Come dinnertime, I return to the boardinghouse to gobble down a plate of boerenkoolstamppot. The traditional mashed potato-kale dish is enhanced by a small spoonful of gravy, a wartime luxury, and a slice of grain bread. Around the table are Mrs. van der Meer, eating quietly, and the newlywed boarders, whose gentle, average looks are clearly transformed into MGM-level knockouts in each other’s eyes.

Between Dirk’s stories from his workday at a motorcar-maintenance shop, one commandeered by the SS for truck repairs, auburn-haired Klara alludes to hoping to be in the family way soon. Considering the state of the world, this seems genuine madness, yet I politely listen and nod.

Inspired by a mention of my ballerina cousin, Klara shares that while ballroom dancing is forbidden by the Nazi occupiers, local folk dances are held every Sunday despite the shortage of boys. “Mostly girls dancing with one another, of course, but still an amusing time,” she says, her nose sweetly crinkling.

Swallowing my last bite of bread, I register the excuse to head back out. “What a fine idea,” I reply. “If you happen to know where, I’d love to take a peek before curfew.”

Mrs. van der Meer is lost in thought, making it all the easier to excuse myself.

***

Treading the same areas, I study every male face for recognizable features. April’s extra daylight here eases the task, but alas I come up empty and have to retire in time for curfew. Due to a recent crackdown on Resistance activities, this currently means the early hour of eight o’clock.

I admit, it was wishful thinking to imagine I’d somehow feel my parents—Papa at least—here in their homeland, looking down, guiding me. Still, I curb a gnawing of discouragement while lying in bed. It’s been barely a day, after all, if a tiring one. My eyelids grow heavy at the soft glow of the jarred candle on my nightstand. I’ll let it burn as I drift off, a reliable childhood comfort. I’m on the cusp of sleep when I detect a noise.

A low-pitched droning.

Then a siren wails. An air raid.

I spring upright to sit.

The flyovers are practically nightly in the Netherlands. This tidbit was indeed included in my blur of briefings. But secondary to my concerns over Arie, the prospect of Allied bombers passing at exceptionally high altitudes, simply en route to such targets as Bremen or Hamburg, seemed fairly inconsequential.

It doesn’t feel quite the same now.

I scramble to my feet, not knowing where to go. I should have thought to ask! My heartbeat accelerates, as it’s prone to do from such warnings, but even more than usual as the humming grows, resembling a nudged hive.