by Diane Moody
“Are you all right?” Anya shouted, coming to his side.
He nodded, his jaw clenched hard as he leaned back trying to absorb the searing pain in his ankle. She responded but he couldn’t hear her. He cupped his ear. “What?” he yelled.
“You’re a liar!” she shouted, leaning close to his ear. “You’re obviously not all right!”
He waved her off as another rumble shook dust from the beams above them. At least this one was farther away. She shrugged as if utterly uninterested in what he had to say and turned to leave. He reached out for her hand. She looked down at his hand on hers, then slowly tracked her eyes to his.
“Don’t go,” he said.
He watched her, wondering if she’d pull free of his grasp as she had last time, but she didn’t. Instead, she lowered herself to sit on the edge of his bed, turning slightly toward him. She looked around as if concerned what the others might think, then tipped her head to look up at the ceiling.
“I think the worst is over now,” she said quietly. Her eyes met his again. “Your foot. It’s very painful, isn’t it?”
“Killing me. If it’s possible to re-sprain a sprained ankle, I believe that’s what just happened.”
The slightest smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “Frederic is many things, but a gentle man, he is not.”
“I would have to agree.”
She looked back down at her hand, still in his. “So you liked very much Greta’s stew?”
“Please, don’t remind me,” he groaned. “Stew, was it? I’m almost afraid to ask what was in it.”
“You don’t want to know,” she said coyly.
“Then don’t tell me. I’ll just savor the memory.”
She raised her eyes to his. “Good. Because there’s more where that came from. I can bring you some, if you like?”
“It was good to see you laugh, Anya.”
She shrugged, looking away again. “Fatigue. Nothing more.”
“Regardless, it was nice to see you smile. For a moment, I could almost imagine the war had ended and we were still friends . . . after all.”
She didn’t say anything, but he hoped she understood his meaning. He brushed his thumb along the back of her hand, surprised how soft her skin was. Her short nails were free of dirt and snags now, and he wondered how long it had taken her to scrub them clean. He slowly raised his other hand to finger a curl of her hair. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away.
“Danny, I apologize about . . . earlier.”
Her voice was so quiet, he wasn’t sure he’d heard what she said—except for his name.
“It was unfair,” she continued. “I had no right to treat you that way.” Her gaze remained on their joined hands.
“No apology necessary. I really can’t imagine what it’s been like for you or what you’ve been through. To see me here in this place, in the middle of this nightmare, well I’m sure it must have been a bit of a shock.”
She looked up at him; the hint of a smile had returned. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
For years, he’d wondered what her voice would sound like. Now, hearing the unusual mix of Dutch and English accents blended through a tone that leaned lower than he’d expected, he realized it fit her personality perfectly.
“And how is our pilot?” Eduard said, interrupting Danny’s thoughts as he approached them.
Anya stood up, dropping Danny’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me.” And then she was gone.
“I’m all right, I guess. Though I think I may have re-injured my ankle.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ll have our doctor stop by tomorrow if he can get here. In the meantime, I think perhaps we should keep you down here for a while. With so many air raids, the trip up and down those stairs won’t help your recovery.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“Good. I’ll go up and take a look at the damage, then come back later. Perhaps I could ask Anya to redress the wrapping on your foot?”
Danny felt his face warm. “Oh? Yes. Well, perhaps.”
Eduard lowered his voice as a gentleness filled his face. “Do you know, I have never once heard the sound of her laughter? At least, not since the war started. Not once.”
“Really?”
“It’s true. I think you are good medicine for her, Lieutenant.” Eduard winked, then turned to leave. “I’ll see if the women were able to salvage any of our dinner. If so, I’ll have them bring you something.”
He disappeared up the stairs before Danny could tell him not to bother.
He leaned his head back against the pillows and let his eyes close. He remembered the sound of her laughter as if a recording of it played over and over in his mind. How her eyes and nose crinkled as though she could do nothing to stop the giggles spilling out of her; as though a great reservoir of long forgotten laughter had just been rediscovered.
She’s still there, he thought. The little girl in the picture by the windmill is still there inside.
As his mind gazed at the memory of her blue gray eyes, he prayed for the beautiful young woman she’d become, despite the war. He prayed for the horrors still haunting her and the unspeakable loss of her short life. Lord, if You’re listening, please help her find her way back from the nightmare she’s lived. And if it’s all right with You, Lord, let me . . . let me be the friend she needs now.
49
The cellar remained a swarm of activity through the next several hours. Sirens came and went as the rumble of distant bombings continued. Danny felt trapped and restless. He dozed from time to time, but his mind wouldn’t stop fussing. What was going on up there? Were those Allies bombing them? It made no sense as most of the 390th missions were German targets. But over the course of the last few months, they’d decimated the Luftwaffe for the most part. Eduard had said they were near the border here, but he wondered just how close they actually were. It all troubled and irritated Danny, to be sitting there useless in a time of great need.
