My bare feet tread silently the sodden ground as I approach it, and it me. It is a dark figure, walking slowly in the fog, barely recognizable as human. A man. Thomas. He steps close and I can see his smile, his hair, his face. We embrace and are gone before daylight comes.

Daylight. My eyes open with somber reality. It had been a dream. It was the same every night that we spent here. Every night. After more than a year of waiting, of hoping, of crying, it seems impossible to think that things could ever be the same, but somehow, the dream brings me a hope that Thomas lives, that I live in him.

The small farm which my younger sister Bekka and I have learned to call home is located just outside of HelsingØr, Denmark, on the island of Sjaelland. The family which has taken us in are the Fredriks. They have a baby daughter named Janey and an older boy named Henrik who is afraid of his father and will not talk to people, though I often see him talking to the animals out in the pasture. He likes to be alone, and his family respects that. They are good Christian people that take care of us, just like Peter and Thomas promised all those months ago. It all seems so far away now, remembering.

The war to us, although fueled by reports and speculation, seems far away from the small fishing community we live near. I am too old to go to school and not arouse suspicions, but Bekka attends the small school on the west side of HelsingØr. She is doing so well here; it makes my heart swell every time I think of how she has coped with our predicament. Mother would be proud.

"Anna?" Margaret Fredrik asked me as she entered my room, drying her hands on her apron.

"Sorry, Margie. I guess I overslept again," I said, never to be used to the early mornings of farm life.

"Well, you'd better get out there fast, Mr. Fredriks wants you to go for supplies today," she said, leaving the room to return to the kitchen. Why did she always refer to her husband as Mr. Fredriks? I would never get used to that either.

I quickly dressed, excited to go to town. It was the rare occasion that I could enjoy the busy streets of the port city of HelsingØr. It was almost like Hamburg if you ignored the language and the lack of modern shops in the market place.

"You're late," he said sternly as I climbed up on the cart. He was a good man, but not given to talk or affection.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. Do you have a list for me?"

He handed me the paper and I started off along the well-worn trail to HelsingØr. The horses moved slowly and deliberately, and I longed for the day Mr. Fredriks would have enough money for a good truck.

The trip to town was uneventful. When I reached the port, the smell of fish and salt water was overwhelming. I quickly tied down the horses and went into the Klassen's shop for my supplies.

"Hullo there, Annie!" called Mr. Klassen with a thick Danish accent.

"Hello, sir. Any news since I last came?" I asked, handing him my list.

"Well, nothing very important. But I do hear that there is some movement of troops over in Jutland," he said as he gathered the supplies.

"What kind of movement? Doesn't Denmark have a non-aggression pact with Germany?" I asked, slightly confused, a little afraid.

"A pact isn't going to stop those Nazis," he said shaking his head sadly and handing me two bags.

I thought about this and remembered the cruelty of the Nazis. I wondered what would have happened had we stayed and shuddered at the thought.

When I got back to the farm that afternoon, I went out to the old barn at the edge of the farmyard to fetch some milk from the old dairy cow. As I stepped out of the shadows of the doorway, I noticed Henrik sitting on a bale of hay, quietly talking with the cow he had started to milk.

"Hello, Henrik," I said warmly.

He jumped up and quickly averted his eyes from mine.

"It's all right, Henrik. I'm not going to bite you, I just came for some milk," I offered, trying to let him loosen up.

He resumed his milking with his back to me. The teats moving with his hands in a fast, rhythmic motion. I started to tap my foot to the squirts. Henrik turned around and looked at me oddly, glancing at my feet. I grinned.

"Just keep doing it, a teensy bit faster," I said to him. "When I was a boy, 'bout half past three, my daddy said, 'Son, come here to me' said 'things may change, things may go, but this is one thing you oughtta know," I sang freely.

The music filled the barn and echoed back to me. I missed my music. Missed dancing. I looked at Henrik, who had stopped when I had. He was smiling widely, his blue eyes radiant.

"C'mon, Henrik! Sing it with me!" I said, laughing at myself. "It tain't whatcha do, it's the way thatcha do it," I continued in my best jive voice, "It tain't whatcha do it's-" I stopped, seeing Mr. Fredriks in the doorway, his eyes steely.

"The milk?"

I walked over to the full bucket and brought it over to him, trying not to spill the contents on my shoes.

"Here, sir. Henrik did it for me. I was..just teaching him some swing music," I said sheepishly.

"There will be none of that in my household," he said coldly. "It is the devil's work."

With that he turned and left. I started to leave, too.

"Annie," Henrik said very softly, "thank you for singing for me." He smiled.

"Any time, Henrik. Maybe next week I'll show you how to jitter-bug!" I laughed. Henrik was not like his father, I was glad.

It is the end of April, 1940. The Nazis have invaded Copenhagen. I have the report direct from Mr. Klassen, and he owns a short-wave radio. I can't sleep knowing that they are near. I told Bekka, but she wouldn't believe me. She says that in school they were told that Nazi Germany would never invade Denmark. I can't blame her for not wanting to believe, I don't want to either.

"Anna, come to bed," Bekka said from across our small room.

She is lying in her small bed next to the wall, already under the covers. She has grown taller, I notice. She looks like Mama. I smile at her as I leave my perch on the window sill.

"Goodnight, little sister."

"Goodnight, Anna," she says back, her voice far away and sleepy.

Waking, I see that it is far too early for me to be up. The sun hasn't even come over the pasture yet. There is a dense fog, and I step outside in the early morning dew. There is a figure approaching. I must be dreaming again. The figure steps close, peering around through the fog, looking lost. I wait for my favorite part of the dream to begin, but instead, I stare at him in utter bewilderment. I am not dreaming. He is real.

