He stops just before me with pipe in hand, bringing a waft of smoke that assaults my nose. In a sudden motion, he raises an object in his other grip. I go rigid, remembering his pistol, his firing without hesitation.

“Hier ist dein Karte,” he says.

A card. It’s only a card.

Producing a smile, I attempt to accept the offering. But he doesn’t let go.

Between my fingers, I feel the edges of the card separating. Has he already noticed? Did he recognize the markings of a map?

Same as beside the bus, his gaze bores through me as if to root out thoughts I’ve stowed away, secrets for safekeeping. My pulse is so loud in my ears I wonder if he too can hear it.

Then the corners of his mouth creep upward, and he continues in German. He’s insisting I do something again. Perform, I gather. I don’t comprehend all his words, but I do catch these: für mich.

For me, he’s saying. Not us.

He holds on to the card a full second or two more before relinquishing his grip.

I sustain my smile and nod politely. “Danke schön, Herr Hauptsturmführer.” In thanking him, I address him by his emblazoned SS rank as any respectful Dutch civilian would do. When I swivel to leave, I sense him watching me walk away. Fear burdens my every step as I close the door behind me and pass through the parlor, a single room that lasts a mile.

After making it to the street, I constrain my pace to a natural one until reaching a vacant stretch. My breaths quicken and hands shake, reactions my body withheld to keep me alive, to not raise alarms.

I long to rest and recover. But a glance at my watch affirms there’s no time.

It’s nearly a quarter to seven.

Through the dimming evening light, I look around to situate myself. Then in Arie’s direction, prepared to use caution only when needed, I run.

Chapter 74

This time, I make sure something as foolish as my coat won’t give me away. Entirely out of street view, I stay crouched beside a large metal container. A refuse vault by the looks of it. Nestled between shops, it sits in a rectangular inlet catty-corner from the intersection that leads to the hospital. As before, I wait in the shadows for Arie to appear, but now without the benefit of late-night darkness.

I’m not the sole anxious one here.

The man squatting next to me continues to murmur in Dutch. “Where are you, where are you?” With coat collar pulled up around his face, he looks ready to spring forward at the first sight of Nel. Understandably. Arie was hoping to be out by seven. It’s sixteen minutes past. Only a bad sign, I tell myself, if he’d gone in precisely as planned.