Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

  “And that windmill? I did not know America has windmills such as this.”

  He didn’t respond and avoided eye contact as he attempted to sit up straighter, grimacing with the effort. “I would like to get dressed. Where are my clothes?”

  The man stared at him a moment longer, then turned, slipping Danny’s wallet back into his coat pocket. He reached into a closet and brought out some clothing. “You can wear these for now.” He dropped a shirt, sweater, and pair of pants on the bed. “It’s best you not put on your uniform while you are our guest.”

  Danny tried to stand up but the room started spinning again. “Whoa . . .” He promptly sat back down.

  “Perhaps you should rest a while longer,” the man said, again heading for the door. “The doctor thinks you had a concussion, among other things.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes, and your foot is badly sprained but not broken.”

  “My foot?”

  The door creaked shut. Left alone with his thoughts again, Danny eased himself back on the pillow. With his eyes more accustomed to the darkness of the room, he looked around as he tried to make himself think. Why was he so interested in that photograph? He tried to remember the map of Holland he’d once studied. He recognized the name of the town, Enschede, but couldn’t place it. Did he recognize that particular windmill? Didn’t Hans once tell me that each windmill had a name and families often chose a favorite?

  Or is it the people in the photograph that intrigue him? Is it possible he knows the Versteegs? The thought both excited and frightened him. If Enschede was close to Utrecht where the Versteegs lived, was it possible he might find them? If he asked the man about them and found out where they lived, would he finally meet this family he’d known for so many years?

  Then again, what were the chances he’d parachuted into Anya’s backyard? Slim to none. And if he asked about the Versteegs, would he be putting them in some kind of danger? The man called him “friend” simply because he was an American, but that didn’t mean he could be trusted.

  Danny huffed, frustrated to be in this mystery place and unable to ask the questions he needed answered. He turned his head to the left and only then noticed what appeared to be a hand-carved cross hanging on the wall between two windows. Christians?

  A siren wailed in the distance and quickly grew louder. Just as Danny realized what it was, his door flew open and two men rushed into the room. They spoke in urgent tones though Danny had no idea what they were saying. They moved him into a sitting position then helped him to his feet, taking most of his weight as they lifted him between them. He was thankful the nightshirt was long as they rushed him out of the room. Anxious voices filled the many rooms of what looked to be an old house.

  The two men jostled him through a series of halls and rooms. As they entered a large storage room, a man and woman pushed aside a wooden rack of floor-to-ceiling shelving, then shoved a heavy rug out of the way. One of them pulled a rope, lifting an opening in the floor.

  “Schiet op! Hurry, hurry!” she said, waving them down.

  Danny’s escorts clumsily helped him down the steep stairs. The awkward movements pushed and pulled at him, painful reminders of injured parts of his body he hadn’t yet realized.

  Others trampled down the steps behind them, all barking orders in what he assumed was Dutch. They led him to the lower bunk on one of a half dozen bunk beds lining the far wall. As they helped him onto the mattress, he knew at once this was no ordinary house.

  The ground shook above them, shaking dust from the rafters. The others seemed indifferent to the explosions, busying themselves with different tasks. In the center of the crowded room, long tables covered with maps and instruments were anchored by numerous oil lamps. In the far corner to his right, two men wearing headsets sat huddled around what looked like an ancient oversized radio, another one tapping out Morse code. The other side of the room looked like a well-stocked arsenal of weapons, boots, heavy coats, and enough tools to fill a hardware store.

  Danny could feel his heart racing, wondering how well those rafters above him would hold under such intense bombing.

  “You eat,” a woman said, appearing with a tray. She motioned for him to sit up in the bunk, which he did in spite of his pain.

  She seemed unfazed by it all, as if serving him a meal was the most natural thing to do in the middle of a bombing. But he was too hungry to refuse her offer. She set the tray on his lap, then pulled off the cloth napkin covering it. Except for a small loaf of dark bread, nothing looked remotely familiar. It didn’t smell too good either, but he didn’t care. He thanked her then dug in. The dark purple soup had thick chunks of something chewy in it and tasted horrible, but he hid his displeasure, plastering a fake smile on his face.

  “Goed, no?”

  “Very good,” he lied. “What’s in it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Beet soup with tulip.” Her smile faltered as she nodded, as if assuring him it was all right for him to eat the stuff.

  Danny forced himself to take another bite. As he crunched the peculiar morsels, a thought came to him. He looked into the strange concoction, stirring it slowly with his spoon. These are chopped tulip bulbs? Holland is famous for their tulips, yet they’re forced to eat these precious bulbs . . . His eyes stung, feeling humbled by the sacrifices these people were making.

  Tearing off a bite of the bread, he watched the others around him as they worked. Each had a task, all of them focused in their endeavors. Even the woman who’d just served him was busily making more coffee in the small makeshift kitchen. As he sipped the hot nasty liquid, it dawned on him that everyone in the room was bone thin. Every single one of them. Belts cinched tight around the men’s waists hiked up pants that no longer fit. The women’s tattered dresses hung from their emaciated frames, their faces gaunt, their wispy hair peeking out beneath scarves tied under their chins.

