Scotland and Orkney Islands
1
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Tuesday, February 11, 1941
When Cilla van der Zee volunteered to aid the resistance by infiltrating the Dutch Nazis, she never imagined she’d be swept up in a mob set on attacking her friends.
Her adventure no longer seemed grand.
Black-uniformed thugs of the DutchWeerbaarheidsafdelingjostled Cilla as they prowled the open-air market of Amsterdam’s Waterloo Square. WA men slapped at the colorful awnings over the booths, stole fruit from baskets, and searched for their human prey.
Cilla fumbled for her sister’s elbow. “Hilde, stay back.”
Hilde snatched an apple from a stall. “You’re not my mother. I’m staying with Arno.”
Arno Bakker, Hilde’s good-for-nothing Nazi boyfriend, shook his fist and jeered at the men marching toward them—a small group of Jews and their friends.
Friends like Dirk de Vos. Tall and vivacious and good for anything and everything.
He’d come today because Cilla informed the resistance about the WA’s plans.
Cilla’s stomach went as hard as the red bricks underfoot.
Through the mass of black-capped men, Dirk met Cilla’s gaze—sharp, short, and shattering. If Cilla showed any mercy, she’d lose her standing with the Dutch Nazis and cut off Dirk’s source of information for his underground newspaper.
A jerk of her chin sufficed as a reply.
Nine months had passed since the Germans had conquered the Netherlands. Nine months of relative quiet, but a quiet pregnant with the swelling expectation of unrest. Of darkness.
Recently, pangs had started. The Germans had dismissed Jewish civil servants, including teachers and professors, and then required all Jews to register. Men of the WA, the paramilitary branch of the Dutch Nazi Party, had begun attacking Jews, who had formed bands for self-protection, aided by good men like Dirk.
All around Cilla in the freezing fog rose shouts and cries of labor pains.
Dirk jutted a finger toward the mob, but the cacophony swallowed his words.
Someone bumped Cilla from behind, and she edged aside. She had to get Hilde away. Women couldn’t join the WA, but Hilde had insisted on coming with Arno.
Arno shoved a dark-haired young man.
Hilde laughed, big and sloppy, and she threw her apple at Dirk. She missed. She stank of beer, and lines etched her face as if she were ten years older than Cilla rather than two years younger.
Everyone else in the family had given up on Hilde. Rather, Hilde had driven them away with wild ways and cruel words, but Cilla refused to give up on her sister, on her responsibility.
And Hilde’s embrace of the NSB, theNationaal-SocialistischeBeweging—the Dutch Nazis—had eased Cilla’s infiltration of the group.
A skinny, long-faced man threw a punch at Arno, and Arno rained blows down on the smaller man.
Dirk lunged at Arno.
“Watch—” Cilla clamped her lips shut to silence her warning.
Shouts rang out. Black uniforms mixed with gray and brown suits, and fists thudded on flesh. The WA outnumbered their foes.
Cilla grabbed Hilde’s elbow and yanked her away from the melee.
This time Hilde didn’t protest.
