Page 28 of Winter's End
“Are there appointments scheduled this afternoon?” she asked.
“Nothing I cannot handle by myself.” Daan leaned forward and lowered his voice. Close the door, please.
Zoe did so, and dropped into a chair.
“Something has come up. An opportunity. It is urgent and dangerous, but worth the risk, we think – and we need all the help we can get.”
She nodded.
“As you are well aware, Nazi troops have been sweeping through our farmlands, seizing produce and supplies. We think some of that food is earmarked for German troops in Poland, because much of it was seen being loaded onto a train that is scheduled to leave Haarlem for Krakow tomorrow evening.”
Daan’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We have the means in place to blow the train off the tracks in a forested area to the north,” he said. “But we will need to take ownership of all that edible cargo – and quickly, before the German command gets wind of it.”
“I understand.”
“We need to have volunteers with handcarts and bicycles waiting in the woods just out of sight of the tracks. They will need to sift through the wreckage, strip whatever foodstuffs they can find, and transport the goods to the hospital loading dock in Heemstede. ‘
Daan paused. “Again, we cannot minimize the risk. It is an hour’s bicycle ride from the blast point to the hospital, more if the Germans are quick to reconnoiter, so our volunteers must be hardy and shrewd. But if we are quick to get in an out, the reward is worth the risk. Can you help?”
Zoe wrestled for a long moment, weighing the image of the pistol in her face against the need to feed the hungry.
“We will need a map,” she said, finally, “The volunteers must study all possible routes. But people here are angry as well as hungry. Perhaps they will welcome the chance to act.”
MILA
Mila strolled just outside the restricted area early on a Saturday morning, her hair glinting red and gold in the cold December sunshine. An artist’s portfolio full of drawings and charcoals was slung over her shoulder, and under one arm she carried an oversized sketchpad,
She had expected to find the place alive with German soldiers ready to stop and question her, wary of running into an officer who had sat at her father’s table. In any case, she had prepared a cover story about needing to do a sketch of the old lighthouse for an art class.
But the whole area was bewilderingly quiet. Save for a few guards with rifles resting at their feet, there was little to impede her progress.
Opening her sketch book, she ventured casually beyond the orange-ribboned boundary, pulse quickening as she peered into the distance, sketching, listening for footsteps behind her.
She was prepared to flash a flirtatious smile, apologize for a stupid blunder, absorbed as she was in her work.
But to her astonishment, no one approached her, and she left as quickly and easily as he had entered, ducking under the orange tape with her sketch pad full of drawings stowed beneath her fashion drawings in her portfolio.
At home, puzzled, she tried reaching Pieter more than once from the relative safety of her clothes closet. But the secure line went unanswered, which left her even more uneasy. She dressed for dinner with equal measures of curiosity and dread.
Her parents and their guests were just being seated when Mila entered the dining room clad in a form-fitting, azure silk dinner dresswith a neckline low enough to be noticed. She did not know either of the two SS men who rose as she entered, but she saw their gaze move to study her curves as she took her seat and offered a welcoming smile.
“Mila, please welcomeHauptscharführerLudvig Schluck andOberscharführerHeinz Pfeiffer, who will be dining with us this evening.Mein Herren, this is our daughter, Mila.”
Mila studied them as she sat, the one bulky, straight-backed, with a Hitler-like moustache, the other with a bulbous, pig-like nose and blue eyes set too close together.
“Mein Herren,”she gracefully inclined her head, amused as always at how her non-German speaking father managed to wrap his tongue around all those protracted German vowels.
Her mother offered low-key comments about the weather and the coming Yuletide, and there were short bursts of conversation as the dinner of pork roast and sweet potatoes was served. But apart from the sound of silverware clinking and wine being poured, these officers, like the guards she had seen this morning, appeared to be oddly distracted.
“So,mein Herren,” Mila tried. “Will you be going home for the Christmas holidays?”
The pair of Germans exchanged glances.
“Alas,nein,” the larger man said finally. “I am afraid we may be needed here.”
His companion was absorbed in his food.
Mila leaned forward, revealing more bosom. “How awful,Oberscharführer Pfeiffer.And why is that?”
