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Flashing red and blue lights still pierced the night air, but Pieter drove cautiously, avoiding main arteries, constantly checking the mirrors.

“What if we stay in Amsterdam?” she ventured.

“No,” he said. “There is nothing more to be done here now. We will know de Boer’s condition by morning.”

...

It was after eleven when the Renault drew up in front of the Brouwer estate. There were lights on in the imposing entryway, but the windows were mostly dark.

“Mila –” he said, turning toward her.

“You know I am glad to have done my part, Pieter. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“You are brave and beautiful, Mila. The more I know of you, the more I want to know. If only – ”

“What?”

“If only we lived in a time when life was…predictable.”

She shrugged. “Life is not predictable ever, Peter. We can only plan…and hope.”

He turned off the engine, opened his door. “Come. I will see you to your door.”

He took her hand to help her out of the car, and held it as they walked up the driveway. At the door, he turned to her and without a word, drew her face toward his.

EVI

She had no idea how long she stood on that knoll, screaming, crying, stomping the ground beneath her feet as though a tantrum might somehow will Mam back into her sight.

But soon enough, the German e-boat sped off, and the barge began to drift, unmoored and unmanned, and it was not until she had cried until there were no more tears that Evi remembered the baby.

Baby Jacob . Lieve god , where was the baby? Had the Germans killed him, too?

Frantic, freezing in the thin sweater she wore, she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, grappling with what to do next.

She could try to swim. It was not that far to the drifting barge. But the freezing water might kill her, too, and what could she do even if she reached it? She had never once taken the helm – and even if she could figure out how to do so, it would not bring Mam back…or baby Jacob.

In the end, with no more tears to shed, she remembered what Mam had screamed at her: Find your way back to Haarlem.

With a last piercing glance at the yellow barge, and the choppy water beneath, she clambered to the next knoll, then farther up the slope, gasping for breath between her tears, and fighting the wind until she reached what appeared to be a packed dirt roadway .

From this distance, looking back, the drifting barge was no more than a dot on the horizon. Finding, from somewhere deep inside, a new reserve of tears, she sat in the roadway, pulled her sweater around her, and cried until her face was wet with tears and mucus.

Then, spent, she wiped her face with her sleeve, rose to her feet, and began the trudge to look for civilization.

ZOE

Zoe used a warm, wet washcloth to wipe the discharge from the Schnauzer’s left eye, then carefully flushed the eye with saline solution and took a closer look.

“I think you’re going to be just fine, little Fritzi,” she said, smoothing the dog’s coarse, wiry coat. “A bit of an infection, that is all this is.”

She filled a syringe with the last of the antibiotic solution and deftly, holding the animal still and its eyelid wide open, approached from behind and applied it directly into the eye.

“There,” she steadied the pup on the table as it blinked and tried to squirm away. She smiled, looking directly into the questioning chocolate eyes. “As I told you, little one,” she repeated softly, “you are going to be just fine.”

Coaching the animal to rise to its feet, Zoe attached a lease to the collar and walked it out to the waiting room, dispatching its anxious young owner and her father with instructions for aftercare and a packet from the shrinking supply of oral antibiotics.

She sighed, watching the trio exit. It felt good to be doing what she was trained to do. She missed the busy days, the succession of animals needing her care. Mostly, she missed Daan…and she worried.

Just this morning, she had heard on a BBC broadcast that Canadian infantries had been successful in clearing German forces from the east side of the German/Dutch frontier – and that the assault, part of the American General Eisenhower’s strategy, was helping the Allies to advance.

At the same time, the Soviets had taken most of Poland and were advancing their own march into Germany.

It was cheering news. On the face of it, as a mostly clear February hinted at an end to the long winter, there was reason to hope for a German surrender.

Zoe sighed. Would it come soon enough to keep the top floor of the hospital hidden? Soon enough to keep Kurt and the others safe, and Gerritt from an almost certain charge of treason?

Zoe stripped the used protective paper from the examination table.

There was only a single roll of it left in the supply room.

What would she do when it ran out altogether?

When no antibiotics remained? When hope, like the last of their dwindling supplies dissolved, like so much soapy water, down the drain?

