Hence, when Mrs. Jansen took in seamstress work for supplementary income, I jumped in to assist with sewing and mending—lessons from the orphanage actually proving useful—and made my own dresses with the extra fabric. On Saturdays, I’d often join her at a local soup kitchen where, surprisingly given her gruffness, she volunteered to cook. I ladled soup for bedraggled men, many stooped by shame and despair, a reminder of the meal line at the orphanage and just how fast life could change.

Determined to remain in good graces, I went so far as to express enthusiasm over the Jansen family’s church. This wasn’t entirely an act; I did find their services less droning than those of weekly mass. And anyway, I figured God wouldn’t smite me for a bit of inflated joy over a service held in His honor.

Arie had smiled subtly, comprehending my motivation, knowing me as well as I knew him. A fact that only deepened with time.

On weekday mornings, after one of his fitful sleeps or late-night walks, his mother would have to drag him out of bed, located in the sitting room. He’d insisted on giving me his bedroom, formerly shared with his sister. With Arie no longer an apartment away, quicker than ever he’d stem my nighttime outbursts, preventing me from seeming a nuisance.

We proceeded to chat some nights, but less frequently than before; his parents, nondrinkers, were lighter sleepers than Papa. In contrast as well, our friendship in Amesboro existed in the open. I’d walk to and from school beside him, attached as a shadow, despite boys taunting us with smooching noises and crass suggestions. At times, I’d drop my chin, using my hair to curtain my burning cheeks. Arie would reject their insinuations as plain-old stupid, declaring me “like a kid sister.” Naturally I’d back up the claims—minus the “kid” part. I was twelve and a half, and he was just a year older.

Granted, in early June, after two months of our hassled walks, one of his retorts did leave me miffed. Noticeably.

“So what’s nagging you?” he asked. With his parents out delivering a gift to welcome a neighbor’s newborn, we were clearing the table after supper.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve been awful quiet.”

I kept my attention on gathering dirty plates, which looked practically clean. Never wasting, we’d all eaten every scrap of our meal, from the liverwurst to the roggebrood. The rye dough still scented the air. “I’m tired is all.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Yeah, and I call baloney.”