Cornelia pumped her legs home from Frou de Bruin’s farm at a rapid pace, her steps keeping tempo with the thoughts flying around her mind. Maybe Johan had come home while she had been away.
Please, Lord, let that be the case. Don’t let anything bad happen to my brother.
This morning she had been so angry with Gerrit, blaming him for Johan’s disappearance. He had argued that her brother volunteered all on his own. She hated to admit it, but he was right. Johan had always been adventuresome, and being cooped up in her small house, not able to go outside, had to be driving him crazy.
With everything inside her, she wanted to stay mad at Gerrit but found it impossible. He could have done more to discourage her brother from this mission, but Johan had been determined to go. Her brother usually got his way. His disappearance wasn’t Gerrit’s fault. Not entirely.
Johan had probably browbeaten him until he gave her brother the address of the Resistance contact.
If anyone held responsibility for Johan’s actions, she did. Gerrit asked her first to go to his friend and deliver the message. Because she declined, Johan stepped in to do the job. Had she laid aside her fear and gone as Gerrit wanted, none of this would have happened. In truth, the fault lay with her.
If Johan went to Germany and never returned, she would be guilty of her brother’s death. He would be the second person she had loved dearly but allowed to go into harm’s way.
Please, Lord, please let Johan be home.
Her legs burned from her quick-paced walk and her fingers stung with the cold. She couldn’t contain a smile when she saw her house. It welcomed her. She entered through the back door and kicked off her klompen. “Johan, I’m home!”
Her brother didn’t answer. Gerrit did. “In the kitchen.”
Her stomach plummeted like a shot-down plane tumbling to earth as she entered the room. “Where is my brother? Isn’t he here?”
Gerrit shook his head. “Sit down.”
She refused his invitation, gripping the back of the kitchen chair so hard her knuckles turned white. “Where is he? What happened to him?”
“I received word from Maarten a little while ago. Johan was arrested and is being held at the jail. First thing tomorrow morning they are transporting him to work on the fortifications in the south.”
Dizziness swept over her and she tilted like a twirling top. Gerrit hurried to her side and steadied her with his left hand before pulling out a chair. “Please sit.”
This time she took his advice. She had done it. She had sent Johan to the front lines. A young man from their tsjerke escaped and told of deprivation, disease, and death. And she could have prevented it all. “What can we do?”
Gerrit sat across from her and grinned. She wanted to slap away those dimples. “Maarten and I have devised a plot to help him escape.” He sounded like a little boy excited about his scheme to pilfer cookies from the kitchen when his mem turned her back.
“What might that plan be?”
“It’s best you not know.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.”
“Never ask an Underground operative questions unless you want the same answer every time. The less you know, the less you can tell.”
“This involves my brother.”
“All the more reason for me to keep quiet.”
She clenched her fists. “Nee, all the more reason to tell me.”
“Not going to happen. I will tell you that we will steal Johan right out from under the Nazis’ noses.”
She rubbed her temples, conceding defeat. “Will it work? Will it bring Johan home?”
He sobered. “Hard to say. But I’m responsible for getting your brother into this trouble. I’ll do all I can to get him out of it.”
“This trouble is my fault. If I had gone, he would be here now. They would never have stopped me, you know.”
“Johan wanted to go. Even if you had volunteered, he would have slipped out of the house. Right now we need to work on securing his release. First thing tomorrow morning I leave to bring him home.”
“But how? You have just been shot in the shoulder.” Wait a minute—he sat in a chair, not in bed. “Why are you up? Are you that much better?”
“The pain is less, and other than preventing you from falling to the floor, I have stayed in this chair.”
“If you open that wound again and get an infection, I don’t know what I will do with you. Let me help you back to bed so you can rest.” Why one minute did she want to slug him and the next minute she cared about his welfare?
He acquiesced without complaint. “I can make it on my own.”
MORNING CAME ALL too soon for Gerrit—not really morning, but the end of his night. Maarten would arrive in a few minutes. This operation needed to succeed for many reasons, the least of which was his redemption in Cornelia’s eyes.
A vision of his sister Dorathee appeared before him, her sweet, innocent face. Another human being had hurt her. Today they wouldn’t hurt another.
He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of the bedstee. His shoulder complained at the movement, but he ignored it. The Underground leaders had taught him that any discomfort could be willed away. Good advice if you were being tortured . . . good advice if you survived your own execution.
Cornelia greeted him in the kitchen with a bowl of yogurt and a steaming cup of ersatz coffee. He turned up his nose. After the war, he vowed never to touch the bitter brew again for as long as he lived.
“Good morning.” Red rimmed her eyes and dark crescents appeared below them.
He went to her and stroked her cheek. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
She turned and pretended to wipe crumbs from the counter. “Sleep doesn’t come easily when your brother is under arrest, scheduled for shipment to the front lines in the morning.”
“If I could change anything, you know I would.”
“That is the worst part. I believe you would.” She shrugged.
She paced the room several times, worrying the hem of her sweater as she walked. Then she plopped into a kitchen chair. “I am scared, Gerrit.”
Her vulnerability broke his heart. He went to her and, hiding a grimace of pain, gathered her into his arms. “Don’t be frightened. God is on His throne.”
“I know, but what I believe in my head is different from what I feel in my heart. I don’t want anything dreadful to happen to my brother.”
“Everything will be fine.”
“This war has cost me everything. I have nothing more to give.”
“And I’m going to try to make sure you don’t have to give any more. We won’t let them take any more from you. Not this time.”
She gazed at him with such hope in her eyes. He had to bring Johan home with him. And he would.
He ate the breakfast she had prepared. The yogurt tasted good and revived him. Cornelia sat across from him after a few minutes, turning her coffee cup round and round. They didn’t speak until he finished.
