by Anna Schmidt
Glancing out the window, he saw the officer was talking to Anja, running the tip of his riding crop over her jaw. Fury welled up in him like a fire, but right now he had to get out of this place. His leg was already throbbing from all the action, but he ignored the pain as he surveyed the space to be sure there were no other clues that might give him—and the others—away.
Footprints. They were his where he had moved around on the dusty floor. He balanced his body on one of the crossbeams and leaned over to fan the dust with the wool scarf he had wrapped around his neck. Mercifully the dust bunnies scattered, covering his tracks, but in the process he inadvertently brushed against the blackout curtain. He froze when he saw the officer look up. Seconds later the officer and his men headed back inside the house, and this time they started up the steps, their boots resounding on the wooden treads.
Peter had to hope they were making enough noise as they ransacked the bedroom where Anja and Daniel slept that he could make his move. He pulled open the window and squirmed through, clinging to a thick vine that he imagined in spring would be covered with leaves and perhaps even flowers and that he prayed would hold his weight. He stretched to pull the window closed behind him and at the same moment heard the men start the search of Ailsa and Olaf’s bedroom.
The roof was slippery, and he wasn’t at all sure if the vine could support him for much longer. Inch by inch, he worked his way across the tiles as far away from the window as possible, all the while studying the distance to the ground. The vine began to crackle and break. Below him he saw the wooden cart. It had some straw in it—not enough to completely cushion his fall, but it would have to do.
From inside the cottage, he heard the splintering of the entry to his hiding place. He had no choice. He let go of the vine and fell.
His aim was good. He landed on the straw in the cart, which covered any noise he might have made if he’d landed on the ground. He took only a split second to assess his condition—bruises for sure and a couple of scrapes and cuts—before he pulled himself up and out of the cart and hobbled as fast as he could to the shed. He had to bank on the idea that having searched it just minutes before, the Germans would not search it again.
This time he was going to have to share the space with Olaf’s horse. The animal glanced around when Peter limped inside the shed and edged past to collapse at the back of the stall.
“Easy, girl,” Peter murmured when the horse snorted and pawed at the straw. “Just need to stay here till they’re gone, okay?”
Yeah, like the horse could possibly understand the situation.
Peter pushed himself against the back wall of the stall and tested his leg by stretching it out. It hurt but not in the way it had before the German doctor had removed the shrapnel. His main problem at the moment was that he was cold—his teeth chattering. He looked longingly at the horse blanket spread over the stall wall. But if he pulled it down and the Germans came looking …
He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and snuggled into the hay that smelled of horse and dung.
Voices in the yard brought him alert—and the horse as well. Again the animal snorted and pawed, tossing her head back and forth, trying to see what was going on in the yard.
Peter thought of a brand-new danger. What if the officer decided that a horse was just what he needed to go with that riding crop? If they came and took the horse, he would be totally exposed. He reached up and unhooked the rope connected to the horse’s neck and tugged. “Descendre,” he urged, hoping that he had the correct French instruction for getting the animal to lie down. If the officer thought the horse was old or sick, he wouldn’t want it. “Descendre, s’il te plaît.”
The horse tossed her mane and snorted. “I don’t have time for politeness,” Peter growled. “Descendre.” He tugged hard on the rope.
Slowly the animal knelt and then fell heavily onto her side, completely blocking Peter from view and providing a delicious warmth, the likes of which Peter had not enjoyed in weeks. “Merci,” Peter whispered as he stroked the horse’s neck and tried to figure out what was happening in the yard and house.
But the horse’s body heat was a luxury that Peter had pretty much given up ever experiencing again. He could not recall the last time he had been warm to the bone. He heard the car leave but knew better than to make his presence known until he was sure they were all gone. Instead, he curled closer to the horse and felt his eyes grow heavy as he surrendered to the seduction of the warmth, the loamy perfume of horse and hay, and sleep.
When he woke, the German was standing over him—not the unwanted visitor but the doctor—Josef Buchermann. The man was grinning at him, but Peter instinctively moved closer to the back of the stall. His sudden action woke the horse, who lumbered to her feet, nearly crushing Peter in the process.
Josef spoke to the animal in German, trying to calm her.
“She prefers French, I think,” Peter said, edging his way past Josef and the horse and closer to the door of the shed. There his exit was blocked by a short, stocky man with skin the color of fine leather who glared at him and said nothing.
So I was right, Peter thought. They’ve come for me.
Suddenly Anja burst into the crowded space, her mouth wreathed in a smile. “You’re all right then?” she asked, and as she studied him from head to toe, using the lantern she carried for the task, he had the oddest feeling that if she could, she would touch him to be certain that he was truly all right.
It had been a long time since he had seen a woman look at him that way—too long. “So it’s over?” His voice came out raspy.
“Yes,” she told him. “They have gone. We could not find you even though we searched everywhere. First inside and then outside. My grandfather must have walked through the shed here three times. It was only when Josef headed this way to look that Olaf mentioned the horse being down, and then it was as if all at once we knew. How in the world did you ever get this far from the house?”
