by Diane Moody
“Danny?”
47
Anya hadn’t cried in years. She had learned long ago to steel her nerves and stop the ridiculous show of emotion. At twenty-one, she wasn’t a child any more, and she had no time for such weakness. But in this moment, as she stared at the friend she’d never met, she couldn’t help the tears pooling in her eyes.
Earlier, when Eduard searched her out across town after the bombing, he’d insisted she come with him to the safe house. It annoyed her, these fellow Resistance fighters always bossing her around. She’d arrived in Enschede late the night before after a long and difficult journey delivering two orphaned twins to their aunt and uncle in Zwolle. While in Zwolle, her contacts told her to go to Enschede where she’d often helped with the pilot lines—the secret routes set up by the Resistance to help downed Allied pilots return to England. Since she’d arrived in town long after curfew, she stayed in the home of a fellow Resistance member, not willing to walk the final three miles east of town to the other safe house and risk being arrested.
When the bombing began that morning, she’d rushed to the nearest shelter with everyone else. Not long after she emerged, Eduard had come racing toward her, insisting she come with him. He’d rambled on and on about some American pilot they’d rescued. She hadn’t bathed in days and couldn’t have cared less about this or any other pilot at the moment. But the ever-dramatic Eduard wouldn’t hear of it, all but dragging her across town. There, he’d shown her an old photograph he’d found in the pilot’s wallet. She knew immediately why they’d sent her here.
Now, as Danny reached out his hand toward her, she could hardly breathe. Her chin seemed to take on a life of its own, trembling against her will. Suddenly, she stood up, the chair scraping in protest before clanging onto the floor. Anya dashed away the stupid tears then crossed her arms across her chest.
He let his hand fall back on the bed. “I . . . Anya, I can’t believe . . . it’s really you.”
She didn’t respond, even as she watched the disappointment flutter across his face. She couldn’t trust herself to speak. In her mind, Danny McClain was still the American kid she wrote letters to long ago. How silly to think he was still that boy in the picture with his brother. This was no kid. This was a young man—a handsome young man with thick brown hair framing his kind face, his firm square jaw line visible beneath his dark stubble. She searched his deep blue eyes which, at the moment, seemed to pierce her soul.
He scratched his eyebrow. “I’ve wondered about you a thousand times since your last letter. When I heard The Netherlands had fallen, I prayed you and your parents would be—”
“You should’ve saved yourself the trouble,” she scoffed. “God left us the day the Germans marched into our homeland.”
He didn’t say anything, but she couldn’t miss the sympathy in his eyes. She turned her back to him, picking up the chair. “But if praying made you feel better, then good for you.”
“Anya, why are you—”
“But don’t worry.” She set the chair back beside the table. “We’ll make sure you get back to your base across the Channel. We’re quite good at helping you boys get back to your nice warm barracks. We wouldn’t want you to miss another hot meal.”
“Can you cut the sarcasm for a minute and just talk to me?” He tried to sit up and couldn’t, his face pinched in a grimace.
Instinct sent her toward him but she stopped herself. How badly was he injured? Eduard hadn’t mentioned he was hurt. “Are you all right?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“It’s nothing,” he said, touching the bandage on the back of his head. Apparently I bonked my head pretty good when I landed.” He motioned for her to sit. “Can you please just have a seat and talk to me?”
She tried to think of a smart come-back but came up blank. She lowered herself back into the chair.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” he said. “How long has it been since we wrote—four years? Five?”
“Five. When the Germans came in May of 1940, they shut down our mail system.”
He nodded. “I wrote several more letters, but I guess you never got them.”
“No, of course I didn’t.”
“How are your parents?”
Her bouncing foot stopped. “They’re dead.”
“What? No!”
Seeing the shock on his face, she glanced away. “They were picked up and sent to a concentration camp in Germany. I was told Mother died before they got there. Father was shot later for helping another prisoner who had fainted.” She looked up at him with defiance, hoping he’d see how much the war had toughened her. He’d seen her tears, now he’d see how thick her skin was.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Why? You never met them.”
“Anya, please . . . must you be so belligerent? Of course, I never met them. I never met Hans either, but that didn’t stop me from caring about you and your mother and father after he died.”
She shrugged, toying with her cap again.
“How have you managed? What has it been like for you?”
She crossed her legs, noticing a streak of dried mud on the hem of her pants. She scraped at it for a moment, her foot still bouncing. “Where would you like me to start? The day the Nazi swine started rounding up all our Jewish friends to ship them off to the death camps? Or would you prefer to hear how they raided and pillaged all of our possessions and let us starve? Or maybe you’d like to hear about the mind games they play with us, pitting one against another to see who would rat out their friends first? Huh? Or the time a German soldier—”
He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it, Anya!”
She tried to jerk her hand free but he held it tight. She glared at him.
He shook his head. “Hans always told me you were a stubborn little thing, but I had no idea.”
“Don’t!” She twisted her wrist and freed it, then pointed at him. “Don’t you dare speak of my brother.”
“Anya?” The voice came from behind her. “What’s going on here?”
