Catching the Wind(7)

Fear had silenced his father from speaking publicly against the Führer in the past year, but Dietmar heard his parents’ whispers at night, his ear pressed against their bedroom door. They thought Dietmar too young to trust with their secrets, but he hadn’t said a word to anyone about their work. Nor would he now.

“What’s wrong with helping the Jews?” Brigitte asked Heinz. “My friend—”

“Hush,” Dietmar said, squeezing her hand.

He hadn’t wanted to be harsh with her, but the way Heinz looked at her, then back at Dietmar, sent chills down his spine. His classmate’s eyes were full of suspicion. Scorn. In that moment, Dietmar knew that neither he nor Brigitte would be safe anywhere in Moselkern.

“Wait here,” Heinz had said as he backed out of the shed. Then he closed the door.

In the dim light, the image of Dietmar’s bruised mother flashed through his mind. And he heard her silent plea for him to run.

He peeked out the crack in the door and saw Heinz glance at the shed before slipping into the house.

Dietmar had to protect Brigitte, but even the shield of a knight, forged in fire, wasn’t strong enough to ward off the Gestapo. If someone like Herr Darre found them, he’d force Brigitte to join the Jungm?delbund—League of German Girls. And he’d probably send Dietmar to a labor camp.

From the moment they stepped out of the shed, Dietmar never looked back. For almost a month now, he and Brigitte had been running, following the path of the afternoon sun toward England.

They were far from home, yet he knew Germans had infiltrated the land between here and the wide channel that separated Belgium from Great Britain. But if he and Brigitte could get across the water, they could find his aunt in London. Surely his mother’s sister would help them.

The sun was beginning to settle behind the trees that flanked them. Soon they needed to find something to eat and a place to rest.

“Are you hungry?” Dietmar asked.

Brigitte shook her head.

“You must be thirsty then.” They’d turned away from a stream yesterday and had yet to find more water.

“A little.”

“We’ll find our way home. One day.”

The fading light caught the blue in her eyes and made them shimmer. “As long as we’re together—”

He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. “I’m not leaving you.”

The cowbells rang again, their song melding with the breeze, and he scoured the mantle of dark shadows and tall pine trees beside them. A knight may fight with sword and shield, but his greatest duty was to fear God and live by honor. To defend the weak and keep the faith.

“We need some milk,” Dietmar said, guiding her toward the melody of bells.

She followed him into the shadows, the pine needles snagging their stained clothing and matted hair. He’d never milked a cow in his life, but how hard could it be? They’d been subsisting on river water and berries and the sausages from Brigitte’s house. Sausages they’d finished three days ago. Milk would give them the strength to continue until he found more food.

A parade of light broke through the trees, and on the other side, a dozen tan-and-white cows grazed in a circular pasture before them. Two of the cows glanced up at the children, curious, but then they bowed their heads to return to their feast.

His stomach rumbled from hunger, and he eyed Brigitte’s tin. Would she let him use it to catch the milk?

Before he asked, she pointed toward a pail hanging on a post. Quickly he retrieved it and walked toward a lone cow near the trees. Kneeling beside the animal, he eyed the swollen udder and then tugged on the teat.

Nothing happened. The cow didn’t even look back.

Brigitte stepped up beside him, an unruly-looking halo bunched on the top of her head. “You’re pulling too hard.”

He glanced up. “Have you ever milked a cow?”

Her chin inched up. “A princess would never milk her own cow.”

“Then it’s good I’m not a princess,” he tried to joke, but she didn’t smile.

He tried milking again, lighter this time, and a few drops of liquid dripped into the bucket. Brigitte clapped her hands.

Someone called from across the pasture. Turning, he saw a man running toward them, a wiry fellow with blotched skin, waving a straw hat over his head. He shouted something again in a language Dietmar didn’t understand.

Dietmar sprang to his feet, ready to sprint, but he didn’t run. He couldn’t leave Brigitte behind.

In seconds the man was beside them, studying their mud-spattered clothing and wild hair. Dietmar stood tall, and Brigitte stepped in quietly behind him. He was prepared to defend her. Prepared to do whatever he must.

Instead of reprimanding them, the man simply asked a question, this time in German. “Are you hungry?”

Dietmar didn’t reply.

A stone farmhouse stood beyond the pasture, its sloping roof made of thatch. Smoke puffed out of the chimney and clouded in the orange-tinted sky. He could see the fence around a large garden, the dark leaves ready to harvest. Perhaps they could buy some food from the man.

The farmer pointed back toward the house. “My wife is making a rabbit stew for dinner.”

Dietmar didn’t see ridicule in the man’s eyes, like he’d seen with Heinz. Only curiosity and perhaps compassion.

“You can sleep in our attic tonight.”