He’s answering me, I realize, though I scarcely see how this pertains. I supply what he already knows: “Your mother would toss them in a drawer, unread.”

“Yeah. I thought so too. After about four years, apparently the stamps and postmark switched—not from Wisconsin anymore, the Netherlands. At some point, my mother gave in and read one. Wouldn’t write back, on account of pride of course, but wound up going through them all.”

Having lived under the family’s roof during that time, through all those letters and years, I admit to him, “I had no idea…”

“None of us did. The thing is, Jacob—that’s Thea’s husband—he first came to the States with his brother. By the time the market crashed, the brother and wife had two boys. They tried to stick it out, but as the Depression dragged on, Thea was struggling to have a baby, so probably welcomed the change. Anyway, Jacob’s old man was an importer in Holland, a widower. When he fell sick, the group sailed back and the brothers inherited the company once he passed. All real sensible, right?”

Arie ingests more from his flask, and I envision Thea. Frozen in my memory, she’s a teenage girl with a honey-blond ponytail, a sweet smile, and a playful wink. Not a married grown woman.

“How did you learn of all this?”

“Over supper, a couple years ago. Pop and I were yammering on about Hitler and of Europe being on the brink of another war. I was already in the Engineers, bridge building at that point. Out of nowhere, Ma blew a gasket. She finally told us about the letters and how Thea and her husband moved over there—here, I mean—and even had a little girl. Evelien. That bit struck Pop awfully hard.”

I briefly forgot where we are just now, and it dawns on me that Arie came to the Netherlands to help them. But before I can ask, he says, “Then fear grabbed hold, for all of us, with Jacob’s family being what they are.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes level with mine. “They’re Jews, Fen. That’s why my parents had refused to give their blessing.”

The cause of Thea’s estrangement gains instant clarity, and an old Dutch saying from Mrs. Jansen drifts back: Where two religions share a pillow, the Devil sleeps between.

She wasn’t speaking of me but of her daughter. One potentially now in peril, given the treatment here of Jews. I tense from apprehension before I recognize that if the worst had occurred and Arie knew, he’d have no personal cause to stay.