Osewoudt collected his coat and hat and went after him. When he got outside Zéwüster had vanished.
It was my black hair that scared him witless! There he was, accosted by a man he’s never seen before. Never? Why didn’t he think I was Dorbeck, not even for a moment? Or is it Dorbeck he is scared of? Could he be a traitor? Has he switched sides? Is he working for the Germans? Has he gone to warn them? To telephone? Maybe he was caught by the Germans and they only let him go so he’d betray his accomplices. Which is obviously what he’s gone and done: I’ve got him! I’ve got him! One of the Haarlem gang! Quick, you lot! He’s been found!
Osewoudt ran to the other side of the Singel canal and down the steps to the basement urinal by the water. It was unoccupied. He had a good view of the lay of the land through the slits at the top, just above pavement level. He fumbled under his coat to transfer the pistol from his trouser pocket to his raincoat pocket.
Nothing unusual was going on. Trams came past at regular intervals, now and then a car, some bicycles. No cause for any anxiety. He stood there for a quarter of an hour, then thought: I might just as well have left immediately. The police aren’t coming or they’d have been here by now, they know it’s too late anyway.
At that moment he caught sight of Zéwüster.
Zéwüster was coming from Spui, walking along in his brown suit, looking exactly the same as before. He was alone. Both his hands were visible. The booklet poked ostentatiously from his jacket pocket. At the corner he looked in all directions as if he wanted to cross the street, but Osewoudt wasn’t fooled. No, Zéwüster was not about to cross, he was simply on the alert. He made his way towards the University Library and halted by the entrance. Again he looked behind him and across the canal. Then he went in. Wait for him to come out again? Follow him inside?
But Osewoudt stayed put.
The library door swung open to let someone out. A moment later the door opened again, this time it was Zéwüster. Just popped in to fetch his coat, obviously. He paused on the pavement, again looking around him, then set off in the direction of Heilige Weg.
Osewoudt mounted the steps to street level, and walked slowly towards Koningsplein. Zéwüster knew who I was, he thought, and he was scared. Or he thought I was Dorbeck, and it’s Dorbeck he’s afraid of. He may not be a traitor after all, he didn’t go to the police, he simply bolted and then came back for his coat.
Osewoudt did not go in the same direction as Zéwüster, although there was no particular reason to avoid a second encounter. He walked with his hands in his pockets, the palm of his right hand growing moist around the butt of the pistol.
He sauntered along Leidsestraat, crossed to the far side of Leidseplein and walked onwards, not knowing how else to pass the time.
On Overtoom he went into a shop selling fruit, after making sure there were no other customers within.
A woman with a red, chapped face stood behind the counter in a starched white apron.
‘What can I get you, sir?’
Osewoudt lifted his hat, but did not take it off.
‘I’d like to ask you something. Do you ever have occasion to make deliveries to people in prison?’
‘Certainly, sir. We can make deliveries anywhere.’
‘But if you’re not certain which prison the person is being held in, is there a way around that?’
‘I don’t know, it certainly complicates matters.’
‘The thing is, my mother’s in custody, she was arrested by the Germans, and I think she’s being held in The Hague. Would you be able to get a basket of fruit to her there?’
‘Oh, sir, how very upsetting. And you don’t even know exactly where they’ve taken your mother?’
‘No I don’t, they wouldn’t tell me. But I’d very much like to send her something, as I’m sure you understand, only I don’t know how to go about it. Even if they won’t say where they’ve taken her, it might be possible for a parcel to reach her in prison.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if you took it yourself? Then you’d at least be able to find out more.’
‘That’s just the problem, I can’t get away at the moment, and I don’t know anybody who could do it for me. Couldn’t you help me out? I’ll pay whatever it costs.’
‘Oh sir, how dreadful it all is. You can leave it to me, no extra charge. I’ll send my daughter. That’s the best I can do. Only, we can’t guarantee that the parcel will reach your mother.’
Osewoudt looked at her, contorting his mouth into a grin. The woman’s eyes filled with tears. She wore gold studs in her ears, and he noted that her right earlobe had an extra piercing above an earlier one that had torn. Attacked in the street by a thief when she was a girl, he thought, possibly raped. She had a pencil tucked behind the same ear.
‘What did you have in mind, sir?’
‘Cherries would be best, I think.’
‘That’s all there is anyway. And in another week or so they’ll be finished, too. We only get to sell fruit when there’s a glut and there’s so much the Krauts can’t eat it all themselves. Yes, that’s the way things are nowadays, isn’t it?’
The woman crossed to the display, took handfuls of cherries from a propped-up crate and placed them in the scales. With her head to one side she read out the weight, slightly under.
‘Do you want a card to go with it?’ she asked.
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary.’
She took the pencil from behind her ear and set a very tall, narrow ledger on the counter.
‘And what is your mother’s name, sir?’
‘Mrs van Blaaderen.’
‘Van Blaaderen? But that’s our name too! We’re not related, are we?’
He looked at the shop window and saw the name in reverse on the glass — with two a’s. He wanted to shout for help, but just stood there quietly.
‘I don’t believe we are,’ he replied. ‘We have no relatives.’
He undid the buttons of his coat and reached into his breast pocket.
‘Oh no sir, I won’t hear of it. You can settle up once the order has actually been delivered. We’ll let you know how we get on. Your name, please?’
‘F. van Druten,’ Osewoudt replied.
‘Van Druten, you say?’
She wrote it down. He now saw tears falling on her ledger. Meanwhile, he tried to think of an address.
The woman looked up.
‘Oudezijds Voorburgwal, number 274,’ said Osewoudt.
The woman stood her pencil upright with the point in the air.
‘But sir! That’s the address of the giro office! I should know — we’re a sub-agent for them.’
‘What did I say? I meant Achterburgwal, Achterburgwal.’
She began writing it down. Waiting for her to finish was torture, but he steeled himself.
Made a right mess of that, he thought, when he was back on the street. If it hadn’t been for me saying the fruit was for my mother I could have given her my real name, no trouble. How could I be so stupid? I’ll lose my wits altogether if this goes on much longer.
He could just hear the woman telling her family about him in her parlour: a man’s mother … by the name of van Blaaderen, same as us … no, no relation … the man’s called van Druten … Oh, he was so twitchy … I didn’t want him to pay in advance … he gave the address of the giro office, but he meant Oudezijds Achterburgwal, not Voorburgwal.
He visualised the daughter getting on the train to The Hague, carefully putting the bag of cherries in the luggage net … catching the tram to Scheveningen … asking the way to the prison … asking at the gate for Mrs van Blaaderen … being told she wasn’t there … not believing them … flying into a patriotic rage, mouthing off about Hitler … being arrested herself, having the cherries thrown back in her face!