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Zoe nodded. A marechaussee, no doubt – a Dutch Resistance fighter wearing the stolen uniform of the Royal Dutch Military Police to help make such passages possible. They were thankfully growing in numbers these days, under the unwary watch of the Nazis.

The path before them narrowed and more lights came into view as they approached a line of cargo-carrying barges.

“Stay close,” whispered Zoe. “We will soon enter the Blijjde Tiding. It means, literally, Happy Tidings . It is the name the owner chose for the barge.”

She hoisted herself down, knocked twice, and held a hand out to help the old man.

“ Godzijdank,” Lotte Strobel said, holding the door wide. “Thanks be to God. Welcome.”

“Lotte, this is – Claude Zeller,” Zoe said in the semi-darkness. “Herr Zeller, this is Lotte Strobel.”

Lotte clasped the man’s hands.

“Herr Zeller is a Swiss bank clerk,” Zoe said, emphasizing ‘ Swiss .’ “He has the proper identification papers. He will stay with you, Lotte, for perhaps two days, until the next link in his journey is in place. Then you will take the barge down river, where an escort will help him to Tilburg and, God willing, out of harm’s way across the Belgian border. ”

“I understand,” Lotte said, fully aware that the route could change if the Germans were watching, sometimes even to a long slog across the Pyrenees and into Spain. She doubted the old man could survive such a journey. But there was no point in further distressing him.

“Herr Zeller” she said, “there is little comfort anywhere in the Netherlands these days. It is cold below in the area where you must stay. But there are plenty of blankets – and first, you must have some tea, ja ? Evi, fill the teapot. Zoe, will you stay for a cup?”

“ Dank je , but I cannot,” Zoe said. “I need to get some sleep tonight before I go back to the kliniek in the morning. ”

Impulsively, she hugged the old man. “ Goed geluk , Herr Zeller. Safe journey.”

MILA

Mila counted the empty wine bottles sitting on the sideboard – six of them. Her mother had claimed a headache and excused herself from the table hours ago, but at half past ten, the overstuffed SS lieutenant and his sallow-faced young companion showed no signs of flagging.

Worse yet, he and her father had been mostly focused on the finer points of Dutch and German football, and the half-drunk blowhard had yet to offer up anything that made it worth her sitting here.

Lifting her glass, she looked over the rim and directed her gaze at the older German, who picked up her glance like a radio signal and turned at once to face her.

“ Fraulein Brouwer,” he murmured, “you are a quiet presence, albeit a lovely one. Thank you for putting up with our chatter.”

His fleshy face, two small, dark eyes like raisins in a bowl of pudding, made her want to retch. She forced herself past it. “My pleasure, Obersturmfuhrer , she cooed. “It’s a joy to listen to your stories.”

Her father shot her a look, but she ignored it.

She had long ago taught herself perfect German, and it served her purpose well.

“You have a way of adding interest to any topic, Obersturmfuhrer , even an ordinary day’s work.

Today, for example. I am sure you were incredibly busy, and still you made the time to visit with us. ”

She saw the man’s gaze slip to the low point in the vee of her neckline, then reluctantly travel back to her face. “ Ach ,” he muttered. “I did nothing of the slightest interest to the beautiful and gracious fraulein .”

She looked directly into his eyes .

“Oh, I doubt that, Obersturmfuhrer . I am. In fact, very interested. The Reich expects much of its finest officers. You have a difficult agenda, ya ?”

“ Ya, und tomorrow – the younger man broke in, his sharp beak of a nose in the air.

The obersturmfuhrer gave him a silencing glare. “Nothing of importance tomorrow, Fraulein . A rather pedestrian agenda.”

Mila offered an encouraging smile.

She leaned forward to fill his glass, the man’s gaze returning swiftly to her bosom. That, and the abundance of free-flowing wine, appeared to loosen his tongue. “Tomorrow I am charged with overseeing the collection of – equipment for shipment to Berlin,” he told her.

Moving war materiel out of the Netherlands? Mila’s expression never changed. But she knew her father’s Berlin route included a stop in Utrecht, and it was information Resistance leaders might find useful.

She offered up her most coquettish smile. “Rather inconsequential work for someone of your rank, is it not, Obersturmfuhrer ?”

