Page 87 of Winter's End
‘Four elderly Dutch care givers,’ Mila read, ‘volunteers who routinely transport Haarlem patients for their doctor visits, were lined up and shot in an alley off theRembrandtspleinon Tuesday by a squad of SS enforcers.
‘The incident was the second in a string of random shootings carried out under direct orders from Hitler, sources say, in retaliation for Dutch Resistance sabotage efforts that took the lives of more than a hundred German soldiers…’
Sitting at the breakfast table, Mila crushed the paper to her lap. There was no mention on the front page of the attempted assassination of Dutch Police Captain Reimar de Boer.
Straightening the paper, she scanned the inside pages, looking for an update on de Boer’s condition or on any progress by Amsterdam authorities to identify the attempted assassin…but there was nothing. Not a single word.Why not?
Het Parool, the underground paper, was rather more forthcoming, reporting that the assassination of eight Dutch nationals was almostcertainly in retaliation for the blatant assault on de Boer – and that Amsterdam Police were attempting to tie local Resistance cell leaders to the failed assassination.
Mila crushed both papers beneath her elbows, worry churning in her gut. She had not been able to contact Pieter since her return from Vlaardingen with Evi and Zoe – not on the wireless concealed in her bedroom closet, nor by telephone to his desk in the plumber’s office. She was shaken to realize she had no idea where he lived.
She heard the hall telephone ring, but ignored it, until Reit brought the instrument to her.
“For you, Missen.”
Mila took it. “This is Mila Brouwer,” she said formally.
“Ah,VermissenBrouwer – Mila, may I? This isObersturmfuhrer Franz Becker! I am so sorry to have missed your call!”
At her father’s insistence, she had dialed the German headquarters to thank the man for the Deitrich recording. She had been happy to find him out and leave a message. But she was not surprised that the portly Becker wanted more.
“You talked about the German stage, if I recall correctly,” he said in his curious mix of German and Dutch. “While I cannot promise a rendition ofLily Marleen, it pleases me to say there is an entertainment by German performers planned on Saturday next at our headquarters here in Haarlem.”
“I see,” she said, already searching for a reasonable way out.
The German did not wait for an answer. “If you are willing, Mila – may I call you Mila? I will bring a car for you that evening at seven. There will, of course, be a dinner served afterward…”
It was days away, Mila thought with relief, glad for the time to look for an excuse. “That soundswunderbar,Obersturmfuher,”she simpered at last. “I shall await the date with pleasure.Danke schön.”
“Goed- as will I,” said Becker. She could almost see his heels click together. “Untif I may…for you, it is Franz.”
Mila ended the call and rose to dispose of the morning’sHetParool before it caught her father’s eye. She called out to Hondje, who came running.
The dog’s tail wagged furiously at the sight of the leash, and the poor thing waited less than patiently as Mila donned a coat in the hallway and tied a scarf around her head.
A walk might be the best thing for both of them, Mila thought, fastening the leash and following Hondje out the front door. It would give her time to think – first about how she might gracefully bow out of the unwanted rendezvous with Becker – and second, by far the more important, how she might determine if Pieter was safe.
EVI
Evi lay sleepless on the sofa in the darkness of the Beekhof’s sitting room. Otto snored softly on the rug below, freckled snout resting on his front paws. She listened to the pop and crackle in the hearth and peered out the window into the starless night, feeling so much more than she could ever put words to.
She was mortified and wretched to have blurted out that the sixteenth of February was her birthday. Truly, given everything she had been through in the last few days, she had not given the date a thought until Willem mentioned it – and moments after the Beekhofs had saved her from homelessness.
She was embarrassed about dissolving into tears over it, but it was the first time in her life that she had had a birthday without Mam at the center of it – and the realization filled her with sorrow that birthdays would never be the same again.
Still, as they ate, there had been birthday songs and heartfelt wishes for Evi’s health and happiness. She was still not sure, even afterMevreouwhanded her a nightgown and robe and prepared a bed for her on the sofa, that she would ever be worthy of their graciousness.
She had turned seventeen, she understood now, with a heavier heart than she could ever have imagined.
Jacob, watchingMervouwbring the blankets, had rushed to volunteer his bedroom. “Evi should have it,” he insisted. “She needs it far more than I do.”
But Evi had asserted just as strongly that she could fit much more easily on the sofa than he, and when she held her ground, he retreated.
“If you change your mind,” he had said, backing down the hallway. “One word and the bedroom is yours…”
“Thank you, Jacob, but I will not change my mind,” she vowed, helping with the sheets and blankets. In moments they had all retreated down the hall, leaving her in the uneasy quiet.
She imagined Jacob in his bed, eyes wide open, hands behind his head, longing, she hoped, to be as near to her as she longed to be near him.
