He laid the vest down.
‘Henri! Henri! Listen here!’ called a voice from downstairs.
Osewoudt left the room and went down two flights.
Uncle Bart stood in the doorway of his room.
‘Did you take that girl up to your old bedroom? You’d better sleep in Ria’s room. There are sheets and blankets in the cabinet. You know I’m not prejudiced, but there are limits. You know what I mean. Not being prejudiced isn’t the same as saying anything goes, is it now? If you don’t want to stay with Ria that’s your business, but not under my roof! Do you get my drift? The world’s immoral enough as it is. There’s nothing like a war for bringing down morals. What do you take me for? Ria is my daughter, after all! My only daughter!’
‘Of course, Uncle. Good night then.’
Uncle Bart seized Osewoudt’s hand and squeezed it firmly. He smiled with relief and said: ‘I’ve just been listening to a broadcast from London. Things are looking up! The front in Normandy is on the move. In a few months we’ll be liberated!’
Osewoudt withdrew his hand and went back upstairs.
The girl had got under the covers. He sat down on the bed and asked: ‘How long are you thinking of staying here?’
‘That depends on you, and on your uncle.’
‘No, it depends on how much work you have to do in Amsterdam.’
‘I don’t actually have anything to do in Amsterdam yet, but I may later. There’s someone I have to see in Utrecht first, so I think I’ll do that tomorrow morning. The person’s name is de Vos Clootwijk. He’s a railway engineer. I’m supposed to get him to give us information about German troop movements.’
There were still three people ahead of him in the queue when Osewoudt reached into his pocket for the fare. He looked in his wallet, but it was empty. Then he realised he had spent all his money the previous evening on tickets for Elly and himself.
He patted his side pockets and felt the silver coins he had taken from her, the old Dutch guilders. Also something flat and stiff: her fake identity card.
He broke into a sweat, glanced over his shoulder; there were at least ten people behind him. The train was leaving in eight minutes. What to do? Risk using the silver guilders? A ticket office clerk would be relatively harmless, being stuck on his chair. But what about the other people waiting by the window? What would they think when they heard the chink of silver, a sound unheard since the war started? What if there were someone from the Gestapo among them?
Osewoudt began to mumble, hardly knowing what he mumbled, and left the queue. He walked out of the station, his head full of vague thoughts … change the silver guilders … find someone on the black market … but how? He didn’t know anybody. Ask a random passer-by?
For a quarter of an hour he wandered over Nieuwendijk, but no one accosted him, nowhere did he see anyone resembling a black marketeer. Wait until the afternoon?
Ten minutes later he was back at the station. The train had left, and there was no one waiting at the window marked DIRECTION HAARLEM.
In a low voice, in German, he asked for a one-way ticket to The Hague and quietly laid two silver guilders in the tray. The clerk pulled the tray towards him, deposited the ticket plus the change and put the guilders in his pocket instead of in the till.
As Osewoudt went up the stairs to the platform it occurred to him that someone might be sent to follow him on the train to The Hague. What would be the safest thing to do? He couldn’t decide, so he carried on along the platform and took a seat on the train.
Nothing happened. His train arrived at The Hague on schedule at 12.15 and no one took any notice of him when he got off.
He didn’t count on Moorlag still being there. What would Moorlag have done? I think what I told him was: if I’m not at the station exit by quarter to twelve, something’s wrong.
But Moorlag was still there, keeping a sharp lookout. He had already seen Osewoudt, who responded with a nod. But no sooner had he done so than Moorlag turned and wandered off in the direction of Rijswijkseplein. Once Osewoudt had passed the barrier Moorlag looked over his shoulder, saw him, but kept on walking.
Mustn’t run. Why is he acting so strangely? Osewoudt took long strides. It was clear that Moorlag wasn’t trying to shake him off; on the contrary, he let Osewoudt catch up, though he didn’t stop, even when he must have been able to hear footsteps behind him.
‘Osewoudt! I’ve been waiting for you for the past half-hour! I’m a nervous wreck. The Germans came at ten this morning. They’ve taken Ria and your mother away. Bundled your mother and Ria into a car. I had just got up, was still in my pyjamas. I saw it all from the window. When they were gone I ran down to get your Leica. But while I was upstairs getting dressed they came back. They’re waiting for you. I fled over the roof. I went back later to take a look. The whole neighbourhood knows what’s going on. Anyone going into the shop gets arrested. It’s terrible! I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back! They’ll take away my books next, and books are so hard to come by these days! We’ve been shopped by that girl you rang up about.’
‘Calm down,’ Osewoudt replied. ‘Even if you go back now they won’t arrest you! They let you get away on purpose! Don’t you understand? They let you get away on purpose so you’d come running to tell me what happened!’
It was an absurd idea: using Moorlag as a tool in all this wouldn’t occur to any German. They had let him get away by mistake. If Moorlag hadn’t been at the station what else would I have done but go home to Voorschoten — and get caught?
But Moorlag fell for it.
‘Oh they’re a crafty lot! Now I get it! They thought if I told you about your mother being taken away you’d get in touch with them straightaway, of your own accord. They want to catch you by using your mother as bait!’
‘Not by using Ria!’ Osewoudt laughed. ‘Have you got that Leica with you?’
Moorlag reached into his pocket and with some difficulty pulled out the camera. A white envelope came with it, which became crushed in the process.
‘What’s that letter? For me, is it?’
‘Yes, it was lying on the mat last night.’
Osewoudt put the camera in his pocket, then felt the envelope between his thumb and forefinger. It didn’t contain a letter, but something much smaller than a folded sheet of writing paper. He tore the envelope open. Out came a snapshot of six by nine centimetres. It was of three soldiers in pyjamas, side by side. They wore gas masks over their faces and had their arms around each other’s shoulders.
On the back a message had been printed in penciclass="underline" PHONE AMSTERDAM 38776 SATURDAY 5 P.M. DORBECK.
He tucked the photo into the breast pocket of his jacket, and as he did so felt the other one, which he’d got from Elly. One more, he thought, and I’ll have all three of those damn pictures again, just the one to go: a soldier in pyjama trousers, bare-chested, manning an anti-aircraft gun.
‘Hey,’ said Moorlag, catching him by the arm, ‘I’ll stick with you of course. I’ll do anything to help.’
Osewoudt looked down at himself: there was a bulge on his left side because of the Leica, and, he thought, a bulge on the right too because of the pistol. He fumbled in his breast pocket, took the photos out again and memorised the phone number: 38776. Then he tore them both up into small pieces, crossed the street and dropped the pieces into the water of the Zieken canal.
‘You need a disguise,’ said Moorlag. ‘That would be best. Couldn’t you grow a moustache?’
‘No. I don’t have a moustache.’
‘Oh, sorry. Do you want my glasses?’