Just that. A few inches of motion. It’s a gesture people perform dozens of times a day, maybe more, with little thought or consequence. In this case, it confirms what part of me, perhaps near all of me, knew to be truth, and yet the message hits like a sledgehammer.

“I am terribly sorry,” Willem offers.

I stare at Arie sitting alone, slumped and lifeless.

In my periphery, Willem rises and contends, “I will see to it that he is well cared for.”

The finality of those words should reduce me to a blubbering mess, a heap on the floor even with the child in my arms. Instead, something inside me shifts. Separates. Turns off.

“Ida.” Willem advances, after how long, I don’t know. “The moffen are searching the city. With soldiers shot and a Gestapo officer dead—this Ziegler—if you are involved, they will not give up until they catch you. You must go.”

Go…

Go where? Anything prior to this moment is mired in a fog.

Willem transfers an envelope from his coat pocket into mine. “Here are the papers, which they”—he amends—“that the child will need. But you must not depart from Utrecht Centraal. They will be inspecting everyone there closely. You have your own travel papers, yes?”

Depart. Inspecting. Travel papers.

“Ida,” he persists.

A memory filters through, of being ushered from my boarding room by police.

“My…Dutch ID. The rest I had to leave.”

He sighs and glances away, though he doesn’t bother to delve. “It is fine,” he decides. “Once you make contact with the escape line, they can handle it from there.”

The references are coming to me, of Tilburg, the rendezvous I missed. The escape route Arie ruled out.

“We can’t.” I remember distantly. “I was to meet yesterday. They could be gone…and the mountain crossing, she’s a little girl.”

“Trust me, if you do not find them, they will find you,” Willem assures me. “And no doubt they have helped many children, even younger. These are risks, yes, but now for you both, staying in Holland would be worse.”

All sensible assertions. Even so, Arie had another reason for our avoiding the line: those involved might believe he betrayed the underground and…

The thought dissolves. The deterrent no longer exists, as neither does Arie, an unbearable notion that a force within me immediately stomps out.

Willem’s expression abruptly hardens. Not at me but the windows, from the hum of an engine. He waves a silent warning to clear out of view. I oblige, robotically, as he takes up post by the door. Soon, a truck reverses into the alley, and a reminder burrows through my mind.

To care for Evelien.

Get her to safety.