Though battered, I surrender to an urge and reach for his hand. My fingers barely graze his before he recoils as if burned. Repulsed.

“I need air,” he says.

I stand there, every part of me pinned in place, as he grabs his coat. Then he’s through the door and gone.

Only at that point do my tears pour over.

Chapter 64

Through the many twists and turns in my relationship with Arie, one constant remains: he never lies to spare my feelings, even when I wish he would.

Back in my lamplit boarding room, I’m the one pacing, assaulted by second-guessing, thinking myself a coward.

But no. Had I stayed and indulged in the fantasy of a blissful marriage and family, I’d have only prolonged the inevitable, and to a crueler end. Even tonight, he suggested we could have overcome our fears together. As if with some nudging, I could have been swayed.

That isn’t to say I don’t ache to the point of feeling gutted from thoughts of him hurting, tracing back to even his youth. Yet here and now, what can be changed? I’ll respect what he wants and steer clear of his path. Come morning, I’ll head for Tilburg. Being a day early, I’ll simply rent a room if needed and wait out the time. Better there than here.

Wishing to be on that train this instant, I shove my belongings into my satchel. At the feel of my travel papers concealed inside, I recall Willem’s mission.

Criminy. Do I summon him again to call it off? What if the forger has already agreed? Then again, Arie has been adamant. He’s done with my help; his plans are handled, and it’s time for me to go.

Frantic barking emerges from outside. Dropping my satchel on my bed, I go to the window and peek past the curtain. Under the dimming sky, patrollers are clearing the area for curfew, an evening standard. Yet a unique addition catches my eye. Led by a Nazi officer, a small knot of armed soldiers marches through the square in the direction of my building. Their leashed German shepherd releases more barks, unnerving echoes from the field executions.

A knock rattles my door, and I jump.

“Miss Hofman?” Mrs. van der Meer’s Dutch greeting is recognizable, her tone, however, impassive. “Are you in?”

As the soldiers draw closer, I’m gripped by Arie’s warning. He was right. The woman reported me.

She knocks again.

Eyeing the doorknob I’ve locked out of habit, I listen for the clink of a key ring.

Since my very first minute in this room, as is my habit, I identified a secondary means to exit: out my window, I could scale down the drainpipe. But that plan, while viable given a fire, would now land me in full view of the soldiers.

From the square comes a shout, baritone and forceful: “Aufmachen!”