“Why are you here and not my dad?”

“I don’t know—all I know is that he wants me to help you and your brother and your sister and your mom. He’ll probably explain everything when he gets home again.”

Now it was Piet Hoffmann who peeked. And when he was sure Hugo had leaned back, he sought Zofia’s hand, squeezed it hard.

The horseshoe-shaped apartment building seemed more awake than their suburban neighborhood had been; there was at least one window lit on every floor. Rasmus and Luiza had both fallen asleep during the short journey, while Hugo anxiously tried to make sense of what he was seeing outside the car window.

“What . . . Why are we here?”

“Your dad said you needed to sleep here tonight.”

“Why should we do that?”

“He didn’t say. But he wanted me to help you. Drive you here, show you.”

“Mom?”

Hugo grabbed hold of the front seat and pulled himself forward until he was almost beside Zofia.

“Is it true, Mom? Are we sleeping here?”

Piet Hoffmann squeezed her hand again, he didn’t have to catch her eye, he knew what those eyes would say, how uncomfortable she found all of this.

“Yes, darling. Tonight, and maybe a few more nights.”

“If you knew, why didn’t you say so when we got to bed?”

Zofia swallowed, and before she could answer, Hoffmann interrupted.

“Your mom didn’t know it, either. At that point. It’s your dad’s fault, he should have said something to her and to you. He told me to tell you he’s sorry he forgot.”

Zofia carried Luiza, Piet carried Rasmus and the two small bags, and Hugo walked defiantly just a few short steps behind them from the car to the apartment building.

“Here? Seriously?”

Hugo made a quick lap through the three-room apartment while his parents laid his sleeping siblings in beds.

“Are we gonna live here? There’s hardly any furniture.”

“Just tonight. And like your mother said, maybe a few more nights. But the beds are good, which is the most important thing. There’s a kitchen table and food in the fridge. Which is also important. And here . . .”

Hoffmann took Hugo’s hand and led him into the living room.

“. . . is the most important thing of all: a sofa and a TV. And I put your PlayStation in one of the bags. You and your little brother can play as much as you want, whenever you want.”

He plucked a console and controls out of a bag and some games he didn’t understand and put everything on the coffee table in front of his eldest son, then opened the closet in the bedroom and carefully placed the bags onto a newly laid floor, so no one would hear it was hollow.