Simple Faith (8 page)

A
nja and her grandparents stayed downstairs by the fire while the officer and his men were upstairs. To have followed them up the narrow stairway would have been to reveal their fear. So they sat together, their heads bowed, their eyes closed as they prayed for God to show them His way.

Upstairs the intruders were taking their time. Anja focused on identifying every sound. Now they were in the room she shared with Daniel. The furnishings consisted of two narrow beds and a small chest of drawers. She counted each drawer as it was taken out. No doubt the contents were dumped on the bare wooden floor. Did they honestly think a man could be hidden in one of those drawers?

She squeezed her eyes tight and tried not to think about them moving across the hall and into her grandparents’ room. But when she heard the unmistakable sound of the dresser being moved aside, she instinctively reached out and took hold of her grandmother’s hand.

They waited.

“Perhaps they will not notice the difference in the wall,” Ailsa murmured to her husband.

The opening to the space under the eaves where Peter was had been carefully crafted so that the edges blended into the rest of the paneling on the wall. There was no knob or latch. The door could only be released by sliding a knife along the edge to trip the latch on the inside and then using your fingernails to pull it open.

Or in the absence of a knife, Anja realized, it could be ripped apart by blows from the butt of a rifle, as was happening above them. She heard the splintering of the wood and waited, her shoulders tense. Ailsa was squeezing her fingers until Anja thought they might be permanently welded together.

Silence.

She waited for the officer to order Peter from the room, wondered how he would manage the walk in his weakened condition, waited for the officer to lose patience and strike him with that riding crop.

Silence.

She opened her eyes and saw that her grandfather was staring at the ceiling. Above them where the hiding place was located, they heard a tapping as if the officer were testing the walls for a hollow space.

Then there was more silence followed by the murmur of voices—specifically the officer’s voice. A moment later, the two soldiers came back down the stairs and leveled their weapons at Anja and her grandparents.

From above, Anja heard the slow, measured footsteps of the officer as he returned to the hiding place. He must have stood in the opening for several minutes, and she could imagine him allowing his eyes to slowly rove over every inch of the space, searching for anything that would tell him what in his head he was certain to be true. Then step. Step. Step. And the tearing of fabric.

A moment later, he came down the stairs in that measured way he had of moving and presented Ailsa with the blackout fabric from the window as he dismissed the two soldiers with an indifferent wave of his hand. “This needs replacing,” he told her, and Anja saw it for the test that it was.

If Ailsa accepted the cloth without protesting that since the space was never used there was never a light up there in need of hiding, then he could at least cling to his certainty that the room had been used as a hiding place—if not for the American he sought, then for others, for why cover a window where there was no chance of light coming through in times when every penny, every scrap of fabric, counted?

Anja watched her grandmother, silently praying that she, too, would see the man’s purpose. Ailsa accepted the fabric, held it so that where he had snatched it down showed the tear, and frowned. “I had forgotten about this piece,” she said in her halting German. “My husband covered the window up there when our great-grandson was staying here with us. He liked to use that little space in the evenings to read and play his games, but now that he is at the orphanage … It’s a pity to waste it.”

Anja took it from her. “We can mend the tear, and then it will be perfect for covering the opening in the henhouse. Remember, just the other night Moffee was worrying that the lantern would show now that it is so dark when you go to collect the eggs.” She turned to the officer. “So something has come of your search after all.”

He studied her for a long moment then lifted his riding crop and once again traced the edge of her chin. “Your son is permanently with the sisters?”

“Only until the war is over,” she said. “Soon he will be back here with us—we will all be together again.” Certainly she could have stepped back away from him touching her even indirectly. But that would be to admit that he had power over her, and that she would not do. Instead, she reached up and gently pushed the riding crop aside as she moved toward the front door. “I imagine that you and your men are anxious to return to your quarters—it is, after all, Christmas Eve….”

He scowled down at her. “We do not take holidays. There is a war to be won.” Without another word he walked briskly out the front door and got into the waiting car.

Anja, Ailsa, and Olaf stood still as statues until they heard the sound of the engine fade into the distance. Then the three of them headed upstairs to find Peter.

Methodically and in silence they went through every possible hiding place, putting the ransacked rooms to rights as they searched. He wasn’t there. Her breath coming in heaves as if she’d run a long distance, Anja stood in the doorway to the hiding place and studied every inch of it—the same way she had imagined the German doing.

Not only wasn’t Peter there, but the mattress had been turned as she had instructed so that searchers could not feel the warmth of his body and know someone had been there. The covers were stuffed like insulation into the rafters.

Slowly she walked to the window, bare now of any covering. She pushed it open, trying to judge whether or not it was large enough for Peter to climb through. But he had such broad shoulders, and besides, his leg had healed nicely but the muscles had atrophied in the process. Even if he had managed to shimmy out the window, where would he go?

She pulled the cot closer so she could stand on it and lean out. She saw the vine dangling from the tiles—surely too far above the ground for Peter to have used it to escape. A sound from the road caught her attention. It was nearly dark. She listened hard.

Bicycles turning onto their lane. Josef and Mikel coming for Peter. Her Christmas surprise for him. But where was he?

Knowing that to escape the hiding place by the opening in the wall was like surrendering to the Germans, Peter had turned his attention to the small window. He heard the commotion outside when Anja arrived and started berating the soldiers searching the outbuildings. To his relief, her antics caused the officer to go outside as well, and Ailsa and Olaf followed.

