Hannah spoke quietly to him. “Don’t move. I’m going to get some supplies and something for you to drink. Be still. I’ll be back.”
His eyes were wild and frantic, but he seemed to understand what she was saying and nodded, sinking back down into the place he’d found in the corner.
Hannah hurried into the house. Deciding not to worry her mother, she rushed to her first-aid cupboard and pulled out what she needed. A needle and suture, bandages, some alcohol, antiseptic, and cotton to dress the wound. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of water and also some sweet tea out of the still-warm pot, knowing that may help him if he was in shock. Then she raced back to the shed.
Kneeling at the young man’s side, she started to treat his injuries. He had slumped back into unconsciousness again. She cut off the fabric around his waist. He had sustained a large, shallow wound just below his ribcage, and though he had lost a lot of blood, it appeared not to have punctured any vital organs, just cut into his flesh. After cleaning the wound, she used suture and a needle to close up the gaping hole, grateful for the extra first-aid classes she had attended at the start of the war. He moaned slightly as she tended to him and slipped in and out of consciousness.
Once the wound was closed, she dressed it quickly. He moaned again in his sleep as she applied stinging antiseptic, then clean gauze and bandages. After rinsing her hands in her father’s sink, she kneeled next to him, slowly bringing the glass of water up to his lips. Even though he was half awake, he drank greedily of the cooling liquid. It seemed to revive him.
Through dry, cracked lips, he finally spoke. “Am I dreaming?” he asked. “Or are you the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen?”
Smiling at him, she shook her head. His accent was unmistakably American, and she marveled at his words. Even though he was apparently in a lot of pain and very dehydrated, he still managed to flirt with her.
Dabbing water on his forehead with a cloth, she whispered into his ear in English, “There is some sweet tea. I’m going to get you some bedding. You will have to stay here while I find out what I need to do for you, but you are very safe. No one comes out here but me.”
The young man nodded, then groaned again as he lay back down. Going back into the house, Hannah pulled out a blanket and a pillow from her airing cupboard, then made her way back to the garden shed. She settled the man down and gave him some of the tea before he fell back into a deep sleep. She would come back the following day to re-dress his wounds, she thought, and with some rest, he would probably be okay.
His injuries were the least of her worries, though. She knew nothing of how to help him in the long term. She’d heard stories from people at the university of airmen being found and smuggled out. It had been whispered in the line as she waited for bread too, along with other tales of heroic people working in the Resistance. But Hannah didn’t know how to contact anyone.
After settling the man down for the evening, she made the decision that the next morning she would find out how she could help him. After turning off the light in the workshop and closing the door firmly, she strolled up the garden. Hannah could not help Eva, but at least she might be able to help him.
Entering the house, Hannah felt a sense of purpose, a hope that she could do something. She had been learning how to make bicycles for over two years now, studying her father’s books and his meticulous handwritten notes. She had long ago finished the trike her father had started, and she now also had two completed adult bicycles hidden in her shed. It was slow work, as the parts were so hard to come by, but she had made them to donate to the cause. Now she had a legitimate reason to track down the Resistance.
Chapter 17
Elke looked up from her desk and glanced out the art gallery’s large windows onto the streets of Amsterdam. The rain had stopped and the magnificent tree that was her main view glimmered with droplets of water that shimmered, reflected by the sun as it moved from behind darkened clouds. She was glad spring was finally here. It had felt like a long winter. She enjoyed working in the gallery, had been there for over a year since her translation work had dried up. Though it left her less time to focus on her own paintings, at least it gave her some money.
A man strode toward the door. He was a regular at the gallery. It was the art collector Helmut Janssen; his tall, chiseled features and loose-limbed stride unmistakable. He had one hand tucked carelessly into a trouser pocket of his expensive suit, and his hair was not even ruffled by the wind. He looked like a blond Adonis, she thought to herself.
A broad smile crossed his face as he walked confidently toward her desk. He had been trying to take her out for lunch since she started working at the gallery.
“Miss Dirksen,” he said. “I’m glad to find you here.”
Elke sat back in her seat and looked up at him. He was well over six feet. “Where else would I be?” she responded, unable to hide the sarcasm in her tone. “This is where I work.” She folded her arms across her chest. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Janssen?”
Putting his other hand in a pocket, he spun around the room and surveyed the art on the walls. “Well, let’s see then, Miss Dirksen. Let’s see what you can help me with today.” He walked boldly toward a rather large artwork and, cocking his head from side to side, surveyed it.
Begrudgingly, she stepped from behind the desk. Taking her notepad and her pen, she moved to his side. This was a game they played twice a week. She started to describe the history of the portrait, the artist’s name, the inspiration. All the while, he looked at the picture with little interest.
“Sounds good,” he nodded. “Why don’t you put that on my bill?”
“Where would you hang it?” she said, jokily. “You’ve already bought so much art. Surely you don’t have any space left.”
“How would you know?” he responded with a glint in his eye. “If only you’d come to dinner at my house, then you’d be able to see how much space I have.”
