Before I can respond, the rumbling of an engine catches my ear. At the squeak of brakes, our attention swings toward the side alley. The bleating of a horn precedes the sound of a car door shutting. My body stiffens.

Arie signals for me to stay put. He sidles up to a back corner of the building and hazards a peek. Hastily he retracts his head, nearly knocking off his fedora. “Krauts,” he whispers, and my stomach folds.

The potential that Brouwer betrayed us hurtles through my mind. But then, why would the driver honk, declaring his presence? Early. The soldier arrived early.

Arie is scanning the surrounding concrete wall, a good nine feet high, when another door slams and a man barks out, “Wer ist da?”

The obvious German demand, asking who’s there, indicates Arie was seen. Perhaps only the brim of his hat.

The driver didn’t come alone. How many more are with him?

Boot steps are approaching.

We each have passable papers, yet how to explain our lurking back here? If Brouwer is questioned, the scheme could be ruined and Evelien’s fate sealed.

“Let’s go,” Arie urges in a hushed voice. “I’ll help you over the wall.”

I nab his arm. “There’s no time,” I whisper, and besides, where would that leave him? He’d be hard pressed for a plausible reason to be prowling here alone. Suddenly a memory zips back, of being trapped by the canal with a similar excuse needed, of an SS officer turned abashed when caught staring.

I command Arie, “Play along.” Willem’s phrase.

“What are you—”

“Trust me.” As the boot steps draw near, I throw my arms around Arie’s neck and pull him close. At the meeting of our lips, he flinches, his instinct to resist apparent. But recognizing my intent, he drops his shoulders and rests his hands at the sides of my unfastened coat. He kisses me back, fulfilling his role. My pulse quickens—a reaction, I note, purely from fear, as the amorous act feels starkly dutiful, detached, robotic. No rekindling of what was lost. Just performers following a script.

“Was macht ihr hier?”

Resembling Dutch, the question of what we’re doing here announces the soldier has emerged. Arie and I break apart. We allow our feigned embarrassment to answer his query.

The soldier appears a bit startled, the desired response.

“Bitte, verzeihen Sie uns,” Arie replies, sounding of an apology. He goes on to say something about thinking we were alone. It’s both fascinating and unsettling to hear him speak German so well.