Dom Tower, with its gothic belfry that reaches several hundred feet into the sky, assists as a navigational point. In another time, I’d gaze in awe at its intricate beauty; same for the medieval architecture and cathedrals and monuments strewn about. Instead, I stride over the cobblestones as if these sights are nothing out of the ordinary.

Beside a long stretch of businesses closed for the day, I pause to discreetly orient myself. A small cluster of armed soldiers appear at the corner, ribbing one another while ambling my way. From the other direction, a black Mercedes Benz pulls over to park. Swastika pennants flank the hood.

Residual panic simmers in my gut, worsened by a sense of enclosure.

I detour by crossing the street. Near a small bridge, two ladies emerge from a staircase. The steps lead down to the Oudegracht, the “old canal” that runs from the original moat of the fortified town and through the center of Utrecht. The walkway below, vacant and dappled with trees, offers a chance for reprieve.

As I descend, an elderly fellow drifts past in a rowboat. I proceed alongside the water, feigning a casual Sunday stroll, unwinding a string of breaths.

“Miss.” The voice in Dutch turns my head.

But the speaker isn’t the rower. It’s a man around my age, at the base of the stairs. In an overcoat and tweed cap, he boasts a perfectly Aryan face. One I recognize. On a station bench, he’d been reading the paper. The realization he’s trailed me all this way isn’t what chills me most. It’s the intensity of his stare.

On impulse, I increase my pace slightly. Too quick and I might draw additional attention. I’m hemmed in by the canal on my left, a stone wall to my right. There’s no way to cross without a boat—unless at street level. Past several trees up ahead, a brick bridge arches over the water. From the walkway, a staircase must lead upward for access.

“Miss Hofman.” Implicit in the tone is a command to stop. “Ida Hofman.”

My cover name…

I glance back, tempted to slow as he strides closer. But then I recall announcing my name at the newsstand—perhaps not in its entirety, though I can’t be sure in this instant—and the Germans might have already had that information.

“Please,” he says, more insistent. “We should speak about your friend.”

My friend—does he mean Bram?

Being wrong could prove fatal. The thought doubles my desire to run, right as I pass the last tree and stop short.

There’s no staircase to climb. The base of the bridge creates an impassable wall.

I’m cornered.