Snow on the Tulips
“On the road, near the bridge.” “Do you know what happened to him?” Johan shook his head and the man remained silent. “Let me look at your shoulder.” Taking great care not to hurt him in any way, she pulled aside his ripped shirt and lifted a crude dressing. Red oozed from a gaping hole. Her stomach recoiled and she dropped the bandage in place as she turned away. “What happened to you?” “The Gestapo tried to execute me. They missed.” Johan gasped. “You. You were one of them. The men by the canal.” “Ja.” Cornelia touched the bandage. “Who took care of you?” “Your neighbors across the canal treated me, but they turned me out. They were too afraid to let me stay.” Her neighbors had done the right thing. A current of panic shot through Cornelia. She had been wrong to allow him in her house. The Gestapo would arrive to search for him, and when they found him, she and Johan would be shipped to a prison camp. “You have to let me stay.” “I—I—I don’t know.” Was he dangerous? What was the right thing to do? Again she asked herself, what if this had been Hans? Her brother leaned against the door of the storage cupboard. “If we turn him out, he will die for sure.” She twisted her damp hands together as she looked at the man. His eyes, as clear and blue as the big Frisian sky, spoke of kindness. But if she was wrong about him . . . “If you want me to let you stay here, you must tell me what you did.” “I was out after curfew.” “Doing what?” “Meeting a woman. A married woman.” 19
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5/9/13 12:43 PM