And so I flow into the crowd that funnels into the large church. A mix of light body odors and exhaustion hangs in the air as locals exchange greetings.

I’m troubled nearly as much by the funeral-like sea of black as I am by the absence of a clear second exit, particularly in this circumstance. Still, from the inner aisle, I slide into the fifth pew from the back and tuck my satchel under my seat. Beside me, an elderly man nods politely, his spectacles thick as jam-jar glass.

It takes tremendous effort not to constantly turn and gauge the entrance, even as a minister appears at the front and welcomes the congregation. I reach for my necklace to fiddle with the disk but find it missing. As instructed, I’d left it with my valuables at the George, yet only now do I feel fully stripped of my identity. Should an ill fate befall me, no one here would know the truth of who I am—or was.

The minister requests that everyone stand to sing, a timely diversion.

My neighbor struggles to rise, negotiating his cane and hymn book. I’m lending him a hand when I sight a uniform. A fair soldier in the outer aisle, helmetless, is keenly surveying the room.

Panic splinters through me, darting like pinballs every which way. I edge back, using the man beside me as a cloak.

The congregation launches into “How Great Thou Art.”

Assessing when and if to run, I join in softly: “When I in awesome wonder—” I catch myself. I’m singing in English.

The elder shows no sign of noticing, perhaps hard of hearing. Despite my quivering, I offer to hold the book for us both, not simply for the verses but to sidle up beside him in a display of accustomed familiarity.

Abruptly, the soldier raises his hand: an alert to a person unseen.

My feet shift toward the center aisle, about to tear away when the soldier breaks into a smile. From a far-forward pew, a uniformed pal waves him over to attend the service.

I ease out an exhale. My fears abate, to a limit. The fellows are young, unarmed, and seem genial enough; they’re Nazis nevertheless—all that matters—and now they’ll hamper my ability to sneak out early if needed.

I try not to think of this as the service plods on. Through prayers and more hymns, I remain friendly with my pew partner and ever more grateful to the Jansens for helping me blend, specifically for expelling my old Catholic habits. A genuflection or the sign of the cross could have given me away.

By the time we sit for the sermon, the air is warm from body heat. I find myself sinking into the minister’s tone, as lulling as a spell. Sneaking a blue pill from my pocket is tempting, but it’s my only one left. I refrain and pinch my leg.