by Diane Moody
“Eva! Good morning! Come, give me hug. ”
Anya stepped around the men as they took their seats at the table. “Hello, Helga,” she said quietly as she fell into the dear woman’s embrace.
“Hello, my dear Anya,” Helga whispered so no one could hear. “How are you?” She grasped both of Anya’s hands in hers. “You look more like a twig every day, child. Come. You must eat today.”
“We’ll see,” Anya said, gazing at the plates of food being carried to the table. “I see your friends have been shopping again at the black market.”
Helga, looped her arm with Anya’s. “Yes, our shoppers did quite well this week.”
Anya nearly gasped. “Is that smoked sausage?”
“Yes, and you must have some. Farm fresh eggs as well.”
“But how—”
Helga placed a finger on her lips. “Best not to know, though I suspect a certain Reichskommissar in town will miss his usual hearty breakfast. I say, let him eat beets for a change. But enough of that. You sit. I’ll bring the bread.”
Anya took off her cap and stretched her arms behind her back. It was always good to see her mother’s friend whenever her pilot runs brought her through Utrecht. Still, the mere sight of Helga always filled her heart with a deep melancholy longing for her parents. It couldn’t be helped, such feelings, though Anya always hid it from the older woman.
The only seat left at the table was on the end next to Danny’s friend. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but her hunger pangs won out. She slipped onto the bench just as one of Helga’s co-workers brought her a steaming plate of food. She looked down at it, trying to remember when she’d last had a real meal other than beets or the onion-tasting tulip bulbs they’d nibbled on earlier.
“Is there something wrong?” Danny’s friend asked.
“No.”
“You should have a bite. It’s really good. Much better than the powdered eggs we get back at the base.”
She bit the side of her lip in an effort to silence a sarcastic response. He didn’t know any better, she reasoned, whining about those powdered eggs.
“You probably forgot, but I’m Lane.”
“Yes, I know.” She picked up a fork and moved the eggs around on her plate.
He ate a sausage patty in one bite. “And you’re Eva.”
She took a sip of coffee, savoring the hot brew in her mouth, trying to ignore him. Coffee. Real coffee. With cream and sugar, no less.
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I should apologize for interrupting you and Danny this morning.”
She forked a small bite of eggs. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
He chuckled. “Hey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This is war, after all. Be happy you found each other, even if only for a day or two.”
She turned to face him directly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant, so I’d appreciate it if you would drop the subject.”
He held up both hands. “Hey, I’m just trying to apologize. Don’t get so defensive.”
Helga leaned between them, placing a basket next to Anya’s plate. “Some fresh bread for you. Still warm.” She gently patted Anya’s shoulder and moved on down the table with another basket.
“Here, allow me,” he said, holding open the cloth covering the thick slices of dark bread.
She took a slice and put it on her plate without acknowledging him. They ate in silence for several moments as she noticed most of the men gobbling down their food. She knew better. Like every other Dutch citizen, she knew that eating too much after months of too little could cause serious stomach cramps or worse. Almost everyone had hunger-related illnesses in one form or another. She’d learned the hard way to eat only enough to get by while on these travels, or face dire consequences while on the road.
Anya also knew that the staff here always fed the hungry airmen first. She looked toward the kitchen, knowing they’d be lined up there as they always were. They would not eat until their guests were fed. It was their way of thanking these men for their efforts to liberate The Netherlands. Even if the bounty stolen from a German officer was enough for all of them, she knew those fellow Resistance workers would not eat until their English and American guests were finished. By leaving something on her plate, she knew it would not go to waste.
“I think there’s something you should know, Eva,” Lane said quietly, leaning toward her. “And I only tell this to you for your own good.”
She reached for her coffee. “What’s that, Lieutenant?”
“Your friend Danny . . . well, I think you should know he’s got a girl back home.”
She held her mug between her hands, wondering where this was going. “Is that so?”
He leaned his shoulder against hers. “Yes, and he’s crazy about her. And I do mean crazy.”
“And how do you know this? Does he talk of her often?”
He shrugged. “Not much, really. Just this one time. He was at a pub with a bunch of guys from another crew. Rumor has it he got pretty drunk, and at one point they said he was sitting at the bar crying in his ale over this girl back home.”
She watched him, knowing perfectly well his intention. He was handsome enough, but she had no doubt he had an ongoing love affair with every mirror he ever laid eyes on. She couldn’t resist, so she played along doing her best to sound heartbroken. “Oh no. Does this girl have a name?” she asked, lifting the coffee mug to her lips.
“Oh sure.” He leaned even closer, whispering against her ear as she took a sip. “Her name is Sophie. Even named our plane for her.”
Anya spewed coffee clear across the table, showering Frederic in the process. He jumped up, ranting at her in Dutch as he wiped off his face and jacket. She hadn’t seem him so riled in all the years she’d worked with him.
“Het spijt me zo, Gastön!” she said, apologizing as she covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. “It was an accident! I promise!”
He carried on—mostly for effect, she thought—then finally sat back down, shaking his head. She noticed the coffee shower didn’t seem to harm his appetite as he continued shoveling in the rest of his drenched breakfast.
