I could still switch accommodations. Yet how, without raising the very suspicions I’d be trying to avoid?

Brushing off the idea, I ponder the great number of Dutch civilians opposed to the occupation. Even more so these days, given the Arbeitseinsatz. Hitler’s labor draft. With German workers forced into the armed services after the Stalingrad defeat, Dutch men in their prime—largely the unemployed but others too now, apparently—are being shipped off as replacements to Nazi farms and factories. Those with connections or with the many jobs deemed “essential” are considered safe, but as Germany’s defeats accumulate, even that could rapidly change.

I imagine the many husbands, fathers, and sons living behind walls and under floorboards, desperate to avoid being imprisoned or rounded up in raids, called razzias. By that very reasoning, though, I wonder: What actual odds do I have of tracking down Arie when it seems that he, likewise, wishes not to be found?

According to Crockatt, Bram’s assignment to Holland was initiated for a separate mission. This makes a night drop of a replacement agent all the more probable. The realization boosts my need to not only succeed but to do so quickly.

Aided by my mini-telescope, smuggled within a cigarette filter and powerful for its size, I observe the city square from my window—most of it anyhow. A dotting of chestnut trees thick with foliage does cause some obscurity. Thus, after my snack—and confirming my fortunate lack of bruising from my harness—I forgo the safety of my room and venture out to Domplein. Only then do I notice a soldier high in the bell tower. Though he seems to keep lookout primarily toward the sky, his eagle’s vantage point remains unsettling.

And so I use a tree for partial cover and settle at its base with my notepad. Slowly, absently, I sketch features of the landscape, a defendable reason for constantly scanning my surroundings. Two separate painters—one facing the belfry, the other the cathedral—help me blend in as I seek out a familiar face and even hope to be seen. By one particular person.

My identity card is checked, of course, though by a Dutch patroller. This time, it’s astutely examined yet still passes muster. Soon after, a German soldier pauses his stroll to compliment my drawings. His wife is an artist, he says with marked affection, and it jars me to remember the enemy is also human.

Growing antsy as the day wears on, I walk the entirety of the square and the adjacent cathedral garden. I broaden my search slightly by heading north, based on Willem’s clues. Between the city’s accommodations for canals and its row-house-style buildings, the paths Arie can take are limited. I perk at a few hopeful encounters—a glimpse of a face, a posture from a distance—but none last beyond an instant.