Since Papa’s pocket watch is American made, with ELGIN printed right on its face, it could expose me if seen in the open. But like a lucky charm, it had been with me through all my journeys, so in my bag’s hidden compartment it will stay. On my wrist is the quiet watch I’ve been issued, Dutch with a simple leather band and dainty hands that I proceed to check incessantly.

Not a single person passes through the area. Sunday mornings for the Dutch, thankfully, are spent sleeping longer and occupied with family.

At last, the time comes to head out for the first bus of the day, set to depart at 10:48.

Staying off the road, I grip my satchel strap over my shoulder and traipse northward through the countryside. The sun sends a honeyed glow over the array of trees and expanse of meadows. The beauty of the Gelderland province invites one to forget about the lives cut down in these fields, the souls spilled on this very soil.

Vigilant, I scan the area and sneak periodic looks at my silk-printed map. The mile-and-a-half route is already embedded in my mind, yet I’m adjusting my pace for a well-timed arrival. Cutting it close could mean missing the ride; too early and I’ll have to stand around and linger.

On a roundabout path, I enter Voorthuizen. With a breath of courage, I start down the main street of the sizable village. The farther I wade, the more I appreciate the moderate amount of bustling, given the sprinkling of German soldiers. I can only hope they’re posted here for standard spot checks and aren’t the same troops from last night, still hunting.

Time now: thirty-seven after ten.

I tread along, gazing down at the cobblestones. In this, I’m not alone. All the civilians in my periphery appear to have learned this is best, to move through town as if anticipating a dropped coin. I’m certain the shopfronts are lovely and charming, straight from the sketches of a postcard, but my concerns lie only with the pair of black boots just ahead on my left.

A soldier with a rifle strapped to his shoulder is checking the identity papers of a gentleman with a slight stoop. In a small park across the street, another soldier does the same with a young woman who towers over his height.

I manage natural strides in passing.

None too soon, I reach the bus stop at the center of town. In alignment with my briefings, it’s located directly outside a tobacco-and-vegetable shop, next door to Hotel de Vergulde Wagen, where a decorative wagon atop the roof confirms I’m in the right place.

I pocket some guilders from my satchel, ready to pay upon boarding.

Six minutes to go.

With eyes lowered, I steal occasional glances at my watch.

Two minutes left. Then one.