“What was that all about?” Lane asked, sitting back from her.
“Oh, I . . . it’s just . . .” Then it came to her. “It’s the name Sophie. You see, that was my grandmother’s name, my Oma. And she . . . she was very dear to me. I always get very emotional whenever I hear her name.” She poured it on, quite the grieving granddaughter. When she felt the laughter starting to bubble up inside, she quickly stood and excused herself. Once outside she laughed so hard, she thought she might lose what little she’d eaten.
It took a while for her to calm back down. When she did, she leaned against the building and wiped her eyes. I can’t wait to get back and tell Danny. She imagined his laughter, even rowdier than hers just now. She smiled, longing for the sound of it. She closed her eyes, lost in an unexpected fantasy of being in his arms, the sound of his laughter soothing her soul. It occurred to her that the only other time she had laughed in years was just last night, watching him try to eat the roof rabbit stew. Then just now, with the “great Sophie secret” told to her so seriously by Lieutenant Pender-whatever his name was.
Oh Danny, only you could make me laugh in the middle of this despicable war. Only you.
Immediately, she scolded herself. What had happened to the resolve she made sitting in that tree by the house in Enschede? Where was her thick skin she’d worked so hard to maintain? How was it possible, in the middle of all this, she’d suddenly given in to feelings so long forgotten? She felt the icy fingers of a chill skitter down her spine. It’s dangerous, so very dangerous, letting him get to me like this.
She had only to remember the teasing way Danny had mentioned Wim’s name. As if Wim was just a farm boy who’d merely toyed with her affections when she was just a girl. The thought of it sealed off any childish illusions she may have allowed, cautiously locking out
any silly fantasies that may have drifted through her unguarded thoughts.
Anya took a deep breath, letting it stretch her lungs as full as she could. And as the reality of her loneliness was carefully mortared back in place, she stuffed her hands in her pockets, and went back inside.
54
Evening, 02 April 1945
With the Allied airmen safely on their way to England, Anya and Frederic started on their trip back to Enschede. With a full tank of stolen fuel supplied at their last stop, they should be able to make it back before midnight. As Frederic rattled on, as he always did, sharing his dream of going to America once the war was over, Anya tried to bolster herself before seeing Danny again. As much as she might secretly wish to open her heart to him, she knew she couldn’t. Eventually, growing weary of the argument between her head and her heart, she tuned back in to Frederic’s latest idea.
“A movie star. I’m a natural, don’t you think?”
“You? Starring in American cinemas?”
“Yes! Like the Clark Gable or the Lawrence Olive.”
“Olivier.”
“What?”
“His name is Olivier. Lawrence Olivier.”
“Ja. As I said. What do you think? I have a certain flare—a mystique, no?” He tilted his head, waving his hand as if giving the performance of a lifetime.
“Not mystique. More like a mistake, Frederic. Why do you allow yourself to think such things? You could die tomorrow. Why, you could die tonight, here on this road. Look all around you. Everywhere, the reminders of war. It’s a waste of time to dream such silly dreams.”
“But if we do not dream, we shall not survive, Anya. What good is life if we see only gloom and doom, eh?” He reached over to nudge her on the arm. “We are much too young to give up. Look at us! We have survived many years of war! And they say liberation is close—so very close! It could happen any moment, Anya. Even tonight!”
He burst into song, proudly singing the Dutch national anthem. Anya shook her head at his continuous antics, suddenly feeling exhausted. As the serenade continued, she leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the bumpy ride.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept when the truck came to a halt. But instead of the safe house in Enschede, they were parked in front of her home in Utrecht. The overcast sky didn’t dampen the glorious sight in front of her—her home? Still standing, as if welcoming her home from a long journey?
“Frederic, what are we doing here?”
“I was told to bring you here before I continue on. Do you need me to walk you inside, or will you be all right?”
She stepped out of the truck, anxiously looking around to see if Nazis still patrolled the neighborhood. But all she saw was her beautiful home. Even her mother’s beloved tulips lining the front walkway were in bloom. How could they have survived the war? Yet there they stood, as if proudly saluting her homecoming. As she knelt beside them, cupping her hands around the brilliant red, yellow, and white petals, she heard the loud grinding of the truck’s gears.
“I’ll see you in a few days!” Frederic called as he backed the truck down the driveway.
“Goodbye!” She waved without watching him drive out of view.
“Anya!”
The shock of hearing her mother’s voice vacuumed the breath right out of her lungs. “Mother!” she cried, running up the cobbled walkway and into her mother’s outstretched arms. “Oh Mother! I knew it was all a lie! You’re alive!”
“Yes, dear Anya! I am here, I am here.”
They hugged and laughed and cried until Anya thought she’d pass out from sheer joy.
“Come,” Mother said, turning her toward the house. “Someone very special has come to see you.”
“Father? Is Father here?”
“No, child.”
Her heart ached. “He is dead, then? Did he die in the concentration camp?”
“What?” Mother looked perplexed. “No, no, he’s at the church practicing his sermon. Come inside and see for yourself.”