“Shall I pray?”
She nodded.
“Dear Father, be with this mission today. Bless it, and if it be Thy will, grant us success. Return Johan to his family and his home.”
Cornelia sniffled and he couldn’t continue. After pausing a few moments, he said, “Amen.”
They both stood. She came around the table to him, gave him a hug, and climbed the stairs. A moment later Maarten knocked on the door.
DARKNESS PRESSED IN on Johan. The old brick walls of the jail cell seeped with moisture and a chill enveloped him. Odors of filthy bodies and unsanitary conditions permeated the air. No one shared the tiny room with him, a gift.
He paced the perimeter—six steps forward, turn, six more steps, turn, and so on. Not knowing what would happen to him today, he couldn’t sit on the filthy straw or the damp floor.
Where might he be headed? He hoped to the fortifications in the south. If he was surrounded by somewhat familiar territory, he had a greater chance of escape. He would blend in better with his own people, and the likelihood increased that he would find a sympathetic countryman to help him get home.
And he would be able to breathe the fresh air. Home sure was as much a prison as this cell.
Six steps forward, turn, six more steps, turn.
He had a plan he would put into motion when the guard came for him. At some point in his journey, he would be alone with one or two soldiers. When the opportunity presented itself, he would kick one of them in the groin, then spin and disable the other in the same manner.
And then he would run. In the schoolyard, all of his classmates commented on what a fast sprinter Johan Kooistra was. He could outpace any of them on any given day.
He would be a hero. He would repay those Germans for what they had done to Corrie, how they had broken her spirit. And for how they had stolen Mem and Heit from him. If it weren’t for the war, he would have been able to get medicine for them and they would be alive and well today.
The Nazis would get a small taste of the misery they had caused his family.
GERRIT GAZED AT the town hall, an old, square, three-story brick building with rows of gleaming windows and twin chimneys jutting into the sky. He smoothed down the green-gray wool German officer’s uniform, cinched the belt at his waist, and adjusted the black bill of the hat, complete with a laurel wreath and an eagle. As he left Cornelia’s, he had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked every inch the German officer.
The stolen German transport truck Maarten drove idled behind him. When Gerrit had pressed his friend to tell him where he had gotten the uniform and the truck, Maarten gave the standard reply, “It is better that you not know.” That suited Gerrit just fine.
He slipped his left hand in his pocket and fingered the forged papers granting him custody of Johan. If they had made even a small error on the documents, they would all suffer a fate worse than building reinforcements along the southern front or working in a German factory ripe for Allied bombing. He withdrew his sweaty hand, fearful of smudging the ink.
He shivered in the early morning chill, then climbed the stone steps. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the heavy wood door, which creaked in protest. Each step he took in his boots echoed down the corridor. He reached the main reception area and crossed to the big desk.
“Heil, Hitler.” He bit down hard to keep from crying out as he raised his right hand in salute, all the while hoping his Dutch-tinged German didn’t tip off the man. Then he handed the documents to the scrawny clerk with wire-rimmed glasses and held his breath.
The clerk took his time, reading every word once, twice, three times. Gerrit didn’t dare try to guess if all this perusal was good or bad. The big clock on the wall ticked away the seconds and minutes.
At last the clerk peered up at Gerrit over his glasses. “I’ll get the prisoner.”
Gerrit nodded and clicked his heels, hoping he didn’t overact. He concentrated on releasing his breath bit by bit. If he let it whoosh out, he might arouse suspicions.
Many more ticks of the clock passed before the clerk returned with a guard.
And Johan.
The young man’s soft blue eyes widened when he saw Gerrit standing there, ready to take custody of him. He gave Johan a slight nod and straightened his back. Johan cleared the emotions from his face. He might make a good Resistance worker yet.
Gerrit stepped forward and grasped Johan’s elbow, then led him out the big door, to the steps and toward the canvas-covered transport truck.
Cornelia’s brother paused. “What . . . ?”
Gerrit squeezed his elbow hard, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “Hush. Don’t say a word. Things could still go wrong.”
They took one step down, the truck idling across the street, Maarten waiting for them. Before they descended farther, two German soldiers sauntered to the driver’s side of the truck. Both had close-cropped blond hair. One had wider shoulders and a broader body than the other. They poked their heads into the window and gestured at Gerrit’s friend.
Gerrit pulled Johan back. “Don’t move, in case the cover is blown.”
No sooner had he said the words then Maarten gestured for them to come.
Gerrit led a trembling Johan down the stone steps. “We have to see what they want. Don’t say a word. Follow my lead.” He straightened his own spine.
Maarten spoke to him in German, though his Dutch accent was apparent. “They would like to see the papers.”
Gerrit fished them out of his jacket pocket and handed them to the soldiers.
“Where are you taking this prisoner?”
Gerrit nodded to his fellow Resistance worker. “We have orders to deliver him to Amersfoort.”
“Working with the Resistance.”
The older, smaller of the two pulled a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket. Much as before, the officers examined the forged papers with an exacting thoroughness. That much could be said for the Germans.
“Have a nice drive.” The soldier with the glasses handed the papers back to Gerrit before taking the time to sneer at Johan and spit in his face.
Gerrit’s temperature rose by ten degrees.
Johan strained forward.
Even though the idea of kicking the officer sounded appealing, Gerrit hissed at Johan, “Don’t. Do you want to truly be on your way to Amersfoort?”
Cornelia’s brother relaxed and Gerrit shoved him into the back of the truck with what he hoped was convincing roughness. His shoulder burned.
Maarten grinned at him as he climbed into the cab. “That was easy.”
“Don’t speak too soon. We have to get him home.”