Page 12 of Winter's End
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 wasconcerned, 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.
Evi had been sound asleep yesterday morning when the motor turned over and she was awakened by the movement of the barge. It was not yet fully light, and Evi had guessed they were bound for Middleburg, where Mam would pass Herr Zeller into another pair of hands, then rummage through the marketplace for whatever she could find to purchase.
She hoped the old man would be safe.
This morning, she felt the familiar empty quiet, the hold vacant and Mam at work – and with school cancelled for Nazi troop maneuvers, the day stretched ahead of her. She would take the laundry to thewasserette,she decided,and then, perhaps, bicycle to what was left of the book exchange and bring home something to read.
She ate one of Mam’s homemade oat crackers topped with a tiny dollop of what was left of the orange marmalade, then took up the laundry bag, swung out of the barge, and took her bicycle out of the shed.
Even dressed in a coat over a sweater, with a grey wool cap pulled low over her ears, she felt the wind bite her face. She blew out air and saw her breath. It was going to be a cold winter, she could tell, perhaps even more snow than usual – just what they needed, with two hours of gas and power a day and no end in sight to the misery.
...
She found herself alone in thewasseretteon that early Friday morning. She was moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer when she heard the shattering of glass. She spun around to see, through the open doorway, two SS officers reaching into the display window of the silversmith’s shop across the road.
Glass lay everywhere, heavy boots trampling over it as the Germans hauled out silver trays, candle sticks and whatever else they could grab from the showcase, stowing armfuls of the stuff into the trunk of a Mercedes Benz automobile emblazoned with the SS insignia.
Evi backed up against the row of dryers. The SS took whatever they wanted, she knew - and not only from the Jews. She and Mam knew people whose cars, even their homes, had been ‘requisitioned’with no recourse. But she had never witnessed anything as brazen as what she was seeing now.
She watched as a white-haired man in a denim apron slowly emerged from the shop. Before she could tell if there was a yellow star on his apron, the two intruders battered him to the ground and walked over him into the shop.
