Of Windmills and War (35 page)

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 eyes 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.

“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
‘M
arket 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.”