They toured the house when they finished their tea, and Ans wondered how long it would take to feel at home here. She carried her own bags and suitcase to her bedroom on the second floor, a room every bit as lush and elegant as the rest of the home, the suite of a guest, not a servant. She would have the luxury of a bed all to herself, not shared with her little sister. Ans would miss Maaike’s warmth on cold winter nights but not her sprawling, poking elbows and knees. Her room was on the same floor as the Huizengas’ bedroom suite, even though there were two more vacant bedrooms and another bath on the third floor. It seemed surprising until Ans recalled that the professor wanted her near Eloise when he couldn’t be.

“Please, take your time unpacking and getting settled,” Eloise said before leaving. “There’s no hurry at all. I need to attend to some correspondence downstairs.” She closed the door behind her. Ans was unsure what to do. Should she follow Mrs. Huizenga around like a lapdog, checking on her, making sure she was all right? Was it okay to leave her alone for a few minutes? The professor said to be her friend, not her jailer, but did that mean it was okay to leave her alone sometimes? And if so, for how long?

Ans opened her suitcase and began filling the wardrobe and dresser with her things. The shining enthusiasm she’d felt when she’d stepped off the train this morning had been dimmed by the realization of what a huge responsibility she’d agreed to. Ans wondered if she was in over her head.

CHAPTER 4

The Westerbork refugee camp was still under construction when Miriam and Abba arrived. It squatted on a bleak stretch of heathland, seven miles south of Assen, the nearest town. They were assigned to a small space in a long wooden barracks with two beds and two blankets, separated from the rest of the noisy, restless refugee families by a curtain. The space was open to the rafters above them, which were crisscrossed with strings of drying laundry. The dank odor of wet wool filled the air and stuck in Miriam’s throat. Sharing toilet facilities with the other women in her barracks robbed her of the last remnants of her dignity. With bare wooden walls, floors, and ceilings, the barracks were how Miriam imagined prison might be. But she wouldn’t cry. Or perhaps she couldn’t cry. She told herself it was no more a prison than her home in Cologne had been.

With so few belongings, it didn’t take long to settle in. Abba fashioned a makeshift shelf for his books from a discarded vegetable crate and used his suitcase as a desk, where he sat for most of the day writing endless letters. Rain added to the damp mugginess in the barracks.