She turned, finding Eduard at the bottom of the stairs. She put her cap on her head and blew past him, stomping up the stairs without a word. Once up in the house, she shoved past several workers then out the back door, letting it slam behind her. She ran to a stand of trees near the barn and climbed to her favorite hiding place, a perch high up in its strong branches.
Anya looked out across the village, watching columns of smoke from the countless new bomb craters. How many times had she found comfort in the arms of this tree and so many others like it across her country? She was much too old to be climbing trees, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stand the moments after the sirens stopped, when everyone climbed out of the shelters. She couldn’t stand hearing their same sorrowful comments, over and over. And she couldn’t stand seeing all the damage inflicted all around her. How much more could her beloved country bear?
Up in these branches, she always found the solace and privacy she craved. She needed to be alone with her thoughts and somehow bolster her wretched emotions back in place. The carefully constructed dam around her heart had held for years. She’d witnessed despicable atrocities and never shed a tear. She’d stolen anything she could get her hands on to help the cause, feeling no shame. And she’d killed her share of Nazis without a single trace of regret.
Oh, she’d heard the gossip. They said she had ice in her veins. She had smiled the first time she heard it, confident at last that her walls were securely intact.
Until today.
From the moment she saw him, she’d come completely undone. In that split second, her entire childhood flashed through her mind, dashing all restraint in the blink of an eye. The sudden precious memory of Danny’s letters pulled the single thread that had held her together for so long, unraveling her from the inside out. He was a living, breathing remembrance of her life before the war. Through their letters, she’d found hope again after losing Hans. Until the Occupation—even thousands of miles
away—Danny McClain had always been there for her.
And now he’s here.
“Do you feel better?” Eduard asked as he assisted Danny from the upstairs bathroom.
“Yes, thank you. I can’t remember a bath ever feeling so good.”
“You are lucky. Not always is the water warm. The ladies, they heated water for you.”
“Please tell them how much I appreciate that.”
“I will, but it is their honor to do so. We all wish to help, even in the small ways, those who have come so far and risked so much to help us.”
With Eduard’s help, Danny sat on the side of the bed, slowly easing himself back against the pillows propped against the headboard. He let out a long sigh. “And I have to admit, it helps just having some clothes on again. I really appreciate your help, Eduard.”
The man stepped back. “It is my privilege. We will never be able to thank you enough for helping fight for our freedom.”
“And I can never thank you enough for rescuing me before the Germans shot me.”
“Yes, well, it seems we are both thankful.” He chuckled, a broad smile warming his face.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.” Eduard took a seat on the bedside chair.
“Why is Anya . . . I mean, what did she . . . well, why did she—”
“You would like to know why she is so angry?”
“Yes. I was so shocked to see her, to finally meet her after all these years.”
Eduard’s brow creased. “You mean, you’ve never met?”
“Not face to face. We were pen pals, like I told you earlier. I mean, at first I was pen pals with her brother Hans before he died—”
“Such a tragedy that was. For his parents, but especially for Anya.”
“Yes, I know. She was the one who wrote to tell me about the accident. Then, over the course of time, we just continued writing each other. I was . . .” Danny felt his face warm. “I was very fond of her—in a brotherly way, of course.”
“Of course,” Eduard added with knowing eyes.
“But once the war started, that was the end of our correspondence. I was worried sick about Anya and her parents. But that was long before the United States got into the war. I never forgot about her, but life went on for me. I went to college for a couple of years, then enlisted, and . . . the rest is history, I guess you’d say. Literally, in this case. But I never imagined finding Anya in the middle of a war like this. Yet, here I am and there she was.”
“Sometimes our life stories are written in spite of us,” Eduard said. “No one here in our country ever imagined we’d be under German rule. Ours is a neutral country. Always has been. And yet, we have been occupied now for almost five years. That is, those of us who still live. So many are gone.” He shook his head. “So many . . .
“But as for Anya, you must understand how difficult it has been for her. She has lost everything. But instead of breaking down or being debilitated by this nightmare, she has worked hard for our Resistance. Tirelessly. Never complaining. She just does what she has to do. As we all do.”
Danny tried to imagine how hard it must have been for a girl growing up in a country torn apart by war. The young woman he’d met earlier was hardened and gruff. He never would have known her had their paths crossed otherwise, so little did she resemble Hans’ rebellious young sister standing with her family in the old photograph.
“Eduard, how can I help her? What can I do to get through to her?”
“Be patient, my friend. Let her learn to trust you again.”
Danny wondered how long he would remain in this shelter before he was sent back to Framlingham. Would he have enough time? Would he even see her again?
“I shall leave you,” Eduard said, standing. “Get some rest. If you feel up to it later, you’d be welcome to join us for dinner.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
As Eduard closed the door behind him, Danny’s thoughts swirled around the strange and awkward moments he’d spent with Anya earlier. He’d often wondered what it would be like if he ever had the chance to meet her face to face. Had he just imagined the level of friendship written in those letters so many years ago? Did he read between the lines, thinking she cared for him on some deeper level? Or was he nothing more to her than a distant substitute brother?
