Page 45 of Winter's End
Evi opened it carefully to preserve the tissue, and shrieked as she unfolded the woolen cap inside. It had been handknit from the bright blue yarn Mam had rescued from the old crocheted afghan and it was embroidered on one side with what looked like a bright yellow butterfly.
Evi pulled it over her fine blonde hair. “Oh, I love it, Mam,danke je.I will wear it every day!”
She smiled. “Now, sit. I have something for you.”
She slipped into her quarters and brought out the homemade candle fashioned from the scraps of candles past, and watched Mam carefully unwrap it and pretend, at least, to love and admire it.
“I wish it could have been more,” Evi murmured, pushing back at tears. “How I wish it were a real Christmas…”
“Itisa real Christmas,” Mam jumped up to hug her. “We have each other, Evi. We have our good health – and there is Christmas kuchen!”
ZOE
Zoe tried to get through to her parents, to share some semblance of a happy yuletide, but the phone lines, even more unreliable since the dual explosions, were jammed.
Rations had been cut once again, and there were reports that SS officers were going from door to door looking for suspects, shooting people on the street for the flimsiest of reasons to avenge the German lives lost in the dual Resistance offensives.
Still, she felt suffocated, stranded in the confines of her flat, doomed to a lonely Christmas and anxious about the fate of the missing farmer. She was helpless, saddened, and silenced, and it made her jumpy
She drank tea, tried to read a paper on canine influenza, took in the seams of two woolen skirts to fit her shrinking frame.
At two in the afternoon, unable to sit any longer, she put down her sewing needle, donned a heavy sweater and one of the newly altered skirts, grabbed her coat and scarf and ran out into the cold.
There were few people on the street. Most families, she imagined, were spending the day at home, doing their best to make the most of a cheerless Christmas. Even the watchful Germans were less in evidence than she had feared as she navigated the windswept streets.
Withered brown leaves found refuge at every curb, leaving the barren trees to stand watch against a threatening, battleship grey sky.
Zoe pulled her scarf up around her face.
She imagined the lot of arrogant Germans, warm and beer-soaked in theirstadspleinheadquarters, feasting on roasted Christmas goose and strudel while Hollanders survived on hardtack and tulip bulbs.
Jamming her hands into her coat pockets, she walked and walked, and it was not until she rounded a corner and saw it straight ahead of her that she realized where she had been heading.
There were few cars in the hospital parking lot, what with petrol increasingly scarce, but there were bicycles parked near the entrance. The same guard she had seen the other night stood at the revolving door entrance, stamping his feet against the cold. He looked up and nodded to her as she slipped inside.
It was marginally warmer inside. She took the elevator up to Gerritt’s office, but he was not in evidence, and the desks outside were mostly deserted. One young woman put down her book to say that several administrators had the day off, and that she did not know the whereabouts of Dr. Visser.
Zoe stood in the hallway and considered. She doubted her cousin had taken had taken time off for the holidays. Finally, she pushed the elevator button for the top floor and exited into an eerie silence. She made her way in semi-darkness past canvas-shrouded windows and construction clutter, and slipped behind the faux wall.
Even then, there was only muted sound. Zoe knocked gently, the pre-arranged knock they had agreed upon to signal that the visitor was friendly. Still, heads swiveled in her direction when she entered.
Gerritt was seated at a ‘patient’s’ bedside. He rose instantly when he saw her, crossed the room and air-kissed her on both cheeks. “Prettige Kerst, cousin” he whispered. Happy Christmas.
“Happy Christmas,” she said, returning his smile. But her eyes looked past his shoulder, searching the crowded room for the storyteller.
MILA
Her mother was resting with a headache, Reit told her in the kitchen. But her father was waiting to see her.
No doubt, thought Mila, allowing herself a slab of the cook’s brown bread with a dollop of orange marmalade. She chewed slowly, holding off the moment, but in the end, there was no putting it off.
She passed through the great room, taking no pleasure from the enormous Christmas tree, or the fireplace festooned with greenery.
“Come in,” her father responded to her knock on the study door. She slipped into the room.
Blue velvet draperies fronted the windows, tied back with heavy gold cord. The walls were lined with books and trophies, and a small, carved table held an enormous world globe. Mila waited in silence until father put down his pen and looked up. “Mila. You are feeling well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