MILA

The morning edition of the German language newspaper ran the story above the fold on page one, along with lurid headlines and photographs.

Mila devoured the details; Amsterdam police captain shot in the street in front of the Leidsplein fountain by an as-yet unknown assailant…attempted assassination…critical condition…held under guard in hospital…massive search for assailant…

Exasperated, she threw back her head. The traitor was alive. The painstaking scenario she and Pieter had planned was a failure.

She was finishing her tea, alone in the dining room, when Reit appeared with a package.

“This came for you, Missen , last evening.”

“Thank you, Reit.”

She took the flat package, used a silver knife to slit it open, and stared wordlessly at the contents; inside a colorful cardboard sleeve, with a sensual photograph of the artiste, a recording of Marlene Deitrich’s ‘ Lili Marleen . ’

Mila sighed, recalling the dinner party when she had stopped the conversation about the Cinema blast with her wish for the popular recording.

She fished inside the package, and brought out a note, written in loopy German script. ‘ With kindest regards to a beautiful lady. ’ It was signed, Obersturmfuhrer Franz Becker.

No doubt the leering wretch would expect something in return – likely her company away from under the eye of her father.

Unlikely that would happen! Not if she had any say in the matter…

Tossing the record and its wrappings over the newspaper on the table, she called to the housekeeper in the kitchen. “Thank you, Reit. You may clear these things. I will be out for a while.”

Grabbing a cashmere coat and scarf from a hook by the door, she set off into the morning.

The sky was a dull and sullen grey, and the last of winter’s withered brown leaves swirled at her feet at the curbsides.

It was not as cold as it had been of late, but she strode the few kilometers to Pieter’s office against a persistent wind.

His response to the news of de Boer’s survival, she knew, would be both practical and rational. He was far less emotional than she…

And yet…. she felt her face flush. His kiss last night had been anything but restrained. If she closed her eyes, she could taste his lips, urgent and wanting, and her body responding with a rush she dared not think about.

She walked faster, low heels tapping on cobblestones, looked over her shoulder by habit, and made her way to the brick building that had become her second home.

Not for the first time, she wondered if a plumbing service had ever operated in the space, or if the prominent signage had been a ruse by Resistance planners from the outset.

It was not too far a leap to wonder if the SS had eyes on it….

...

Pieter kissed her on both cheeks, then to her surprise, pressed his lips lightly against hers. She liked the way her body fit against his, as though it had been made for that purpose .

“You are cold,” he murmured into her hair. “And beautiful with your cheeks all rosy.”

She leaned in again, but he pulled back. “Not here. Not now,” he said softly.

She nodded agreement, seating herself as he crossed behind the desk. “So,” she said. “You have read the news.”

“Of course.” He sat back in his chair, arms folded in front of him. “But we know little of his condition. Now we can only hope for the best – or the worst, as it were, if he is critical. Either way, we delivered a message. If de Boer survives, he will guess we are aware of his treachery.”

Practical. Rational. As Mila had expected. “Pieter, my concern is pushback…”

“The bastard and his allies will have to find me first, and that will never happen.”

“The driver…”

Pieter shook his head. “I spoke with the driver late last night. He was crestfallen. He abhors the man. Investigators will get nothing from him.”

“And the bullet –”

“From an untraceable pistol now resting in the depths of the Spaarne.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze. “For now, we are patient. We wait.”

EVI

Eventually, the road gave way to broken cobblestones, but by the time the first outbuildings came into view, her worn black shoes were dusty brown with dirt and she was numb, weary, and hungry.

She hung back, peering at her bleak surroundings with suspicion, trying to formulate how she might ask for help .

If she managed to find a police station, how could she know where their allegiance lay?

Anyone could be a Nazi sympathizer – or a friend to the Resistance. Mevreow Beekhof’s words came back to her in a rush; Be careful what you say to strangers, Evi, even to me …

How was she to know who to trust?

Worse yet, she had leapt from the barge with nothing but her bookbag and the clothes she was wearing. She had no money bag, only her identification papers…and the weighty reassurance of the Colt.

Shivering, she passed a deserted farmhouse and forced herself to continue walking.

...