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“There is one man in particular I worry for…” Zoe said, grateful for the chance to speak of it. “He is himself a German – but hunted by the Nazis for helping Jewish escapees flee the country after the war began.”

Evis stared.

Zoe sighed. “He is a kind man, Kurt – a caring soul…the kind of man who reads stories to the children to keep them quiet while they must remain in hiding…”

“You care for this man,” Evi said.

A sad smile. “I do... He was one of the people the Germans evicted from their homes in Haarlem – and now he is high on their wanted list…I worry, even if we can help him avoid capture, how and where he might flee.”

Evi sat back. Zoe felt about this German the same way she felt about Jacob.

“Mam’s barge,” she said. “The barge we lived on. It is once again berthed where it was…”

She turned to Zoe, a flash of pain running from her shoulder to her wrist. “I cannot go back there, Zoe. I could never live on that barge again. But there it sits, day after day.”

Zoe frowned .

“I tell you this because if ever – well, should you and your storyteller need to run, there is a key to the ignition in the right-hand kitchen drawer just next to the sink.”

Zoe’s mouth opened.

“You understand?”

Zoe nodded. It was a kind offer, however unlikely. Her heart went out to the girl.

...

The night sky was beginning to lighten. Evi looked out the train window as dawn broke over the tulip fields.

“Oh!” she cried, face pressed against the glass. “Look, Zoe, look!”

She pointed out the window at a sun-splashed patch of red and yellow.

Zoe followed her gaze. “Tulips!” she gasped. “There are tulips!”

It was early for even the first of the tulips – not yet the first of March. Evi sighed, recalling the nights when the half-frozen tulip bulbs Mam brought home in the barge were all that had saved them from starvation.

And yet, there they were, pushing through the soil, tulips, proud and defiant,

She squeezed Zoe’s hand.

Zoe squeezed back.

Perhaps there was hope, after all…

...

Haarlem was awakening when they stepped off the train, Evi leaning hard against her friend.

A few hardy workmen in heavy peacoats traversed the quiet streets. A bundled-up old man moved morning newspapers from a wagon into a corner kiosk. A pale sun cast long shadows on the cobblestones .

“Let me take you to the kliniek ,” Zoe told her. “It is too early to find a medical doctor, and I can get a better view of your wound.”

Evi debated. “It hurts a bit less, Zoe, and I want to get back to the farm. Jacob and the Beekhofs will be worried.”

“I know, Evi. But an untreated bullet wound can cause all sorts of damage, and there is always a risk of infection. At least let me have a better look at it.”

Evi considered – and nodded.

“Anyway, it is a short walk. Here, lean on me.

ZOE

It was not much warmer inside the kliniek than it had been on the street, but the power was on, and Zoe was able to turn on the surgical lamp over the examination table.

“Hop up here if you can, Evi.”

Using her good arm, Evi hoisted herself up, grimacing slightly as she sat.

Zoe shed her coat, then freed Evi’s arm from the makeshift sling and bandage. “The bleeding has mostly stopped, Evi,” she said, gently palpating the deltoid muscle area around the wound. “And yes, I think the bullet must have entered and exited the soft flesh I do not see any evidence of it.”

Evi groaned at her touch.

“It would take an X-ray to know for sure if there are any bullet fragments left inside,” Zoe said. “But X-ray supplies these days are mostly reserved for the war-wounded. I do not have any slides just now. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

There were Resistance doctors who would not question the source of the wound. But Evi was eager to get to the farm.

“It is not hurting as much anymore. Just a few shooting pains now and then. I can manage.”

Zoe felt carefully around the shoulder bone. “Does this hurt? ”

Evi swallowed the pain. “Not…so much.”

Zoe fingered the joint. “This?”

“Mmm…a little.”

“What about your range of motion, Evi? Are you able to raise your arm – or move it in a circular motion?”

Evi tried. “Ouch!”

She paused for aa moment, then tried again, pressing her lips together to contain the yelp as she raised her am not-quite shoulder high.

“All right, stop, Evi. Do not force it,” Zoe said. “At least until the soreness eases.”

She reached behind her into a supply cabinet for the precious stock of antibiotics Pieter had been able to procure.

“I will inject an antibiotic to ward off infection. That much I can do – and I cannot cast it, but I can fashion a better sling. You must try to keep the arm immobile until you can see a medical doctor.”

