The German order to open up is accentuated by pounding, rifle butts on a door. It shakes the windowpanes, and my heart pumps with matching force.

My gaze darts to my nightstand. Amid my valuables not yet packed sits my mirror compact, rigged with a compartment for secretive notes and, currently, my L-pill. I transferred the pea-size tablet from the convenience of my pocket, having no intention of ever ingesting cyanide; still, I couldn’t bring myself to discard it, given the memory of Bram’s words.

Hardly a sin to just keep the bloody thing, he urged at our final briefing when I balked at the offering due to my Catholic roots. Believe me, there are situations worse than death.

Stronger poundings reverberate. There’s a scuffling in the hall and a floorboard creaks. Footsteps move away. Mrs. van der Meer is clearly adhering to the command. Perhaps she’s ruled me collateral, a trade to bring her family home. Personally handing me over could ensure her credit. While she descends to the entry, I’ll dash to another room in search of an alternative exit, at minimum a hiding spot less obvious than inside an armoire or under a bed.

At my night table, I sweep the stray items into my satchel with a hurried hand. Her footfalls sound on the stairs. I inch open my door and begin to creep into the hall. I startle at the feel of an object beneath my shoe—a tray?

On it are a slice of dark bread and a spoon. A bowl of stew sloshes with chunks of sugar beets, carrots, and cabbage. Dinner. I’d skipped it when I returned, food being the least of my cares.

Mrs. van der Meer’s footsteps, I notice, aren’t moving downward but up. Back to her residence. But what of the soldiers?

I close the door and race back to the window. The troops are still below but joined by a civilian in handcuffs. The man wears his shirtsleeves rolled up and hair tousled, as if interrupted while relaxing after a workday. A woman in a headscarf rushes out, calling to him as he’s led away at gunpoint. It’s then that I comprehend: the soldiers had paid a call to the neighboring building.

Tears return to my eyes. This time, born equally of relief and fear, they’re a glaring reminder of the dangers all around, a message reinforced.

It’s time to go home.

Chapter 65

The hours drag their insufferable feet. I toss fitfully in my bed, fending off visions of Arie crossing the square on his route to the hospital. Or reporting to Ziegler. Or doing whatever else he does during the night. As he always has.