Eloise’s fork clattered onto the dish. “You want to invite Germans here? To our home?” There was a note of panic in her voice as the color drained from her fair cheeks, and Ans grew alert. This was the first hint she’d seen of Eloise’s altering moods. Ans watched Professor Huizenga to see how he would react.

“Eloise. Look at me.” He reached for her hand, waiting until she did. “Our guests have also suffered from their tyranny. Professor Jacobs and his daughter came to the Netherlands for refuge, just as you did after the war. The foolish Nazis will no longer allow him to teach at the University of Cologne because he’s Jewish.”

“So they know what it’s like?”

“Yes, my love. They know. But I can make other arrangements —”

“No. No, don’t do that. Of course they may stay here.” Her smile seemed forced. Ans saw the heroic effort Eloise was making to regain her balance.

“I’ve arranged for him to lecture at the university. His daughter, Miriam, is about your age, Ans. They’ve been living in a refugee camp, but I’ve offered to let them stay with us until they find an apartment. Perhaps you could help them?”

“I would be happy to,” Ans said. He had directed attention away from his wife, smoothly and deliberately, to give her a chance to recover. “I know my way around Leiden pretty well now. Will they want to live near the university?”

“I assume so. Or perhaps near the synagogue off Korevaarstraat. Do you know where that is? Across the canal from the science buildings?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a synagogue.”

“You wouldn’t, necessarily. It’s a plain brick building. Jews don’t build steeples like we do or draw attention to their synagogues in any special way.”

The only Jewish person Ans knew was the wizened tinker who made his rounds in a horse-drawn cart, sharpening knives and selling pots and pans in her village and the surrounding farms. But like everyone else in the Netherlands, Ans had heard about the persecution of Jews in Germany. Jewish families had been streaming across the border into her tiny country in the tens of thousands. She’d seen pictures in the newspaper of the overcrowded Westerbork refugee camp.

Eloise was no longer eating. She had pushed her plate away, unfinished. Her hands fluttered like trapped birds as she straightened her silverware and moved her water glass. “Those poor people . . . ,” she murmured. “What they must have endured. When will our guests arrive, Herman?”

“Later this week, by train. You need to finish eating, my dear.”

Eloise didn’t seem to hear him. “We’ll make them feel welcome, won’t we, Ans?”

“I’ll be happy to —”