Evi sat still for the injection, and watched as Zoe created a functioning sling from a roll of surgical bandage. Then she slid off the table.

“Wait,” Zoe said, looking Evi straight in the eye and taking her by the elbow of her good arm. “Evi…I don’t know how to thank you for what you did tonight…”

Evi shook her head. “I did it for Mam.”

Zoe felt tears spring to her eyes. “I know. But my father owes his life to you…”

Evi managed a half-smile. “I would do it again,” she said. “Two more Nazis dead…”

“But your arm –”

“It is only a flesh wound. You said so yourself. It is nothing. It will heal.”

Zoe sighed. I think so, ja. But you should see a proper doctor.”

“I will,” Evi promised. “But now, I need to get back to the farm. Jacob and the Beekhofs will be worried. ”

Zoe helped her on with her coat, helped her hoist the battered book bag over her good shoulder. “You cannot ride a bicycle with your arm in a sling. I will walk with you.”

But Evi shook her head. “No need, Zoe. I will be fine. Just comb my hair into braids in the event I am stopped at a German check point – and pull my cap down low.”

Zoe did as she was asked, combing Evi’s hair into two thick braids, fastening them with lengths of surgical twine and pulling the blue knit cap with their cheerful yellow butterflies nearly down to Evi’s eyebrows.

“There,” she said, stepping back. “You look notably younger. Are you sure you do not want me to walk with you?”

Evi shook her head again. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Zoe. I will be fine. I promise.”

Zoe sighed, watching from the doorway as Evi began her trek. When she was well out of sight, she closed and locked the door and went to the telephone at her desk.

She found a connection, and dialed. The telephone at her parents’ home in Enschede rang and rang and rang. Zoe hung up. Lieve god they were safely on their way to Tante Inge’s…

She closed her eyes. She knew she should sleep. But her heart was with Kurt and Gerritt and the others in the basement of the hospital in Heemstede.

MILA

Mila left the home of Klaus Jaansen and his wife before seven in the morning, on a sturdy bicycle of unknown origin, with two apples, half a loaf of bread, and a pair of binoculars in her shoulder bag, and a hand-drawn map she had already committed to memory.

There was not a great deal to memorize, she reflected.

The route was flat, as was the town of Diemen itself, situated as it was on the south bank of the River Diem and surrounded by patchy wooded areas.

But she set out in the bitter morning, chilled even in her heavy coat, with her scarf wound tightly about her face and filled with a grim determination to find Pieter and finish off police captain Reimar de Boer with or without his help.

Where was Pieter, she asked herself for the hundredth time, pedaling into the gray morning.

She could close her eyes and see his brilliant green eyes, the shape of his jaw, the calm intelligence in his face.

He was somewhere nearby, she could feel that he was, intent on avenging Daan’s fate by eliminating the German collaborator.

But where? How? And was she any more prepared than he to finish what he had started?

The bag was heavy on her left shoulder, weighed down by the Luger she had owned since her father had presented it to her in the year she turned sixteen.

She had not seen a German checkpoint since she left Amsterdam, and she prayed she did not see one – but if she did, she was prepared to capitalize on her association with Obersturmfuhrer Franz Becker…

...

De Boer’s home was an ordinary box on the corner of a street lined with ordinary boxes. It was set amid a mix of low brush and fir trees bordering on woods, and there was nothing to distinguish it except the two uniformed police officers standing sentry in front of it.

Only two?

Mila pedaled past the house with little more than a glance, turned a corner and pedaled past the rear, surprised to find no guard standing sentry.

There was a waist-high picket fence behind the house, and no one beyond it that she could see from the street. But it would take a proper vantage point to know for certain – and to get a sense of how the house was laid out, and where de Boer was located inside.

She circled the area on the bicycle, casually, as though she were out for the exercise, keeping an eye out for a rise in the terrain, or a building – anything within range of the de Boer house that could offer a decent view.

She dared not appear in sight of the guards again. She pedaled past the rear. It was warm enough now that her breath no longer clouded in front of her.

She was not certain she could still climb a tree, though she had climbed a few as a child. But her attention was caught by a trio of evergreens on the corner of the street diagonally opposite de Boer’s home.

Pushing the bicycle in among the trees, she hoisted her shoulder bag high on her arm and squeezed between the thick boughs, looking for a possible foothold.

Sharp pine needles scratched at her face.

She pulled her scarf up around her mouth and peered about, searching for a branch heavy enough to bear her weight.