Shaking her head, she started to write down the information about the picture. “Delivered to the same address?”
He smiled. “Only if you come with it.”
Shaking her head again, she turned back toward her desk.
But he held her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Seriously, Elke. When are you going to say yes? All I’m asking is to go out to dinner with you. I could take you somewhere nice. I have contacts. We all hate this blasted war, but fortunately, my family is actually doing quite well through it.”
Elke was disgusted at his flippant view of the world. While so many people were suffering around her, here was Helmut in his fashionable suit, buying art he didn’t need. “You are fortunate,” she said before she could stop herself. “Many are not so.” She went back to her desk and started to fill out the order form.
He approached her, leaning across her desk. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you don’t have to suffer. All I’m asking for is to take you to lunch or to dinner, even a sandwich.”
He brushed her hand.
She pulled away quickly and sat back down.
“Why don’t you say yes? Is there someone else?”
Elke felt her stomach contract. The sadness that swelled inside her heart and the ache that still lingered there found its way to her tightened throat. “No, there’s no one else.”
She had gotten used to saying that, even though her heart was still Michael’s. It was easier than trying to explain who she was in love with.
Her boss, Johan Van den Berg, appeared from the back office; a short, lively man with manic energy and quick, darting eyes. He went straight to Helmut’s side, extending his hand.
“Helmut, how nice to see you again. I hope Elke is taking good care of you.” He glanced from one to the other, his glasses on the edge of his nose, stylish and more of a fashion statement than of any real use.
“She’d be more helpful if she would come for lunch with me,” said Helmut, stressing his point. Elke rolled her eyes. “I wanted to show her my art t
hat I have bought here.”
“We’d love to see your art,” exclaimed Mr. Van den Berg. “What if I were to bring Elke, be a chaperon? Maybe she is afraid of being alone with your good looks,” he added, laughing heartily.
“I think it’s more than that,” stated Helmut. “I wonder if there’s someone else in her life.”
Van den Berg shook his head. “Elke? No, there’s no one else, no one that I’ve seen anyway.”
Fear gripped Elke’s heart. She still felt the need to protect Michael. The need to hide him even though she knew he was probably gone, probably somewhere in Germany now in one of those work camps. The thought was unbearable. Automatically, she stiffened.
“I am not afraid of anyone’s good looks,” she stated sharply.
And almost before she could finish her sentence, Van den Berg took over. “Well then, it is settled. Why don’t we come over for lunch one day? I would love to see your house again. I haven’t been there since your father left. Elke and I would love to come. Just name the day.”
Elke pondered the situation. Maybe it was best to get it over with. Go to his blasted house. He was attractive, she mused, giving him a sideways glance as he continued to chat to Mr. Van den Berg. But there was something wanting about him. Something missing. A hardness of heart, or maybe the fact he didn’t seem genuine.
Elke sighed. Was she going to compare every man she met to Michael? Maybe she would never meet anybody like him again. What harm would it do to be friendly to Helmut? she thought. At least he was here. So many men had left and gone to fight the war.
“Is that okay with you, Elke?” asked Mr. Van den Berg enthusiastically.
She nodded. “I think I’ll be safe with a chaperon.”
“Good,” responded Helmut. “Tomorrow for lunch then. Come by at, say, one o’clock. Do you have someone that can watch the gallery?”
“We’ll close the gallery,” said Mr. Van den Berg. “You buy most of our art anyway, and I can’t wait to see how it looks in your house.”
Helmut looked across at Elke intensely. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Elke.”
She nodded, not looking up from her paperwork. “Until tomorrow,” she responded.
And with that, he turned on his heels and left the gallery.
Mr. Van de Berg scuttled behind the counter where she was seated. “You could do a lot worse than him,” he reminded her, shaking his head. “You’d never have to worry.”
“It’s just so detestable, all that money,” she responded, vehemently.
He tilted his head. “But why not have a little bit of enjoyment in your life? It has been a long war, and I hear it is not going well. Who knows how many more years we’ll be in this situation. Why not have some fun?”
He tapped her shoulder reassuringly then made his way back to his office.
Elke looked out of the window and watched more raindrops fall in a steady stream. Fun? She didn’t even remember what that meant anymore.
Chapter 18
Ingrid stood in her sitting room, with a cigarette in one hand, studying different swatches of curtain fabric that were in the other. She held up the gold brocade toward the window and smiled to herself. She imagined it with luxurious, tasseled tiebacks. It could look beautiful, she thought.
She had moved into Heinrich’s the year before, when living in her own flat had become impossible. Many of the people who had lived around her had been very anti-Nazi, and she’d had more than one altercation, which had resulted in her talking Heinrich into letting her move into his home. She still didn’t understand why the Dutch people didn’t see the value of the new regime. Why were they so adamant about hanging onto the old Dutch ways, when Adolf Hitler’s vision and army were here to show them a better way?
It frustrated her, and she and Heinrich often spoke about it. She knew that there were a few problems within the regime but wouldn’t there be with any new government? If only the Dutch would come to understand how much better life could be.
