Page 42 of Winter's End
He sighed. “But years of oppression have toughened us, Zoe. We all know the risks we take.”
“Ja,”said Zoe, still anxious to know if all the volunteer farmers were safely home. “But some of us bear the burden of putting others in harm’s way.”
“And so it must be, Zoe,” Dan leaned toward her. “If we did not, there would be no resistance at all and Hitler would long ago have had his way.”
That much it true, Zoe realized. But it did little to calm her fear.
She sighed. “I need to go to the Dans Hal to see if everyone is accounted for – but the tires on my bicycle are wearing thin.”
“Go, “he said. “Take my bicycle. It is just behind the building – and let me have a look at yours. Some have been repairing their worn tires with sections cut from garden hose. Let me see what I can do.”
MILA
She must have blacked out when the force of the blast sent her flying, because the last thing she remembered clearly was depressing the device in her coat pocket.
Curled up in bed in her spacious bedroom, blinds closed, Hondje’s warm body pressed against her left hip, Mila tried to bring it into focus. She felt – exhausted, triumphant, humiliated, and lucky to be alive. How was it possible to feel all those things at once?
She had been unprepared for the force of the blast, the noise, the smell, the rush of flames leaping in burning fingers from the Cinema building into the night sky. So sudden and powerful was the red-hot conflagration that it had tossed her into the air, and the next thing she knew, a pair of beefy hands had scooped her up and carried her away.
She had hardly heard the voice at her ear, so intent was she on the blaze, the screams, the stampeding feet, the brilliance of the night sky.
Then she had looked toward the source of the voice, and recognized the face of one of her father’s more frequent German dinner guests, though she could not bring his name to mind.
“Mila?” His florid face was inches from hers. “Mila Brouwer,ja? Geht es dir gut? Are you alright?”
Fear snaked down her spine, and she did not recall answering, but he scooped her up, lifting her as though she were weightless, and carried her to an SS van. Ignoring her pleas, he had lowered her into the back seat, slammed the doors, and sped off into the night.
She could only think he was taking her to German headquarters, and she wavered between terror and resolve.
Slowly, the chaos and the unholy light receded, and the next thing she knew, the man was steadying her gently on the front porch of her home and reaching out to ring the door chime.
She remembered the confusion in her father’s face, the narrowed eyes, the creased forehead, the question not yet formed on his lips.
“Herr Brouwer,” the German was the first to speak. “There was an accident – a great explosion at the Cinema. Your daughter was nearby, but mostly unhurt, I think. It was fortunate that it was I who came upon her.”
EVI
The room was worn but homey – chintz-covered furniture, a bookcase full of books and a slow fire burning in the hearth. Evi loosened her coat and took off her woolen scarf.
She was warming her hands, bent over the fire, when she heard the voice behind her. “Well, hey, so itisyou! Hello there.”
She turned to face the tall American, slim and broad shouldered in blue jeans and a too-tight flannel shirt, and younger than he had seemed to be in the dark of night. Suddenly, she found herself speechless.
He smiled. “You must have a name.”
“Evi,” she forced the syllables out. “My name is Evi Strobel. I – came here to thank you. I must thank you. If not for you, I do not know what might have happened to me that night...”
“I don’t know about that. You had two big bodyguards there, ready to shoot the bastard. I just happened to get there first.”
She nodded dumbly. In the light of day, he seemed perhaps no more than in his early twenties, with hair the color of wheat falling over his forehead, earnest hazel eyes, and a strong jaw line evident above his neatly trimmed beard.
“Well, my name, as you know, is Jacob Reese. Jake to my friends…”
“I wanted you to know that am not a collaborator, Jacob Reese,” Evi blurted. “Nor am I accustomed to being with drunken Nazis in a beer bar…”
A hint of a smile. “I think I may have figured that out. I don’t know what you were up to, but it’s none of my beeswax, I guess.”
She looked at him, ‘Beeswacks?”
