“Could either the mother or father pass for Dutch?” Havik asked before she could mention it.

Ans pictured their dark hair, the dark stubble on Avi’s chin. “No. Neither of them could. They speak Dutch with a German accent.”

“That’s a problem.” Havik appeared to be deep in thought. His expression didn’t look hopeful.

“Can you help my friends? Will you help them?”

“Yes, yes, of course. The baby will be the hardest to place. I can find places for the parents, but not together.” Ans’s heart ached for them, forced to endure even more separation. And giving up Elisheva was unimaginable. “Many of our hiding places are fluid,” he continued. “There are raids, informants; people get moved around and seldom stay in the same place for very long unless they’re native Dutchmen and can pose as a maid or a distant cousin who has come to stay. By necessity, families get separated in the shuffle —a place for one here, for two there. Often, they’re hidden for a while, then something puts them in danger and the cards are shuffled all over again. You understand?”

“I think so . . . and I may know a place for the baby. My parents own a farm in the country outside of Leiden. But we would need to invent a story to explain where the baby came from because everyone in their village knows each other’s business.”

“Would your family understand the risk and be willing to take it? They’ll be arrested if they’re caught hiding Jews.”

Ans hesitated. Mama and Papa would gladly do it. She knew their unshakable faith. The question was, did she want to put her family at risk? Not just Mama and Papa, but Wim and Maaike too.

“I can go there and ask.”

“No. Don’t be seen traveling back and forth without a reason. Don’t do anything to make their neighbors or your boyfriend suspicious.”

“Erik cares about me. He’s a good man —”

“Is he friends with this Jewish family as well?”

Ans looked away, shaking her head, remembering all the excuses Erik had given for why he couldn’t meet them or eat at their apartment. “Erik never met them.”

“Trust no one!” he said vehemently. They had circled the paths inside the greenhouse a second time and had come to the door leading out. Ans felt relieved as they stepped from the steamy mugginess. “When was the baby born?” he asked.

“March 7 of last year.”

“Her name?”

“Elisheva. Her Dutch name is Elisabeth.”

“You know the bridge over the Oude Vest near the Beestenmarkt?”

“Yes.”

“Stand on the bridge one week from today at four o’clock, tossing bread to the swans.”

“With my friends?”

“Just you. But bring their identification cards with you. Tell your friends to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Do you have any cousins?” It seemed like an odd question.

“Yes. Several.”