Anya dropped her head into her hands for only a moment. When she looked up, the man turned his eyes toward her.

  “Father, please. Look at me,” she said reaching for his hands.

  “He’s not your father,” Jacob snapped, snatching Papa’s hands from hers. “Stop saying that! You’re confusing him.”

  “All right, enough of this!” Anya stood abruptly and leaned over, planting her hands on the table, her face only inches from the old man. “You are not this boy’s ‘Papa’. How do I know this? Because you are my‍—‍” The unexpected sob stopped her cold, stealing her voice as her eyes quickly filled.

  “Make her stop talking!” Jacob yelled, wedging himself between them.

  On his feet in an instant, Nathan placed a firm hand on the child’s shoulder and one on Anya’s. “Let’s all take a deep breath, shall we?”

  She raised a palm to him and shook her head, never taking her eyes off her father. When she could finally speak, the words fashioned an angry whisper. “You are not Jacob’s papa, because you are my father.”

  Lines of confusion etched deep on his forehead, his eyes vacant as a cloud of fear shrouded his face.

  “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?” Jacob yelled, trying to wiggle out of Nathan’s grasp.

  “Jacob, please,” Nathan said, “just let her talk to him.”

  She ignored them and took one last chance. Gently cupping her hands against his cheeks, their faces mere inches apart, she cried, “Father, please. Look at me. Can’t you see? I’m your daughter Anya, and I‍—‍”

  “NOOOO!” Jacob screamed, pulling her hands off his papa’s face. “You’re wrong, and you’re confusing him! Leave him alone!”

  “Now Jacob, just calm down,” Nathan said.

  “Get away from him!” he shouted.

  Carolien appeared beside them. “Jacob, why don’t you and I‍—‍”

  “No! Make them leave, Carolien! Can’t you see he’s upset?”

  “Yes, but if you’ll just come with me, we can let them sort it out.” She reached for his arm, but he yanked it away.

  He shook his head, his eyes wild. “NO! I’M NOT LEAVING HIM! You’re all scaring him!”

  Before they could utter another word, he shrieked at the top of his lungs, “GET OUT OF HERE!”

  28

  They left the bakery at Helga’s insistence, who wisely suggested they get some fresh air and perhaps give Jacob time to calm down. It took every ounce of restraint for Anya to walk away from the man she now knew was her father.

  Father …

  He’s alive? He’s alive!

  I saw him with my own eyes!

  A numbing state of shock crippled her thoughts. How could she let him out of her sight again? Even as the four of them left the quaint bakery, she couldn’t stop staring at him through the window. He, as though nothing had happened, simply went back to work, disappearing through the swinging doors.

  Back in Nathan’s truck, she stared through the dirty windshield, trying to make sense of it as they waited for Helga.

  “What if the boy takes off with him?” she mumbled, surprised to hear herself speak aloud.

  “I had the same thought,” Nathan said as he slid onto the driver’s seat.

  “That’s probably why Helga’s still in there talking to the woman,” Lars said.

  Seconds later, Helga squeezed onto the front seat with them.

  “What did she say?” Lars asked.

  “When she sent the boy off on a chore so that we could talk, I told her it was true, that the man they called Papa was your father, Anya. That you’d been told he was killed at a concentration camp. I gave her your name and ours, and how to reach us if the little guy tries to steal away with your father.”

  Anya turned to face her. “What did she say?”

  “She was most kind and understanding. When I asked what she knew of the boy and the one they call Papa, she said the two of them showed up several months ago after arriving at the displaced persons camp here in town. Jacob told her he had met her nephew Günther at Bergen-Belsen. He said Günther talked about them all the time‍—‌his aunt and uncle and their bakery here in Amersfoort. How he had once spent a summer here with them and learned to make pies and cakes and a dozen different kinds of bread. He would describe them to Jacob in detail, especially at night when they went to bed hungry. At least, this is what Jacob told her when he showed up that day with your father.

