of moonlight, she peered through the sight, took aim at one of the Germans, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Before the man could fall, his companion whipped around, trained his gun in her direction.

Sight. Aim. Trigger. Squeeze! This time, she watched the man fall .

Shaken, hardly daring to breathe, she heard the back door of the tavern slam open again. No doubt they had heard the commotion.

Scurrying backward on trembling legs, she huddled at the side of the tavern, then sank to the ground, hands still gripping the pistol. She could not see Jacob, but three or four men were rushing to the side of the fallen Germans.

The helicopter lifted, and began to retreat, the rope ladder swinging in the night sky, one of its rotors at an odd angle.

In the next instant, Jacob appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his own weapon raised.

“Jacob…” she managed, crouched low on the sodden earth.

Jacob squinted, strode toward her, disbelief on his face.

“Evi?”

He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her through the brush, back in the direction of the farmhouse.

“Evi,” he said again. “Where in the hell did you come from…?”

Now the tears came, fear and relief…

G odzijdank. He is alive …

ZOE

Zoe scraped the last of the yellow flesh from a small wedge of Gouda, a prize recovered from the train they had pillaged. She ate the cheese slowly, savoring every bite. Who knew when she would find such a treat again?

Tying her hair back with a length of old ribbon, she threw a dark scarf over it, tucked the scarf into her coat, and headed out into the cold.

Outside, she wavered briefly. If Lukas’s warning had been correct, the Dans Hal was in safe hands with Leela. She was less sure how Gerritt was faring with the Germans’ inquiries at the hospital.

It began to sleet, and she found herself slipping through the dirty slush that pooled at her feet.

She ducked into the depot, hoping perhaps to catch a bus to the hospital, and counted herself lucky to find one bound for Heemstede .

She climbed aboard, paid the fare, and settled into a seat near the back, the less to be noticed or engaged.

...

The ride was uneventful. Shaking off cold inside the hospital, she took the elevator to the second floor and peered into Gerritt’s office. It was empty – and as usual, though most of his office staff knew her by now, she was told only that he was out.

She made sure the elevator was empty and took it to the fifth floor.

Sher picked her way around the familiar jumble of mattresses, sawhorses, ladders, and paint buckets and made her way down the hall, peering behind her as she slipped behind the false wall and rapped out the designated code.

The door opened. It never ceased to amaze her how quiet the room was, given its dozens of occupants.

Gerritt came forward, airbrushing her cheek. “Cousin…”

“Hello, Gerritt. How are you managing? I worry every day.”

“With good reason,” Gerritt sighed.

A toddler crawled between their feet, a mischievous little towhead quicky retrieved by his mother – or his hiding mother – and shushed him silently before he could cry out. All around them, people read, slept, spoke in low tones.

Zoe’s gaze swept the room, found Kurt in his storyteller’s spot, and waved. He looked up, smiled, and waved back.

Gerritt led her to a pair of wooden stools, seated himself across from her.

“So! As promised, I presented a list of patients and staff to the German commander – edited of course. He surveyed it rather thoroughly, I thought, almost as though he was looking for specific names. He did not question the list…just asked for my word that they were current and accurate.”

Zoe waited .

“He tucked it into his briefcase with a caveat – a caution, really, more than a threat. He said he would be back, expecting updates every week as the roster changed…”

Gerritt ran a hand over his face. “He asked for my assurance that I would be truthful and forthcoming, so that ‘ no further action need to be taken .’ I must tell you, Zoe, it was a chilling moment. There was no mistaking the warning behind the words.”

“But he gave no indication of what he was looking for – or whom?”

“No. But I pray with everything in me that we can end this charade, and soon. I cannot afford to put myself or this hospital in jeopardy for very much longer.”

Zoe sighed. “I understand, Gerritt. I do. No amount of gratitude can minimize the risk you are taking. If liberation does not come soon, I do not know what any of us will do.”

“Am I interrupting?” Kurt appeared at their side.

“No,” Zoe managed a wan smile. “We were weighing the safety of maintaining this charade in the face of escalating scrutiny.”

