“Listen, if I go home to the farm, I can bring some food back. I want to see my family and let them know I’m all right and —” Eloise winced, sending a shaft of fear through Ans’s heart. “What? Do you know something about my family?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry. It’s isn’t that. It’s just that it’s going to be impossible for you to go anywhere because of all the roadblocks and Nazi activity.”

“I know —it was hard for the Red Cross to get me here, but —”

“No one under the age of forty is allowed to travel. The Nazis will arrest you on sight if you’re caught. And the countryside is very dangerous these days because of the hunger trippers. People are so desperate they defy the law and go to the country to hunt for food. Robbers lie in wait to steal from them on their way back.”

Ans longed to go home in spite of the danger. But before she could argue further, Eloise reached across the table to take both of her hands. “Please don’t leave me again, Ans. I would be sick with worry for you out there. And I could use your help.”

Ans looked down at Eloise’s elegant hands, gripping hers. The beautiful rings she’d always worn were gone. “Of course I’ll help. Tell me what to do.”

“We’re eating whatever we can find these days. A horse dropped dead in the street last week and there was practically a stampede to carve it up. Mrs. Spielman’s cat wouldn’t last five minutes out there. People call cats ‘roof rabbits’ and eat them as fast as they can catch them.”

Ans smiled. “And what is Mrs. Spielman’s cat eating these days?”

“She’s a very capable mouser, it turns out. She does well for herself. Meanwhile, I’m selling or swapping anything I can find to buy food. Rabbits cost thirty guilders each at the butcher’s last week, and they barely had any meat on their bones. They set up mobile soup kitchens around town from time to time, if we can get there before the soup runs out. And you’ll love this —they passed out pamphlets with instructions for cooking tulip bulbs. One recipe said to fry them, but we haven’t seen cooking oil in years, so the only choice was to boil them. Meta dug up all of my bulbs, but they tasted ‘like a slap in the face,’ as the old Dutch expression goes. Not that rabbit or horse tastes any better.”

“I’ll be another mouth to feed.”