My script was to serve as a key, but for a lock that apparently won’t budge. Did I deliver Bram’s line in error? Or is his mere absence triggering her caution? That must be it. To communicate the change but stealthily, I’ll simply open the lock with an improvised—

“Are you paying or not?”

“Sorry,” I say. “Of course.” Her expression softens marginally as I hand over my coins, guessing at the total. As she fetches change from her till, I mash together clues to tip her off. “You know, it’s one of the reasons our dear friend Bram insisted I come. ‘Ida Hofman,’ he said, ‘you must visit the park.’ He was supposed to have joined me but got pulled away unexpectedly.” Remembering how, I charge through a tightening of my throat as the woman drops her attention to a hangnail, possibly meant to look inconspicuous as she listens. “He said you might have fine activities to suggest, such as watching the ducks at Park Lepelenburg. You could always write down the ideas as a great help to me.”

When her eyes flick up, a promising sign, I press her with my thoughts, begging for details I desperately need.

But her furrowing returns, now with indignance. “I don’t know this Bram you speak of. I am not a tour guide. Buy more papers or go.” Her volume threatens to attract an audience, including a Nazi officer approaching the display rack.

Under pressure, I retreat with my coins and papers, trying to understand. I’m confident this is the newsstand where I was directed to go. The officer’s presence might well have scared her off. And yet she could have spoken prior to then. Perhaps she’s aware of the agents’ murders and disengaged to be safe. I was, after all, the only one to get away.

Wait… Could they suspect I was in on it?

I entertain the notion for only a second before it’s ousted by the most likely scenario.

The newsstand was never part of the plan, much less the coded exchange. My knowledge was no doubt skewed to suit my role.

So what to do now, where to go? Would the boardinghouse where I was set to stay truly be safe? My head is muddled from stress and lack of sleep, the rest of my body quickly draining energy. I’ll regroup and find a solution, possibly revisit the vendor.

It’s too early for despair.

Outside, on my memorized route, I head toward the center of the city, where I’ll seek out my own accommodations. Better paranoid than sorry.

Bicyclists whizz by in every direction as I avoid passing eyes. Once more, I appreciate the camouflage lent by the populous streets, if not the company. German soldiers, sailors, and airmen are scattered all around, as well as civilians with armbands of all kinds. Straight-arm salutes with “Heil Hitler” greetings are traded with disquieting normalcy.