  “And then one morning, Jacob said Günther went to the latrine and never came back.”

  “What happened to him?” Nathan asked.

  “Carolien said he didn’t tell her, but became quite agitated talking about it so she didn’t press him.”

  Anya sighed heavily. “I still don’t understand what any of that has to do with my father.”

  “It explains why Jacob came here when the camps were liberated,” Helga answered. “I would guess he didn’t know where else to go, aside from the bakery in Amersfoort his friend Günther had talked about. As for how he connected with your father, or why he thinks Huub is his father, she didn’t know.”

  “Nathan, where are we going?” Anya asked, weary of the whole conversation.

  “To the displaced persons camp. I talked to the director earlier and told him you needed to meet with him and find out how to get your father released. We must go now because the offices are closed tomorrow.”

  “Why should we have to talk to him? Father’s not a prisoner. He’s just staying there.”

  “True, but over the last year, they’ve learned to keep better records and make sure these folks go where they should for the right reasons, and go where they want to go. I assure you, they’re as eager to find homes for these DPs as you are to have your father home with you.”

  Nathan made another turn. “Here we are.”

  Anya’s stomach roiled as she glanced through the window at the approaching brick wall and its arch over a menacing gate structure. She recognized the entrance to the Polizeiliches Durchgangslager, which was originally a Police Camp until it was later designated as the Amersfoort Concentration Camp. In her work with the Dutch Resistance, she’d heard terrifying descriptions of the torture and cruel treatment of its prisoners, many of them Dutch Jews as well as untermenschen‌—‍the “unwanted” considered by the Nazis to be subhuman‌—‍including non-Aryans, gypsies, homosexuals, communists, and of course, captured Resistance workers.

  Anya groaned. “Why haven’t they burned the camp? Why subject these poor people to remain here where such atrocities were carried out?”

  “Because it’s convenient,” Lars answered. “With the end of the war and the SS no longer in charge, the barracks offered an available safe place to shelter those who had no place to go.”

  “A safe place? Where thousands of bodies are buried beneath its soil? Surely the cries of the dead still haunt every inch of its evil grounds.”

  “Probably so,” Nathan said. “But the Red Cross has worked extremely hard, not just here but throughout Europe, to transform these prisons into shelters for those who’ve yet to be repatriated or find their loved ones.”

  He drove through the open gate and pulled up to a brick building beneath a sign indicating Administrative Offices. Over the roof behind it, Anya noticed the tall watchtower and wondered how many prisoners had been target practice from German guards perched on its platform.

  “In effect,” she continued, “they’re still prisoners. Just because they’re not being tortured or killed doesn’t mean they’re free. See there? The watchtower? The high fences? Doesn’t look much like freedom to me.”

  Once out of the truck, they followed Nathan up the steps to the building. Moments later, they sat in a semi-circle of chairs in front of a desk cluttered with files and worn leather record books.

  “I’m terribly sorry to keep you all waiting,” the tall Dutchman said as he joined them.

  “No problem,” Nathan said, extending his hand. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

  He introduced Anya, Lars, and Helga to the camp’s director, Theodoor Klaassen, then mentioned the conversation he’d had with him earlier that morning concerning Anya’s father.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, taking his seat behind his desk. “I believe he and his son are in town working at the bakery, correct?”

  “No,” Anya began, attempting to remain calm. “That boy is not his son. I don’t know who he is or why he’s lying about it. Mr. Klaassen, I am Huub Versteeg’s only living child, and I want to take my father home. Today.”

  “Oh?” Klaassen’s eyes reflected confusion. “Well, then. That does complicate things.”

  “When I talked to you earlier, you had no record of anyone by the name of Huub Versteeg,” Nathan said. “Were you able to track down his identity, apart from the boy’s insistence that he’s his father?”

  “I said he’s not his‍—‍”

  “Anya, let me finish.” Nathan rested his hand on hers for a moment, directing his attention toward her. “When I spoke earlier with Mr. Klaassen, he recognized your father from the photograph you’d given me, but couldn’t locate any information on him under his name.”

