I try to gather my thoughts. I know the Nazis have rounded up homosexuals and political prisoners. But I’ve never known anyone who was that way. “Are you sure?” I blurt out. “You kissed me, just a few days ago, in front of the Green Police.”
“I did kiss you. And after I did it, you told me then that I was a good actor. I am. Better than you, probably. You pretend for the Germans, during the war. I pretend for everyone, every day. I haven’t told anyone else. I’m an onderduiker, too. The world is my underground.”
“But I don’t understand. How did you know? How did you know that you—with Willem?”
“How did you know you loved Bas?”
“Because I did,” I say.
“I know because I do. I’ve known for a long time.”
“Are you in danger?” I ask, because I’m too stunned to think of the other dozen questions I’m sure I have.
“Will you tell anyone else?”
“Of course not.”
“Then no. As long as nobody knows.” His body stiffens. “The transport. It’s here.”
TWENTY-SIX
The sound of rows and rows of footsteps. It’s loud, especially when you’re tying your life to it. The thought of Ollie here with me comforts and then frightens me. So many people are putting themselves at risk. Willem in the shadows. Mrs. de Vries with Mina, waiting to take in Mirjam until we can get her to Mrs. Janssen’s. Mrs. Janssen, praying back at her house.
“Blue coat,” I whisper, as if I need the reminder. “I need to look for the blue coat.”
What if she’s not wearing it? What if she thinks the night is too warm, or she gave it away, or someone stole it? And the carriage—what if the carriage isn’t even on this transport? What if it was left behind, in the theater? Ollie can’t wear a Gestapo uniform indefinitely, to stop every transport. All the contingencies we couldn’t anticipate are running through my head as I think of how slender the plan is that we’ve rested all our hopes on.
Two guards bookend the prisoners, the same as the transport yesterday: The older man with the craggy, deep-lined features who looks like my uncle is in front, and the young one follows the prisoners. Line after line of them. My heart sinks. I don’t see her; it’s hard to see anyone who isn’t in the column closest to me. Beyond that, everyone is packed together, and their faces are visible only by the light of the full moon.
But in one of the rear rows, big and obvious and making noises as it rolls over the cobblestones: a baby carriage. And in the row behind it, another one.
Two. Which one is Mina’s? I could tell if I were closer; I’ve seen it before. But Ollie never has. What will he do? Should I try to whisper a description to him? Before I can do that, he’s gone, the heels of his boots clicking sharply across stones.
“Wait,” he calls out in his perfect German accent. The young soldier hears him and looks around, confused, for the source of this disruption. “Wait,” Ollie says again, crisply waving the papers Willem organized with his fake order on it. “There is a problem with this transport.”
“Halt!” the older soldier calls out. His prisoners come to an uncertain stop in the middle of the street as the soldier sweeps a flashlight in Ollie’s direction. “We didn’t hear of a problem,” he calls to Ollie.
“I don’t think the Gestapo is in the business of telling theater guards about our intelligence operations,” he snaps. “This order comes straight from Schreieder.”
At the mention of the top Gestapo official, the soldiers exchange a quick look with each other and hurry toward Ollie. “Don’t touch them,” Ollie snaps as one reaches for his papers. “Do you think I want you smudging up my work orders?”
My eyes grasp at the prisoners corralled behind the soldiers, locking on each row, desperately scanning for sky-colored material. Now both soldiers are looking at Ollie’s fake work order. Neither of them are looking toward me. I run.
I run straight into the Nazi transport.
I squeeze into the back, next to a woman who flinches when I press against her shoulder. “Mirjam Roodveldt,” I mutter without moving my lips. “Blue coat?” She shakes her head as I push ahead to the next row. “Fifteen-year-old girl? Dark hair.”
I edge up to the next line, repeating the name again. Most people ignore me. “Mirjam Roodveldt?” A few people shake their heads stiffly, begging me with their eyes to stop drawing attention to their vicinity.
“Mama, does this mean we get to go home now?” a young boy a few people over calls out, tugging on his mother’s coat. “If that man said there’s a problem? Can we go?”
“Silence!” the older soldier calls, breaking his conversation with Ollie without looking up. “Quiet the child, or I’ll quiet him.”
He’s just joking, the terrified woman mouths to her son, even as she covers his mouth with her hand.