No. He knew better.
Be patient. Let her learn to trust you again.
48
Later, Eduard returned to help Danny into the large kitchen where several people were gathering for the evening meal. He took a seat at the round table as Eduard introduced him to the others in the room. They all seemed cordial, though only a few of them spoke English. Greta, the woman who had given him food in the shelter downstairs, brought a large soup tureen to the table.
She gave him a gracious smile. “You hungry now?”
He smiled, nodding at her, wondering what was in that covered soup dish. I’m so hungry I could eat a . . . then again, maybe not.
As everyone took a seat at the table, he looked up just as Anya walked into the room. At least he thought it was Anya. She’d obviously cleaned up, her long brown hair hanging just below her shoulders, the natural curls still damp on the ends. Danny couldn’t take his eyes off her. A wisp of long bangs feathered along her forehead. She didn’t need make-up with skin that perfect, though a natural blush seemed to warm her cheeks. But it was her eyes that caught him completely off-guard. When they’d met earlier, they were mostly hidden beneath matted hair hanging over her brow. He’d not seen how incredibly beautiful her eyes were—the perfect blend of blue and gray, framed by dark lashes.
But she was much too thin. They all were. The long peasant-style blouse, cinched at the waist with what looked like a braided rope, did little to hide her slender frame. The khaki military-style pants seemed to swallow her whole, but at least they were clean.
Then, all of a sudden he noticed her freckles. The freckles on the young girl in the photograph were still there. A bit faded perhaps, but still sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. Something about seeing those humored him.
“What are you smiling at?”
Hearing her voice, he blinked and quickly realized everyone at the table was looking at him. “I was just thinking . . . well, I remembered your, uh . . . you look lovely, Anya.”
She looked down, tearing off a piece of bread then passing the loaf.
“He’s right,” Eduard added. “You look very nice tonight, Anya.”
“Only because you all have hoarded the only soap in all of The Netherlands. Frederic, have you been stealing from the black market again?”
The man beside Danny laughed. “Right under the nose of the Gestapo. Not that any of those vermin would know what to do with soap.”
Eduard repeated the words in Dutch then everyone else chuckled. Greta ladled something brown and lumpy into a bowl and handed it to Danny. He prayed it was stew.
“Thank you, Greta.” He tried very hard to still his face at the strange aroma. She continued giving each person one full ladle of soup. Or whatever it was. He was fairly certain the chunks were more of the chopped tulip bulbs, but the rest of it remained a mystery. He stirred his portion as the conversation continued around the table, mostly in Dutch. He looked across the table at Anya and caught her watching him. He smiled before tasting the soup.
Good Lord, that’s awful! He held it in his mouth, afraid to swallow while careful not to physically react to the assault on his taste buds. He heard a snicker and looked across to find Anya quietly laughing at him. It was the first time he’d ever seen her smile. He smiled back, completely forgetting not to swallow. He blinked, his eyes watered, and it took the greatest effort not to cough or groan. Across the table she hid behind the curtain of her napkin, but he could still see her shoulders shaking.
Oblivious to the two of them, the others continued chatting.
Anya put down her napkin, sat up a bit straighter, and filled her spoon with soup. With her e
yes locked on Danny’s, she swallowed the soup while making a great show of savoring it. Not to be outdone, Danny dipped his spoon in the soup again, and with his eyes still locked on hers, swallowed it in one gulp. Though desperate to gag, he stifled the urge. Anya took another spoonful, her eyes daring him to do the same. He did. She took another and again, he followed her lead. But for the life of him, this time he could not make himself swallow another drop of the vile stuff. The gag reflexes kicked in and he knew it was just a matter of time before he spewed it all over the table. With his face contorted, he forced it down then grabbed his glass of water to wash it down. When he finally looked over his glass at her, she had her lips pressed together though her eyes danced. Then, just that fast, she lost control and burst out laughing.
Everyone around the table froze at the sound of Anya’s unrestrained, wheezing laughter. Watching Danny continue to guzzle the rest of his water, she laughed even harder. The dinner guests looked back and forth between them, mystified. But so contagious were her giggles, the rest of them joined in until the room was filled with raucous laughter. Several made comments in Dutch, but Danny didn’t need a translator to know what they were saying. He rolled his eyes at her then grabbed a piece of bread and stuck it in his mouth.
Eduard stopped and held up his hand, ending the laughter abruptly. The haunting wail of the air raid siren grew loud, dispersing them immediately toward the makeshift cellar. The guy named Frederic helped Danny to his feet, but before they could move, an explosion rocked near by, crashing them all to the floor. Everyone seemed to shout at once, frantic to get down to the shelter. Danny tried to get up, but failed. Frederic draped Danny’s arm over his shoulder, practically lifting him as he dashed to the stairs.
Their awkward movements down the steps landed Danny below in a pile, his injured foot bent beneath him. Before he could open his mouth to cry out, another explosion rattled the rafters. Fredric grabbed him again and quickly deposited him in one of the lower bunks.