  “Yes, and you see, that’s what I can’t figure out,” Klaassen said. “The boy’s name is Jacob Müller. He and his‍—‍that is, as you say, your father‍—‌arrived here from Bergen-Belsen with papers verifying the fact that they are father and son.”

  “Which is preposterous, as you can see for yourself by the photograph Nathan showed you. He is not that boy’s ‘papa’ because he is MY FATHER!”

  Nathan gripped her wrist again and held it firm when she attempted to free it. “Anya, please,” he pleaded under his breath. “Mr. Klaassen is willing to help us get to the bottom of all this, but you need to calm down. This isn’t helping.”

  She narrowed her eyes, pulling at her wrist which he held fast. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. “Let go of my hand, Nathan.” When he didn’t, she opened her eyes again. “Please?”

  Their eyes remained locked on each other’s until, at last, Anya gave the slightest nod of her head.

  “Yes, well, I understand how difficult this must be for you,” Klaassen said, shuffling papers on his desk. “And while I may not understand the minutiae of this matter or how it all came to be, I can certainly see the resemblance between you and … your, uh, father. Which is why I am more than willing to release him into your care.”

  Their sighs fell in unison as Anya, Lars, Helga, and Nathan smiled with relief.

  “That’s wonderful!” Helga cried, reaching over to hug Anya. “Oh Anya, it’s finally over. Your nightmare is finally over!”

  Nathan reached across the desk to shake Klaassen’s hand. “We can’t thank you enough. Truly, we appreciate your help in resolving our situation. More than words can say.”

  “It’s my pleasure. If only all our guests here had people like you searching for them. Nothing would make me happier than to close this place down for good.”

  Anya stretched out her hand to him. “Mr. Klaassen, I’m sorry for my harsh words. But I thank you for helping me finally bring my father home. For that I can never repay you.”

  29

  Dear Danny,

  I went to the Western Union office this morning to send the telegram telling the news of Father and when we’ll be home. But there is more to tell, and that is why I am writing. So much has happened since I last wrote you from Framlingham, I honestly don’t know where to begin. It was difficult saying goodbye to Sophie and Charlie again, and utterly heartbreaking to realize I might not see Patrick again. He seemed so frail. I was afraid he might slip away any moment. With Sophie’s little one (or two or three!) due to arrive sooner than expected, it’s a bittersweet time for them.

  Helga and Lars picked me up at the train station when I arrived here in Utrecht. Of course, it was lovely to see them again, but all I wanted was to see for myself this man they believed to be Father.

  Shortly after I arrived, Nathan drove us to the bakery in Amersfoort where this man works. At first, I was sure the old fellow shuffling out of the kitchen was some poor soul of eighty years or more. But once he looked up, and I could see his face‍—‌I could not believe it, Danny! It was Father! I wanted desperately to rush to him, wrap my arms around him, and kiss his cheek and ask how it was possible that he survived …

  But that was not to be. I have no doubt that this quiet man working in a bakery is Father, but he does not know me. His eyes looked my way with no spark of recognition, no tenderness toward me, no joy at being reunited with his daughter … nothing. He seems to know what he’s doing in the moment, the simple tasks he’s assigned there at the bakery. Beyond that, his mind seems to be a blank slate, void of memories of me or his past life.

  Later, we talked to the director of the displaced persons camp in Amersfoort where Father’s apparently been living since the war ended. Mr. Klaassen was agreeable to release Father into my care based on the family photographs we showed him. He asked that we wait until Father returned to camp from the bakery.

  Even now, I struggle to put into words what I’m feeling. As though I’m walking in a complicated dream, and if I could pinch myself, I would surely wake up and realize I’d imagined it all. I still do not know what injuries or hardships he experienced during the war years. As best I’m told, reliable sources from the Resistance reported that he was shot during roll call at Bergen-Belsen, one of the camps in Germany. That, of course, is what I’d been told at the time it happened. Was it a case of false identification? Or was he actually shot and somehow survived?

