I shiver in spite of my coat. Tied yet unbuttoned, it’s the one addition I was instructed to take as Klara and Dirk watched with anxious eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon,” I told them, a repeat of Dirk’s assurance. It felt just as false.

“Wait here,” my escort says. He steps away to confer with another policeman, and a single word tears through my mind.

Run.

But armed police are spread about, not to mention soldiers high above in Dom Tower. How far could I get before drawing a spray of bullets despite the apparent shortage?

“Go.” The guttural command comes from the Orpo officer, who suddenly appears at my side. He points me toward the truck, opting to accompany me himself. Apparently, any connection I might have to Ziegler’s wife is too tenuous for him to fret over. That or he’s concluded one doesn’t exist.

I force my legs to cooperate even as my knees threaten to buckle. We pass the wall of women. Their desperate wails turn faint in my mind, smothered by my imaginings of likely destinations. Scheveningen Prison. Sachsenhausen Camp. The details I’ve heard, the horrors of them, revive a heeding from Bram. There are situations worse than death, he said, swaying me to carry a pill now gone, as is he.

The officer raises his hand, a signal. From behind the steering wheel, a driver nods. Then both trucks barrel forward, leaving exhaust fumes in their trail—and us.

I wonder if he’s changed his mind, but he ushers me onward. I’m being taken elsewhere. Maybe only to be questioned. It’s possible, isn’t it? A wisp of hope rises through me.

After the winding stretch of two streets, heading south from Domplein and away from Arie—oh mercy, Arie—the officer guides us into a small alley.

My feet stop. I haven’t a clue where we are, but it’s not a police headquarters.

Is now the time to run?

“In here.” He clutches my arm and steers me through an inconspicuous door.

It’s a home, I realize, as we cross a narrow foyer. The parlor we enter abounds with Germans—all officers, it appears. But they aren’t alone.

In unbuttoned tunics, they lounge on chairs and settees, kissing and fondling ladies scantily dressed. The women’s lips are painted red. Other couples are pressed up against walls. Sickly sweet perfumes clash in the air. Straight from a decanter, a gal pours liquor into the mouths of Nazis. Underlying the chatter and giggles, a gramophone projects a warbly song in French.

My head aches, squeezed by the pressure of why I’m here. A barter for my freedom? Extortion for the Orpo officer’s findings in my cards?

Perhaps, in truth, he found nothing, outside of an excuse for what I’m about to endure.