lightning for exhausted wireless operators.
At the bottom of the pile was a canvas satchel. Inside it Tamar found a set of maps, two German military compasses, a pair of binoculars, and several rolls of Dutch banknotes, used, and not forged. Something else too, right at the bottom. A well-fingered ID booklet embossed with an eagle clutching a swastika in its talons. He flipped it open. It belonged to Gertrud Berendts, an auxiliary nurse. The photograph was one of Marijke, taken perhaps two years ago.
Tamar leaned back against the side of the stall. London knew everything, he realized. He felt foolish. “The Maartens farm,” Hendriks had said. “You do remember the place?” And they’d known all along. They’d known that this time he wouldn’t leave without her. They’d faked her an ID to make it possible.
He was still staring at the photograph when he heard the barn door open. He stuffed the booklet into the satchel and scrabbled around in the metal drum for the chocolate.
“I don’t want to see anything you don’t want me to,” Marijke said, “but Trixie needs to go soon. You should come and say good-bye to her.”
“I will. But come in here a minute. I want to kiss you.”
When their lips were together, he forced hers open gently with his own and slid the little chunk of chocolate from his mouth into hers. He watched her eyes fill with amazement then close, watched her taste a pleasure she’d almost forgotten.
Marijke held Rosa, and Tamar held the bike. Trixie lifted the cushions and the blanket from the trailer and then pressed her fingers against its base. It swivelled up, revealing a hollow compartment. She put in the things that Marijke had given her.
Tamar said, “You have to hide food too?”
Trixie looked up. “You’ve been away a while, Christiaan. Food’s getting scarce, and the Germans are nearly as hungry as we are. Some of them would slit your throat for a jar of jam.”
Marijke and Tamar watched her leave. She had to stand on the pedals to power the heavy machine up to the road.
“She’s good,” Marijke said. “I’d trust her with my life. I do trust her with my life.”
“And mine?”
“Without question. Why do you ask?”
“Because she lied to me,” Tamar said, watching the receding bike.
“What? What do you mean, she lied to you?”
“She said she had legs like a carthorse, and nothing could be further from the truth.”
Marijke took his chin between her fingers and forced his face towards her own. “If I ever catch you looking at another woman’s legs again, Christiaan Boogart,” she said, “I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
Dart sat huddled inside his overcoat on a cast-iron bench on the terrace of the Mendlo asylum, watching the lunatics. One of them, a middle-aged man wearing a long cardigan over his uniform of white tunic and trousers, was trying to trap the shadows of clouds as they moved across the leaf-strewn lawn. His method was to stamp his foot down hard on each shadow as it reached him and use his weight to hold it there. He did not seem at all disappointed when the shadow escaped him but turned and waited eagerly for the next, poised like a goalkeeper. Dart admired his attitude.
Albert Veening lowered himself onto the bench beside Dart and inhaled deeply. “I love these late afternoons at this time of year. There’s a smell in the air that reminds me of tobacco.”
Dart felt in his coat pocket and found his cigarettes.
When Albert had lit up, Dart said, “That one, there. The old lady. What’s she doing?”
“The one with Sister Joanna? Her real name is Elena, but she will only answer to the name Sidona. She thinks she’s a stranded angel. She may well be right.”
The angel was wearing a man’s cap and coat over her long white dress; her feet were bare. She was having an animated discussion with an invisible person.
“Who’s she talking to?”
“Another angel,” Veening said. “Probably the one she calls Michael. She
At the bottom of the pile was a canvas satchel. Inside it Tamar found a set of maps, two German military compasses, a pair of binoculars, and several rolls of Dutch banknotes, used, and not forged. Something else too, right at the bottom. A well-fingered ID booklet embossed with an eagle clutching a swastika in its talons. He flipped it open. It belonged to Gertrud Berendts, an auxiliary nurse. The photograph was one of Marijke, taken perhaps two years ago.
Tamar leaned back against the side of the stall. London knew everything, he realized. He felt foolish. “The Maartens farm,” Hendriks had said. “You do remember the place?” And they’d known all along. They’d known that this time he wouldn’t leave without her. They’d faked her an ID to make it possible.
He was still staring at the photograph when he heard the barn door open. He stuffed the booklet into the satchel and scrabbled around in the metal drum for the chocolate.
“I don’t want to see anything you don’t want me to,” Marijke said, “but Trixie needs to go soon. You should come and say good-bye to her.”
“I will. But come in here a minute. I want to kiss you.”
When their lips were together, he forced hers open gently with his own and slid the little chunk of chocolate from his mouth into hers. He watched her eyes fill with amazement then close, watched her taste a pleasure she’d almost forgotten.
Marijke held Rosa, and Tamar held the bike. Trixie lifted the cushions and the blanket from the trailer and then pressed her fingers against its base. It swivelled up, revealing a hollow compartment. She put in the things that Marijke had given her.
Tamar said, “You have to hide food too?”
Trixie looked up. “You’ve been away a while, Christiaan. Food’s getting scarce, and the Germans are nearly as hungry as we are. Some of them would slit your throat for a jar of jam.”
Marijke and Tamar watched her leave. She had to stand on the pedals to power the heavy machine up to the road.
“She’s good,” Marijke said. “I’d trust her with my life. I do trust her with my life.”
“And mine?”
“Without question. Why do you ask?”
“Because she lied to me,” Tamar said, watching the receding bike.
“What? What do you mean, she lied to you?”
“She said she had legs like a carthorse, and nothing could be further from the truth.”
Marijke took his chin between her fingers and forced his face towards her own. “If I ever catch you looking at another woman’s legs again, Christiaan Boogart,” she said, “I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
Dart sat huddled inside his overcoat on a cast-iron bench on the terrace of the Mendlo asylum, watching the lunatics. One of them, a middle-aged man wearing a long cardigan over his uniform of white tunic and trousers, was trying to trap the shadows of clouds as they moved across the leaf-strewn lawn. His method was to stamp his foot down hard on each shadow as it reached him and use his weight to hold it there. He did not seem at all disappointed when the shadow escaped him but turned and waited eagerly for the next, poised like a goalkeeper. Dart admired his attitude.
Albert Veening lowered himself onto the bench beside Dart and inhaled deeply. “I love these late afternoons at this time of year. There’s a smell in the air that reminds me of tobacco.”
Dart felt in his coat pocket and found his cigarettes.
When Albert had lit up, Dart said, “That one, there. The old lady. What’s she doing?”
“The one with Sister Joanna? Her real name is Elena, but she will only answer to the name Sidona. She thinks she’s a stranded angel. She may well be right.”
The angel was wearing a man’s cap and coat over her long white dress; her feet were bare. She was having an animated discussion with an invisible person.
“Who’s she talking to?”
“Another angel,” Veening said. “Probably the one she calls Michael. She
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