IT IS a Saturday afternoon, and Willem’s father isn’t home. He is sure to return shortly, though, as he usually does, to spend the afternoon in the company of yet another woman, which is always Willem’s cue to leave before he guesses they might arrive. But for now the place is his. As usual, Willem sits at the small table in his father’s bedroom, deciphering a textbook with his German-Dutch dictionary by his side. Biology is getting boring, though, and Willem has already skipped ahead in the book to the parts about human reproduction. He is secretly hoping for a school lesson on the subject, and he begins fantasizing about live demonstrations in class. Engrossed in his fantasies but restrained by the possibility of hearing his father’s key turning in the lock at any moment, Willem sits at the table and stares across the room, dreaming. But then he notices that something on the other side of the room looks slightly amiss. Scanning the nearly empty room, he immediately determines what is wrong. The secret drawer of his father’s desk—a different desk from the one left behind in Vienna, a smaller, dirtier one, but with a secret drawer nonetheless—has been left open.

Willem waits a moment, listening carefully in the silence. No one is out in the hallway, of that he is certain. Taking care not to make a sound, Willem pushes away from the little table and stands up, scampering across the room and deftly pulling open the drawer. It is almost too good to be true. There, lying right on top of the pile, is the letter with Private Landsmann’s diagnosis. Willem hasn’t seen it since they were in Vienna, but he barely needs to read it again. He practically knows it by heart.

The temptation is too great. Willem pulls out the letter, places it right in the middle of the empty desk, and closes the drawer. Then, knowing precisely what he is doing, he returns to the table, picks up his biology book, and retreats to his tiny bedroom, closing the door behind him.

In less than half an hour, he hears his father come in the door, talking with gusto to a laughing woman who steps into the apartment with a click of heels that makes Willem’s heart flutter. Willem hears the door close and the echoes of playful kisses as he draws her further into the room. And then they both stop short.

“What’s this?” he hears her say in Dutch with a giggle. “Is someone writing you love letters? You remember I can read German, don’t you?” Willem stands up, leaning against his tiny window and still holding his biology book. He would cross the room to the door to hear better, but he is afraid of making a sound. He hears his father jump, lunge across the desk, and grab the letter from her hands with a laugh and a stuttered joke, but the words sound as if they are falling apart in his mouth. Willem smiles. It is almost as if, Willem thinks with stunted pleasure, his father has forgotten how to speak Dutch.