“Of course,” I agreed. “We’re friends.” My tone was adamant enough to drain the tension from his shoulders, if not fully from the air. So I did the first thing that popped to mind: I flailed the dishrag toward him, spraying soapy dishwater across his button-down shirt.

At his jaw going lax, I burst into giggles that broke off when he lunged for the sink and threw suds at my face. I stood there, chin dripping. He snickered and clapped as if victory was his. It wasn’t.

I came back with a full scoop of water, and through our laughter, the battle raged. We drenched our hair and clothes, the worn floorboards and floral wallpaper, until a pair of voices swung us toward the doorway.

Whether his mother, beneath her scowl, shared any of her husband’s betrayed amusement, I couldn’t say. What I did know was that Arie and I were solely responsible for cleaning up, which we did in a hurry with stifled smiles.

I knew this as well: more than anyone in my life, Arie had a knack for saving me from a foul mood. Not just over some nettling comment but over the darkest of causes. Like that of the coming winter.

Mid-December, more precisely.

***

It was the tail end of 1930, and our schoolmates were merrily counting down the weeks until Christmas. For me, the approaching holiday marked the second anniversary of a dark event and my first Christmas without Papa.

Carols, gifts, holiday sweets—they were all cruel reminders that only intensified my nightmares and revived my sense of solitude. On our walks and at home, Arie too became increasingly reserved. There was no reason to state why; words couldn’t reinvent the past. Rather, he found us another way to brave the present.

A few days before Christmas, he dragged me out on an errand, which I took to be a task for his parents. Bundled up in the middle of town, we hopped off the streetcar.

“Cover your eyes,” he told me.

“My eyes?”

“It’s a surprise where we’re going.”

“I thought…you said—”

“Never spilled the details. Now go on. You can watch the ground if you want.”

“Arie, this is silly. Just tell me what you’re up to.”

“What, you don’t trust me?”

A nonsensical question.

I grumbled, wary of the unpredictable yet admittedly tickled by his efforts. Once I’d tented my gloved hands around my eyes, he led me by the elbow over pavement strewn with snow. A motorcar passed, rattling and slushing down the street. Strangers shuffled by, possibly gawking; my view of them was limited to their shopping bags and shoes.

“Why can’t I look?” I groaned.

“Don’t be a mule.”

“I hardly think I’m being—”

He tugged my arm, pausing my steps. “Two, please.”

“Two of what?”