by Anna Schmidt
Ailsa had told her that while Anja and Olaf were out rescuing Peter Trent, there had been gunshots and then shouting. She and Daniel had watched from an upstairs window as the Germans captured four men—presumably members of the crew—and marched them off toward town. “One of them seemed badly injured,” she reported in a whisper.
Recalling once again the body she had seen hanging in the tree and the unlikely chance that the pilot had survived the crash, the prisoners being marched off to town accounted for all of the crew—but one. And if there was even one man missing, Anja reminded herself, the Nazis would not rest until they found that missing crew member—the man lying next to her moaning softly in his sleep.
Figuring that Josef would not be able to reach the farm for hours yet—if at all, given the activity and the certainty that checkpoints were on high alert, Anja prepared to spend what was left of the night in the shed with her patient. If he woke and was disoriented, he might try to escape in spite of his wounds. If the Nazis found him anywhere near her grandparents’ property, they would no doubt take the entire household—including Daniel—into custody. She had escaped from them once before. She had been reunited with her grandparents. She had found her son. She was determined to outlast the Nazis.
And if they come back and find me here with Peter Trent? She closed her eyes. It wasn’t difficult at all to imagine the officer aiming his gun carefully at her head—at Daniel’s head. Will this terrible war never end?
She pulled the blanket higher around the airman and then pulled the parachute free. It was evidence of the most incriminating type, and while it had served them well in moving him here, it had to be destroyed. With the shears they kept hanging in the shed that she’d used to cut the evader’s trouser leg, she began methodically cutting the silky fabric into strips. The task was tedious, for she could not risk simply tearing it lest someone be lurking outside and hear the rip of the fabric. Cutting it up into strips that could be used for bandages would pass the time and hopefully keep her alert until her grandfather came to relieve her at first light.
After feeding Peter Trent the drops of broth, she had gently guided him so that he could rest his head in her lap. As she sliced through the fabric, she felt the warmth of his calm steady breath on her hands. Later she would try to give him a little more liquid. For now she would let him sleep—and wait for whatever might come next.
But first she would do one thing more—she would sit in silence and wait for God to reveal His plan for Peter Trent.
Peter fought his way back to consciousness, swimming upstream against the dreams and images that filled his mind. Images of the little town where he’d grown up in the foothills of the Appalachians in southwestern Virginia. The town sat down in a valley and had a railroad running through the middle of Main Street. Most every man living there worked at “the plant”—shift work round the clock, each shift’s ending and beginning announced with a whistle. He supposed when this was all over he’d be working there as well. Every man in his family had worked there.
But he’d always had bigger dreams for himself. He’d longed to learn what lay beyond those hills and that little valley. It was one reason he’d volunteered. The promise of a military career with its opportunity to travel and see the world was something he had just not been able to resist. At the time he’d joined up, everyone had been sure that the United States would never get into the war. But then had come that Sunday in the Pacific—the Japanese attack on the US base of Pearl Harbor. After that there was no turning back.
He smelled chicken and felt something wet and warm on his lips. He captured the drops with his tongue—chicken soup. His mind went instantly to the little tavern near the base in England where he and the others had stuffed themselves the night before the mission with potpies thick with potatoes and onions and broth but not much chicken. He saw the faces of the others—Walker, Haversole, and surely Simpson….
Reality hit him. All three were dead now, and he was no longer dreaming. He wondered if any of the others had escaped and were still out there. Before opening his eyes, he focused on the smells and sounds around him, searching for clues. There was fresh hay, and he was reasonably warm. His leg had gone numb. His cheeks rested against some soft, thick fabric—wool, he thought. Close to his ear, he heard the rhythmic clicking of metal on metal and something more. Then he felt something light touch his face, like a feather brushing his skin or a gnat that he was inclined to swat away. But he remained still, trying to remember more of the rules that Johnstone had read to him from the RAF guidebook on survival. Not that he hadn’t had similar training and preparation, but somehow it was easier picturing Tommy lecturing him.
He had certainly managed the first steps: he had not pulled his rip cord until the last possible second, and he had hidden his parachute. He had not been carrying any incriminating papers that could give Allied positions or details that could help the Nazis, so that wasn’t a concern. What else?
Endeavour to get clear of a five-mile radius of the downed aircraft. Searches rarely cover beyond that.
He concentrated on the events of the last several hours—the boy finding him, the ditch, the kid’s mother and old man coming for him, the ride in the cart. It had been a long, torturous journey, but there was no way he had moved five miles.
As you run for cover, carry out any minor alterations to your uniform to make it resemble, as far as possible, civilian clothing.
