Schedules being a priority to the Dutch, it’s hard to imagine any transports running late. But now it’s three minutes behind.

Where is it?

No other traveler to ask. I’m still the only one waiting. A clerk at the hotel might be able to assure me it’s coming.

I head into the place and hustle the few strides toward a small reception counter, behind which an oafish man is reading a book. He’s the lone person present. Gratefully.

I continue to listen for the bus’s engine.

“Pardon me, sir,” I say in Dutch, and it hits me: this is the first test of my speech in the Netherlands, where regardless of my “passable” accent, I’m to refrain from being chatty, to not borrow trouble. “Could you tell me if the bus to Utrecht—the ten forty-eight—runs a bit late at times?”

Engrossed in his book, its edges so tattered it might have been read by the entire village, he mumbles in reply, “Sunday.”

“Uh, yes…for today.”

“On Sundays, the first bus to Utrecht is the twelve forty-five.”

It’s the one I was to take with Bram. I suppress a rise of angst as the clerk looks up at me without inclining his head.

“Fuel cuts.” He states this as if I should have guessed. As if it was common knowledge.

“Oh, right. Of course.” Internally I curse the schedule from headquarters in need of an update—although perhaps this explains why our planners had chosen the later time. “Instead, sir, do you know when a train would depart for—”

“Station is closed.”

How could a railway station just shut down for the day?

“Six years ago,” he clarifies, my confusion seemingly detected. Hopefully not to a suspicious point.

I uphold a pleasant expression, and despite my dread over the wait, I reply, “Thank you, sir.”

Chapter 52

The vacant lobby is no place for me to stay. I’d be as good as prey in a trap.

I venture back outside. The soldiers down the street continue to question passersby. I bat away worries of being unprepared, all unproductive thoughts, and seek a means to squander the time. But the stores appear closed. Too early, perhaps, for even the few allowed to operate on a day reserved for worship.

That’s what they’re doing, I realize. Streams of people in black dress and hats, a tradition of strict Protestants, are heading toward a tall brown steeple. Though without a tolling bell—likely melted down for cannons by the Germans—it serves as a beacon for a communal assembly. The service should last a whole hour, maybe two.

I debate joining. Even with my acceptable dark coat, I’m apprehensive of standing out among the regular flock. Then I recall Houdini and his greatest illusion: aiding the Allies by spying in the open.