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,
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,
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