He hadn’t seen Anya for several hours. He wondered if she was offended by his simple gestures. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. When they’d laughed across the dinner table, he felt a long forgotten stirring of all those feelings he once held for her when they’d been writing each other. How was that possible after all he’d been through? After all those years since the letters stopped? After all those months at Northwestern when his thoughts were of no one but Beverly? Through all those long months of training after he enlisted? How could the confused feelings of the teenager he was back then survive through all that and show up here?
But deep inside he knew. He’d never forgotten her. He’d always wondered what might have happened to her. And as best he knew how, he’d pray for her and her parents. Yet here he was in a safe house in Occupied Holland, and all he wanted or cared about was seeing her again.
One of the radio guys took off his headset and crossed the room. “Lieutenant, Eduard wanted me to let you know,” he began with a thick Dutch accent, “We have contacted all of the other safe houses within one hundred kilometers, and no one has word of your crew mates.”
Danny refused to accept the implication. “Do you have ways to get in touch with my base back in England? I’m stationed at Framlingham with the 390th. Maybe they know something.”
“Ja, we reported to our people who speak directly to bases in England. We passed along your name so they will know you are here and safe.”
“Thank you, but is it possible for your people to find out if they’ve—”
“Dank je wel, Maarten,” Anya interrupted, tapping the young man on his shoulder. She spoke softly to him in Dutch, but Danny couldn’t understand. As the radio operator returned to his station, Anya explained. “We have contacted all our sources both here and in England, and we have no word of your crew.”
“I’m sure they’re either hiding out somewhere or . . . or maybe they just haven’t made contact with anyone yet.”
“Of course.”
He wasn’t fooled. He knew what she was thinking.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, pointing toward the kitchen.
His mind was elsewhere, trying to pinpoint where Don, Dal, Tony, and Lane could have landed and why they hadn’t reported in yet. Surely they’d been able to—
“Danny?”
He blinked. “Yes?”
She studied him for a moment. “I’m going to have some tea. I’ll make some for you as well.”
He watched her cross the room but felt uneasy about the news he’d just heard. Surely they’d survived as he had. Surely it was just a matter of lousy communication. This was war, after all.
A few moments later she returned, carrying two mugs of hot tea. As she handed him one, he asked, “How far are we from the German border?”
“Only a few kilometers. A stone’s throw, as they say. Not far at all.” She took a seat on the same rickety chair. “That is why we have so much activity here—all the bombings and anti-aircraft fire. Just across the border, not far is the Ruhr and Rhine industrial region. Always we hear the planes of our Allies, day and night, as we lie below their bombing runs into those areas. Which is why the Germans constantly fire off their anti-aircraft, with their explosions raining down shells all around us. Ja, we are too close here. Much too close.”
He took a sip of tea, surprised it actually tasted like tea. “Where did you get this? It’s very good.”
“Frederic is not the only one. I know a thing or two about the black market. ”
“Is that right?”
“When the Germans invaded us, they took everything. They raided our homes, our stores, our farms. It was difficult to find food, though we managed. We were required to use ration coupons for this or that, and even if you had enough rations, the store shelves were mostly empty. Still, we survived.
“Until last September, that is. Back in 1940, just before the invasion, our Queen Wilhelmina escaped along with much of our government to England. There, they could send coded messages to us on the BBC and stay in constant contact with us. Last September we received word from our queen that our railroad workers were to stop working and go into hiding in order to paralyze rail movement for German troop reinforcements. And that’s what they did. At first, the Germans merely retaliated by cutting our food rations, hoping to starve us all to death. But we didn’t care. We thought for sure our liberation was at hand.
“At the same time British General Montgomery put into place a plan called ‘Market Garden’.”
“I remember reading about that and how horribly it all went wrong.”
“At first, when we saw all the Allies storming in, we felt sure our liberation had begun. People were celebrating in the streets, girls were kissing the Allied paratroopers—it was one big party. Then Montgomery’s plan failed miserably. The Germans were furious with us for thinking we could overthrow them, so they cut us off in every possible way. They destroyed our ports and bombed most of our railroad facilities. They blasted our dikes and flooded much of our lowland areas which ruined almost all of our crops. Some areas had their electricity completely cut off. Seyss-Inquart, the German Reichskommissar over our country, halted all food supplies.”
“In effect, trying to starve all of you,” Danny added.
“Yes. I’m sure Hitler knows all too well that hungry people are much easier to rule. But of course, that wasn’t enough. Later, in November, they began rounding up as many of our men as they could to work as ‘volunteers’ in their labor camps.” A touch of humor lit her eyes. “Of course, we Dutch are a smart people. Our men who were forced to work in the German ammunition factories conspired to build ‘duds’ as I believe you call them. We always wanted to thank those brave Dutchmen whenever the Germans fired near us and their shells did not explode. A sort of sweet vengeance, I suppose you could say.”
She tucked her foot beneath her and continued. “The winter was brutal. We had no heat, no food . . . no hope. At times when I was out on a delivery, I would see people walking along the road and they would just drop dead in their tracks. Sometimes many along the way. You have no idea what it’s like to see that. So many died through the winter, and there was no wood for caskets. Bodies were wrapped in cloth, if they could find some, then piled with all the others.”
