Simple Faith (23 page)

He chuckled softly as he imagined Anja’s surprise at this change of heart. How they had debated the issue of war and peace through the nights that he had hidden out above the café—she always arguing for peace as the only answer while he insisted that there were times—like now—when war was not only necessary but vital for the future of mankind.

“I have an idea,” Peter said, assuming the others were as awake as he was. “My best guess is that we are to be held here until someone from a higher authority can come to pick us up. What if we use whatever time we have to befriend our young captors?”

“The Yank is going hysterical on us,” the Scotsman muttered. The others were silent for so long that Peter thought either they had managed to sleep or they agreed with the Scotsman.

“No, listen. If we personalize this—learn their names and their backgrounds, ask about their families, their girlfriends, their dreams for after the war …”

“It could work,” the Englishman mused. “We all speak passable German, and if we communicated with them in their own language …”

“It won’t be easy to break them,” the Irishman grumbled. “We’ll have to seize every opportunity.”

Even in the darkness, Peter could feel the idea beginning to take shape. “Perhaps we should begin by introducing ourselves to each other—first names can’t hurt.” Each man had claimed one wall of the tiny space, and so they stood in a kind of circle. “I am Peter.”

“Ian,” the Scotsman muttered.

“Colin,” chimed in the Irishman.

“And I am Roger.” There was a rustling of paper, the sound of something being unwrapped. “Shall we seal our bargain with a bit of chocolate, gentlemen?”

   CHAPTER 12   

M
ikel did not like the sound of Daniel’s cough. If he couldn’t keep quiet, they might be discovered. Voices—and coughing—carried long distances on water. But more importantly, he was genuinely concerned about the boy. If something happened to Daniel, he wasn’t sure that Anja could survive. He wasn’t sure that he could survive. He had come to think of Anja’s son as his own. The damp air on the river certainly wasn’t helping, and the cold was almost unbearable.

Anja held her son close, her arms around him like a blanket. She hummed to him as he slept fitfully, his racking cough waking him. “He has a fever,” she told Mikel once Daniel had drifted off again. “He needs medicine.”

“The next town,” Mikel promised. “I’ll find shelter and go for a doctor.”

“No. I know what he needs. You must go to the chemist. I will tell you what to ask for. Bringing someone to examine him is too risky.”

Mikel nodded. She was right. More often than not, she thought things through more clearly than he did or any of the guides she worked with on the line. She had a gift for instantly seeing all sides of a situation, weighing the risks and dangers, while he acted always on pure instinct. He’d done that when he’d decided to take Daniel from the convent. Had that been the best decision? Now that the boy was ill, Mikel was not so sure. “Next town,” he promised and hoped it would not be too late to save Daniel.

Anja held her shivering son close to her, trying to warm him with her body. She was so tired of being worried, so exhausted by the constant fear, and so very lonely. She was unaware that she was crying until she felt the tears hit her bare hands and looked up, expecting it to be raining. She missed her grandparents and wondered if she would ever see them again. She missed Josef and especially Lisbeth. And she missed Peter more than she was willing to admit. His smile, his eyes that twinkled with mischief whenever he teased her, and yes, his kiss.

When Benjamin was killed, she had thought she could never love again. And repeatedly as her feelings for Peter blossomed, she told herself that it was the crushing isolation of her life without Benjamin that drew her to the American. But it was more—much more—and she knew it. The love she felt for him was a fantasy and would in the end become just one more casualty of this ghastly war.

“Mama?” Daniel’s voice was a whisper, as if just forming the word cost him too much effort.

“Almost there,” she said and glanced up at Mikel for confirmation. When he nodded, she added, “Soon. Very soon now.”

After several minutes that passed like hours, Mikel guided the little boat to a patch of open beach, jumped into water that covered his feet, and pulled them ashore. He held out his hand to her.

“Take Daniel,” she said. “I can manage.”

“I’ll carry Daniel after you get out. Stop giving me orders.” He sounded irritable, and his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles ringing them. The man was exhausted, and instead of arguing with him, she stepped ashore and waited for him to lift Daniel in his arms and lead the way up the bank to a path that ran along the river. Once again it was raining, but she could see a steeple in the distance and knew that Mikel was using that as his guide as he trudged ahead of her.

She focused all of her thoughts on putting one foot in front of the other and praying that they would find shelter and perhaps some food and most of all medicine for Daniel. Then she could care for Mikel and Daniel. She thought of making them soup and wrapping them in layers of blankets to stop their shivering. She thought of a fire and remembered again the night she and the children had been taken in by Lisbeth. She could practically smell their damp wool coats drying next to the kitchen stove and the eggs that Lisbeth cooked for them.

