Arie has already arrived at the same conclusion as Lenora, without even being privy to the conversation she overheard. I do feel somewhat naive in hindsight, made worse by the look he gives me—as if I couldn’t be denser. Maybe a product of the booze. Still unwarranted, given all I’ve done to be here.

I speak through gritted teeth. “My plan was to find you first,” I begin, but he’s not interested.

“Tomorrow, we’ll get you pointed home and into safe hands.” He adds in a leaden tone, “Then I want you out of my business. Forever.”

Chapter 60

Sleep comes in ragged stints. Aside from my Benzedrine wearing off, there’s too much to absorb for a peaceful rest. Snapshots loop mercilessly on the pages in my mind, of executions and raids and a little girl thrust into a lonely, frightful world.

I realize only from the drag of my eyelids that eventually I’d succumbed to a spell of decent sleep. A slice of light, past the blackout curtain opened an inch, alerts me of dawn’s arrival and Arie at the washbasin. In undershirt and trousers, he stands lost in thought with cup in hand. Through my groggy vision, as in so many of my dreams, the sight of him brings a mix of serenity and yearning, until reality—of us and the war and our setting—grips me with the force of a riptide. Then comes the recollection of our last exchange, renewing a swell of resentment.

If not for a sense of obligation, above all to his parents—oh mercy, his poor unknowing parents—I’d grant him his wish by leaving this very moment. Instead, I sit upright, fully dressed within his bedding.

The rustling interrupts his daze. With face and eyes weary, hair and clothes mussed, once more he reminds me of Papa after a night of indulgence when occasionally too much was said.

“Do you really want me to leave?” I ask this flatly, as I’m aware of the answer.

He downs his drink, this time much needed water no doubt, and pours another cupful from a pitcher. “I think we’ve been over this.” His voice is matter-of-fact, at least absent of his previous harshness.

“Then tell me your rescue plans.”

He gestures toward the box near the stove. “If you’re hungry, there’s bread and a bit of cheese. Grab what you want, then I’ll give you a safe route through the streets to wherever you’re staying.”

“Arie.”

“Ziegler could have a lookout in the area. Best to slip out the bathroom window.” He adds, refusing to face me, “I would hope it goes without saying not to tell anyone you’ve found me.”

“Arie,” I repeat.

He dries his hands on a towel as if I’ve said nothing.