Not for the first time, she tasted fear in the air. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Minutes before, it had been what passed as a normal day for the past two years. She had written her journal in grey half-light as dawn slipped noiselessly through the attic skylight. The others were still asleep.
Coo coo called the invisible pigeons. She knew the wooden stair well, avoiding creaky boards and reached the back of the door. She pushed it and slipped into the former apartment. The usual clank click of passing bicycles was absent. The familiar scent of spice and herb from the downstairs business failed to reassure her.
Avoiding jumbled furniture, she peered through a crack in the shuttered window. Black canal water sucked at the freezing fog. On the street below huddled three men in heavy coats. Two wore gauntlet gloves. She glimpsed the face of the gloveless man as he backed away. It was the new night watchman, Van Maaren.
Rat tat, rat tat, rat tat echoed up the steep stairs from the front door. She felt banging in her chest. She ran to the bookcase concealing the door, pulled it open, closed it and accessed the attic again. She shook the others awake, gesturing to them to keep silent. Kadunk kadunk came the sound of boots. She could hear movement in the old apartment. Someone stumbled crying, “Gott im Himmel, lass ein wenig herein!” (God in Heaven, let some light in!)
This is it, she thought, we are betrayed. Unblinking eyes, pupils dilated, fastened on the back of the door. Boots retreated in ever more muffled sound. A crack of light heralded the door opening. Bep, the typist, stood there.
“They were here but didn’t find the hide,” he said.
Three weeks later, they did.