Mikel stopped on the path ahead of her, and she was so lost in prayer and memory that she nearly ran into him. He motioned for her to be quiet. Beyond the trees that lined the path, she saw a military convoy of trucks coming their way—German, of course. She pressed closer to a large tree, waiting for them to pass, hoping that they would not slow or stop, that they had not seen Mikel carrying Daniel. She closed her eyes and forced her breath to come in calm, even beats.

One truck. Two. Three. Moving fast. Away from the town.

She and Mikel waited in silence for the roar of the engines to fade. Then they crossed the road and headed across an open field. It was either that or the open road, and while neither was safe, the open field was a shortcut. As the morning fog cleared, she saw a sight that meant they were that much closer to freedom. She saw the mountains—their peaks rising up through the cloud cover in the distance. It was February, so the melting snows had swollen the river they would need to cross to get to safety. They needed a place not only to give Daniel the time he needed to recover but also a place where they could wait for the optimum time to cross the mountains.

“There’s a convent here,” Mikel said, pointing to a small sign as they slogged their way through the sodden grass that filled a roadside ditch and climbed out of it.

“Let’s go there,” she said. “Let’s go to the convent, Daniel.”

“The sisters?” Daniel said, and his bright, feverish eyes widened with delight.

“The sisters,” she repeated, caressing his cheek and realizing that his fever was worse. But her prayers had been answered. The nuns would take them in. They would give them shelter and share what food they had. And most of all, they would be able to get the medicine that Daniel would need. Surely no one would question a nun—not even the Nazis.

Peter had persuaded the others to let Roger act as their spokesman. When the guard unlocked the door and another soldier stood waiting with a bucket of watery potato soup and a ladle, he greeted the two of them in German as if they were old friends. “
Guten Morgen!
It is so good to see you again.”

The young soldiers glanced at each other, clearly suspecting some trick. “As you may imagine, my colleagues and I have had some time to consider the error of our ways. We would like a meeting with your commanding officer as soon as possible. And perhaps it would be a kindness to him if we were allowed to wash ourselves before that meeting?” He took the soup bucket from the soldier and handed it to Peter. “Thank you for this,” he added, indicating the soup. “It’s been some time since we’ve had a decent meal.”

The two soldiers sneered at his sarcasm, but Peter believed that a connection had been made—at least with these two. Then one guard straightened to his full height and ordered Roger to step back inside. A moment later, the door closed, the key turned, and they were once again in the dark.

Hours passed. Then days interrupted only by the erratic delivery of another pot of the watery soup. Because their cell was without windows, they lost track of the hours. But they endured them by singing songs, telling stories in voices loud enough to be heard through the locked door, and pretending to exercise with Roger counting out the drills. If their captors were listening, they had to be either amused or curious or both. Finally, they heard voices outside their little cell, and a few minutes later the key turned and the door opened. “Follow me,” a guard ordered.

He marched them down the exterior stairway and around the side of the building to a barracks. He handed each of them a piece of toweling the size of a man’s handkerchief and a piece of soap the size of a nickel and ordered them to undress and shower. When they emerged from the icy cold showers, they found their clothing gone and identical sets of underwear, trousers, a long-sleeved, collarless knit shirt, and a heavy sweater waiting for them. “You will be allowed to keep your coats, head coverings, and gloves,” the soldier informed them.

“This way,” a soldier they had never seen before ordered as soon as they were dressed. He led them down a corridor toward a closed door at the far end. He knocked and then opened the door and stood aside.

Peter followed the others into the room—a small office furnished with cast-off and scarred wooden furniture. The officer in charge, who had berated the men for allowing the fire, sat behind the desk, picking at his fingernails. He did not look at them but left them standing before him for several minutes. Finally, he sighed heavily. “You wished to speak with me,” he said in heavily accented English.

Roger stepped forward, close enough to the desk that he could easily have leaned on it, and forced the man to look at him. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. Let us not pretend we do not know what is to happen to us.”

The officer glanced up and straightened slightly in his chair, prepared to protest, but Roger held up a restraining hand. “You have been given the very difficult but important task of making sure that we do not attempt to escape until we can be handed over to the authorities who are no doubt on their way here from either Munich or Berlin.” He motioned to the mounds of paperwork covering the officer’s desk. “Clearly you have been given a great deal of responsibility. What if we could make your life easier?”