Soon I’ll write back to Miss Roosa—or Mrs. Corman now—once I sort out what to say. How do I properly construe on paper what it means to me to have a renewed connection to both Papa’s history and my own? Perhaps during my next trip through Appleton, over tea and dessert, we’ll regale each other with memories that will feel as if they happened yesterday.

A grunt of frustration pulls me from my musings.

On the floor by the costume rack, Evelien sits crossed-legged in her overalls. Scowling, she pitches a handful of matchsticks at her splayed magic book. She’s been working on the same new trick since this morning, taking a break only for my matinee.

“Care for some help?”

“No,” she grumbles. “I’ll get it.” She blows out a breath. Then she collects her props and begins again.

I smile to myself.

At age seven, she certainly has a stubborn streak. Like Arie and her oma. And yes, like me. “Mulish,” Arie would quip. Eventually, I’ll teach her the wisdom in accepting help from others, even in asking for it, yet for now, I’ll leave her to flex her independence. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy for me to stand by as she stumbles. But Mrs. Jansen is quick with a bolstering reminder:: That is a mother’s job.

And she’s right.

Though I don’t always tell her so.

I’m not a mother, mind you. I’d never dare to take Thea’s place. Not in that way. In fact, I like to think she’s been smiling down these past two years, watching her beloved daughter bloom. Goodness knows she must have observed wide-eyed when, at Evelien’s urging, Mrs. Jansen helped light a menorah during the last Hanukkah—just before she whisked us all off to her usual church service, of course.

As for my role as Auntie Fen, many motherly duties fall to me and I strive to honor them with the responsibility they deserve. I suppose that’s what first drew me back to the stage after almost a year of our being home: a desire to live by example for Evelien’s sake. How would I teach her to overcome her fears if I refrained from doing the same?

One might assume that climbing into a crate onstage would feel easy as pie after my narrow escapes from the grips of menacing Nazis. But no. Omit the necessity for survival and the urgency of saving a child, and the old trepidation of confinement returns. And so I trained, day after day, week after week, developing a tolerance as Evelien kept time on my watch from Hutton. Ultimately, with the support of the Jansens and the theater managers who still thought well of me, I pieced together my very own show, including a fancy crate trick and even some of my gadgets never used by MI9.