Thursday, July 2, 1942
The Gestapo knew how to follow a man far better than Gerrit van der Zee knew how to avoid being followed.
The sensation of being watched heated the back of Gerrit’s skull, and he walked right past the door to his own apartment building.
Sixteen months had passed since he and his best friend, Bernardus Kroon, had dissolved their resistance group. Sixteen months since he’d done anything warranting arrest.
Yet that familiar heat persisted. If the Germans had arrested one of his former colleagues, they could have extracted names under torture.
Gerrit’s grip tightened on his attaché case. Every time he had turned a corner on his way home from work, he’d discreetly scanned the street behind him. But discretion created blind spots.
His next movements had to be smooth, swift, and innocent. He couldn’t afford to step into a Gestapo trap, but he did want to go home.
To still his mind, he counted to ten.
Stopped. Glanced at a house number. Frowned. A quick back-and-forth as if lost.
Spun on his heel and retraced his steps.
What had lain behind him now lay before him. No one on the street stopped. No one ducked into a doorway. No one stood reading a newspaper.
Two businessmen passed, discussing a supplier who owed them a shipment. A young mother carried a bundle on one hip and ababy on the other. An elderly couple leaned on each other as they shuffled over the flagstones.
The back of Gerrit’s skull cooled, and he strode on, casually surveying the neighborhood.
When he reached his building, he studied the house number while checking out the side of his eye in case anyone had doubled back.
No one had. He exhaled, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him.
A man stood by the staircase, a gray homburg shielding his lowered head.
Gerrit’s heart seized, and he groped for the door handle. He’d walked into a trap after all.
The man lifted the brim of his hat, revealing Bernardus Kroon’s pale blue eyes and ruddy complexion.
The air rushed from Gerrit’s lungs. “Ber—”
Bernardus pressed one finger to his lips, then pointed upstairs.
Only the most important of reasons would compel Bernardus to break their silence, so Gerrit led his friend up to his flat.
In early 1941, Dutch Nazi thugs had murdered Dirk de Vos, the editor of their underground newspaper. With the Germans cracking down on the Dutch resistance with arrests and executions, Gerrit and Bernardus had shut down the group and parted ways.
Inside the flat, Bernardus tossed his hat on the coatrack, went to Gerrit’s phonograph, and lowered the needle. Strains of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major frolicked in the air.
Bernardus’s shoulders slumped, and he rolled his eyes at Gerrit as he sat in one of the two armchairs by the stove. “You need better records.”
“You need better taste.” Gerrit allowed a little smile and pulled the second chair closer to his oldest friend. “You’re alive.”
“So are you. No mean feat nowadays.”
“Which is why we aren’t supposed to meet.”
Bernardus flicked up the smile he always gave when he disregarded Gerrit’s advice. “Have you joined another resistance group?”
Gerrit stilled, his hands clasped on his knees. In the resistance, no one asked or answered questions about his work. The less everyone knew, the better. In case of arrest and torture.
But this was Bernardus, so he swallowed hard. “No.”
