In the evenings, Evelien and I listen to the BBC, gathering what we can from updates of the Netherlands. Just after our escape, the Nazis announced that all former Dutch soldiers who’d initially fought the Germans would be deported as forced labor. In protest, Dutch miners, dairy farmers, and manufacturing workers went on strike to hinder the German war machine. Hitler’s reprisals for this weren’t light. According to reports, the country’s restrictions, roundups, and searches escalated, along with summary executions.

I have to think, if we’d made it to the farm as planned, odds seem high we would have been captured soon after. Not that I can say for sure. All I do know is we’re going home.

***

At Euston Station, on the platform where our train awaits on a bright October morning, I’m not the only one emotional over a parting. Obviously, not all the passengers here are bound for the Port of Southampton; few would have a destination as distant as ours. But during these times, every goodbye might be one’s last.

After releasing my hug, Lenora brushes a tear from her cheek. “You’ll let us know you’ve arrived safely,” she insists.

“Straightaway.”

“And you’ll write often.”

“I will.” I punctuate this with a squeeze of her hand, our indelible bond felt through my travel gloves. For this is how we survived once together, a grasp that defied the chaos of a crowd. “So long as you remember, I expect a telegram when a date is set for wedding bells.”

“Oh blimey, I’m in no hurry for that.” She smiles, again downplaying how smitten she’s become with a rather fetching Canadian translator.

“Yes, yes,” Hutton interjects from behind her. “You ladies continue this hubbub, and the train will depart before you’re aware. I will remind you: it took my pulling of several ruddy strings to acquire today’s ship vouchers.”

The discreet roll of Lenora’s eyes nearly makes me laugh. Then moving aside, she bends to bid goodbye to Evelien, who stands bundled in her travel coat, doll in her arms, ready for our next bout of adventure.

“Well, then,” I say to Hutton. “I suppose this is it.”

“So it is.”

Granted, he’s sworn it’s not the last I’ll see of him. Prepared for a tussle with the bureaucratic “Whitehall warriors,” after the war is over—oh, what a thought that is—he’s determined to publish a book of his official feats with MI9. For this, he foresees a grand tour through America. Receiving clearance for those writings might be trickier now that he’s relinquished his commission—mind you, working part-time as a civilian for the RAF, he’s still in the fight. Yet Hutton of all people will find a way to slice through the red tape of classified limits and ultimately see it through.