Klara and Dirk are less worrisome at least. Last night, the opening four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth—resembling dot-dot-dot-dash in Morse code, as in “V” for Victory—introduced the BBC news faintly through our adjoining wall, the broadcast here illegal. In contrast, the druggist’s wife inquired about my cousin this evening with growing skepticism; after all, girls my age don’t typically jaunt around cities alone, during wartime even less so.

Oh, I’ve been meaning to share, I replied. I phoned Martha from the post office, as I was concerned over her delay as well, and discovered she’s fighting a terrible cold. But she’s hoping to recover and still join me.

Klara responded with sympathy, whereas Mrs. van der Meer barely nodded. The excuse might not hold up the whole week.

I clutch my paperwork, frustration climbing.

Back at headquarters, I’d been so assured of my proposal, touting my insights from knowing Arie best. The truth of the matter is, I still can’t explain his evasive behavior, why he took a field assignment in the first place, or why he transferred into intelligence at all.

After our years apart, much about him could have changed. Even the little things. Maybe his favorite radio program is no longer The Burns and Allen Show nor his usual drink at the drugstore a butterscotch malt. Maybe he’d moved on from curried egg sandwiches and whistling Benny Goodman tunes, or his old habit of staying up late, or—

The parade of memories skids to a halt.

He’d been a night owl since boyhood, often venturing out while others slept. With the enforced curfew here, a nocturnal trek might be unlikely but not impossible. Moreover, if he realized he’d been followed by Willem, particularly amid daytime crowds, he could be using nighttime as a magician would a cloak. How ridiculous not to consider this before.

I trade my papers for my telescope. Anticipating a long night, I swallow my last blue pill and blow out the bedside candle. The plunge into darkness stiffens me on reflex. Blindly, I hasten the couple steps to the window and find reprieve past an edge of the blackout curtain. Once my vision adapts to the moonlight, aided by a spread of stars stippling the sky, I quietly move the chair from the corner and settle in before the window.

It’s roughly two hours post-curfew. A few patrollers are monitoring the area, noticeably fewer than earlier, consistent with the expected. I dive in by alternating between my telescope and naked eye, scanning for movement.

As the next hour drags by, patrollers become more and more sparse. Eventually the square appears vacant, though the belfry likely maintains a lookout.