Of Windmills and War (36 page)

Authors: Diane H Moody

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

BOOK: Of Windmills and War

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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
difference.

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.”

“Wait,
how can you know for sure that was cat meat in tonight’s stew?”

“Because
of its pungent odor and taste. Dog meat is much more flavorful.”

He
leaned his head back. “I think I’m gonna be sick. Again.”

She rather
enjoyed making him squirm. “It’s an acquired taste, Danny.”

He
turned to give her a sick smile. “Evidently.”

“Now
rat meat, on the other hand—”

“No!”
he said, holding up his palm to her face. “No more food talk.”

“Are
all Americans so weak-stomached?”

“Of
course not. But can we please change the subject?”

She
blew a sigh, louder than necessary. “If we must.”

“You
spoke earlier of making deliveries. What did you mean? Is that part of your
work with the black market?”

“Trust
me, our black market does not make home deliveries.”

“Then
what did you mean?”

She
folded her arms and tried to focus on anything apart from the compassion in his
face. “From the beginning, most of my work with the Resistance has been
transporting people here or there. Most of them Jews, mostly children.”

“Oh my
goodness. I’m impressed. You save lives! In all this madness, you’re saving
people’s lives. That must be very rewarding.”

“This
is war, Danny. Hardly anything feels ‘rewarding’.”

“Maybe
when it’s all over, you’ll look back and see it that way. But it also sounds extremely
risky. Is it?”

“Always.
But then everything is a risk now.”

It was
so easy talking to him. Before she knew it, she was telling him all about her
work and the many children she’d taken here or there. She always called them by
name, her “little ones” who often clung to her, frightened and wanting nothing
more than to go home to their parents. She told him about her many close calls
and the various acting roles she’d had to play whenever the Gestapo began to
nose around.

She never
forgot he was there beside her, letting her talk. He seemed to hang on every
word, all the while watching her. At first it made her uncomfortable, such
scrutiny by someone sitting much too close. Then, the more he asked questions,
she began to relax.

When
telling of a fellow Resistance worker who’d been arrested, she lost her voice
for a moment. When it returned, she couldn’t hide her emotion, hearing the graveled
attempts in her own voice.

“We
know what goes on in the prisons. We have infiltrators who report back to us
what happens in those places. Things no human should ever have to experience.
The beatings, the rotting, bug-infested food, the filthy conditions, and
so
much sickness. Many die from illness soon after they arrive. With so little
nourishment, most of us have no way to fight off infection or disease. But
those are the lucky ones. For those who survive, they face unspeakable abuse.
Every time I hear of this one who was assaulted by a guard, or that one who was
shot for no reason at all—every time, I wonder what it must have been like for
Father in one of those places.” She straightened her back, speaking through
clenched teeth. “And I admit to myself how glad I am Mother died before she got
there. Better to die than endure such horror.”

She
stared at nothing, seeing everything, tired of talking about it.

Danny gently
took her hand in his, slowly entwining their fingers. She knew she should pull
back, but she didn’t. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t.

“I used
to think people were inherently good,” she said, barely over a whisper. “That
deep down, most people try to live good lives and be kind to one another. But I
know that’s not true. I believe it’s quite the opposite. The good ones are few
and far between.”

She
grew silent, gazing down at their hands and finding it hard to swallow. She
felt him still watching her and wondered what he was thinking. Did he think she
was crazy? Did he think she was bitter, merely finding fault with others? No
doubt he still believed the world was full of good and kind people. After all,
he was one of the Allies—one of thousands from all over the world who had
joined together to stop Hitler’s madness. Who would do such a thing, risking
their lives for people they didn’t even know in countries on the other side of
the globe?

“Anya,
tell me. What was the last good memory you had? I mean, before the war. When
was the last time you remember being happy?”

She
tilted her head, facing him. “What? That’s a silly question to ask.”

“Maybe
so, but I still want to know. Think back to the last time you had a good
laugh.”

“You
mean, other than at dinner tonight?”

He
rolled his eyes. “Please, let’s not bring that
up again.”

“Why do
you want—”

“Humor
me. So much heartache here. So many awful memories. I just thought you’d like
to think back on happier times. Like that snotty girl you sucker-punched in
Girl Scouts.”