That was the part that he had completely forgotten. He’d ditched the goggles, helmet, and flight suit along with the parachute and harness, but that had been more out of a sense of the need to be free of any constraints than a conscious move to disguise his identity. He’d swallowed the caffeine pills for energy and taken the first-aid kit with him. He had no idea where that might be now—maybe still in that ditch. He had managed to use the morphine in the syringe to dull the pain in his leg, but he’d used only about two-thirds of the dose in the face of the need to stay alert and get himself to a better hiding place as soon as possible. What he wouldn’t give to have the rest of that medicine now.
He’d been so focused on his mission that he had completely forgotten about tearing off his insignia or finding other ways he might disguise his uniform. He reached for the insignia patch and clawed at it, searching for a loose corner that would make it easier to rip it free. But he stopped as soon as he felt someone else’s hand covering his.
“You have decided to come back to us then,” a female voice murmured, and he felt her brush back his hair from his forehead and lay her palm there as his mother had done when she wanted to see if he was running a fever.
He opened his eyes to darkness and waited for his vision to adjust to the interplay of light and shadow that is present even in the blackest night. “Who …?” His voice was raspy, and she stopped further conversation by pressing her finger against his lips.
“You are safe,” she whispered. “For now. A doctor will be here soon. He can see to your leg. My name is Anja, and this is the farm of my grandparents.”
“The boy?”
“He is my son.” She turned and retrieved a bowl. “You need to eat and drink. This is chicken broth—cold now but …”
He realized that he was ravenous, and his throat felt as if he’d been in the desert for a week. He took the bowl from her and drank the contents down. “Thank you.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand as she took the bowl from him. “My name is Peter Trent. I’m American.”
“I know. Do you have other identification on you beyond this?” She pointed to his dog tag.
“Just this patch,” he said.
Expertly she snipped a corner of the insignia and then worked it free. “Once the doctor has seen to your injuries, we will get you civilian clothing and burn the uniform.”
“You speak excellent English,” he remarked. They were talking now in low tones that were above a whisper but not yet at the volume of normal conversation.
She ignored the compliment. “You have heard
of the line?”
“I … what do you mean?”
“There are a number of groups working in this part of Europe to help you and others get back to your units. We work through a series of safe houses and contacts to move you from place to place through France, over the mountains to Spain, and on to Gibraltar.”
The journey she outlined was hundreds—even thousands—of miles. He had heard stories of such escapes, especially from the Brits, but he’d discounted them as impossible in spite of the proof of several airmen who had made it back to England and in spite of the similarities to the Underground Railroad that had moved slaves north before and during the Civil War in America. “You work on this escape line?”
“You don’t ask questions like that—in fact, you mustn’t ask questions at all. I have already revealed more than I should have. Names are not to be used—ever. The safety of those who will help you will depend on your discretion as much as anything. Anonymity is vital—in case someone is arrested. The less information a person has, the less likely that person is to incriminate others.”
A door squeaked open at the farmhouse, and she went absolutely still, her hand resting on his arm more as a warning than in a gesture of comfort. He realized that all the time they’d been talking she had continued to cut up the parachute. Now, with one smooth motion, she gathered the strips and rolled them into a ball, which she hid under a pile of hay and debris in the corner of the stall before she went back to waiting—and listening.
He observed the way she cocked her head to one side and knew that she was mentally recording and identifying every sound. Someone was coming across the yard, the snow that had turned to slush and ice crunching underfoot. He saw the silhouette of the person, stoop-shouldered and moving slowly, and knew it must be Anja’s grandfather. The old man bent to clear the low opening of the shed and handed Anja a tin bucket with a cover. He muttered something in a dialect Peter did not know before picking up a shovel and going back outside.
“He will keep watch now,” she said, setting the tin bucket on the ground near Peter. “My grandmother has prepared this breakfast for you. Take your time eating it so you don’t become ill.” She gathered some blood-stained fabric that he realized was part of his trouser leg, wadding it into as small a bundle as possible. “I’ll burn this in the kitchen stove.”
“My leg …”
“Our friend is a doctor, although these days he and his wife run a café in Brussels. He will be here when he can. Then we will see to your leg and get you some other clothes.” She made it to the door and then looked back at him over her shoulder. “You must trust that we know what we are doing and not try and get away, or you will get us all shot.”
As if he could move well enough to make it from the stall to the door of the shed.
She was a bossy little thing. He’d had a drill sergeant in basic training that he would put her up against any day. He still hadn’t gotten a good look at her beyond that first glance when he regained consciousness. In that moment, he had thought she was possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But he would have believed the same of anyone he’d seen who was not a Nazi. Besides, the lantern her grandmother had held the night before had cast long shadows, and she had extinguished it once she had apparently satisfied herself that he was going to live.
