He asks, “You sure you’ll be okay, getting to Tilburg on your own?”

I think to answer: It’s me, remember? Going it alone is my specialty. But I don’t trust myself to express that with levity. From last night’s discussion, a part of me remains bruised, defensive, ashamed.

“I’ll be fine.” I apply a smile that he fails to return, not unkindly; rather he meets my eyes with conviction.

“You be safe now. All right?” Reflexively, I’m about to reciprocate when he adds, “And thank you, Fen. For all of this.”

The sincerity of his words, the care in them, moves me unexpectedly.

“It’s the least I could do.”

While burdensome to leave the unspoken between us, the alternative could wind up more damaging. I strive to keep the moment light. “Who knows? Maybe after this war is long over, I’ll tour through Europe, and you and Evelien could come to a show.”

Would they still be here?

I choose not to ask.

“I’d bet she’d like that.” He smiles faintly, noncommittal. It matches his reply and suitably so. Our strained relationship aside, there’s no guarantee the escapes will succeed, particularly when relying so heavily on others. The housekeeper, Gerda, for one.

Their “arrangement,” Arie has divulged, began soon after Ziegler took Evelien. Seeking potential assets among the house staff, Arie trailed the cook on several occasions, only to discover her to be a devout champion of the Führer. In contrast, Gerda, he learned, regularly sneaks food from the Zieglers’ to family and friends, evidence of her compassion and selectivity of Nazi laws.

In exchange for her help, aside from not reporting her crimes, he gives her food from the black market, enough to share. I’d still be wary of anyone in Ziegler’s employ, except that two weeks ago, when Arie swung by her home to drop off food, she warned him of a message couriered to Ziegler: news that the Resistance member, the sham smuggler Arie handed over, had confessed the real location of the big meeting.

That tip-off very likely saved Arie’s life. Possibly Evelien’s too.

I pray the woman will come through again. I’d meet with her myself to make sure, but my meddling was to end here. So unless Arie requests otherwise, I refuse to once again break my word.

“About your folks,” I say, nearly forgetting to ask, “how much do I tell them?”

“I got that handled, but thanks. I’ll try to update them when I can.”

Surprisingly, the exclusion leaves me more dispirited than relieved.

“Well,” he says. “We should start for the tram. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

We both linger awkwardly, faced with how to say goodbye. A handshake, a shoulder pat. Those somehow seem worse than nothing at all.

“I’ll scope out the street first,” he offers.