Free Waiting for the Violins by Justine Saracen Page A

she studied Antonia’s squalid state. “Please wait outside. I’ll bring you something to put on.”
    Antonia stood obediently in a sort of vestibule, but the smell of boiled potatoes suggested she was right outside the kitchen. She unlaced her boots and yanked them off, along with the wet wool socks inside. Grateful for the warmth surrounding her, she also peeled off her filthy overalls and stood in equally wet but at least unmuddied women’s clothing. But she stank, and the rucksack she’d unrolled from her back was damp and malodorous as well.
    The woman returned carrying a man’s coat. “My husband says you can come in. So, umm, I guess you should tell us your name.”
    “Sophie.” Antonia gave her code name.
    “I’m Berta. And this is my husband, Albert.” Antonia stepped into the kitchen to confront a man sitting at the table. Like his wife, he was hard to place in age. His face was gaunt, with beard stubble, though he had the full head of hair of a young man. When he didn’t get up, she moved toward him and offered her hand. “Thank you for taking me in. I’ll try not to be a lot of trouble.”
    He bent forward and shook her hand, and when he righted himself, she could see why he stayed seated. His right leg ended just below the knee. And on the floor under the table, just within reach, was a set of crutches. He glanced up at her matted hair. “Perhaps you would like to wash.”
    “Oh, yes. I would love to. I’m afraid I smell like goats.” She touched her cheek and remembered that her face was still covered with camouflage grease. “And look like a monster.”
    He smiled weakly. “We have no bathroom, only that.” He pointed toward a wide square sink that presumably served for all washing and laundry needs. “There’s hot water in the kettle. I’ll leave you to your privacy so you can bathe, and my wife will give you something dry to wear. Then you have to hide in the basement. The Germans come every day to requisition our eggs.”
    “You are very kind.”
    “Not kind. Just vengeful. I lost this leg last year to German shrapnel.” He groped under the table for his crutches and struggled to a standing position. “I wish we could do more for you, but we have the children to protect. It makes a man timid.” He hobbled toward the door of the other room.
    Berta was already pumping cold water into a pitcher in the sink. She added boiling water from the kettle and tested the temperature of the mix. Satisfied, she drew a bottle of brown liquid from a shelf over the sink. “This is soap I make myself. Nothing like they have in Brussels, but it will clean.”
    “Thank you. I’ll try not to use too much.”
    Antonia unfolded her jumpsuit, transferring all the survival equipment from the pockets into the rucksack. “I need to destroy this.” She stood with the suit hanging over her arm. “Can you burn it, or should I bury it?”
    “Give it here.” Berta laid the jumpsuit over the kitchen table and fetched a large pair of scissors from a drawer. “It won’t fit into the stove except in pieces,” she said, and began cutting it apart. When she’d reduced the garment to a pile of rags, she lifted the iron lid from the stovetop and fed the pieces one by one into the hole. Each section of the thick damp fabric smoked for a moment, then caught fire.
    While it burned, Antonia tested the water in the pitcher and found it pleasantly hot. Leaning over the sink, she poured a portion of it over her head, then lathered her scalp thoroughly, stopping to pick out particles of leaf or straw. Probably worse things, she thought, recalling the goats. After the first rinse, she used the same soap to scrub the camouflage paint from her face and neck and then to scratch out the soil from under her fingernails.
    She considered staying clothed, but she had never felt so dirty and couldn’t bear another moment of it. She unsnapped her money belt from around her midriff and then her brassiere, and with the