I tell her, “The ride should take only twenty minutes or so. We can find something to eat when we get there. You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

Though reluctant, she nods. I summon a smile to thank her, giving her hand a tender squeeze.

I struggle to remember my own last meal. Despite a profound sense of emptiness, I find no appeal in the idea of food.

At last, our train chugs toward the platform. Folks prepare by folding up newspapers and gathering bags.

While walking here from the truck, I presented Evelien with her temporary name in the event she was asked. I retest her now. “Ready to go, Elisa?”

She nods again, this time with a knowing glint in her eyes.

After passengers disembark, I force a casual pace and guide Evelien to board, the button protectively in her fist. We settle into our seats. The air smells of perspiration. Following a slog of minutes, the locomotive pulls away.

A chance to relax, I think—wrongly. For right then, a couple of German soldiers enter the coach and scan the rows. I drop my gaze, matching many of the surrounding civilians. My nerves hum from another trap, a targeted search with nowhere to hide.

As the soldiers stride forward, they chat among themselves and claim seats at the end of the coach. They’re traveling. Nothing more.

Their presence still provides reason for tension, though a bit less.

Then another soldier arrives, tall with severe features. I expect him to join the others. Rather, he yells for our papers, and the inspection begins.

An idea forms: a potential way for Evelien to dodge any questions he might ask.

The less talking, the better.

I lean toward her. “How about a nap, Elisa?” I issue a wink, signaling another game. Thankfully she takes the cue. Curling up with her doll, she lays her head on my lap and closes her eyes.

The soldier moves closer, bringing into view the silver metal plate that hangs from a chain around his neck. Shaped like a third of a moon, it features a golden Imperial Eagle underscored by a single word: Feldgendarmerie. German Military Police.

I manage to remain calm as the MP closely examines documents. Incredibly, he scrutinizes even those of German servicemen, confirming they’re traveling with permission and within their limits. He doesn’t take his duty lightly.

The train clacks and rocks over the tracks.

In preparation, I reach into my pocket for our papers. I leave those meant for Arie tucked away. The act sends a pang through my chest, intensifying to a stab when I glimpse the coloring on my wrist.

Arie’s blood. Still there. Streaked down my arm, smudged across my hand. A tide of nausea and loss and fear crashes over me.

The MP inspects passengers just two rows ahead.

Madly, discreetly, I try to wipe off the marks, rubbing hard with my thumb.