  Danny slowly lowered his mug as he continued studying them. Their wrinkles and furrowed brows served as further evidence of lives rudely interrupted by a madman’s insatiable quest for power. These are the faces of war. What has it been like for them, so many years under Nazi occupation? How have they survived, living in constant fear?

  The man who’d talked to him earlier approached him, his eyes lifted toward the ceiling. “This is a bad one.”

  “Must be the RAF boys,” Danny said. “We only fly daylight missions.”

  The man pulled up a rickety chair and took a seat. “That may be, but it is ten o’clock in the morning. Those are indeed Allied bombs. We are so near the border, we seem to taste a little of everyone’s arsenal.”

  “But it was dark outside when the sirens began,” Danny argued.

  The man nodded his head in understanding. “It was dark inside your room because all our windows have blackout shades. It’s a bright and sunny day up there.”

  Danny took another sip of the wretched coffee, then set his mug back on the tray. “Do you have a name?”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Eduard van der Laan.” He held his hand out to Danny.

  Danny shook his hand. “Danny McClain. But of course you already know that.”

  Eduard smiled. “Yes, Lieutenant McClain, we know your name.”

  “Mr. Van der Laan, this is no ordinary house. Would I be correct in assuming I’m in a safe house?”

  “You must call me Eduard, but yes. This is a safe house.”

  “Then can I also assume you and these other good people are part of the Dutch Resistance?”

  He smiled even bigger. “Ja, that would be a wise deduction on your part.”

  Danny let out a long sigh, resting his head back. “Thank God.”

  The ground shook again but Eduard seemed to ignore it. “Thanks be to God, we are still alive. Thanks be to God, He led us to you before the German pigs found you and dragged you away to their god-forsaken prisoner of war camps.”

  “Do you know if anyone else from my crew
made it? Five of us parachuted from our plane before it exploded.”

  “You were the only one in this area. We can check with some of the other safe houses for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “After you eat, write down their names for me. But first, I must ask again about the photograph we found in your wallet. We cannot be too careful, Lieutenant McClain. To find such a picture on an American pilot is most unusual. Do you know those people?”

  “Please, call me Danny.” He took a final sip of the awful coffee, still hesitant to identify the Versteegs. He seems honest enough, and he and these others have risked their lives to save mine. Still . . .

  “Then, Danny, I wonder why it is you evade my questions regarding this photograph? Could it be you are hiding something, Lieutenant?”

  “No,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It’s just that . . . you see, when I was younger, one of my school teachers—one not unlike yourself—gave us an assignment to find a pen pal in another country.”

  “Yes, I am familiar with pen pals. Many students here have them.”

  “Well, I drew the name of a boy here in The Netherlands. I wrote to him and we became good friends. He sent me that picture years ago.”

  “I see.” Eduard rubbed his face. “But why would you carry this picture with you all these years later?”

  “I can’t really say. Before I left home, I happened to notice it and tucked it in my wallet. I didn’t give it much thought at the time.”

  Eduard watched him carefully, but Danny still couldn’t decipher the man’s continued interest in the photograph.

  “When was the last time you heard from Hans Versteeg?”

  Danny tried to remember, then paused. “Mr. Van der Laan, I never mentioned my friend’s name.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds, neither saying a word. Finally, Danny asked, “How is it that you know his name?”

  Eduard slowly leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Because I know this family.”

  46

  As the last siren faded, the cluster of Resistance workers bustled about, preparing to go up and check for damage. Someone called for Eduard’s assistance, and before Danny could ask the question, he was gone.

  “Eduard!” Danny shouted, shoving the food tray aside. “Mr. Van der Laan!”

  He watched helplessly as the man disappeared up the stairs along with some of the other men.

  “You not eat?”

  Danny turned as the older woman lifted his tray. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. My, uh . . . my stomach doesn’t seem able to handle any food just yet.” He rubbed his stomach hoping to validate the lie. “But it was really good. Thank you for sharing.”

  Her face clouded then she looked away. “You eat more later. You rest now.”

  She took the tray and walked across the room to the small kitchen area. He watched as more of the dozen or so people milling about took the stairs, leaving only the radio guys and a couple of women behind.

  “Hey, can somebody help me?” he called out, anxious to get upstairs to find Eduard.

  No one even looked his way. “Please? Can somebody . . .” He fell back against his pillow, unable to hold himself up any longer. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer asking God to take away the intense pain in his head so he could think more clearly. He’d never been one to have headaches and had no clue how to find relief from the throbbing. He touched the bandage on the back of his head and wondered just how much damage he’d done when he fell from the sky.

  Danny could feel himself slipping beneath the shadow of depression. He recognized the signs well after his long lapse after his breakup with Beverly and the dark days following his roommate’s death in college. Both seemed like distant memories, but the downward tug of deep sadness felt all too familiar. He couldn’t give in to it. Not here. Not now.

