Whatever the reason, I interject regardless of all I stand to lose.

“Sir, you are positively right.”

The faces of all three turn to me. The couple’s eyes seem to ask: What in God’s name are you saying?

“He is indeed a special worker,” I clarify, “being a skilled mechanic who keeps trucks moving for the Führer.” The static tension in the air implores I go further. “As such, even high-ranking SS officers in the area view him as indispensable.”

The man shifts back to Dirk. Dry lips curling, he issues a cynical once-over. “Indispensable, they say?” He’s awaiting a firsthand response. Dirk has mentioned compliments by service members whose rankings I’m unsure of, but he appears to comprehend that to agree or disagree would be taken as equally wrong.

“Sir, I simply do my best.”

The officer’s gaze lingers, then slings back to me. “Who?”

My mind stumbles. “Pardon me, sir?”

He overenunciates, sharpening each syllable. “To which high-ranking SS officers are you referring?”

The fear inside me is no longer just scaling but clawing, particularly as the two other policemen move on to pillage my room.

The officer presses, “I trust you have specific knowledge to make such a statement.”

The detriment of not having an answer is as clear as his skepticism, even as I hear my furnishings being ransacked and my satchel shaken empty.

I push out the sole name in my arsenal, my mouth dry as dust. “Sturmbannführer Ziegler, sir. For one.” Of course, how would I, a Dutch civilian and lowly woman, possibly know this? “From what his wife has shared,” I add, “at a recent ladies’ breakfast.”

The effect on the officer is slight but immediate. His scowl retracts with a twitch.

I could leave it at that, though better to give him a prideful way out. “This appears, sir, to be a simple, well-intended misunderstanding. I only wish that my friend here can one day make his mechanical skills just as useful to you.”

He’s assessing me, my bearing, my alleged connections.

In my periphery, hope seeps into the couple’s faces still bent with confusion, now for a different reason.

At last, wordlessly, the officer hastily returns our documents. Dirk won’t be transferred, it seems. A relief.

But then a policeman yells from my room, a German phrase I don’t catch. The officer stares at me for a beat, my ID barely in my skirt pocket. Then he motions his head toward my door. “In. All of you.”

Sweat prickles my scalp over what might have been said, what was found. Knowing nothing yet, I feign mild intrigue before complying with heavy feet. Klara and Dirk trail virtually on my heels. I don’t dare meet their questioning eyes.

Another gunshot blasts, distantly. My hands ball up.