Gradually, I suppose, she’ll need me less than I need her. A time will come when she’ll ask for her own bed, even her own room. As no doubt she’ll want the one that belonged to her mother, this will mean my moving to Arie’s.

Since my return, his room remains the sole place in the house I haven’t dared visit.

Could it finally be time?

Reluctantly in the dimness, I venture into the sitting room. I stop at the door to what was formerly the porch. Like dreading a nurse’s shot, I remind myself how anticipation can be worse than the act. I have doubts that the same applies here, but what awaits is just as inevitable.

And so with strength from a deep breath, I at last step inside.

Light through the window, cast by a moon that regularly lured Arie out on peaceful walks, illuminates furnishings that have scarcely changed since I last saw them. My emotions swirl as I scan the time capsule of his life: the tacked-up posters of legendary bridges, the wallboards with tiny nicks from our coded messages, the novel on his nightstand with a bookmark set partway through, never to be finished.

I lower to sit on the bed. Pulling his pillow to my chest, I brace for a surge of overwhelming anguish.

Still I wait…

Seconds more…

Incredibly, it doesn’t come.

Instead, here in the dark, alone with the melody of my own breathing, I remember the warmth of Arie’s hand, the comfort of his rasp. And I realize, just as I needn’t go to the Netherlands to feel closer to Papa, Arie’s support, like his love, will never be far.

It’ll all work out, I promise, he told me on our last night together. It was his final vow, assuring me everything would be okay.

While not in the way I had hoped, with enough time and healing, I sense he might be right.

Epilogue

August 10, 1945

Dear Miss Vos,

I was delighted to recently happen across your name and photograph in an article following your show in Appleton. I hope you don’t mind my reaching out to the theater and asking them to kindly forward this post to wherever it would best find you.

You may not remember me after all these years, but I had the great fortune of helping care for you as a child during your time in Little Chute. I was dreadfully sad to see you and your father go, as you both added such joy to my life, but I always knew grand adventures lay ahead for you, darling Fenna—or “schatje,” as your father would say—and I have clearly been proven right.