The sole other stranger in the room is a man reclined in a corner chair. A brimmed hat rests over half his face. He keeps his legs crossed at the ankles and arms over his chest, napping.

Or maybe just waiting. Listening.

Could this be my contact? Was he seated the same yesterday when I failed to show?

I encourage Evelien, “Go on and look around, and we’ll figure out your breakfast after I finish.”

She agrees easily, intrigued by the muted rainbow of book covers on display. A slew of empty slots makes me wonder how many publications have been lost to Hitler’s bans on anything deemed not in line with National Socialism.

Assembling my scripted lines, I venture toward the counter.

“And here is your change.” The clerk presents the woman with coins, which she transfers to her handbag along with a book. “I apologize I cannot wrap it for you today.”

“Oh, no bother.” She understands: practically everything these days suffers from a shortage.

When she steps away, the clerk calls over to Evelien, “No touching the books, now.” His tone resembles more of a reminder than a chiding as she peruses the shelves with the doll dangling at her side. Then his blue eyes turn to me; the fogginess in one implies partial blindness. “Yes, miss?”

I edge forward and attempt to sound natural while projecting loud enough for my presumed contact. “Good morning, sir. I’m looking for a first edition—”

“Darling, wake up.” The woman jostles the man in the chair. “We can go.”

After a snort, he adjusts his hat, then stretches as he stands and trails her out. He was but a customer.

“Miss?”

The clerk.

Slowly I turn back with looming dread. Did I lose my only chance by arriving a day late? Or is this clerk in fact the right person?

“You were saying?” He switches to standard Dutch.

Acutely aware this could be for naught and unsure where that would leave me and Evelien, I push myself to restart. “I’m looking for a first edition of People Without Space—for my uncle.”

A beat passes. “For a special occasion?”

The question strikes as the correct response.

I perk cautiously and submit, “His birthday. He much prefers its author to the likes of Hendrik Marsman.” In contrast to the referenced book, one long revered by the Nazis, the Dutch poet Marsman was supposedly killed by a U-boat while fleeing to Great Britain. The sentiment, expressed in reverse for safety, is a deliberate choice for the code.

However, the clerk doesn’t reply. He just tilts his head as befuddlement crosses his face.

I brace for disappointment.

“Are you…Ida?”

Such relief rushes through me that tears prick my eyes. I answer with certainty. “I am.”

He looks again at Evelien. “But you have a child.”