Dirk lurched to the side, his suit jacket hanging off one shoulder, and he yelled out insults to the manhood of everyone in black.
As one, the Nazis roared and charged him.
What was Dirk doing? He was going to get hurt. Cilla’s hand flew to her mouth.
Dirk ran, tossing taunts over his shoulder and making a shooing motion with one arm.
His friends—they helped their fallen comrades to their feet and scattered.
“Dirk, no,” Cilla whispered into her gloved fingers. He was drawing off the mob so his friends could escape. Noble. Dangerous.
A black circle enveloped Dirk, punching and kicking, crouching lower and lower.
“No, no, no,” Cilla muttered. A scream writhed inside her, and she wrestled it down.
The WA men straightened up, fell back, grinned.
Dirk lay on the ground, his head ... misshapen. His mouth lax. His eyes wide. A scarlet puddle spread, flowing in the cracks between the bricks.
A guttural cry rent its way up Cilla’s throat, tore past her fingers.
As Hilde cheered and laughed.
“How could you?” Cilla wheeled on her sister. “A man—a man just died.”
Hilde’s eyes narrowed to greenish-blue slits. “I thought you were on our side.”
Cilla’s breath bounced around, out of control. If she didn’t pull herself together, she could die too. But how could she stay silent? “Not this. Not beating men to death.”
With a roll of her shoulder, Hilde pulled free from Cilla’s grip.
Arno sauntered closer, wearing a disgusting smirk. He met Cilla’s gaze, and the smirk lowered to a scowl. “What’s wrong with Cilla?”
A pit formed in Cilla’s stomach, as dark and vile as Arno’s uniform, and she gripped the green wool of her coat. “I—I’ve never seen a man die before.”
A laugh shot out. “You still haven’t. That’s a rat, not a man.”
Cilla slammed her eyes shut against the sight of Dirk’s body. Of Arno mocking his death.
“Look.” Arno jammed a finger into Cilla’s shoulder. “Open your eyes and look what those rats did to Hendrik Koot.”
Cilla pried open her eyes and followed the line of Arno’s arm to where a man in black lay on the bricked pavement. Bleeding. But alive.
“Next time.” Arno jammed his finger into Cilla’s shoulder so hard, she stumbled back a step. “Next time, I’d better see you cheering with your sister.”
He marched away to aid the injured man.
Next time? Next time Cilla might say too much. Next time they might turn on her, might even turn on Hilde simply for being Cilla’s sister.
Next time must never come to pass.
“I need to go home,” Cilla said to her sister, and she hurried away without waiting for a reply.
At the far end of Waterloo Square, she stuffed her hideous NSB armband deep in her pocket, hopped on a tram, and found a seat.
Dirk. Only yesterday she’d seen him at her cousin Gerrit van der Zee’s flat. She’d flirted with Dirk. He’d flirted back. Now he was dead.
A sob filled her throat, choked her.