Kurt came close enough that she could count the hairs on his upper lip. “I heard on the BBC last night that the Soviets are nearing the Auschwitz death camp,” he whispered. “It seems the SS is beginning to evacuate the surviving Jewish prisoners.”

His mouth tightened. “They clearly want the camps emptied before the Allies arrive, but the poor souls are out on foot, forced to march in the freezing weather,” he said. “The BBC is calling it a death march.”

Zoe grimaced, then looked up. “You have a radio?”

“In my knapsack. I listen when I can, mostly late at night when I am able to press it to my ear while most of the others are sleeping.”

“A death march. Lieve god ,” Gerritt said. “There is no end to what we will suffer if the war does not end soon.”

Kurt looked from one to the other. “As one who may be actively hunted,” he said, “I join you in a prayer that it does. ”

MILA

The dimly lit bistro was small but elegant, crystal chandeliers over white linen tables, a pleasing cacophony of muted conversation.

She heard the pleasing clink of silver and glassware, the occasional pop of a champagne cork.

Mila could not recall the last time she had encountered such gentility outside of her father’s dining room.

She had little difficulty gaining entrance to the German stronghold. She had only to smile at the young ma?tre and drop the name of the German officer who had suggested she lunch there while in Amsterdam.

The young man took in every aspect of her bearing and attire, and promptly bowed from the waist.

“Will someone be joining you, Mademoiselle?”

“Alas, no,” she said. “I am in Amsterdam only for the day. But I was told not to miss the opportunity to dine here.”

“Of course.” He led her to a table in a quiet corner, with a good view of the room. “Shall I order some champagne for you to start?”

“I think a glass of white wine – a good French chardonnay, if you have it.”

“Of course.”

Mila raised the hem of her dress above her knees and crossed her legs so that the shapely calf and slim ankle above her black spike-heeled shoe protruded just a bit into the aisle.

She checked her watch and peered at the menu, more than a little surprised at the depth and breadth of the selections.

But then, she reminded herself, the whole establishment was run by and for the Nazis.

A waiter brought the wine. “Mademoiselle.”

He offered it to her for approval.

Mila sniffed and sipped. “Perfect.”

Bowing, he set the glass before her. “I shall give mademoiselle a moment with the menu, ja ?”

“ Bitte .” She said, replying in German .

She picked up the menu, pretended to peruse it, checked her watch again. At precisely one o’clock, as she had been told to expect, a portly man with a full handlebar moustache entered the restaurant and tapped his fingers on the reception kiosk.

The ma?tre d hurried to his side.

She could not hear their brief exchange, but there was no mistaking the face she had studied in the photograph or the storied air of arrogance. He was police captain Reimar de Boer.

She moved slightly, so that her foot extended into the aisle just the tiniest bit more. The ma?tre de moved past without the slightest notice, but the portly de Boer, following in his wake, slowed for a moment to examine the extended ankle and follow the line of sight to Mila’s face.

“So sorry, Meneer ,” she flashed a brilliant smile, pulling in her foot just a fraction.

De Boer paused for a milli-second, bowed slightly, and moved on. Mila picked up her menu.

She had given up hope that the ruse would work when de Boer suddenly appeared at her side, his cashmere coat draped over one arm, felt derby hat in his hand.

“ Pardon, Mademoiselle ,” he said in poor French, his ruddy face no more than a foot from hers. “Have we met?”

Mila nearly choked at the oldest pick-up attempt in the world, but she managed to look up and smile. “I do not think so, Meneer ,” she replied in formal Dutch. “I live in Maastricht, not far from the Belgian border. I am in Amsterdam only overnight.”

“Ah,” de Boer seemed to drink in her presence. “A visitor to our city. The ma?tre’ d tells me you are dining alone, ja ?”

“Alas, yes” she simpered. “I have a bit of business to complete this afternoon. But then I am at odds, I suppose. I am afraid I know no one in Amsterdam.”

A click of his heels, a nod of his head. “Allow me to introduce myself if I may. I am Reimar de Boer, a police captain in this fair city. The ma?tre d’ can vouch for my authenticity. ”

“Anna de Groot,” she held out a manicured hand. It was all she could manage not to draw back in as his fleshy lips descended upon it.