He pulled the blanket that smelled like a horse around his shoulders like a shawl and opened the tin bucket. When he removed the lid, he paused to sort the contents—a fairly sizable chunk of the stuff that passed for bread over here, a hard-boiled egg, and a tin cup filled with ersatz coffee. But there were luxuries, as well. The bread was buttered and coated with jam, and there was a piece of white creamy cheese. In this place and in these times, he had before him the makings of a feast. He wished that he could give the meal the respect it deserved. But suddenly he was sweating profusely, the world around him was swirling like a carousel, and he knew that he was about to pass out.
CHAPTER 3
By mid-December Peter’s leg was definitely on the mend, but he was bored to the point that if he didn’t get outside soon, he thought he might lose his mind. This must be what was meant by the term stir-crazy.
It would soon be Christmas and then the start of a new year. He’d lost track of the exact date—and he’d been confined to this tiny loft room that was barely large enough for a narrow cot. The ceiling was sloped so that it was impossible for him to stand up straight. Not that he could stand much at all. He scowled at his leg only recently released from the makeshift covering of sterilized wool and lint that the doctor had devised to keep it immobile after he’d managed to remove the shrapnel and bullet. Peter was stunned at how quickly the muscles had weakened so that, even with the wound well on its way to being healed, his movement was limited at best.
Josef Buchermann might be a doctor—even a gifted one—but he was a German, and Peter didn’t trust him, although apparently Anja thought the sun rose and set in the young physician-turned-café-owner and his American wife, Lisbeth. Anja had raved so much about her American friend that Peter was anxious to meet her. And she spoke with awestruck reverence about the work that the couple, along with a bunch of other medical students, had done in Munich. Her stories of the escape from the death camp Sobibor that Josef had helped orchestrate was the stuff of Hollywood picture shows. Still, the man was a Kraut.
Peter heard a noise from below and instantly went on alert. He knew the drill. If he heard a voice or sound he could not identify, he was to remain absolutely still until a member of the household came to let him know that all was well. Anja had shown him that the secret entrance to the cubbyhole that was just large enough for his cot was hidden behind a large chest in the bedroom shared by Ailsa and Olaf. During the day, he got a little light from the small square window covered with a tattered blackout shade. At night the old woman brought a lantern with her when she came to check on him and bring him his supper and a bottle of fresh water. When he heard her move the chest, he knew to reach up and pull down a second blackout curtain so that no one passing would see the flicker of her lantern. Anja came only on the weekends, and he looked forward to her visits like a starving man might look forward to a soup bone.
For starters, unlike her grandparents, Anja spoke and understood English, and she seemed interested in his stories of home and family. She did not talk much about herself or the outside world except to field his questions about how the war was going. When he asked how long before he was going to be able to get out of this place, her answer was a shrug or the unsatisfactory, “When the time is right, you will go.”
Often she stayed late into the night, teaching him French and Spanish phrases that she told him might be important as he made his way along the line. She sat at the foot of the cot facing him for lack of even an inch of space for a stool or chair. She always smelled of lavender. She wore her uniform most of the time, with her hair tightly wound into a bun at the nape of her neck. But once or twice she had come for the visit wearing wool pants and a flannel shirt, her dark hair loosely pulled back and tied with a ribbon—an unusual feminine touch given that the rest of her clothing was so plain. She never wore makeup, but she didn’t need it. Her skin was fair and smooth, her eyes were large and ice blue, her lashes were long, feathering her cheekbones as she sometimes read aloud to him from a book of quotations by George Fox, founder of her Quaker faith.
Their discussions of religion had come from two sources—their diametrically opposed views of the war and his desire to keep her with him for company as long as possible. The loneliness could be sheer torture.
“ ‘Be patterns, be examples in all countries, places, islands, nations wherever you come; that your carriage and life may preach among all sorts of people, and to them; then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone; whereby in them you may be a blessing, and make the witness of God in them to bless you.’ ”
At first Peter had scoffed at such pious platitudes. “Your George Fox should be
living in this world,” he told her. “Then we’d see how cheerfully he would walk over the world.”
“He did live in a world like this,” she told him as she closed the book and set it aside. “He was persecuted and imprisoned. Back in the seventeenth century, things were not exactly wonderful, especially for someone who did not follow the prevailing rules of the day—or perhaps I should say rulers of the day. Like now.”
Peter felt ashamed of his ignorance—the same way he had felt the night she told him that her husband had been Jewish and that was why he had been killed. He had assumed the man had died fighting against the Nazis.
“No,” she had said. “His only crime was that he was Jewish—for them that is enough.”
He watched her as she tucked his blanket in at the foot of the narrow cot. She had brought fresh linens, and he was crouched into a space between the eaves while she made quick work of changing his cot. “Tell me about the Inner Light,” he said.
She continued working, making precise corners with the blanket to anchor it for the night. “You are familiar with the New Testament?”
He shrugged.
“I will give you one example. In the book of John, chapter 8, it reads, ‘I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.’ Now get some rest,” she added as she slipped through the low door, taking the lantern with her.