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all want only the best for her.”
    Old Joost snorted. “Why didn’t you tell the Americans, then?”
    â€œBecause Mynheer Van Hilversum—Coming from you, they would believe.… It was you Milo Hacha brought the child to. Her looks alone are not enough, but along with what you could tell them—” The woman, always so self-assured, was actually faltering.
    Old Joost filled his pipe, pushing the tobacco down hard with his thumb. He felt strength in his hands now. They were hardly shaking at all. He lit his pipe, put out the match and dropped it on the floor. “When Milo Hacha brought me the child, surely it was with your consent?”
    Ah, he had her now. It was coming out, in a stream, a torrent. “No! No!… It was right after the war. My husband had gone to Amsterdam. A conference of mayors, concerned with reparations. I was a … a big woman, stouter than I am now. I carried the baby without arousing suspicion. When my time approached I went to Hoorn. I could not keep the baby. I knew that.
    â€œMilo Hacha came to Hoorn. When it was safe to do so, he took the child from the midwife’s house. I loved my baby. Do you understand that? I loved her! But I let him take her away from me. What else could I do? I was frightened … my husband … I never dreamed Milo would take the baby back to Oosterdijk.”
    She was silent. When she spoke again her voice was steady. “Afterward, when there was talk, he told me. I came here to see the baby, and I knew. Everyone knew. Even Mynheer—but that is nothing, now. You know the way he plotted against Milo Hacha. Why else would he have done that? Milo knew you would provide a home for Katrina. He knew you had lost everything, your whole family—”
    â€œYes,” Old Joost said. “And now Katrina is my whole family.”
    â€œThen you will want to do what is best for her. I have never told this story before.”
    That was true, Old Joost knew. He began to feel fear again.
    â€œSo now you know,” Johanna said. “Think of me as you wish. Call me whore. But I’m not sorry! If I had the whole thing to do all over again, it would be the same. Will you tell the Americans?”
    Old Joost rose, sucking on his pipe. Katrina was asleep in the next room. If he crossed the floor and opened her door he could hear her gentle breathing. He turned toward Johanna Van Hilversum and said one word. “No.”
    â€œOld fool—”
    â€œListen. Listen to me. The girl is my life. Without her I am helpless and empty. I will never give her up. No, don’t interrupt. If they come here with their talk of money, what is to stop them from taking her away from me?”
    â€œSimpleton! They won’t take her away. And you’ll have the money, too!”
    â€œI don’t want their money. And you, Johanna? Perhaps you want to claim your child—and get the money for yourself?”
    Old Joost waited. When she finally spoke her voice was harsh. “What will you tell them? Because if you don’t tell them about Katrina, I will. What will you tell them?”
    Old Joost laughed. “I will tell them Milo Hacha is not dead. I will tell them he went away. I will tell them that I saw him after he was supposed to be dead.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?” Johanna cried in a shrill voice.
    â€œThat Milo Hacha came to say good-bye to the child.”
    Old Joost felt the woman’s strong hands on his shoulders. She was shaking him. “What are you saying?” she cried again.
    When he tried to push her away, Old Joost’s big hands found her neck. The pipe fell from his fingers and clattered on the floor.
    â€œJoost!” she managed to cry.
    The rain water dripped from the eaves and there was the familiar creak of the windmill. The old man felt fists beating against his chest and face. This was like choking the Englishman all over again. Now Katrina would be safe. The