Simple Faith (21 page)

“Are you both all right?” he called as the last of the train cars passed and his voice echoed across the barren fields as everything went silent.

Daniel was whimpering and shivering, and Anja wrapped her arms around him as she knelt before him in the snow. “You’re all right, Daniel. It’s just snow, and you scraped your knuckles and face.”

“I’m cold. I want to go back to the orphanage.” He swiped his nose with the back of his hand. His glove was missing.

She looked around for it but saw nothing but snow and the brown scraggly branches of the shrubs that had scratched them in their fall. “Here,” she said and gave him her gloves.

“We need to find someplace we can stay the night,” Mikel told them as he scanned the snow-covered fields. He turned up the collar on his coat and hunched his shoulders. “Come on, boy. I’ll give you a ride.” He bent and indicated Daniel should climb onto his back.

“He’s too heavy for you—”

“We need to keep moving, Anja, and the boy will only slow us down.” He set off across the field. “This way,” he instructed. “I saw smoke over in that direction. It might be a farmhouse.”

It was definitely a farmhouse—one that had been taken over by Nazi soldiers. Mikel and Anja hid with Daniel in the woods behind the house for hours, shivering as they watched the men come and go and finally settle in for the night. Even with the windows and doors closed, they could hear loud music and the sound of the men laughing. By the lamplight pouring out from the windows, they could see the food on the table and the roaring fire in the fireplace. Apparently they had little concern about the need for blackout curtains.

“Let’s go,” Mikel whispered.

It was harder to follow him in the dark, and she was glad that he had continued to carry Daniel. They found their way to a narrow road and then an arched bridge over a frozen creek. Beyond that they saw the lights of another, smaller house. Mikel set Daniel down and signaled for them both to wait while he investigated. After what seemed a long time, he came back.

“It’s a brothel,” he told Anja.

“What’s that?” Daniel asked.

“It’s … a house where only women live.”

“Like the convent?” Daniel’s voice rose with anticipation. A convent meant safety and food and a cot for sleeping.

“No, not exactly.”

“Oh, the women don’t have to wear the nun clothes?”

Anja couldn’t help herself. She started to giggle, and once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

“What’s funny?” Daniel asked.

“Nothing,” Mikel grumbled. “Your mother is just overtired.”

“Well, tired or not,” Anja managed, “that smoke tells me there’s a fire and, given their circumstances, probably food. Daniel, you stay here with Mikel. I am going to the house.”

She started across the yard. She was well aware of what this place was. Later this night the German soldiers they had observed not more than a mile down the road would come here to spend time with the women inside. Anja would not judge the women. They were doing what they thought necessary to survive. She reached the door and knocked.

Inside the low murmur of conversation and dishes clinking stopped. After a moment, someone came to the door. “
Ja
?” The woman spoke German.

Anja replied in French. “Please. My son and … husband and I have been walking for hours. Could we warm ourselves and perhaps have a cup of hot water?”

She saw a curtain at the window near the door move and the shadow of two women watching her. “We will be gone in an hour,” she continued. “Please. My son is so very cold and hungry.”

She heard the women conferring. One seemed opposed to opening the door while the others argued for the child. “We see no child,” the voice behind the door—now speaking in French—replied.

Anja motioned for Daniel and Mikel to come forward. She stepped back from the door so the women could see the three of them in the moonlight.

“Come ‘round to the back.”

As they made their way through drifts of snow to the rear of the house, Mikel took the lead. “Stay behind me,” he instructed. “It could be a trick.”

Anja knew he was right to be cautious, but instinct told her that these women were as much victims of this war as she and Daniel were. “They fear us as much as we fear them,” she replied. “Perhaps more if they are caught with us.”

The rear door of the house stood open, and a single candle burned on the kitchen table. They walked inside, and the door slammed behind them. Turning at the sound, Anja saw that two women stood in the shadows behind a third woman who held a gun.

She leveled the weapon at Daniel, and one of the other women hissed, “Who are you?”

   CHAPTER 11   

P
eter did as the note instructed and left the train at the next stop. A sharp wind from the north greeted him. It was February—only a few months since he’d parachuted out of that plane. It seemed like years.

He was the only passenger who got off, and after a moment the train moved on, its whistle a low, mournful sound. The platform was deserted, and as a sleety snow fell, he hunched his shoulders and started walking toward a street where there appeared to be some shops. All of them were closed of course. It had to be close to midnight by now. With apparently no immediate threat from local authorities or Nazis, Peter had two objectives: food and shelter.

