Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

“But it didn’t work,” Juliana said, more or less guessing. Her knowledge of World War II military history was limited.

“No,” Wilhelmina said heavily, “it didn’t work. The Germans responded by tightening their grip on The Netherlands. Food shipments to the cities in the west were cut off, there was virtually no oil or coal, transportation was nearly impossible to obtain. It’s said we had less than five hundred calories a day on which to survive-and there were the onderduikers to feed as well. Your mother was the only person I knew who could make fodder beets and tulip bulbs palatable. It was a terrible, bitter winter. Hongerwinter, we call it. The Winter of Hunger.”

Juliana said nothing. What was there to say? Her mother had never mentioned such suffering. Never.

“In any case,” Aunt Willie went on, “there was nothing left in their country for Rachel and Abraham. They chose to emigrate to the United States, and we drifted apart. It happens.” Wilhelmina was silent for a moment, lost in the past, but she recovered herself and dipped into her paper bag for the cookies, six of them, wrapped in waxed paper. “Here, have a cookie. By the way, have you noticed we’re being followed?”

Juliana turned sharply from the window, but her aunt grabbed her arm, stopping her from looking around. Nodding that she was back under control, Juliana whispered dubiously, “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Wilhelmina said without arrogance and let go of Juliana’s arm. “I lived under German occupation for five years. I know when I’m being followed-and I don’t like it. The Nazis did too much of it during the war. Now I have no tolerance even for the neighborhood children tagging along behind me.”

Under different circumstances, Juliana might have considered her aunt hopelessly paranoid. But not now. Not after Matthew Stark’s wild, unnerving visit to the Club Aquarian and her own mad flight to Rotterdam.

Her voice deceptively calm, she asked, “What does he look like?”

“A Nazi.” The old Dutchwoman’s mouth was a straight, uncompromising line.

“Aunt Willie, for God’s sake.”

“He followed us onto the train. He’s very blond-”

“So am I. So are you. That doesn’t make us Nazis.”

Wilhelmina ignored her niece. “His hair is cut short, and he’s neatly dressed. Too neatly, in my opinion. A young man shouldn’t be too tidy. I know you think I’m narrow-minded, but that’s my way.” She shrugged, lifting her heavy, square shoulders. “The war’s been over a long time now, but I will never forget-or forgive.”

Juliana didn’t comment on her aunt’s views. “What do you think we should do about this guy?”

“For the moment, nothing.”

“And just let the sonofabitch follow us?”

Aunt Willie smiled. “I like your spirit, Juliana. But don’t worry-we’ll get rid of this Nazi in Antwerp.”

When they arrived at the train station in Antwerp, Aunt Willie moved quickly through the crowd, assuming her niece would keep up. She did.

“The Nazi doesn’t know we’ve spotted him,” her old aunt said. “Ha! Such arrogance. But it makes our task much simpler.”

She took Juliana firmly by the elbow, and together they leaped into a bus, leaving their tail behind.

Wilhelmina was beaming. “Well, that was easy.”

“Jesus, Aunt Willie,” Juliana said, but she was impressed, although not at all relieved to have confirmed that Aunt Willie was right: the man had been following them.

Otis Raymond ducked into the fishing shack and collapsed onto his bunk, lying on his back on the stinking mattress. With the back of one skinny hand, he wiped some of the dirt and sweat off his face. He was sweating and shivering at the same time. It wasn’t as cold as Washington, but colder than he was used to. All the campaigns he’d been involved in had taken place in warm climates. He liked the heat, had gotten to where he couldn’t stand the cold. He’d told the guys, “Gimme mosquitoes, dysentery, malaria-just keep your friggin’ snow.”

He could almost feel his bones rattling inside him. He kept getting thinner, must have picked up a worm or something, and he couldn’t keep up with the younger guys, even some of the older ones, the fitness freaks. Christ, he was what, forty? Never thought he’d live even this long.

With a squeaky chuckle, wheezing, he sat up. “You call this living?”

His head wasn’t right, either. Too much booze, too much dope, even though Bloch was pretty strict about that stuff. God wasn’t as straight as the sergeant. But Otis found ways around rules and regulations; he always had. He had a bottle stashed now. Wouldn’t make much difference, though, if he drank it or not. No matter what he did lately, he kept thinking about the old days and the guys he’d saved-but mostly about the ones who’d died. He’d hated having guys go on his ship. He remembered how the poor dumb fucks, the unlucky bastards, would scream for their mothers and girlfriends and wives, or how they’d yell, “fuckin’shit,” or just scream and scream without any words at all, and he could still see the blood and guts and bones and smell the dead and dying stink of them. They’d have to dip the chopper in water, him and Stark, to clean out the blood and guts.

He’d seen men die since Vietnam, but it wasn’t the same. Maybe because he was older, maybe because they weren’t the first, maybe because he just didn’t give a shit anymore-it just wasn’t the same. He didn’t give a flying fuck if he died himself. When he’d first gone to Vietnam, he didn’t figure on living at all. Didn’t know what to do with himself when he did make it out. Go back home and pick tomatoes?

He still didn’t give a damn whether or not he died. Christ, if he did, would he be risking his scrawny neck to help Ryder and get information to Stark?

“Shit,” he muttered, getting out his bottle. “Ryder’s an asshole-Stark, too. What the hell they want me to do? Screw ’em.”

He drank from the bottle and lay back in his bunk. The mattress was full of bugs. He woke up every morning with bites all over him. Fuck it. He didn’t care.

“Hey, Stark, buddy.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Man, I’m counting on you.”

Matt’d get Ryder’s ass out of the fire, but Otis had quit believing that was the main reason he’d gotten Stark involved. Yeah, he wanted to help Sam, why not? But more than that, he wanted Stark to take out Bloch. He might be the only one who could do it. If he stayed on the story, he’d end up at the camp.

Someone had to do something about Bloch. Goddamn wild animal, the sergeant was. Always had been. Otis didn’t know why the hell he’d signed up with the fucker, except he didn’t have shit else to do and Bloch was offering good money. Stark’d known right from the start what the sergeant was, told Otis, too, but he’d ignored him, just like he’d ignored his daddy who kept telling him he could come on home, he could stay with him and Mamma, find a regular job, eat good. Jeez, when was the last time he’d seen his old man? Five, six years? Probably dead by now.

He drank some more, the warm booze dribbling down the sides of his mouth and onto the mattress, maybe killing off a few bugs. Bloch slept in the main house, living it up, the bastard.

If Matt could see him now. Otis sniffled, imagining his old buddy’s black eyes on him, telling him like no words could what a stupid asshole he was for taking orders from Bloch. For not telling him in the first place Bloch was involved. What the hell. Matthew Stark was on the story now, thanks to Otis Raymond. They’d all be thanking him soon. Yeah. The Weaze’d be responsible for saving Ryder’s stupid ass and seeing Bloch go down.