No doubt aware of this, the woman adds, “My husband and sons are all in Germany, sir, proudly serving the Third Reich.”

From the start, I’d taken the claims about her family for fact, but are they? Nowadays everyone seems to have a secret.

The officer studies her, his eyes like a pair of black marbles, his holstered pistol within short reach. I brace for the verdict.

He orders the rifle-wielding policeman to go and check. The directive sounds more cursory than dubious, lessening my anxiety a fraction. As Mrs. van der Meer is escorted up the stairs, the officer turns back to us. “Any copper or brass in the house? Candlesticks, door handles, serving ware?”

“No, sir,” Dirk says. “Not to our knowledge.” A marginal hedge.

Klara reiterates with a shake of her head, gaze half-lowered. I do the same as two more “green police” arrive. Testing our denials, they plunder the couple’s bedroom, seeking metals needed for ammunition. One rips through drawers, throwing clothes into a heap. The other upends the mattress and sifts through bedding.

I think of the visible remainders in my satchel, the gadgets packed among the clothing, all meant to withstand typical scrutiny. Praying they will, I glimpse Klara’s quivering fingers. And I remember their listening to the BBC news on their wireless, risking imprisonment.

Are they hiding other crimes? Contraband, weapons? Acts punishable by death.

As the officer inspects our papers, noises from overhead—clunks and thuds—convey rummaging of the uppermost floor. How is it that copper, the insatiable thirst for it, has found me here, bringing more perils to my life?

Dirk clasps his wife’s hand snug to his side. He too must have noticed her trembling.

“Exempt, I see,” the officer reads with interest. “You must be a special man.” He almost seems sincere before he inclines his head, skewering Dirk with a glower. “Special men deserve special jobs. Do you not agree?”

Through Dirk’s silence, a spate of foreboding swamps me.

“How fortunate for you, I will ensure you have just that. In a factory in the Fatherland. I will even wait while you pack.”

“No!” Klara bursts out, and the officer snaps toward her.

“What did you say?”

Dirk intervenes with strained placidness. “My wife is surprised, sir, that is all.” He angles toward her, clutching both her hands with his. “It’s okay, darling. We will get this sorted. I’ll be back soon.”

“Dirk, no…no, please,” she begs, cheeks reddening, tears brimming.

I’m not entirely sure why I do it. Maybe it’s the officer’s flagrant malevolence, far too reminiscent of the soldier in the alley. Perhaps it’s Klara’s aspirations for a family, despite being absurdly idyllic—or because of precisely that. Maybe it’s the couple’s haunting resemblance to how I imagined Jacob and Thea lined up against a wall, lives teetering on the whim of another monster.