He was confused. Her words made no sense. And more to the point, she wasn’t the least bit frightened for herself or her grandparents.
“I am captured?”
The guy standing in the doorway muttered something and gave a derisive snort.
“Not yet at least,” Josef announced as he stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Peter’s waist to support him. “But if we don’t get you off that leg …” He nodded to the man in the doorway, who reluctantly took up his position on Peter’s other side. “This is Mikel. You will be getting to know one another as we rebuild your strength.”
The two men helped him hobble toward the house. When they reached the door, Ailsa tweaked his cheek and clucked her tongue as she scolded him in her own language.
“Momse is quite upset with you,” Anja explained. “She says she is far too old for such frights.”
“Tell her I am sorry to have caused her any worry.”
Anja translated, and Ailsa grinned and tweaked his cheek a second time. But this time she added a light pat, and her expression of relief that he was all right needed no translation.
The two men helped him to a chair by the fire that Olaf was stoking. Ailsa covered his lap with a blanket while Anja prepared a cup of hot tea for him. Once he was seated, Josef sat on a footstool close to him while Mikel took up his post by the door. The blackout curtains were drawn, and the fire crackled as Peter sipped the tea and savored the feel of the warm liquid soothing his throat.
“What now?” he asked, directing his question to Anja. But it was Josef who answered him.
“We will move you to the café that Lisbeth and I own in Brussels. Tonight is best because there is no moon, and best of all it is Christmas Eve, so patrols will be lighter and less observant.”
Christmas Eve. He had forgotten. In America this was the night that children like Daniel waited excitedly for Santa’s visit. But Daniel was at the orphanage, and Peter couldn’t help but think that maybe that in itself was a gift.
Ailsa placed both hand
s on her bony hips and scowled at Josef and Mikel. Then she made what was clearly a pronouncement in Danish before turning on her heel and marching back to the kitchen.
Peter, Mikel, and Josef looked to Anja for a translation.
“First we eat,” she said with a tired smile and followed her grandmother to the kitchen.
CHAPTER 5
After the day he’d had, Peter was so exhausted that he barely paid attention to his new surroundings once Mikel and Josef led him down an alley, through the back rooms of two buildings, and finally up a winding stairway to an attic at least twice the size of the one he’d just left at the farm. What did register was the comfort of the bed, the warmth of the room, and the wonderful scents of cinnamon and other spices that seeped up from below. As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered that Josef had mentioned that his wife, Lisbeth, was preparing breads and pastries to serve at the Quaker meeting that would be held the following morning in the dining room of the café.
“You can come down for that if you like,” Josef told him. “I think it will be safe enough, and if …” Peter was asleep before the man could complete the sentence.
Morning came too soon, and Peter’s first thought was about his family back home. They would be gathered around the Christmas tree, opening presents. Later they would go to church and then gather for the dinner his mom had worked so hard to make. Peter squinted into the light streaming through a double casement window at the top of the eave. Just before he pulled the quilt over his eyes and fell back asleep, he had the thought that at least this window would be easier to shimmy through and make his escape if the need arose.
“Peter?”
A woman’s voice—not Anja’s. An American. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to focus on her.
“Well, good morning and a Merry Christmas Day to you,” she said with a bright smile as she set a tray on a side table. “I am Lisbeth Buchermann.” She extended her hand, and he shook it, noticing that she was several months pregnant.
“Merry Christmas,” he replied, releasing her hand to hold the covers up to his chin. Then he realized that he was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing when they rescued him from the shed. The same clothes that reeked of horse and hay and dung. He blushed and scrambled out of the bed with its pristine linens which, as he’d fallen asleep the night before, he’d registered smelled of soap and fresh air.
She laid a pile of clothing at the foot of the bed along with a stack of clean towels. “Are you able to manage a sponge bath? I’m afraid it’s the best we can offer for now.”
Behind her through the open door he realized was another room—more of a closet, but he could see a toilet and a sink. “Any bath would be heavenly,” he admitted.
“The water will be lukewarm at best and no more than a trickle, but if you think that will work, I’ll just put these fresh clothes next to the sink there along with the towels and leave you to it. First, though, have your breakfast while I make sure everything is within reach for you.” She moved the breakfast tray onto the bed next to him and then, with a smile and a little wave, went across the hall.
The breakfast was a feast: eggs, warm pastries that practically melted in his mouth, and tea—weak but as good as any he’d had back in London. He ate his fill as he registered his new surroundings. The room was small but a palace compared to the cramped attic space in the farmhouse. He could stand tall in this room. In addition to the narrow bed, there was a straight chair and a stack of books … in English! He ran his finger over the titles as he examined each one—For Whom the Bell Tolls, Mrs. Miniver, The Grapes of Wrath, The Keys of the Kingdom—and that was just half of them. He would read them all one by one—even the ones he had read already.
“This is quite a step up from where I was staying before,” he said.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Lisbeth warned. “We never know when we will need to make room for others. At one time last year, we had eleven evaders staying here for several days.”
