Tamar by Mal Peet Page B

resistance?”
    “Since the day the Germans took my village idiots away,” Albert Veening said.
    Tamar propped himself up on the pillows so that he could see Marijke’s face more clearly in the weak candlelight.
    “Are you tired? Do you want to go to sleep?”
    She shook her head. “I want to talk.”
    “We have lots of time.”
    “Perhaps. Listen. There, did you hear it? The owl again.”
    “Tell me about the Germans coming here,” he said. “When was this?”
    “A couple of weeks into the new year. We were half expecting them. A boy from one of the other farms ran over here to tell us that German soldiers had been at his place. We hoped they would pass us by, like most people do. But they didn’t. They came the next day. Eight of them, in two trucks. We’d had time to hide quite a lot of food. They managed to catch about half the chickens, but the rest ran off into the orchard. Two of the Germans chased them, shooting at them with rifles. Can you imagine? It was almost funny. They were lousy shots.”
    “That’s encouraging,” he said.
    “I suppose it is. But they took the tractor and both the horses. I bribed one soldier with a jar of butter not to take the bike or the tyres. They took most of the hay and half our firewood, the bastards. They took the sheets and blankets from our beds. Lots of stuff. They looted us.”
    “Did they . . .” He hesitated, not sure how to ask the question, or if he wanted to. “Did they hurt you, or anything?”
    She reached up and touched his face. “No. They looked at me, you know? But nothing happened. I was well wrapped up against the weather, anyway; they probably weren’t sure if I was a woman or a man.”
    “So they were stupid as well,” he said, kissing her.
    A little later, she said, “Don’t worry. We’ll survive. We’ve worked hard on the garden. That’s all we can do now. We should have enough food to last until spring, if we’re careful. After that —”
    “After that,” Tamar said, “the Americans or the British or the Canadians will be here. It’ll all be over.”
    “I’d love to believe that.”
    “I’m sure of it. Believe me.”
    In the hidden room at the asylum, the wind moaned softly at the gap in the window, but Dart couldn’t hear it. He was wired to the transceiver, the headphones clamped over his ears. His right hand wrote fast, translating the stuttering Morse into meaningless sequences of letters. His pistol lay on the desk. At one point a moth crash-landed on Dart’s notepad, and his hand brushed it away without pausing in its writing. Now and again he danced his feet against the floor, warming them.
    When London signed off, Dart removed the headphones and massaged the tense muscles in his neck. As he went to disconnect the antenna, he heard something calling on the wind. An owl, perhaps. Or a lunatic. He spread the silks on the desk and began the laborious task of decoding.

 
     
    Dart was finishing his meagre breakfast in the asylum’s huge kitchen when Sister Agatha walked in, holding an infant.
    “This is Rosa.” She made it sound important.
    “Ah,” Dart said, getting to his feet. He hadn’t known that a child would be involved in his mission, and he was rather puzzled.
    “My niece. Well, actually she’s my sister’s daughter’s daughter.”
    “I see,” Dart said, untruthfully. The little girl regarded him with gravely suspicious eyes.
    “You’ll be seeing quite a bit of Rosa, I imagine,” Sister Agatha said. “Her mother is Beatrix Greydanus. Trixie.”
    “Oh, right. Our, er . . .”
    “Your courier, yes. Come and meet her. She’s outside, talking to Sidona.”
    “The lady who has conversations with angels?”
    “That’s right. She’s giving Trixie the latest news from heaven. Things aren’t going too well up there, apparently.”
    Trixie and Sidona were sitting in a rather sorry-looking summerhouse at the rear of the building. When the old lady saw Dart approaching, she clamped her hands over