Instead of walking down the main street, he worked his way down the alley behind the businesses, rummaging through garbage bins as he went. He struck pay dirt with the second bin. Inside he found two half-eaten rolls, a cheese rind, and ribbons of potato peelings. He even found a steak bone with meat still clinging to it and an apple—bruised and half rotted but an apple all the same. He leaned against the building, noting the name of a restaurant and what must have been French for “Employee entrance” stenciled on the door that led to the alley. Using the top of the garbage bin as his table, he devoured the meal, washing it down by grabbing a handful of fresh snow and letting it melt in his mouth. He could not remember a time when he had been so hungry.

He thought of how horrified his mother would be if she could see him now. “Petey,” she would say, “you have no idea where that food has been.” But he did have a pretty good idea. No one but the Germans and highly valued collaborators ate steak in Europe these days. He had no doubt that he was dining on his enemy’s leftovers. He permitted himself a satisfied smile.

Then he heard the scrape of a match and turned to see a man lighting a pipe and watching him closely. His instinct was to run, but he saw at once that the area he had entered was a dead end and the man with the pipe stood between him and any way out. Hoping to disarm the man, he smiled and held up the steak bone. “
Bon appetit
.”

As the man extinguished the match, flicked it aside, and moved closer, Peter saw that he was dressed in the rough clothing of a farmer or vagrant. He was in fact dressed like Peter. “That’s the worst fake French accent I have ever heard,” the stranger said in perfect English. “Now if you have finished dining, please come with me.” Without waiting to see what Peter would do, he turned and walked out to the street and disappeared around the corner.

Peter took less than five seconds to weigh his options and then hurried after the stranger. Anja had been right. New contacts seemed to appear out of nowhere and always just when he needed them most. He struggled to keep up with his guide, who made numerous turns and sudden street crossings, always moving at a brisk pace. Eventually Peter began to see a pattern. If they were passing or approaching a building and a light came on, the man crossed to the opposite side of the street. He always kept close to the buildings, and Peter recalled how the escape manual had advised that very tactic, noting it was more difficult to see someone against a dark background.

Suddenly another man stepped out into the street, blocking their way. Again Peter considered running but then realized that the two men were talking in low, monosyllabic tones. They were speaking in French, and after they had exchanged no more than a half dozen words, the other man turned and walked away and the man from the alley reversed his direction and walked past Peter. “This way,” he muttered and strode off back toward the railway station.

“Now what?” Peter said.

“Do not speak. Just follow.”

Peter made little effort to follow the man at a distance. He matched him stride for stride until they reached the railway station and the man headed away from town and out toward what was obviously a more rural area without a house or barn in sight. They had walked some distance without seeing another person or even a vehicle when suddenly a large dog came out of nowhere, barking and growling and gaining ground fast on them.

“
Courir!
” The guide shouted and took off.

Knowing their chances of outrunning the dog were not good, Peter turned to face their attacker. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced the bone he’d been gnawing on in the alley and stood his ground. He held up the bone, waving it so that the scent of the meat would reach the charging dog. It worked. The dog slowed, stopped, growled, and then sat, its tail wagging furiously.

“Good boy,” Peter said as the dog caught the bone and ambled off the way he’d come. Feeling pretty proud about his cleverness, Peter watched the dog leave and then turned to catch up with the guide.

And found himself facing three Nazi soldiers, their rifles aimed straight at him. Like all the other contacts he’d followed along the way, the man with the pipe was nowhere to be seen.

Anja’s heart leaped to her throat when she saw the woman aim her weapon directly at Daniel’s heart. Her instinct was to step in front of her son and take the bullet herself, but that would solve nothing. She clenched and then released her fists and began speaking to the trio of woman in French.

“I have lied to you,” she began. “This is my son, but the man is not my husband. He is my friend. We are running away from the Gestapo.” She saw by the expression on his face that Mikel was horrified at her candor. “We have come here to ask for a little food and the chance to warm ourselves before we move on. We know that some time this evening the German soldiers we observed up the road will come here. We are asking that you not betray us.”

The gun wavered slightly. Anja saw that as a positive sign and kept talking.

“In so many ways we are all victims here. If we could help you, we would, and we are asking that you do the same for us by keeping silent once we are gone.” She stepped forward and held out her hand. “My name is Anja, and this is my son, Daniel, and my friend Mikel.”

The woman with the gun glanced back at the other women. They both nodded, and she placed the weapon on the kitchen table, wiped her palm down the side of her dress, and accepted Anja’s handshake. “I am Elise, and this is Helene.” A tall angular woman stepped forward. “And Colette—my daughter.”

In the candlelight, Colette appeared to be only a little older than Daniel. Anja shuddered at the thought of any man touching her intimately. As if reading her thoughts, Elise said, “She hides in the woods when they come—they know nothing of her. And she knows nothing of what Helene and I … of what happens when the soldiers are here.”