Free Waiting for the Violins by Justine Saracen

another hole. Then she undid her overalls, discovering in the process how filthy they were, and relieved herself with a quiet sigh. The toilet paper was rough but she was grateful it had been included, and when the business was done, she carefully covered the pit again, pressing the dirt down flat with her boot.
    With that taken care of, she returned to her hiding pit. She gathered the branches and brush over her and settled into something approximating the fetal position, holding her holstered pistol to her chest like a lethal teddy bear.
    She brooded for a while on her plight, with a mixture of fear, sorrow for Lew and the other good men who’d just lost their lives to the war, and an unfocused anger at the Nazis who’d caused it all.
    Bastards , she thought. Murderous bastards. Then, in spite of the damp and the discomfort, and the sensation of being filthy, she succumbed to her exhaustion and fell asleep.

Chapter Eleven
     
    Antonia was jolted awake by the bleating of a goat. She held her breath, gripping her gun to her chest. Agonizing minutes passed until she heard the bleating a second time, this time right over her head, and a moment later, a hand pulled away her brush cover. Pointing her gun out in front of her, she looked up into the face of a terrified woman.
    “Please! Don’t shoot! I have babies at home.” The woman cowered, holding a kid goat to her chest as if it were one of them.
    “No, of course I won’t. I’m sorry.” Antonia returned the gun to its holster and climbed out of her hole. The woman looked to be about thirty, had mousy brown hair drawn back into a single braid, and wore a tattered blue-patterned dress and jacket.
    They stood as if paralyzed, facing each other, and the sound of the pattering rain all around them seemed suddenly loud.
    “Is anyone else on the road with you?” Antonia asked.
    “No. I just bought two goats and was bringing them home. One got out.” She pointed with her head toward the road, and Antonia stepped forward to look. In fact, a mule-drawn cart waited on the shoulder of the road holding straw and another goat.
    “English?” the woman asked.
    Given that she was hiding in a hole in jump overalls and with her face painted green, asserting she was Belgian would be ludicrous. “Yes. Can you help me? At least a better place to hide.” Antonia clutched her own shivering shoulders. “Out of the rain.”
    The woman looked around nervously and hesitated, it seemed, for an eternity. “All right. Come on. Under the straw, but hurry.”
    “Yes, yes. Of course.” She dropped her jump helmet into the damp hole and spread the loose underbrush over it. The woman was back on the road now, urging the errant goat into the cart, and Antonia hurried toward her.
    She climbed in next to the kid, and the woman covered her with armloads of straw. After bleating a brief protest, the goats resumed nibbling on it, and, a moment later, the cart jerked into motion. She pressed her eyes shut against the dust of the straw and the foul-smelling grit on the cart floor, but all of it adhered to her damp hair and skin.
    The ride over the pitted road was a test of endurance, but after what seemed like an hour, the cart stopped. A gate creaked, and then they moved again, this time rocking violently from side to side. A yard, she guessed, with even bigger potholes.
    The gate creaked closed again, and the goat hooves thumped lightly as the woman untied them and led them off the cart. Then the straw over Antonia’s head parted to reveal daylight.
    “Please, wait for me by the door.”
    “Gladly.” Antonia climbed over the side of the cart onto the thick mud of the yard. She glanced around while her rescuer unhitched the mule and led it into a stall. The yard was open to the rain, but on one side a covered area protected half a dozen chickens, and on the other, an elevated hutch presumably housed several rabbits.
    The woman opened a door leading from the barn area to the house and frowned as