Peter looked out the window of the train, as Becca slept, resting on his shoulder. The Holland air smelled different, cleaner somehow, and he filled his lungs.
William stretched his feet onto the train seat beside him, pushing a little boy against the window.
The train passed Rotterdam and pulled into a dimly lit station at Hook Van Holland on the English Channel, directly across from Harwich, a small English fishing town.
The children, carrying their belongings, streamed out of the train as a bone-chilling dampness greeted them. Peter’s breath blew smoky in the chill. He wondered if Jewish people were allowed to play music in Holland.
Marla escorted the sleepy children into a building at the Harbor House. Hans, Peter, Stephen, and Becca shuffled into line with the rest of the disheveled, hungry children. Becca and Peter stopped at the door, reluctant to enter.
Marla motioned them in. “What’s the matter?”
“Are we allowed in?” Peter asked, quietly, as if someone might overhear his impertinent question.
“Yes, of course. This is all for you,” Marla said.
Becca smiled up at Peter. “They knew we were coming, and it’s still open.”
“Then we better go in while we can,” Peter said.
Inside the Harbor House, a table was laid with hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches, and milk. Becca slipped a couple of eggs into her coat pockets. Around them, the children laughed, ate, and ran around, acting like youngsters again.
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