The pig never looked up from her neckline She could sense his rising desire.

“Surely such a task as gathering and shipping goods could be accomplished by an underling, Nein ? Someone with more brawn and less intelligence?”

“Mila –” her father broke in. “That is impudent and none of your business.”

That lowered the level of testosterone. “Sorry, father. My apologies, Obersturmfuhrer . That is quite true. It is not my business.”

The moment was over, but she had gained a tidbit that could be helpful. More than that, she was more than ever convinced that her plan for Evi Strobel could be managed.

The spell was apparently broken, too, for the evening’s guests.

The fat-faced lieutenant heaved himself out of his chair, all danke scheins and boot-clicking wunderbars and silent signals to his underling, and almost before she knew it, they were headed for the Brouwer’s massive front door, her father close behind them .

He was an imposing figure, her father, tall, slim, with his manicured beard and a full head of greying hair. He faced her now in the mirrored hallway, eyes blazing, the door firmly closed and locked behind him.

“What kind of game do you think you are you playing, Mila, flirting with a high-ranking member of the Reich?”

“I was hardly flirting, Papa,” she held her head high. “I was merely underscoring his importance to their cause. You know every one of them loves having his ego stroked.”

He was not mollified.

“These dinner party meetings are important, Mila, important to my business, as you very well know, and your presence adds grace to our evenings.

But while you are most welcome to participate in discussions of music and the arts, let me make it clear that you are more to be seen and less to be heard from, unless you are spoken to directly, especially when it comes to matters of business. Do you understand?

Mila flushed. In her twenty-five years, she had never felt so rebuked by her father – or so undervalued. But, of course, he had no way of knowing that her presence at these dinner parties was more important than he knew.

She unclenched her jaw, managed a smile. “I understand, Papa. It will not happen again.”

...

In her bedroom, Mila threw off the lavender dinner dress and tied an old silk robe around her waist. She stepped into her oversized clothes closet, closed the door behind her, and drew a wireless device from behind a shoe rack.

Sitting on the floor of the closet, her back resting against the skirts of dozens of day and evening dresses, she entered a familiar set of digits.

She had never met the man who received her communiques.

She knew him only as Pieter. He had contacted her some months ago, through Daan Mulder, as news of her father’s dealings with officers of the Reich became known to the Resistance Council – and she had been eager to be able to help .

She waited as the digits she entered passed through a secure line. After a moment, she heard a response.

“Pieter here.”

“Good evening, Pieter.” She did not identify herself, nor did she need to. “It appears there will be a movement of supplies out of Haarlem tomorrow, through Utrecht en route to Berlin. Troop movement will be minimal, I think, and the route should be easily accessible.”

“We had heard something similar, Mila, but confirmation is good.”

Each understood the implication. Having advance notice of movement by the Germans offered a target for Resistance bombers. Only a week ago, they had blown up a German transport on its way to The Hague. As payback, the Germans had shrunk weekly rations, but the gain had been worth the punishment.

“On another front,” Mila said, “I would like to move forward with the plan I put forward to you a week ago.”

There was a pause. “That might be a dangerous undertaking even for you, never mind for a school girl.”

“She is eager to help,” Mila said.” I will instruct her myself, and I believe her mother will be amenable. I know you understand how much there is to be gained, Pieter. What we need from you is the – the physical support the project would require.”

A longer pause. “I understand. But you must recognize the risks of an operation like this,” Pieter said. “The girl must understand them, too… But if you have her agreement – and her mother’s consent – we will provide the support you need…

He paused. “Be sure the girl is well-prepared for this, Mila. There is no room for error here…and a misstep could be fatal.”

EVI

Evi gathered the bedclothes for washing and collected what was left of the food in the hold now that Herr Zeller had been moved.

Not that there was much to share. With rations less and less dependable, the greatest prize in their larder, as far as Evi was concerned, was the last few bits of the ham that Mam had managed to preserve last summer.

But Jews did not eat pork, and so for the escapees, there were whatever vegetables Mam could find, plus some oats or beans, a bit of bread, and a very occasional egg.

It was not much. They were all wasting away.

But somehow, Mam made the rations stretch.