She
smiled. “Ah, Tilly.”

“Yes, that’s
her name. I remember now.”

Anya
shrugged. “She had it coming. I’m still not sorry, even though Father made me
apologize to everyone. I’d do it again, if I had the chance.”

“Do you
ever see any of your old friends?”

“No,
not many. Everyone stays to themselves as much as possible. It is best not to
draw attention to yourself. Ever. From time to time I see people I’ve known,
but we rarely speak. You become very suspicious. You have to be. No one can be
trusted. So many traitors all around us and most of them, people you’d never
suspect. But of course, turning friends and family over to the Gestapo is quite
lucrative.”

She took
a deep breath and stretched, weary of it all, dropping his hand in the process.
“I talk too much. Talk, talk, talk.”

“Not at
all. We’re just catching up. It’s been such a long time since our letters.”

Anya wondered
what time it was, then realized she didn’t care. She turned to rest on her side
facing him, propped up on her elbow, her head resting against her fist. She
felt drowsy and relaxed and strangely comforted here beside him. How long had
it been since she’d felt so . . . secure? She brushed away the
thought.

“Then
it’s your turn to talk,” she said. “Tell me how you got here. Last I heard you
were working for your father at the theater.”

“Whoa—that
seems like a lifetime ago.”

“It
was
a lifetime ago.” She pulled at a thread on his sleeve and toyed with it. “So
tell me, did you go to university? What was the name of it?”

“Northwestern?”

“Ja,
that’s it. Did you go?”

“I did.
Dad eventually recovered from the beating those thugs gave him—I wrote you
about that, didn’t I?”

“Ja, I
remember. It was horrible, how badly they hurt him.”

“It was
bad. I wasn’t sure he’d ever really get over it. But he was finally able to go
back to work. In the meantime, I’d saved up enough to get me through the first
year—barely—but I made it. Even lived on campus.”

He
stopped for a moment. She could tell he was remembering something. She watched
him, studying every detail on his face.
It’s a good face. A kind face.

“What
was I saying?”

“You
said you lived on campus. Did you like this university, Northwestern?”

“I did.
At least at first.”

“What
happened?”

He scratched
his chin whiskers. “Well, that’s a long story and not a particularly happy
one.”

“Surely
it is more happy than mine?”

He
nodded. “You have a point.”

“Then
tell me. What was it like, living on this Northwestern campus?”

“Great.
Well, sort of. I had this roommate named Craig. He was such a carefree spirit,
at least on the surface. And boy, did he love the girls on campus. And they
seemed to love him just as much. I never saw much of him, unless he’d run out
of clean clothes or needed a textbook for class. Not that he went to class
much. I think his college experience had more to do with carnal knowledge than
anything he learned in the classroom.”

She
felt her face warm, shocked by such a statement. “You’re making that up.”

“No, if
anything I’m sanitizing the situation.”

“Sanitizing?”

“Cleaning
it up. He seemed to hop from one bed to another, and never seemed to run out of
willing partners.”

She
felt her brows arch high on her forehead. “Surely you are exaggerating? Is this
normal in
Chicago
,
America
? This
bed-hopping?”

“No!
Well, I mean, I guess it goes on, but nothing like—well, no. Certainly not.”

“You
don’t sound very convincing,” she teased, enjoying his reaction.

“It’s
just that . . . well, the thing is—”

“Danny,
did you also have many girlfriends at Northwestern?” She continued to play with
the renegade thread on his sleeve, twisting it around and around on her finger.
She raised her eyes slowly, waiting for his response.

“Nothing
like that, I assure you.”

“Not
even one girl you fancied? Even a little?”

“Well . . .
okay, yes, there was someone.” He nodded, looking down at his ankle. “Do you
think maybe I should rewrap my ankle? Or just check the—”

“What
was her name?”

“Who?”

“Danny . . .”

“Oh.
Her name was
Beverly
.”

“Was
she pretty, this
Beverly
?”

“Oh,
well, yes. She was very pretty, actually.”

“Does
she write you letters?”

He
twisted his mouth to one side. “No, we broke up before I enlisted.”

“What
happened? Why did you break up with her?”