The year is 1942 and Europe is at the height of World War Two. Mila Goldstein, a Dutch Jew living in occupied Holland, has signed on as an informant for the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS). However, days before her assignment, a wounded Ge...
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New chappie is up, and it's much longer as promised! We're finally meeting Heinrich Muller and there are so many other surprises in store! Let me know what you guys think!
"That must be Mr. Muller," General Eichmann said when a knock sounded at the front door. Standing to his feet, he disappeared into the foyer.
Josef had picked her up at 5:15 and they'd arrived at the Eichmann's residence just in time for cocktail hour. They'd been greeted at the door by a tall, skinny woman who'd introduced herself as Mrs. Eichmann.
Her face was thin, her prominent cheekbones holding a hint of rosiness from the rouge she'd dusted them with, contrasting sharply against her alabaster skin. Her golden hair was flecked with streaks of silver, and was pinned back into an elegant updo. A string of pearls adorned her neck, pairing nicely with the navy blue pencil dress she wore. She was beautiful, and Mila wondered how old she was. Despite the subtle graying of her hair, she didn't look a day over forty.
"Would you like another dear?" Mrs. Eichmann asked, pulling Mila out of her thoughts.
"Oh, yes please," She nodded, glancing down at the empty martini glass she held in her hands. "Thank you."
"Mr. Muller," She heard General Eichmann's voice from the entrance of the sitting room. "This is Captain Josef Fischer, head of security."
"Captain Fischer," A thick German accent, who she guessed belonged to Heinrich Muller, spoke.
"Nice to meet you sir," Josef replied.
Turning around, she froze as her eyes fell on Mr. Muller. She'd seen him before ... Seen those eyes before. She'd never be able to forget them. Those green eyes staring at her now, were the same eyes that had looked over her father's and brother's lifeless bodies after they'd been shot, and Heinrich Muller had been the one to pull the trigger. She was pulled abruptly back to reality by the sound of shattering glass. Looking down at her feet, she saw the martini glass she'd been holding seconds before, splintered into several pieces across the hardwood.
"Are you alright?" Mrs. Eichmann asked, touching Mila's arm.
"I'm so sorry!" She began, shaking away the sinking feeling growing within her stomach. "I-I...," She attempted to come up with an explanation but trailed off. Every eye in the room was on her, including Heinrich Muller's.
"Oh, it's quite alright," Mrs. Eichmann waved her off. Grabbing the tea towel from the bar cart, she began picking up the broken pieces. "Plenty more where that one came from," She reassured her.
"And who might this be?" Heinrich Muller asked.
"This is Mila Vanderwall," General Eichmann replied. "My typist and a friend of Captain Fischer's."
"Vanderwall," Mr. Muller repeated with mild interest. "So you're from Holland, yes?"
"Yes sir," She replied, focusing all her energy on holding the hand she'd extended to him steady.
