Page 31 of Winter's End
Leela nodded.
“We cannot know how quickly the Germans will react, so speed and caution are critical. Can we do this?”
Leela did not hesitate. “We can.”
She studied the map Zoe showed her and took it to the mimeograph to make copies.
“Again, Leela, we need to underline the danger…” Zoe spoke above the din.
Leela turned to face her. “The food on this train is food that was stolen by these Nazi bastards out of the mouths of our families. Every farmer in Haarlem will want to help A number of their wives are here right now. They can spread the word and I am quite certain we will have all the help we need tomorrow evening.”
...
Zoe checked in briefly at thekliniek, assuring Daan there would be enough manpower for the mission.
He nodded. “I leave it to you to inform your cousin, to be sure they are ready at the hospital. I will meet this evening with Pieter and the Council. There is more news. Good news, I think.”
It had been far too long since they had heard good news. Zoe prayed he was right.
...
She made her way home, where she soaked in a warm bath until the water cooled. At dawn, after a fitful night, she dressed for the walk to the hospital.
The streets were peaceful in the early light, almost eerily quiet, the rhythm of her footsteps on the cobblestoned sidewalks attuned to the beating of her heart. A yellow bird perched on a mailbox watched her as she passed. She took it as a sign of better days to come and increased the pace of her step.
She found Gerritt in his second-floor office and quickly apprised him of the plan.
“Glory be,” he said. “The food will be a blessing. I will arrange for the loading dock to be open and have someone on site to help.”
Zoe settled back in her chair. “So, dear cousin, how are you managing?”
“It’s frantic,” Gerrit said, running a hand through his hair. “With dozens of people secreted on one floor – including children being children – we have constantly to remind them to remain quiet or risk being discovered. Add to that the inconstant food supply, and I find myself lying awake even on rare quiet nights.”
“I understand, Gerrit. But you are saving lives. I hope this food will help.”
He nodded. “If you would like to see how our ‘patients’ are faring, Zoe, I can take you on a tour of the top floor – which, as I am sure you recall, is once more closed for renovation.”
They took the service elevator to the top floor and wove their way through an intimidating jumble of stacked hospital beds, furniture, and medical equipment.
Midway down the corridor, ladders rested against a wall and paint cans were scattered about. Three ‘workmen’ in overalls chatted softly, seemingly on break from the job.
Beyond them, behind what looked like a solid wall, Zoe walked into another universe.
In the unthinkable event that the hideaway was discovered, the room needed to look as much like any other ward as possible. But the reality of so many displaced men, women and children living in such chaotic conditions nearly brought Zoe to tears.
A sea of cots sat close together, little more than inches between them. There was an antiseptic smell in the space, and a palpable, unnatural, quiet. A few people napped, others read, some sat staring at the grey sky outside the tall hospital windows. The ‘patients’ were dressed in dull blue hospital gowns, the staff, mostly Jewish doctors and nurses, Zoe guessed, wearing white coats much like the ones she wore at work.
In a far corner of the room, a lightly bearded man with expressive blue eyes was reading animatedly, if quietly, to a group of children of assorted sizes who sat silently at his feet.
Gerrit moved aside to speak to someone, and Zoe moved closer to the storyteller.
“But as spring came, the ugly duckling realized something quite surprising,” the man read in accented Dutch. “He had become as beautiful a swan as any in the clear blue lake.”
The children looked at the picture he displayed, seemingly mesmerized by the familiar tale and the mellow voice of the storyteller. Zoe smiled, watching the face of the reader, nearly as regretful as the children seemed to be when the story wound to a close.
“The end,” the storyteller said, closing the oversized picture book. The children groaned, and the man put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” he admonished. “Remember? We must be quiet.”
He suggested a bathroom visit, and perhaps a glass of water before he read another story. One by one the children, some as young as three or four, rose and silently dispersed.