They walked up the steps, arm in arm. But as the door opened, the interior of the home she loved was . . . missing? In its place, the ice-covered canal. She turned to ask Mother about it, but her mother was gone. No doubt making those special tea cakes I love so much, she thought happily.
“Anya!”
It can’t be! It can’t . . . But there, out on the ice, stood her brother waving at her. “Anya! Come skate with me!”
“Hans!” She flew across the snow-covered field, hardly believing her eyes. “Hans, how can it be? We thought you died!”
And suddenly, he scooped her up in his arms, whooping and hollering. “My little Anya! I have missed you so! Where have you been?”
“There was a war . . . and the Germans, they did such horrible things . . . and Hans, there were so many bombs!”
“What? Don’t be silly,” he chided, putting her down on the ice. “There’s no war. The only bombs are over the border. We are safe. Always, the Dutch are safe. Oh, Anya, it’s so good to see you again!” He hugged her tight once more, then took her hand. “Come! Everyone’s here! You’re just in time for our skating party!”
She pulled back hard, shaking her head. “No, Hans. We mustn’t. It’s not safe.”
He turned to look back at her. “What? Don’t be such a silly girl. Look there—all our friends! They’ll be so surprised to see you!”
She followed him, despite a haunting sense of dread and foreboding. Looking down, she noticed her favorite skates on her feet, laced and glistening as she glided along behind him. “But how did . . .?”
“Look, everyone—Anya is here!”
They all crowded around her, all their friends, everyone wanting a hug.
“Rieky!” she cried, “Oh my goodness, dear sweet Rieky—you’re alive? I thought you and Hans drowned beneath the ice!”
The little girl giggled behind her mittens then skated off to join the other little girls.
“Anya? Is it really you?”
Anya turned at the sound of her best friend’s voice. There, beyond Rieky and her friends was her best friend Lieke doing figure-eights on the ice with little Inge in her arms.
“No! No, it cannot be. Lieke? But I thought you . . . I was there when the awful German soldier put a bullet in Inge’s head. How can she be here?”
Suddenly, something way down deep inside released a horrible shiver that stretched from Anya’s head to her skate-covered toes. While everyone laughed and skated and carried on, she heard a piercing cry in the distance. Someone somewhere was in trouble. But where? She pushed through the crowd, so terribly frightened of what she might find, yet unable to stop herself.
“Please, someone! Help me!” the voice cried.
I recognize that voice . . .
Her heart pounded as she kept skating toward the cries. She turned her head back to where her friends were—but they weren’t there? They were gone, every one of them except Hans. “Please, Hans! Come help me! Someone is drowning!”
“Oh, my little Anya, you were always such a melodramatic child. No one is there.” He pointed beyond her. “Look—no one.”
He was right. No one was there. Then she heard it again, a desperate cry.
“Please! I can’t hold on much longer!”
That’s when she saw the enormous jagged crack in the ice. And there, between the thick walls of ice, a mittened hand reached up from the icy water, waving frantically before disappearing again.
“Hans, we must save her!” But when she looked back, Hans was gone. She was all alone. She would have to make sense of it later. Now, it was entirely up to her to save whoever had fallen through the crack.
She got down on all fours, crawling her way closer to the edge of the fissure. She lay down on the ice reaching her arms down toward the person. “Give me your hand!”
“I can’t! I can’t! Please help me!”
Anya froze. The person she watched batting at the frigid water . . . was her?
And just that fast, she became the one in the water fighting for her life. The freezing water took her breath and her voice. It’s so cold! I can’t bear it! Please! Save me! Save me!
The realization came to her—with no one there to help, this would be her last dying breath. She must force herself up one more time.
Oh God, please! Send someone to save me!
As her face then arms broke through the water, she saw him! He grasped beneath her arms and easily lifted her out of the freezing grave and into his arms.
“Oh Anya! Thank God!”
Her teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t speak and her body trembled violently, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He wrapped his coat around her then pulled her close against him as if willing his body heat to warm her. Tears fell from her eyes blurring her view of him.
“Thank God . . . oh, thank God,” he said over and over.
Unable to speak, she breathed his name . . . Danny?
55
“Anya! Anya, what’s wrong?”
It felt so good to be there in his arms. A feeling unlike anything she’d ever experienced—an overpowering sense of warmth and security and protection all rolled into one. As though nothing would ever harm her again. As though this was her destiny, where she’d always belonged. Even with her clothes still soaked by the freezing canal water, she felt such tremendous relief in Danny’s arms. “Nothing’s wrong,” she murmured, content to stay right where she was for the rest of her life. “Nothing.”
“Anya!”
She looked up, startled by the sound of someone else calling her name. Only then did she realize she was still in the truck, though it was no longer moving.
I don’t understand. Where is Danny?
“It’s about time,” Frederic growled as he stepped out of the truck. “Come along inside.” He belched. “It’s late, and I’m exhausted.”
She waved him on then sat there a moment longer watching him go inside the house—not her home in Utrecht, but the safe house in Enschede. “Oh no.” She dropped her head in her hands. It was only a dream? Her hands wore no wet mittens. Her clothes were dry. And she wasn’t nestled in Danny’s warm embrace. She was sitting in the smelly cab of the old truck.