All to say, while I feel profound purpose in caring for Evelien, I’ve also rediscovered my need to bring others joy. Something of which we could all use more. Is this why I was spared when so many others weren’t? I’ll never know for certain. But as Evelien likes to say: Everything is better with magic.

How simply yet perfectly put.

From her quiet magnetism to her inquisitive nature, she still reminds me of Poppy at times. And I find myself wondering how my old friend has fared, if she now enjoys a family of her own and most of all her place in life. Looking back, I wish the same even for Ingrid, the relentless bully who swiped my precious boots though let me escape. I’ve been thinking of her more lately, what with Evelien outgrowing her latest shoes, bringing her excitedly closer to fitting into those same birthday boots from Papa.

Ironic, isn’t it? How she thrills over wearing something old and used versus new and shiny. It’s a testament, really, to connections built through story. For each time she asks for another telling—about the cobbler and my jubilance and the blistering walk home—her eyes are so intent, it’s as if she’s stepping right into the memory, and I rather adore the idea of her holding Papa’s hand while strolling through snowflakes that drift on the night air.

Such a lovely, peaceful thought.

On a related note—of peace, that is—with the Nazis righteously defeated, people say the Japanese are sure to surrender anytime. Whereas shows like mine previously served as a distraction from wartime worries, now they’re a precursor to the big celebration. You can feel it everywhere, and most definitely in the theater. Audiences hum with mounting fervor, preparing to release a breath held for years.

To no one does that apply more, I imagine, than to onderduikers throughout Europe. Out of hiding at last, they’re free to live, to mourn, to rebuild. Hopefully to heal. Someday I’ll take Evelien back to the Netherlands. We’ll find the graves of our loved ones, Lord willing, upon which we’ll lay flowers and shed some tears. We’ll walk the cobblestone streets unafraid and, if we’re able, properly thank the brave many who risked their lives to help virtual strangers. Like Willem, Gerda, and Mr. Brouwer. Mrs. van der Meer and Dirk and Klara. The bookshop clerk and his daughter. The unnamed skipper.

Evelien knows of them all.

Until then, we’ll concentrate on the steps before us, the life around us.