‘Let me have my glasses back, all right?’ he said.
A young man in a long grey dressing gown let them in. He was short with a domed forehead under a shock of curly fair hair.
‘Hello, Moorlag, my landlady’s out, or it wouldn’t have been me answering the door.’
‘Stands to reason,’ said Moorlag, in a tone that was new to Osewoudt. ‘May I introduce you to Mr van Druten?’
Osewoudt held out his hand.
The young man took it.
‘Meinarends is the name. It is a great honour to meet you, but are you by any chance keeping something under your hat?’
Meinarends kept his left eye screwed up, thereby raising the left corner of his mouth.
‘I beg your pardon, I’m not very well,’ said Osewoudt, stepping into the hallway. Only then did he remove his hat.
Moorlag pushed the front door to.
‘Don’t tease, Frits. He’s had a terrible shock. The Germans are after him. His wife and mother were taken away by the Gestapo this morning.’
‘Well, well. Then I suppose this gentleman would like a new ID card?’ said Meinarends.
Moorlag tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good thinking, my friend, but there’s more to it than that. I’ve had quite a shock too. I’ve lost my digs. But if you go back to your parents in Deventer, I’d be able to move in here.’
‘I can’t leave now,’ said Meinarends as they went up a flight of stairs. ‘I’m far too busy. Have you matriculated, by any chance? Is that why you’re so keen on living in Leiden?’
They both laughed heartily. Osewoudt began to feel left out. These were students, the pair of them, for Moorlag also counted as a student, in spite of not yet having matriculated nor living in Leiden. And what am I? A tobacconist.
He took a packet of Gold Flake from his pocket and said: ‘Care for a smoke, Mr Meinarends? A real English cigarette. Do have one, I run a tobacco shop, you see.’
Meinarends took a cigarette without looking at the brand, and put it between his lips. They went into a room with half a metre of books neatly lined up on a shelf. The room was clean and tidy, except for a large table by the window, on which lay various small implements which Osewoudt could not identify.
They sat down.
Meinarends struck a match and said, ‘You must understand, Mr van Druten, the university has been closed down by the Germans. I have no business here any more, strictly speaking. Which is why our theologian here is after my room. But first he ought to matriculate, in my opinion.’
Osewoudt twisted the hat in his hands, felt himself redden, put the hat down on the floor, but couldn’t think of an answer.
‘How long would it take, an ID card?’ Moorlag asked.
‘Not very long.’
‘I need two. Apparently there’s something wrong with the watermark on this one,’ said Osewoudt, producing Elly’s identity card. ‘And I also need one for myself.’
Meinarends unfolded Elly’s identity card, gave it a cursory look, then said: ‘Made in England.’
He put it in his pocket.
Osewoudt said: ‘The photo and the name don’t need changing, but on mine the name has to be different, as well as the date of birth and everything else.’
‘Occupation, too. How about police detective? You’ve got the right kind of face for that. A German name? Or isn’t your German up to scratch? A German name is safer.’
‘Not a German name,’ said Osewoudt, drawing his feet under his chair. ‘I have something for you in return.’
He felt in his inside pocket, took what he judged to be half of Elly’s ration coupons between thumb and forefinger, and gave them to Meinarends.
Screwing up both his eyes now, Meinarends studied them through a magnifying glass and said: ‘These coupons are remarkably good fakes, I must say. Pity they were declared invalid just an hour ago. Haven’t you been listening to the radio? Don’t you know what’s going on?’
‘We’ve been on the go all day,’ said Moorlag. ‘How could we have listened to the radio? We’ve been running around like refugees, no home, no nothing, haven’t eaten all day either. Couldn’t you find us a couple of sandwiches?’
Meinarends and Moorlag left the room at about five, saying they would be back in a quarter of an hour.
Osewoudt stood up as soon as he heard the front door slam. He went over to the table and examined the array of implements. He had worked out what they were for, but not how they were used. I’m no good at this underground stuff, he thought, I’ve got the face of a home-grown Nazi working as a detective for the Germans. Then he lifted the telephone from the hook, dialled the code for Amsterdam, waited for the tone and picked out Uncle Bart’s number. An extraordinary blaring he had never heard before erupted from the earpiece. He put down the phone and cast around for a directory so he could check what the extraordinary noise might signify, but didn’t see one anywhere. Maybe I made a mistake dialling the number, he thought. He tried again, but there was the same noise. He tried a third time, and a fourth. The fifth time he spoke each digit out loud before dialling and then waited a few moments before touching the phone again. All he heard was that strange blaring noise.
He headed back to his chair, changed his mind, dialled the information service and asked the operator for the number of Bellincoff Ltd., Oudezijds Achterburgwal 28, in Amsterdam.
‘48662, madam.’
‘I’m not a madam. And that’s the number I’ve been dialling, Miss, but all I get is a whining noise rather like an air-raid siren, do you understand?’
‘That means the number’s been cut off, sir.’
‘Cut off? By whom?’
‘The account has been cancelled, sir.’
He thanked her and rang off. He looked out of the window, but there was no sign of Moorlag and Meinarends. He dialled the information service again. A different voice answered this time.
‘Could you give me the number of the Sicherheitspolizei, at Binnenhof, The Hague?’ He found a pencil on the desk and wrote down the number.
He telephoned the Sicherheitspolizei straightaway. A female voice answered. He said: ‘Could you put me through to the department dealing with persons taken into custody?’
When the department came on the line, he said: ‘Dominee Verberne speaking. I would like to know what has become of old Mrs Osewoudt of Voorschoten, who was detained this morning along with her daughter-in-law.’
‘Information of that kind is not released over the telephone, Dominee. You should visit our office in person!’
Moorlag and Meinarends returned, having made up their minds as to the best course of action.
For the time being Osewoudt would stay with Meinarends, until the identity cards were ready. Moorlag would return to his relatives in Nieuw-Buinen, and didn’t even take his coat off, as he was going straight on to catch the train.
‘You know the address, Osewoudt, in case there’s any trouble. It’s easier for a person to hide where we live in the country. More food there too.’
Osewoudt shook his hand, saying: ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’
‘I did it for my country,’ said Moorlag. ‘Don’t thank me, it’s me who’s grateful for the chance to serve my country by helping you.’
Osewoudt put his hands in his pockets and beat a rapid tattoo with his feet.
‘Oh Christ! He’ll be speaking in tongues next! Lord in heaven! Strike up the harmonium!’
Moorlag chuckled softly.
‘You’re thinking of your mother. She’ll be in my thoughts too, Henri, if you’d rather not hear me say I’ll pray for her.’
‘You’re a good sort,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I mean it.’
He turned away even before Moorlag left the room. My country, he thought, what’s that supposed to mean? The blue tram? The yellow tram? The service is the same as before, except for the lights being dimmed after dark. A tobacco shop with empty packaging in the window? Dr Dushkind? North State? Havana cigars? I still have a packet of real English cigarettes on me. If Dorbeck hadn’t asked me to develop a film for him I wouldn’t have got mixed up in any of this. I’d be at home, safe and sound.