As I approach Domplein, headed for my boarding room, a bell trills from across the street. Over my shoulder, I trace the ringing to a young girl on a bicycle. But it’s a figure beyond her that ceases my steps. A tall fellow in a tweed cap looks quite a lot like…Willem.

A tram rolls between us, blocking my view as it stops. Passengers hustle on and off. And I realize: he must have arrived with the papers just as I left, spotted me in the distance, and set out to catch up. The tram now pulls away.

But he’s gone.

Did he hop onboard? I survey the area. No trace of the man. Was it simply a case of wishful thinking? With features commonly Dutch, even partially obscured by a hat, he could have been a stranger. Most likely so, considering his disappearance.

A pair of armed patrollers, the mere sight of them, jars me back to my mission.

I forge on through the square.

Once settled in my room, I freshen up and change my outfit, readying for travel. While repacking my belongings, however, I’m slowed by distraction. The painting on the wall, featuring a trio of boys fishing—the van der Meer sons, I’d guess—reminds me of the many art pieces being packed and transported by Brouwer’s company. The likes of which make me wonder…

Given the trials of wartime, who would splurge on such extravagance, and with what funds? Unless, that is, the collectibles were commandeered. Stolen by Nazis, like so much else.

I recoil from the probability of Brouwer’s complicity. Yet in light of his help, which I too am depending on, who am I to condemn the concessions?

Another maddening gray area of war.

***

Through the gap beneath my door drifts the scent of boiling vegetables, affirming it’s almost time. Fully packed, with travel documents concealed and gadgets reassembled, I store my satchel in my armoire. I check my watch and think through the plan. Again.

Scheduled for six on Saturdays, dinner upstairs will be served very shortly. Several bites into the meal, citing a queasy stomach and an early-morning train, I’ll bid my goodbyes and declare a retirement to my room. A partial truth: food sounds entirely unappetizing due to the stress of the night ahead. Then with my belongings, I’ll sneak down the stairs and out of the house for good.

At half past six, Arie and I are to meet Nel’s cousin near the hospital, timed to coincide with the end of patients’ meals and the start of the shift for our targeted nurse. Padding ourselves for curfew, we should have the benefit of traveling with ease as a group.

Before all that, of course, the dinner table here needs set.