He lifts a shoulder as if unsure but then shakes his head, the combination amounting to a soft no. A reason for relief if not for his pensive air. Most likely he’s reflecting on the events that had followed. I fight an instinct to reach for him, given his rejection of my last attempt.

“And you believe him?”

Arie glances down briefly. As if irked by his own judgment, he supplies a low but definitive “Yeah.”

I smile, encouraged. “That’s good, then.” I venture to press. “So he’ll help us?”

Another shrug. “Your idea with a crate, he says it won’t work.”

Bewilderment tempers my indignance. I almost laugh. “I’ve used the trick onstage a hundred times. Did you share—”

He shushes me, alerting me of my growing volume. I lower it: “Direct me his way, and I’ll gladly explain it myself.”

Arie sighs and replaces his hat. “I warned him as much.”

With that, he turns and leads me through a labyrinth to reach the base of an open staircase. “Got workers in view. Keep your head down,” he says, then continues up the single flight toward what appears to be an office overhead.

From a quick survey, I trace the hammering to a couple fellows down below, assembling crates of various shapes. Near them, white sheets drape a chest-high statue—evident from an exposed hand made of stone—and sizable framed paintings lean against a wall. When one of the hunched workers stands to stretch, I heed Arie’s warning, angling my face away until we enter through the door on the landing. There, he encloses us in the room with a lean suited gentleman. In his midforties and parked at his desk, he’s staring off toward the shuttered windows that overlook the warehouse.

“Meneer Brouwer?” I prod.

He twists toward us and rises. Eyes woeful between his slicked chestnut hair and a handlebar mustache, he greets me in Dutch. “I am so sorry, miss, about your family. I dreaded that would happen, but still I was hopeful…” Clearly Arie has updated him, with an overview at least.

“Thank you,” I say, though tentative; I’m not the one owed an apology. I regard Arie, who nods in my direction, indicating Brouwer’s words aren’t new to his ears.

“I beg of you not to blame my mother,” the man continues. “The pressure had simply taken a toll. Our house was searched twice already, and she was struggling to eat and sleep.” His insistence borders on a plea. “I was here at work when our neighbor’s home was raided. Caught harboring Jews, they were marched into the street and—” He stops, the rest better left unsaid. “She was told there would be leniency, for any Jews also, if the surrender was voluntary. I was utterly heartsick when I learned—”