And yet here I am, in a last-minute slapdash scheme. Literally along for the ride. Equally unnerving, I’m doing precisely what I pledged to myself I would never allow again: I’ve placed my fate wholly in another’s hands. And not for just my survival but Evelien’s too.

“Checkpoint ahead.” Brouwer is slowing the truck.

This is it.

I whisper to Evelien, “No sound, no movement. Or we lose the game. Understand?”

She nods on my arm. Our hands remain clasped despite the sweat dampening our palms.

When the vehicle stops, there’s a voice. Presumably a guard. Hard to make out, same for Brouwer’s words. Then a door opens and closes, and soon they’re by the rear of the truck. The door swings open and their voices grow.

The exchange is friendly.

They know each other.

A remark from Brouwer—about a personal delivery to a high-ranking officer—reminds me that he isn’t new to these drives, particularly for prominent clients.

A flipping of papers follows, a cargo manifest, I’d guess. Then silence. The guard must be surveying the boxes to reconcile them with the list.

I hold my breath as Evelien continues her soft inhales and exhales, all seeming amplified in the small, dark space.

The door slams.

Was that it? Could it have been that easy?

Brouwer climbs back into the front and shuts the door. The next thing I know, we’re driving away.

“All clear,” Brouwer proclaims.

A tiny part of me eases, though true relief won’t come until we’re free of this box. Rather, when we’re safely through the mountains.

In the meantime, more rocking and bumping carry us onward. Stretches of smoother roads come intermittently, each a lulling respite if not for our surroundings.

Once more, too soon, Brouwer gives the alert. “Checkpoint.”

I direct Evelien to keep playing our game.

After we slow to a stop, a conversation follows, muffled as before. The door opens and closes. Brouwer has stepped out. But this time, as we await their arrival at the rear, Evelien grows squirmy, tired of being constrained.

I plead with quiet urgency, “Hold still now. Only a little longer.”

She manages to comply just as a projection of voices confirms the opening of the back door. More flipping of papers. More discussion, the tone not as friendly. Then the truck sways.

Added weight.

Boot steps.

The guard has boarded. “Open these.” His Dutch, tinged with a German accent, is razor sharp.

My panic springs back, further fueled by a revelation: harboring a fugitive is crime enough; one tied to the murder of an SS major could warrant a punishment worse than death, for everyone involved.

The truck sways again: Brouwer has joined.

Lids are removed, contents examined.

“What is here?” The guard thunks our crate with what sounds like a baton.

“Collectibles, sir. Rather valuable.”

“Show me.”