"Peter?" I asked incredulously. "Is..is that really you?"

He rushed up to me, dressed in a poor man's clothes. He hugged me, and I him.

"Shhh! We must be very careful, if I'm found, they'll kill me, and most likely you," he said, ushering me behind the barn. Then he turned to me. "Oh, Annie! I can't believe I actually found you!" he cried, stepping back to look at me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, happy to see him, but confused. "Where is Thomas?"

He looked down, unable to speak. I lifted his chin with my hand.

"Peter? Where is he?"

"He's dead, Annie. For five weeks now. He..he was leading an underground resistance when Emil found out and.." he stopped, knowing not what to say. He watched me.

I was frozen still. I couldn't comprehend the meaning of this terrible truth. Could he really be gone? My Thomas?

"No, Peter..you must be mistaken..Thomas-" "Thomas is dead, Annie. He died trying to save a family of Jews. In a way..he died for you," Peter said, brushing my first tear from my cheek with his thumb. "His..his last words were, 'Tell Annie that I always loved her'. I promised him that I would tell you," he said softly.

"Oh..oh, my poor sweet Thomas!" I cried, sobbing now in pain and confusion.

Peter rocked me gently in the lifting haze until my tears subsided. He explained to me that he had run away from the troops that had entered Copenhagen, stolen some clothes, and had been wandering around Frederiksburg, trying to find out where I had been taken to. After a week of travel, he had finally come to HelsingØr and asked at the Klassen's store if they knew anyone named Annie. He looked much thinner than I remembered, and there was something different in his eyes. Something cold. I didn't even want to imagine the things that he had seen.

"So you will come to town next Thursday?" he asked, confirming our plans to meet again.

"Yes, I will find a way," I smiled, hugging him tightly before he left. The sun was on the rise.

He turned back and looked into my eyes, saying, "He did love you, Annie."

I nodded and waved him off, my heart and mind in a far away time and place.

"I'm sorry about Thomas, Anna," Bekka said softly as she came up next to where I sat on the window sill.

I had told her of Peter's visit two nights before, when I couldn't hide my sorrow any longer.

"Thank you," I replied, not wanting to talk.

"You know," she continued, trying to cheer me up, "whenever Papa saw one of us crying, he would say, 'Child, be happy, for you are God's gift'. Remember?"

"And what did that get Papa?!" I snapped back, squeezing my knees against my chest even tighter.

She began to leave, her head down.

"Rebekka..I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cross with you," I said, taking her small hand. I had to be strong for her. For both of us. Tomorrow I was going to meet Peter.

"Then where, Peter?" I said, my voice rising after an hour of futile discussion. "After Sweden? Then what? Palestine?! It just isn't going to happen," I said angrily. Not angry at Peter, but at the world.

"Well, you can't just stay here," he said back, also angered. "The army has invaded! You know what comes next."

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. It was too hard to think about. How could we be saved this time? How could I save Bekka?

"There is a railway ferry that goes to Helsingborg, Sweden. We could get you there by tomorrow," he said finally. It was our only option.

I nodded and said, "Thank you, Peter. For everything. I'm sorry for being so stubborn. What time should we be there?"

We talked some more, planning an exact strategy in the basement of the Klassen's store. Bekka and I would meet him at the ferry at midnight tomorrow night. We would go to Sweden, be saved. It was our only chance to live.

My body aches all over. Surely I will die soon. Breathing is getting harder by the hour, and I am still bleeding under the rough blanket and bandages that cover me. All I know is that Bekka is safe in Sweden, and I have been shot.

We met Peter at the ferry as planned, driven up by my good friend Henrik, who talks often now. Peter was there, and so were twelve other Jews that were escaping that night. They were mostly children, some even younger than Bekka. Sweet Bekka. She will be all right, I know it.

The children had all boarded, and I was about to also. I was saying goodbye to Henrik when I heard gunshots and the slap of boots against the hard ground. Peter yelled something I couldn't understand. He was talking to the soldiers, saying that all of the Jews had left, were gone. They didn't listen but took him away, beating him mercilessly with their trundjens. I don't know where he is even now, as I lay here in an unfamiliar bed remembering. Somehow he must have been followed, spied on. As soon as the captain of the ferry heard the first gunshot, he started to leave. I am glad. Bekka is safe. It is all that matters anymore.

"Annie?" a voice breaks my solitude. It is Henrik. His startling blue eyes are filled with tears.

"Henrik, how are you?" I ask, relieved he has not been hurt.

"Fine, Annie. Fine. I.." he hesitated. "There is someone to see you," he said as he stepped back and out of my vision. I can't see who it is, it's getting harder to focus.

"Anna? My little Annabelle?" a husky voice asked.

That name. I hadn't been called that name in so long. I couldn't place that voice..so familiar. So sweet to my ears.

"Papa!" I cried weakly as the man before me took my hands and kissed them, crying. "But..but how? Oh..oh, Papa," I said again, clutching his rough hands as tight as I could with my dwindling strength. It didn't matter how or why. He was there, he was alive. He has survived this cruel war.

It is later now. Almost morning. The sky is gray with thick mists, and I don't feel pain anymore. I can't even feel my Papa's hands holding mine, or hear his soft voice. I can't feel anything except the cool mist against my skin as I walk outside onto the green hills. I'm leaving everything behind me, all fear, pain, and war. I can see a shadowy figure in the mist before me. I know that this is not a dream, but my own reality.

Thomas, dressed in his best and smiling like always, takes my hands in his and we embrace. We are together, forever and always. Not hatred, nor war, nor even death can separate us now.

THE END