Page 107 of Winter's End
Mila struggled, falling backwards, landing in a heap on the cold ground, limbs entangled with her captor’s.
“Let me go,” she kicked and pushed, but powerful hands held her.
Her mouth found an arm and she bit down.
“Ouch! Mila, it is I.”
Her head swiveled. “Pieter?”
“I was waiting till dark. You beat me to the vantage point.”
“Did I get him?”
“We cannot be sure.” He helped her to her feet. “But neither can we wait to find out. We need to get out of here – now!”
But heavy footsteps barreled into the street and the WAH-wah of police sirens pierced the air before they reached the end of the street.
Mila blessed the falling dusk as they crouched between stands of trees and alleys.
“There is a canal on the other side of these woods,” Pieter said, leading Mila through the brush. “I have a small dinghy anchored there. My plan was –isto take it to the north end of town not far from the railroad depot.”
He picked up his pace as their distance widened.
“There is a ten o’clock train to Brussels,” he huffed, as the sky above them began to flash red and blue. “We need to be on it,” he told her over the noise of screeching sirens, “before thepoliziemove to shut everything down.”
Mila followed in Pieter’s wake, moving fast to keep up with his stride, nearly stumbling on the roots of an oak tree and feeling hisstrength as he steadied her. She was breathing hard by the time they reached a clearing and she saw, in the pallor of a cold moon, what appeared to be a bobbing row boat.
Pieter stepped in, then reached for her hand. The dinghy rocked under their weight. She fought to keep her balance and sat hard on the wooden bench. Pieter grabbed for the oars. In seconds, they were moving away from shore, the ebbing sound of police sirens giving way to the steady splash of oars in the water.
EVI
Something was amiss. Evi could feel it the moment she entered the Beekhof’s kitchen.Mevrouw’s back was to her, leaning over the sink, but Jacob and Papa Beekhof, at opposite ends of the table, wore decidedly grave expressions.
“What?” she asked, searching Jacob’s face, dropping a bag full of clothing on the floor.
Willem brought in a wooden crate and stopped short at the silence.
“What has happened?” Evi asked again.
For a long moment, there was no answer.
Mevreouw turned to face them, her mouth a grim line.
At last, Jacob met her gaze. “Do you remember,” he said, “when I told you the Beekhofs had managed to obtain a Dutch ID for me?”
She nodded.
“Well, it seems the identification I have belonged to a guy who was deceased…a guy about my age named Hans Mittlinger, who was living in Amsterdam when he died.”
Jacob’s gaze met Papa Beekhof’s for a second, then flitted back to hers. She could read the anguish in his eyes.
“Well, it seems…” he exhaled noisily. “It seems the guy was German by birth, but the Germans don’t seem to know he’s dead.”
Evi scrunched up her face, looked briefly to Papa Beekhof, then settled her gaze on Jacob’s face. “Ja?”
“So, Hans Mittlinger is being conscripted into theWehrmacht…the German Army…”
Evi’s eyes grew wide.
