The lid is removed, then the artwork. The guard orders them unwrapped. He’s checking for smuggled contraband mere inches above us.

I tell myself we’re safe, that the false bottom, clicked into place, keeps us concealed deep inside. But the thought, meant to be calming, only shrinks the walls. I mentally push against the enclosure, stopping the boards from crushing us both.

The baton strikes the floor of the crate, testing, searching, just above Evelien. From the jolt, her shoe meets wood.

“Halt,” the guard barks. “What was that?”

I lay my finger on Evelien’s lips, demanding she go still, begging her.

Brouwer answers brightly, “Pardon my clumsiness.” A wooden tap sounds, his attempt to replicate the noise. “I just thought you might care for some brandy.” I envision him presenting a bottle from a case. “Today I so happen to have extra.” His voice carries a faint strain that hopefully only I detect.

The guard doesn’t reply. He’s listening. For us.

Again, as Evelien’s breathing continues, I withhold my own. But now a tickling rises in my throat. I fight the urge to clear it, even swallow against it; any of that might be heard.

Finally the guard responds. “I do not drink.” He sounds bitter, as if appalled by the vice. Or maybe by the very offer, seeing it as suspect. A distraction. A bribe.

“Of course,” Brouwer says. “Well. I will just pack this away for another—”

“Although”—the guard seems to reconsider—“the father of my girlfriend does choose to partake.”

“Splendid!” Almost too excited, Brouwer bridles his tone as I continue to suppress a cough. “Here you are. Guaranteed to earn you the utmost approval from your future father-in-law.”

A pause. “You think I need your gift for approval?”

The comment, clearly meant to be playful, invoked just the opposite. I imagine the guard’s glare, sharp as the silence that now descends.

What if Brouwer is taken in? Arrested? How would we help him?

What would become of us?

“I daresay,” Brouwer replies, “if he is even the slightest like a typical German father, any fellow courting his daughter would certainly stand to benefit. Even the Führer himself.”

The silence endures, cold as frost.

The joke was a great risk, blasphemous some would say. One that could get a man shot.

Then a soft sound arises. The guard’s breath. A chuckle. And a moment later: “You may go.”

Chapter 78

After the strenuous series of checkpoints, on a vacant side street near Station Den Bosch, we prepare in the truck to part ways. I pocket funds from the hem of my coat as Brouwer pats Evelien’s head with affection. “You were so good and quiet, little one, yet again.”

She smiles with a touch of pride while embracing her doll. I consider how often her family must have hidden from the enemy, requiring a great many risks by Brouwer.