Through the blur of passing people and streets, I soon find myself ushered through a doorway. The siren has ended, if not the threat. Arie shuts us in, muffling the aircraft engines. We’re back in his room, I realize. While largely below street level, we’re not far enough underground for protection from impact. Yet he’s striking a match at the table, lighting the candles as if to settle in.

“Arie, no. Stop. We have to get to a shelter.”

“We’ll be fine here,” he assures me. “Honest.”

Holing up with a horde of strangers could be a risk, more for him than me, though is it worth the chance of being blasted to pieces or buried by rubble?

And then I think: “The Zieglers’—do we rush there to grab Evelien?”

His extinguished match releases a waft of sulfur. “She’ll be okay. Gerda said they use their cellar for air raids, and their guard goes in with them.” He abandons his hat on the table and hurries to the window.

Unless vitally called for, never stray from the act. It’s long been my mantra. But that was before an impulsive detour literally dropped me into Nazi-ruled territory, now being attacked by my own country.

Arie reaches up to slide his blackout curtain closed, though being spotted should be the least of our present worries.

“Didn’t you see them out there? They’re bombing the city.”

“Nah, Fen. I saw them,” he says, “but it looked like a B-24 just lost its engines.”

“What are you talking about?”

He jerks his chin toward the window. “Listen close. What do you hear?”

Though incredulous, I strain to detect anything beyond the droning hum and anti-aircraft fire and finally grasp a sound. Specifically, the lack of one.

“No bombs exploding.”

He nods. “Seemed the pilot was lightening its load over the edge of the city, trying to get home. The rest are flying out of ack-ack range, too high for any intended target.”

Could he be right?

What if he’s wrong?

As though reading my thoughts, he says, “Don’t worry. If things get hairy, you’d better believe I’ll be hightailing it to Ziegler’s to go after the girl.” Then shrugging out of his coat, he turns away. His words are a source of relief.

In theory, that is. My legs are still trembling, heart racing. A dizziness envelops my brain. Desperate for a grounding in every way, I find solidity against the nearest brick wall. There, I lower to sit on the floor, walloped by a culmination of adrenaline spikes and plummets, of nights scant with sleep, of emotions and memories exhumed and jumbled.

“Fen,” I hear. “You okay?”

I’m tempted to burst into a mix of laughter and tears. Considering our current predicament, my scale of “okay” has become farcically relative.

He crouches before me and asserts gently, “I’m telling you, we’ll be just fine.”