“Eleven?” Peter scanned the room. “Where did they sleep?”
“We took out the cot and set up bedrolls on the floor, and then some stayed in other parts of the house. We made do.” She shrugged as if hiding eleven Allied airmen was no big deal. As she placed towels in the small anteroom near a pedestal sink, she hummed to herself. She turned on the water, and the pipes clanked in protest. Peter made his way across the hall and stood in the doorway.
“What shall I do with these clothes?”
“Leave them on the floor, and I’ll see to them,” she replied as she edged past him and returned to collect the breakfast tray. “My, you were hungry, I see. Did you have enough?” It was the first time since she’d wakened him that she seemed the least bit uncertain of herself.
“I had plenty,” he assured her. “Thank you. On the other hand, I would not refuse one more of those incredible pastries—the almond ones?”
She actually blushed. “Those are Josef’s favorite as well.”
Peter hesitated. He so longed to ask how she—an American—had ended up married to a German. For that matter, how she had, according to Anja, ended up imprisoned in a concentration camp and running for her life after the escape. But he would not ask. There was something about the way her voice softened and her eyes took on a dreamy glaze when she spoke her husband’s name that made him hesitant to pry. There was no accounting for why a person loved another, so he simply smiled at her and then closed the bathroom door.
Lisbeth had left a razor, soap, and a toothbrush on a table next to the sink. The table was no larger than the plant stand his mom used to show off her prized Christmas cactus. Stripping off the filthy clothing, he began washing himself, luxuriating in the feel of water—tepid as it was—on his skin. He leaned over the sink and squeezed water on his head and then soaped his hair to get rid of the stench of the stable. And although the water had turned a putrid gray by the time he finished, he was reluctant to pull the plug and let it all drain away.
He was aware of Lisbeth doing things in the small bedroom—changing the linens, no doubt. He heard the snap of sheets—another reminder of home when his sister used to hang the sheets on the line outside the kitchen. Then he heard Lisbeth fluff the flat pillow he’d slept on, and finally he heard the sound of her footsteps and soft humming retreating down the stairs.
Eleven men in this small space?
He roused himself and buried his face in the softness of a towel then towel-dried his hair. It had grown considerably longer than the military style he’d sported when the plane went down. He wrapped the towel around his waist and turned to the tasks of brushing his teeth and shaving. By the time he finished, he felt and looked almost human again. He turned to the stack of clothing. Lisbeth had thought of everything—underwear, socks, trousers that were actually long enough for him, and a heavy, ivory cable-knit sweater with a turtleneck that covered him to his chin. He gathered the soiled clothing into a bundle along with the towel he’d used and placed them on the floor next to the sink. Then remembering his mother’s admonition to leave a room the way he found it, he scrubbed out the sink before leaving the thin washcloth spread over the pile of soiled towels and clothing. Taking one last check of the bathroom, he opened the door to the narrow hallway.
Sitting on the straight chair in the freshly made-up bedroom was Lisbeth’s husband—Dr. Josef Buchermann.
“Feeling better?” He stood as soon as Peter stepped into the hallway.
“Much. Thank you.”
Josef indicated that Peter should sit on the side of the bed. “We need to discuss your new living arrangements.” As soon as Peter sat down, the doctor took his seat on the chair and pinned Peter with his direct gaze. “You will likely be here for some time. You are the object of a massive manhunt, and we cannot risk moving you again—at least until the extra checkpoints the Nazis have put in place are lifted. On the positive side, that gives us the time we need to rebuild your strength. There is but one thing we must ask of you.”
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��And that is?”
“If we are to get you safely back to your base, then you must—without question—follow everything we tell you. Can you do that?”
Peter bit his lower lip. This man—this German—was asking for his blind and unconditional trust. “Who is we?”
The shadow of a smile flickered across the doctor’s lips. “Without question,” he reminded Peter.
Peter shrugged. “Moot point since I can barely walk across the hall.”
“You did not answer my question. I have noticed that Americans are very good at changing the subject—I have learned as much from my wife. Nevertheless …”
Peter was growing impatient. “Nevertheless, we need to start with the realities of the situation. As I understand it, you will need to move me all the way across France and Spain, not to mention the Pyrenees—all territory that is either occupied by or friendly toward the Nazis. If they are looking for me and—”
“They are also looking for me and Lisbeth and Anja, yet here we are.”
The man had a point. “You are German. Perhaps—”
“Do not deceive yourself, Peter. If you think for one minute that the Nazis would give me amnesty because of my nationality, think again.” His gaze had hardened to a steely glint. “My wife and I—and Anja—served for months in Sobibor. Every day we watched as hundreds of innocents walked to their deaths. Every night we fell asleep with the scent of burning human flesh clogging our senses. If they caught us now, death would most assuredly be our fate—German or not.”
Peter looked down at his hands. “I apologize. Anja has told me about … some of what you and your wife went through.”
“I am not your enemy, Peter—not all Germans are your enemy. It’s important that you understand that.”