  But how did he find his way here from Germany? Why would he settle in Amersfoort when Utrecht was so close by? I have so many unanswered questions.

  But there’s more. There’s a strange young boy who accompanies Father at all times. His name is Jacob, and I would guess he’s eight or nine, maybe ten years old. He claims that Father is his “Papa” and he’s fiercely protective of him. He’s quite peculiar, with a spark of mischief in his eyes, his brows often spiked high on his forehead, as if on constant alert for trouble. When we asked too many questions that first day, he started shouting at us and at one point, he threw us out! Can you imagine? It frightened Father, making him quite agitated, so we left. But I was so angry!

  To be honest, I’m not sure what to think of the child. Father seems rather dependent on him, and I’m worried it might stress him to be separated from the boy when the time comes for us to leave. Mr. Klaassen assured us there are orphanages for children who lost their families in the war. He’s making the necessary calls to find the right one for Jacob, so hopefully he’ll be settled in one of them before we leave.

  I’m such a mess over all this, Danny. I had never allowed myself the luxury of thinking ahead this far … of imagining all the implications if this man was indeed my father. In my heart, I was convinced he wasn’t.

  Yet, here I am. And still in shock, I think.

  Would you do me a favor and talk to your mother? Would you ask if she would consider allowing Father to live with us for a few weeks? Just until we can find a place for him? And please tell her how terribly sorry I am for such an imposition.

  If I’m honest, it scares me … the thought of bringing him home when he seems like a total stranger. I can’t help wondering how hard it will be for all of us. If only he would just snap out of it and be himself again.

  We’ll continue pursuing the necessary documents for passage to America. I have no idea how long it might take. I sent a telegram to Phillip in New York to inquire how he might help us with all these forms. Hopefully, he still has contacts here in Europe to “pull some strings” as he called it.

  On this end, Nathan has been a tremendous help. I know we couldn’t have managed without him. As I was thinking about that the other night‍—‌how random it was for us to be on the same ship sailing out of New York that day. How he insisted on helping once I arrived. And I couldn’t help thinking how your mother always considers such “coincidences” as so much more. She would surely say Nathan was an answer to prayer. Perhaps she would be right.

  It dawned on me today, as I thought about returning to you in Chicago, America, that for the first time, I caught myself thinking of it as coming “home.” It’s been so many years since I’ve experienced such a feeling.

  I miss you, Danny. More than I could have imagined.

  Love,

  Anya

  P.S. I’ll send a telegram once we book our passage home. Hopefully sooner than later!

  30

  Chicago, Illinois

  “Oh Danny! Such wonderful news!”

  His mother jumped up from the rocking chair, the corn husks falling to the ground as she reached out to hug him. “He’s alive! Anya must be thrilled!”

  The letter drifted to the floor as he wrapped her in his arms. “I know! I can’t believe it.”

  “Oh Lord, thank You! Thank You for this miracle. For this dear sweet girl finding her father alive after all this time.” She stood back, resting a hand on her heart. “I feel positively giddy, just imagining their reunion … why, if it had been me, I surely would have passed out right then and there.”

  “I know, but Anya’s description didn’t sound all that heartwarming, considering he didn’t even recognize her.”

  She took her seat on the back porch rocker again and gathered the discarded husks on the ground around her. “Oh honey, don’t worry about that now. Once he’s in a place where he feels safe and warm, he’ll come around. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t know, Mom.” Danny knelt down, helping her collect the renegade silken threads dancing about in the warm afternoon breeze. “There’s no telling what he’s been through. War messes with the mind more than folks might believe. Who knows what kind of stuff he’s seen or experienced.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” She held up the paper bag and let him rub the clinging silk off his hands into it. “There were things your father saw during the first war that he didn’t share with anybody. Not even me. He’d get that far-off look in his eyes, and I always knew he was back on the battlefield in France.”