Page 64 of Winter’s End

“I understand,” she said, although she did not. She stashed the pistol in the bottom of her book bag. “Um…When shall I be here again?”

Jacob hesitated. “I’m – not exactly sure,” he told her. “Anyway, I’m not sure you need me anymore. You’re already a pretty damned good shot.”

Her mouth dropped open. Alarm flooded through her. “But Jacob…” She could not find the words.

He sighed, finally, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Look, Evi…”

His amber eyes begged for understanding. “We figured out there may be…a way for me to get home.”

She felt her breath catch. “Home?”

“To America. To my unit. Do you understand?”

She nodded, although she had no idea what he was thinking.Would she ever see him again?

“This is something I need to do,” he said, lightly touching her cheek. “And I need to do it now - tonight.”

She nodded dumbly, not wanting to move, not wanting his hand to leave her face.

But he pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, turning away.

She watched his receding back for a moment, then ran to the Beekhof’s back door.

Inside, Mevreow Beekhof was peering into a pot at the stove. Evi moved past her, closed the front door behind her, and did not stop until she reached her bicycle.

...

She had no idea what made her back the bicycle into the shrubbery and wait for Jacob to appear. But she did, and after a while, as the early winter dusk began to fall, Jacob strode out of the Beekhof’s front door.An olive-colored backpack was strapped to his back, a cap pulled low over his forehead.

She watched him walk down the long, curved driveway on foot, and when she lost sight of him, she walked her bicycle quietly down the drive behind him.

When he reached the roadway, he stopped for a moment and peered in both directions. Adjusting the backpack with a shrug of his shoulders, he struck out quickly to his left.

ZOE

Zoe made her way through the cobblestoned streets, maintaining as normal a pace as she could manage so as not to attract attention, and thankful, when she reached the back door of the Dans Hal, that the alleyway was deserted.

She pounded on the door with a full fist, knowing the sound would be lost if there was no one in the hidden back office, or if the mimeographs were cranking out papers. When there was no answer after she tried a second time, she went around to the front door, knocked once, and quietly slipped in.

She saw the usual hum of Dans Hal activity, women at large tables drawing, cutting, pasting, chatting, while children milled about at their feet. It was precisely the image Resistance personnel wished them to project – an average, apolitical group whose only goal was maintaining Dutch culture.

But there was certain danger if, as Lukas had warned, German authorities or their Dutch collaborators were to look beneath the surface – past and present issues of the underground newspaper, foodstuffs hidden away for the desperate, evidence of the Dans Hal as a beehive of activity by and for the Resistance.

She scanned the faces for Leela Bakker, spotted her at a back table and hurried to her side.

“Leela, we need to talk.”

Leela dropped her scissors, led Zoe past the false wall, into the hidden office.

Zoe spoke quickly, reluctant even with Leela, to reveal Lukas Jensen’s dual role as Dutch police officer and informer.

“I have been warned by a reliable source,” she told her, “that the Dans Hal could be raided by the NSB – perhaps as soon as tomorrow. I know you do what you can to keep this office hidden, but if it is breached – “

“I understand.” Leela looked around her. “All the papers – everything needs to be removed…We can take most of it to our homes, I think, carried out in book bags. I will get the women started and put out the call for volunteers.”

Zoe nodded.

“What about the mimeograph machines?”