He had only minutes—perhaps less—to move around without the risk of being heard, and he made the most of them. First he stripped the blanket and linens from the cot, and then he turned the mattress so there would be no hint of the warmth of his body having been there recently. Next he stuffed the blankets and sheets into the spaces between the beams to make it look as if they had been put there to keep out the cold. All the while, he kept glancing at the window and roof beyond, envisioning how he would angle his body through the small opening.

He had lost weight over the last several weeks. Rations in Belgium—even on a farm—were not like rations on base back in England. He was wearing the clothes of a laborer—layers to keep him warm in the cold nights. He stripped off a jacket and sweater and stuffed them deep inside a wicker storage basket with some other clothes of Olaf’s that Anja had brought for him to try, leaving only a shirt and trousers. He wore no shoes—just the thick socks that Ailsa had knitted for him.

Glancing out the window, he saw the officer was talking to Anja, running the tip of his riding crop over her jaw. Fury welled up in him like a fire, but right now he had to get out of this place. His leg was already throbbing from all the action, but he ignored the pain as he surveyed the space to be sure there were no other clues that might give him—and the others—away.

Footprints. They were his where he had moved around on the dusty floor. He balanced his body on one of the crossbeams and leaned over to fan the dust with the wool scarf he had wrapped around his neck. Mercifully the dust bunnies scattered, covering his tracks, but in the process he inadvertently brushed against the blackout curtain. He froze when he saw the officer look up. Seconds later the officer and his men headed back inside the house, and this time they started up the steps, their boots resounding on the wooden treads.

Peter had to hope they were making enough noise as they ransacked the bedroom where Anja and Daniel slept that he could make his move. He pulled open the window and squirmed through, clinging to a thick vine that he imagined in spring would be covered with leaves and perhaps even flowers and that he prayed would hold his weight. He stretched to pull the window closed behind him and at the same moment heard the men start the search of Ailsa and Olaf’s bedroom.

The roof was slippery, and he wasn’t at all sure if the vine could support him for much longer. Inch by inch, he worked his way across the tiles as far away from the window as possible, all the while studying the distance to the ground. The vine began to crackle and break. Below him he saw the wooden cart. It had some straw in it—not enough to completely cushion his fall, but it would have to do.

From inside the cottage, he heard the splintering of the entry to his hiding place. He had no choice. He let go of the vine and fell.

His aim was good. He landed on the straw in the cart, which covered any noise he might have made if he’d landed on the ground. He took only a split second to assess his condition—bruises for sure and a couple of scrapes and cuts—before he pulled himself up and out of the cart and hobbled as fast as he could to the shed. He had to bank on the idea that having searched it just minutes before, the Germans would not search it again.

This time he was going to have to share the space with Olaf’s horse. The animal glanced around when Peter limped inside the shed and edged past to collapse at the back of the stall.

“Easy, girl,” Peter murmured when the horse snorted and pawed at the straw. “Just need to stay here till they’re gone, okay?”

Yeah, like the horse could possibly understand the situation
.

Peter pushed himself against the back wall of the stall and tested his leg by stretching it out. It hurt but not in the way it had before the German doctor had removed the shrapnel. His main problem at the moment was that he was cold—his teeth chattering. He looked longingly at the horse blanket spread over the stall wall. But if he pulled it down and the Germans came looking …

He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and snuggled into the hay that smelled of horse and dung.

Voices in the yard brought him alert—and the horse as well. Again the animal snorted and pawed, tossing her head back and forth, trying to see what was going on in the yard.

Peter thought of a brand-new danger. What if the officer decided that a horse was just what he needed to go with that riding crop? If they came and took the horse, he would be totally exposed. He reached up and unhooked the rope connected to the horse’s neck and tugged. “
Descendre
,” he urged, hoping that he had the correct French instruction for getting the animal to lie down. If the officer thought the horse was old or sick, he wouldn’t want it. “
Descendre, s’il te plaît
.”

The horse tossed her mane and snorted. “I don’t have time for politeness,” Peter growled. “Descendre.” He tugged hard on the rope.

Slowly the animal knelt and then fell heavily onto her side, completely blocking Peter from view and providing a delicious warmth, the likes of which Peter had not enjoyed in weeks. “
Merci
,” Peter whispered as he stroked the horse’s neck and tried to figure out what was happening in the yard and house.

But the horse’s body heat was a luxury that Peter had pretty much given up ever experiencing again. He could not recall the last time he had been warm to the bone. He heard the car leave but knew better than to make his presence known until he was sure they were all gone. Instead, he curled closer to the horse and felt his eyes grow heavy as he surrendered to the seduction of the warmth, the loamy perfume of horse and hay, and sleep.

When he woke, the German was standing over him—not the unwanted visitor but the doctor—Josef Buchermann. The man was grinning at him, but Peter instinctively moved closer to the back of the stall. His sudden action woke the horse, who lumbered to her feet, nearly crushing Peter in the process.

Josef spoke to the animal in German, trying to calm her.

“She prefers French, I think,” Peter said, edging his way past Josef and the horse and closer to the door of the shed. There his exit was blocked by a short, stocky man with skin the color of fine leather who glared at him and said nothing.

So I was right
, Peter thought.
They’ve come for me
.

Suddenly Anja burst into the crowded space, her mouth wreathed in a smile. “You’re all right then?” she asked, and as she studied him from head to toe, using the lantern she carried for the task, he had the oddest feeling that if she could, she would touch him to be certain that he was truly all right.