Page 98 of Winter's End
“Go, Papa,” she said, and her father, coatless, shivered in the cold, kissed the top of her head and started off.
Zoe lifted Evi’s shoulder as gently as she could, tried to bare the arm from its layers of clothing enough to assess the damage. She probed the wound as gently as she could.
Evi whimpered, groaned, and cried out.
Zoe looked up, glanced out of the barn doorway, fearful a contingent of German soldiers could turn up at any moment.
“I am almost there, Evi,” she murmured. “I know it is painful, but please try to be still. I need to see how badly you are hurt.”
She was not skilled in human physiology, but she knew enough from her veterinary studies to know that the shoulder contains the main artery of the arm, and a nerve bundle that controls its motor function.
Luck was with them, she hoped, in that she could not detect the presence of a bullet. Possibly the bullet had pierced the skin and exited. But there could be fragments left behind…
She tore a strip of fabric from her underskirt, wrapped it around the wound to stem the blood, then tore a larger strip she would try to use as a sling.
Evi’s eyes were closed again. She dared not let her sink into concussion. She patted her cheek. “Wake up, Evi! Try to stay awake. We cannot remain here.”
Evi blinked. “Zoe?”
“Ja,”Zoe murmured, supporting her upper body as Evi tried to sit. “You have been shot,” she told her, doing her best to fashion the makeshift sling.
Evi opened her eyes. Zoe searched them for signs of concussion, but her gaze seemed clear and focused.
“You must try to stand. Evi,” she said, “and walk, if you can. We must get out of here, and quickly, before more German soldiers turn up.”
Evi’s eyes fluttered and closed.
MILA
Naked tree limbs reached toward the sky, and withered leaves swirled around the lamp posts. Around her, her countrymen and women appeared to go about their lives as best they could under the watchful eyes of the Germans. But they moved stealthily, hurrying from one place to the next, eyes mostly downcast.
Mila sat on the wooden bench, debating what to do next.
All at once, she knew. She rose to her feet and went in search of a public telephone.
When she found one, she slipped inside the box, thanked the heavens for a dial tone, and searched her memory. With Pieter unreachable and Daan gone, she decided to call Leela Bakker at the Dans Hal.
It took three tries until the call went through.
“Leela,” she said, finally. “It is Mila. Mila Brouwer. I need to find a contact in Amsterdam…”
Leela did not hesitate. “I have an aunt in Amsterdam…Her name is Liesbeth…” She gave Mila a telephone number.
Mila hung up, hoped the connection would not fail, fed in more coins and dialed again.
She told Liesbeth that Leela had referred her, offered the words that would identify her as a friend, and told her she needed a local contact.
Liesbeth was as prompt and perceptive as Leela. She gave Mila an address.
“It is a reputable cobbler’s shop,” Liesbeth told her. “Be sure to tell them you were referred by the Van der Leeves. I am sure you they will be able to meet your needs.”
...
It was a short walk to the address she was given, a cobbler’s shop as Liesbeth had told her. A bell tinkled overhead as she entered.
Inside, a middle-aged man in a grimy leather cobbler’s apron bent over a shoe last. He looked up as Mila entered.
“Hallo,” she said, smiling. “My name is Mila Brouwer. I am from Haarlem, where I believe you may have friends. I was referred to your shop by the Van der Leeves.”
