He doesn’t answer nor look my way. But neither does he leave.

“Please,” I say. “I’ll trouble you only if necessary. I promise.” I reach out and touch his sleeve, a mindless emphatic act. However, fresh off our encounter by the canal, the heaviness of his gaze on my hand sends tingles up my arm. I pull away.

There’s a debate in his eyes but also an air of gentleness at his core. The latter appears to win out when his jawline softens. “A café is closed for the war. Called Menno’s. Directly ahead of the pass-through of Domtoren.”

“The bell tower?”

At his single nod, I envision the gothic structure, tall enough to be seen throughout the city.

“Leave three small stones on the outer windowsill. Word will reach me. If I can, I meet you back here. If two hours pass, I am not coming.”

“Of course. I understand.”

He lifts his chin toward the alley. “And beware of the Dutch police. Some are worse than the moffen.”

In my prepping sessions, I’d been warned of the same. “I will. Thank you, Willem.”

“Succes,” he murmurs, a Dutch wish of good luck, and then he’s gone.

Chapter 55

The boarding room sits on the second floor atop an apotheek, or pharmacy. Powdery-blue walls surround an armoire, a chair with standing lamp in the corner, and a pair of single beds divided by a night table. Hung in a simple wooden frame, an amateur painting of three children in a fishing boat with a windmill in the background provides the sole dash of personal decor.

When seeking accommodations in the vicinity of Domplein, a task made more challenging due to commandeering by the Nazis, a voluble street sweeper directed me here. Until last month, he said, two of the druggist’s three sons were attending Utrecht University, a portion of it located on a corner of the sprawling square. But students’ protests against a Nazi loyalty oath ended with the school’s total shutdown. All three boys were apparently since “recruited” for factory labor in Germany, leaving their two bedrooms available for let.

One of which I promptly confirmed to be unoccupied.

The druggist’s wife, Mrs. van der Meer, isn’t overjoyed my stay will be brief but has agreed regardless, swayed by a week’s prepayment. And gratefully so, as the view from my window spans a good portion of the L-shaped public square. Awning-adorned shops and various other businesses line the central area, which runs between the bell tower straight ahead and, to my left, Dom Church.

In my doorway, the middle-aged woman with sharp features and tired eyes strokes the gray cat on her arm. She’s explaining how a central nave once connected the two structures before it collapsed in a storm a few hundred years ago.