She now very rarely went on the street in her uniform, in case people she had known before the war recognized she supported the party, but traveled to and from work in Heinrich’s car and changed before she went outside. Even then, she was careful about leaving the building, as it was known that a Nazi officer lived there.
Holding the curtain fabric up toward the window, she noticed her uncle moving across the square in his usual measured manner, making his way to see her.
With very little food outside the army supplies he now came to her apartment for lunch on Saturdays. Besides, she felt safer in the confines of her home. She enjoyed redecorating for Heinrich and looked forward to the day that he would take her home to Germany as a bride.
Yes, one day everything Henrich owned would belong to her as well. That would show all her friends from her old neighborhood, when she got married to her tall, handsome officer and moved to Germany with him.
She crushed her cigarette out into the ashtray and made her way into the hall to greet her uncle.
Josef made his way down the long dark corridor toward Ingrid’s apartment and felt the usual clench in his stomach as he always did whenever he spent time with his niece; cramping that would spread through his body, giving way to a heightened sense of awareness. After the death of Mrs. Epstein, more than two years before, he was always cautious, guarded in everything he said. He had never been able to bring himself to talk to Ingrid of the older lady’s death, because he felt responsible. The senseless loss of his neighbor still stung him sharply, stabbing at his conscience like a pick. He would never be that careless again. He knew that they would have found Mrs. Epstein anyway, that they’d been tipped off already. But he knew his words had helped guarantee her fate. The British had adopted a saying that he had read about in the Underground newspapers: “Careless talk cost lives.” He knew, with a pained bitterness, precisely what that meant.
Ingrid opened the door, looked at him, smiled coolly, and nodded at him to come into the house. She had changed much in the last few years. The majority of the Dutch people, it seemed to him, had become more compassionate and kinder with one another through this trying time, but Ingrid had become the opposite. Hardened, calloused, and now he only saw in glimpses the kind of person he knew was deep inside her. The young girl that had so craved his love and attention had turned into a woman who demanded and got exactly what she wanted.
“Uncle, it is very pleasant to see you. Come in. I’m choosing curtains for the lounge. You can help me.”
Josef removed his overcoat and tried not to show his displeasure at the futility of her request. From the shadows, Ingrid’s maid appeared and took his coat. She worked during the day cleaning for Ingrid and preparing food for them during the evening. Josef knew she probably worked just for any extra food.
She nodded at Josef as Ingrid summoned her uncle. “Come.”
The maid and Josef’s eyes met with a mutual understanding of how they were unwilling players in the same game. Following Ingrid into her opulently decorated lounge, his heart sank as he noticed the maid had prepared a feast of sweets and cakes for him. In a world where even getting a hold of meat or bread was a luxury, her decadence was an insult, though he reminded himself he had to keep up the pretense. He had to keep coming to her house. He did not want her to have an excuse to visit him. It was hard enough when she’d just drop by, but fortunately, since she had moved in with Heinrich, there had been fewer reasons for her to come and see him.
“Do you like the gold?” she said, holding the curtain up to the window.
Josef nodded stiffly. “It’s fine,” he replied.
“I cannot decide on this or the green one.” She held up another swatch. “I’m having the silk brought in from Paris.”
She made it sound like there wasn’t even a war on. There were things possible for her with the Third Reich that the average Dutch person hadn’t seen since before the war.
With a deep sigh, she threw the samples down on the back of a chair. “M
aybe I’ll just order more options. I’m not sure I like either of them. How are you, Uncle?” she asked as she lit another cigarette and walked to the window to look out.
“Fine,” he said. “And you, Ingrid, how are you?”
“Sick of this damn war,” she snapped back, blowing out a plume of smoke. “It’s really interfering with the life that Heinrich and I are trying to make for ourselves.” She reeled off her list of grievances as she paced, starting with the Resistance and ending with her hatred for the Jews. “They keep Heinrich so busy. He’s barely able to spend time with me anymore.”
She tapped out her cigarette and automatically lit another one. Leaving the window, she arranged herself across the other side of the room on a chair as she continued to talk. “I feel like we do not see enough of each other, Uncle. Maybe we should think about getting together more. You look sad. I feel like you need someone in your life. I know a woman in the Reich offices who is about your age. Would you like me to introduce you? You could both come for dinner with Heinrich and me,” she said, suddenly alight with the idea.
Josef’s throat became dry and raspy; the thought of an evening with three Nazis almost overpowered him. It was hard enough being with Ingrid, but at least he could talk to her about family matters or her father or Dutch issues. Whenever Heinrich was about, he dominated the conversation, making his harsh and robust opinions known.
“No. No. I am fine. I wouldn’t want you to go to that kind of trouble.”
“It would be no trouble, Uncle.”
Josef shook his head. “There is no one for me now. Not after…” Josef couldn’t say her name.
Ingrid filled in the blank. “My aunt, Sarah. I’m sure she was a wonderful woman, but I barely remember her. I think you should think about moving on, Uncle.”
Josef got up and started to move around the room. “I, uh, need to use the…” He pointed toward the bathroom and Ingrid nodded.
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