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Braun had been attractive then—now she was obese, but the clear blue of her eyes allowed me to imagine her in her youth. One afternoon as Frau Braun sat alongside her before an old piano, Françoise had put her hand on her teacher’s arm. Frau Braun had pulled it away. Three years later, when Françoise was no longer attending school, Frau Braun had seen her performing with Greta at Café le Monde. They returned together that night to her house, and Françoise visited the Brauns’ home regularly in the years to follow.
    That night the four of us ate sauerkraut and bratwurst. We looked out on their garden. The Brauns were attentive to Françoise’s needs, which they seemed to anticipate even before she asked for things. There was a familiarity between them that felt almost paternal. They were cold to me, and at first I didn’t know if it was because they were protective like parents—or if they felt some other kind of propriety with Françoise.
    â€œWhat of your work?” Herr Braun said.
    â€œI’ve just found something permanent,” I said. “Working in the cranes. In Veerhaven.” I’d been walking down Schiedamsedijk when I heard the familiar sound of a man speaking Czech. Along the canal were dozens of cranes, which served to take the cargo from ships entering the harbor. This Dutch shipping company had bought cranes from Czechoslovakia, but all the men who ran them except him had been called to the army because of the fear of German invasion. In the weeks and months to come, I used these cranes to unload shipments. The money Johann Schmidt had given me was beginning to run out, and it was providential for me to find this work.
    â€œPoxl has done quite well since he arrived,” Françoise said. The Brauns nodded and dragged their knives across their bratwurst. “I’ve even taught him to play some guitar.”
    We’d settled into some after-dinner port when the Brauns’ daughter joined us. Heidi was eleven. She had wiry black hair and skin tawny as if she’d been too long in the sun. She seemed a bit shy with me, but she immediately walked over to Françoise. It was clear they knew each other well.
    â€œHeidi,” Herr Braun said, “would you like to sing a song for our guests? Why not one of those American folk songs your mother has taught you?”
    Françoise and Frau Braun were suddenly quiet. Now even Herr Braun grew red at the collar. Heidi walked over closer to Françoise. She blanched white as if a cloud had passed between her and the rest of us.
    â€œYou want to sing and you won’t, so off with you, then!” Herr Braun said.
    â€œPoxl can play guitar for us,” Françoise said. “Heidi, we could do that new Rice Brothers Gang song.”
    Heidi’s soft skin regained its color. She looked Françoise in the eyes. At the back of the Brauns’ house I picked up a guitar and began to hack at the only three chords I’d learned since arriving in Rotterdam—G, C, D. It took me a second to change between each chord, setting each finger slowly on its fret, but I could essentially manage it now when given the time. Françoise had been playing that Rice Brothers Gang record incessantly, and in particular a song that was new at the time but has grown quite familiar to listeners in the years since, “You Are My Sunshine.” It was the only song I knew. Françoise sang the end of the verse: “If you leave me to love another, you’ll regret it all one day.”
    When she came to the chorus, Heidi sang a perfect tenor, three notes above. Her voice was naturally a few steps higher than Françoise’s, but it was as if the same voice was singing the two parts together.
    *   *   *
    One night the following week, when we’d just arrived home from one of her performances and had had a lot to drink, Françoise said we needed to talk. I was full of wine