The skipper attaches a towline and reawakens the barge engine. All is quiet save for its rumbling and the buzz of our collective nerves.

Slowly our boat is towed downstream, conserving our gasoline and delaying our motor’s signature sound for as long as possible. Each of us scans the darkness—for patrols, for noises, for movement—until at last the skipper idles the barge, this time to detach the line.

“Succes,” he whispers, then sends us off and heads upstream.

We’re on our own.

Through what appears a wide stretch of river, we float on the outgoing tide. After a couple miles, we near the river’s mouth and one of the men starts the engine. I grimace at the sound, even more so after the escalating rumble sputters and coughs, then dies. The man tries the engine again, to the same result, except the effort perishes with more of a belch.

Anxious gazes skitter throughout the boat.

Another fellow nudges the man aside, his younger brother based on appearance. When this one has no better fortune, the two softly bicker through their alternating attempts.

I notice we’re drifting. Toward the open sea. Without a working engine, we’ll be at the mercy of the currents. Surely this raises our changes of becoming lost in every way. Swallowed up by the water, we could disappear without a trace.

I hold Evelien closer.

Just then, the motor comes to life. When it maintains, there’s a groupwide exchange of smiles and sighs, though once on our way, our scanning and nervousness resume.

We tread at low power to limit noise from the engine. Our default captain, the elder sibling, blames the speed for his struggle with steering. After nearly grounding us into a sandbank, he says there’s no choice but to accelerate. The obvious consequence is a volume that could very well get us caught.

I aim to stay calm for Evelien, even as we rock from a slight swell. We’re entering the sea. Her head remains in the curve of my neck, her stray hairs fluttering. The spray from a wave catches the wind. Easterly. An advantage if it continues.

The captain increases our speed, raising the vessel’s nose to best handle the swells. Still we rise and fall, water splashing. His brother periodically checks a compass by flashlight, its glow kept brief and confined by his coat.

We charge on for a good ten minutes before a passenger points in a warning. “Moffen.”

We all look and discover the silhouette of a German patrol boat crossing our bow, traveling north at a fast clip.

Instinctively I duck with Evelien. “Shh,” I tell her as our motor drops to a purr. The captain keeps us idling, letting us sway with the waves. The plan goes without saying: we’ll all stay silent, play statues, hope not to be seen as the Nazis pass through and out of range.