Of Windmills and War by Diane H Moody Page B

shelves until
nothing was left. While pillaging, they ordered residents to give up all their
metal treasures—copper, brass, pewter, silver, serving pitchers, plates, and
anything else they could melt down for ammunition. Anya had watched her
neighbor dig several holes in his backyard to hide his treasures. How has it
come to this? she’d wondered.
    The
Germans demanded all radios be turned in. But like many others, Anya and her
father hid their radio—in their case, behind a wall in the pantry. They drilled
a hole for access then placed a framed picture over it. Listening late at night
to the BBC, they’d heard that Queen Wilhelmina and most of the Dutch government
had fled to England just before the invasion. Anya was
furious. How could our queen turn her back on her people at such a time? How
could they care only for themselves, leaving the rest of us to ruin? Her
father had cautioned her, speculating the queen surely had good reason to go to England . Hours
later they heard the voice of Wilhelmina explaining her actions. Unwilling to
be arrested or shot as a lamb unto slaughter, the wise queen and her government
had taken all of the national treasures and money to England .
There, they had set up a temporary station where they could continue to govern from
a safe place. Wilhelmina could speak to her people via Radio Orange — a
broadcasting service in cooperation with the BBC—at least to those who kept
hidden radios.
    Now,
Anya and her father waited, listening to determine how far away the bomb must
have hit. Father and daughter looked once again at each other, confident there
was no need to take shelter.
    “Go on,
Father. Tell me about the wedding feast.”
    “So
much food, so lovingly prepared. And yet I don’t remember what was served. Only
the cake we cut together. Lemon cake with a pale yellow icing.” He paused
again.
    “Mother
once told me how nervous she was in front of all those people, but she stood by
your side because she loved you so dearly.”
    His
eyes glistened. “Yes, we loved each other very much. Even as a girl she was
very shy. Yet she was willing to become a pastor’s wife because she believed
God himself had drawn us together.”
    A
moment passed. “Will Mother recover? Will she ever be herself again?”
    Sadness
fell across his face. “I don’t know, Anya. This war will be very hard on her.
Even now I don’t think she truly understands that the Germans now occupy our homeland.
I can’t bring myself to tell her. She’s so fragile . . .”
    “What’s
to become of us?”
    He
squeezed her hand again. “Only God knows the answer to that question, Anya. He
has allowed this travesty to occur for reasons we may never fully understand.
But we trust Him, no matter what befalls us. Always we trust Him.”
    Anya
pushed her chair back and stood. “Why would a loving God do such a thing? How
can He just sit back and watch the suffering? Where is His heart if not with His
people?”
    Her
father gazed at her with sympathetic eyes. “This, you must ask Him. I cannot
speak for Him.”
    She
reached for the dish rag and began wiping the countertop in busy circles. “I
don’t have your faith, Father. I have no patience for God playing games with
people’s lives. He must stop this at once!”
    He made
his way to her side, stilling her hands with his own. “Oh Anya, do not presume
to tell God what He must or must not do.”
    She
untangled herself from his grip, lifting her face to mere inches from his.
“Then what are we to do with our guests?” She jerked her chin in the direction
of the attic. “Huh? How can we promise them safety when our own lives are in
peril? What will we do when our home is searched and they are discovered? Even
in the hidden space between the attic and the ceiling—if the baby were to whimper,
we’d all be arrested. You’ve heard the stories. You know what the Gestapo does
to those hiding Jews!”
    “Lower
your voice, Anya.”
    She
huffed, planting her fists