“I can’t even imagine such hunger,” he said softly. “What it does to you—not just your body, but your state of mind. How do you function, how can you think about anything but how hungry you are?”
“It consumes you. Yet, even that was not as bad as the bombings. You think nothing can be worse than starving and the numbing cold, but the bombs . . .” She shook her head, as if searching for the right words.
“I remember, it was February of last year. February 22nd—my first time back to the safe house in Nijmegan in many months. I’d gone there to rest. I was so tired, so exhausted. I’d crawled into a bunk bed in a far corner of the cellar—not unlike these here—and I’d only been asleep for a couple of hours when the air raids went off again. Everyone started coming down the stairs, stomping and making so much noise. I pulled the pillow over my head, wishing to ignore it all.
“But that was not to be. The Germans hit us hard. In the middle of the day, the bombs fell. For hours, they fell, flattening everything. Thousands died. The churches were destroyed, so many beautiful churches—just gone. One of the Montessori schools was flattened. All the children—gone. It went on and on and on. Everything was on fire, huge pillars of black smoke filled the air, and no water to put out the fires. And the wind. I remember the wind kept blowing so hard . . .
“When the bombs finally stopped falling, everyone came out of the shelters, searching for loved ones in the destruction. Everyone crying, everyone frantic—such screams you can’t imagine in your worst nightmare. Others walking in a daze, lost and confused. But most were never found. Thousands and thousands of them. Only the body parts. So many body parts . . .” she paused, her voice hushed. “I saw . . . I saw a baby crying in her mother’s arms . . . but there was only her mother’s torso.”
He watched as she fell silent. She’s there again, hearing the screams, smelling the smoke, and seeing that poor baby . . . As the image rolled through his mind he watched a tremor pass over her.
“Anya?”
His voice seemed to break the spell as she turned to him.
“Anya, could I ask you a favor?”
She shuddered again. “Yes?”
“Could you help me sit up better?” Of course he could do it himself, but he hoped to distract her from the memories.
She set her mug down and stood, looping her arm beneath his to help him sit up. She pulled the pillows out, plumping them before stuffing them back behind him. “Better?”
“Almost.”
“Almost?”
He patted the bed beside him. “Sit with me.”
She turned to look around the room.
“Who cares what they think? Sit.”
She turned back to face him, and he watched a visible change come over her. Gone were the haunting memories, quickly replaced with a flash of challenge in her eyes, her chin thrust forward. Then, without a word, she scooted in next to him, mostly sitting up, her back straight as a board. He moved over an inch or two—no more—to give her room, turning just enough to better face her.
“There. Isn’t that more comfortable?”
“I don’t know yet.” She paused, looking at the foot of the bunk bed. “I’ll let you know.”
50
Anya didn’t want to sit so close to Danny, but she wasn’t about to let him win the dare she’d heard in his voice and seen in his eyes. Did she care what the others thought? Well, no. At least she didn’t think so. Still, she had a reputation to maintain, one she’d worked hard to establish. And she knew the others would have plenty to say about this close proximity.
After all, we are in bed together, she thought. A second thought whipped through her mind. No, we are on a bed together. There’s a differen
ce.
Sensing the chill of those dark memories slipping away, she tried to focus on Danny. She still couldn’t believe he was really here. It felt as if a past life and her present life had accidentally collided, leaving her off-kilter somehow. She was also bewildered that the young American kid in the picture with his brother at some ball game was in fact this handsome Allied flyboy. He’d matured in a way she hadn’t expected. Not that she’d spent hours speculating on the subject. Well, only a few, perhaps. And that was long, long ago.
Yet now, here he was beside her—this young man with a profile not unlike that of a Roman god. But even as the thought traipsed through her mind, she scolded herself for such a silly notion.
“Now, where were we?” Danny said, breaking her thoughts. “Oh, yes. It was a very difficult, cold winter here. I have to say, it’s chilly in here now, but I would think the winter must have been so much worse. How did you stay warm?”
Relief wound through her, thankful to be distracted from thoughts she must avoid. “We did not stay warm. We stole anything we could to burn in our hearths. We bundled up as much as possible. But mostly we were hungry. So hungry. And we still are, as you may have noticed. They tell us there’s not a rat or cat or dog in all of Holland.”
“Oh no,” he groaned, putting his hand over his stomach. “Please don’t tell me that was rat stew at dinner?”
“No, of course not,” she scoffed, acting insulted.
“Thank goodness, I’m not sure I could—”
“It was dakhaas.”
“Which is?”
“Some people call it ‘roof rabbit’ but it’s actually cat meat.”
“What?”
She felt a chuckle rise to the surface as she watched the expression on his face. “We haven’t seen rabbits in at least a year or more. So people kill whatever kind of animal they can find, then cut off the tail and head, skin them, and sell them as rabbit meat.”