The soldier, with his round face and ears protruding from his cap, looks exceptionally young—surely a plus. He continues to grasp his rifle but lowers it as he treads closer. When he lands before me, I expect him to hold out his hand for my identification. At his delay, I attempt to hasten the process with a phrase I’ve memorized, offering to show him.

At glacial speed, he surveys the front of my dress, down the length of my body. “Ich will mehr als ihren Ausweis sehen.” He’s clearly saying he wants to see more than documents. He’s pegged me for an easy girl.

I yearn to close my coat, but I sense he’ll take the liberty of reopening it himself. My heart now thumping, I avoid his eyes. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, slow and suggestive.

Arie steps forward.

In a swift motion, the soldier points his rifle at Arie, who interjects with an offer, it seems, to show his ID first. His tone is casual, yet I detect the clenching of his jaw.

The soldier studies him, sneering, basking in the power of his German uniform, his regulation weapon. But he’s not the only one armed. I recall this as Arie, awaiting an answer, hovers his right hand over his coat pocket. Both his pass from Ziegler and loaded pistol are within reach.

My thoughts scramble over how to intervene, stopping him from what he surely longs to do. To make it out of here, to save Evelien, he needs to stay calm.

“Hahn!”

The soldier jerks at the name hollered down the side alley. Presumably the voice of another German. But Hahn doesn’t reply. Gaze fixed on Arie, he wants to pull the trigger, perhaps his first kill. He’s silently begging for Arie to give him an excuse. It’s horrifyingly clear, as is Arie’s thinning restraint.

I don’t dare move an inch.

“Hahn! Lass uns gehen!” The German order comes louder.

Agitated, he yells back, “Ja.” He glances my way, his lips curling with disdain but also disappointment. A cat forced to free a mouse. Then he spits at the ground, barely missing Arie’s shoe. “Haut ab!” He flicks his rifle, a brash command to clear out. With an arrogant stride, he proceeds around the building and out of sight.

I let out a breath, recovering. Arie is staring after the soldier, fists at his sides. He’s still holding himself back.

Once the motor revs and fades, he walks, resolute, toward the side alley. He rechecks the area and confirms it’s safe for us to leave. But there’s no celebration, no regaling over our close call, only the simmering of his fury from being helpless, yet again, to react.

In doing so, of course, he likely saved us both. But my saying as much will do little good.