  He opened his eyes and looked across the room. The kind old woman who’d brought him food was stuffing the remains of his meal into her mouth. She turned to see if anyone was looking. Danny quickly averted his eyes, unwilling to let her find him staring. Poor old girl. How hungry would you have to be to eat someone’s leftovers? Especially such tasteless morsels as those?

  Of course, he knew the answer to his own question. Hunger drives behavior, throwing out all codes of conduct. Who was he to judge? He chastised himself for such a thought and tried to relax. In a few minutes, he fell fast asleep.

  Danny slipped his hand under the cloth napkin covering his mother’s homemade biscuits. His dad was praying. He thought that odd, especially considering the expression of gratitude that seemed to flow so naturally from his father’s mouth. Danny lifted the biscuit, its warmth and aroma tantalizing his taste buds. He peeked across the table at Joey . . . surprised to find a baby seated in a high chair between Joey and Millie. The baby, toothlessly gnawing on a big fat biscuit, giggled when she noticed Danny watching her. The basket of biscuits were still beside his plate. How’d you do that, kid?

  Someone elbowed him, but his eyes stayed glued on the baby. She waved her tiny fingers at him, as if they were sharing some wonderful secret. Then someone tapped on his shoulder. Couldn’t they see he was preoccupied with his cute little niece?

  “Lieutenant?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at the man standing beside his bunk. “Yes? What do you want?”

  He stepped back, staring at Danny with narrowed eyes. He tilted his head to one side as if to study him.

  It took Danny a moment to realize he wasn’t actually home, there weren’t any warm biscuits, and there certainly wasn’t a baby sitting across the table from him. He rubbed his face, trying to wake up. When he looked at the young man again, he noticed the tattered appearance. The jacket, sagging and rough, as if made from burlap, was at least two or three sizes too big for the guy’s small frame. Same for the pants and filthy boots. A worn leather cap pulled low on his forehead shadowed his face.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  The tone surprised him—a husky, mellow sound—making it hard to discern if it was indeed a man or a woman trying to pass as a man. He tried to sit up and couldn’t, his head screaming in protest. He fell back and closed his eyes. “Where’s Eduard?”

  “He’s upstairs.”

  “Could you ask him to come down here? And could you ask someone to take me back upstairs?”

  Silence.

  He raised a lid, surprised to find the young man standing closer. “Look, I’m not sure what you—”

  “I asked you a question. Who are you?”

  He studied the face, not at all sure he wanted to play this little game. Danny smirked in response. “Who wants to know?”

  The man stepped back then walked over to grab a small wooden table. Dragging it across the planked floor, he placed it right beside Danny’s bed. He stomped to the left and grabbed the same wobbly chair Eduard had occupied earlier, then dragged it beside the table. He plopped himself into the chair, crossed his arms across his chest, and glared at him from beneath the cap’s bill.

  “I asked you a question. I shall sit here all day and all night until you give me an answer.” He pushed the cap up an inch or two on his forehead. Danny couldn’t help noticing the dirty fingernails.

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Although I’m sure they’ve already told you, I’ll tell you myself. I’m Lieutenant McClain, United States Army Air Force.”

  The man said nothing but Danny saw something flutter through his eyes. “I told you, so now it’s your turn. Who are you?”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I had to bail from my airplane.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  “A co-pilot.”

  “Where’s your crew? Who’s your pilot?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  “Where is your crew, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know. Four others jumped. I haven’t seen them since.”

  “Where were you goi
ng? Were you on a mission?”

  “No, I was out for a Sunday drive. Germany is so lovely this time of year, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t crack a smile or even blink. “Were you on a mission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  His lips drew tight. “Answer the question. Where was your mission target?”

  He wondered if Eduard had sent this brash young man to dig for more details. He blew out a breath of impatience. “Hannover. That’s in Germany, in case you don’t know.”

  “Hannover? So you were part of the mission that bombed their marshaling yards on Wednesday?”

  How could he possibly know that?

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well done. Our sources tell us you boys of the 390th completely demolished those train yards.”

  Danny watched him, uneasy at the comprehensive amount of information he seemed to possess. Granted, if he was here in this safe house bomb shelter, he was obviously a member of the Resistance. But why all the interrogation? And why now? And where the heck is Eduard?

  “Look, it’s been really swell chatting with you like this, but would you please go up and ask Eduard to come down here? I answered all your questions, so if you could please just do me a favor and—”

  “They told me your plane was called Sweet Sophie.”

  Now it was his turn to glare at this stranger. “Who’s been feeding you all this information? How could you possibly know the name of my—”

  “And you—” he paused, as if unable to continue. He pulled off his cap, releasing a tangled brunette mess which came cascading down—and only then did realize this stranger was a young woman.

  She twirled the old leather cap in her hand, watching it. She tried again to speak, then swallowed hard instead. She dipped her head down for a moment, then raised it, leveling her gaze at him as she spoke, her voice husky with emotion. “And you named it after your dog—a smelly beagle mutt you found behind—”

  “Anya . . .?” he gasped.

  Her nod was all but imperceptible. As a lone tear tracked down her dirty cheek, her face softened just barely as she breathed his name.