Girl in the Blue Coat(39)

The students surrounding him, the boys especially, have gone silent, jabbing one another with their elbows as they try to figure out who I am and how Christoffel knows me.

“Right. From Mrs. Janssen’s,” I say, trying to ignore the gawking crowd.

“Mr. Tof—Mr. Cool—aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” a wiry, donkey-nosed boy shouts from behind him.

Christoffel flushes at the nickname. He is a handsome boy who doesn’t quite realize it yet. I bet the girls have started to. He seems young for his age, but in a year or two he’ll grow out of his awkwardness and have willing girlfriends lining up around the corner. “I’m seeing Mrs. Janssen later tonight,” he says. “My father had a little present for her from Den Haag—he goes back and forth for work—so I said I’d take it to her.”

Den Haag, back and forth on the train? That’s impressive. It must be an important job. Finding a ticket is difficult for most people now that the trains have been taken over by the German army for their own transportation. Dutch men mostly avoid them because soldiers prowl our public transportation looking for workers to send to their war-effort factories. So either Christoffel’s father is a powerful businessman, or he’s a member of the Red Cross, which has an office in Den Haag. Or he is a member of the NSB.

“Are you here on a school outing today?” I ask. “Did you have fun?”

“It was fine. I don’t know. I don’t really like big group outings. I don’t really even like bicycling, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to say that.”

“Not and stay Dutch, you can’t.”

“What about you?” Christoffel asks. “What were you doing in North Amsterdam?”

“Nothing. The dentist.”

“I hope it went all right. I used to cry and cry when I had to go to the dentist.”

“It’s scary for little kids,” I say.

“Little kids? That was last year.” His blush deepens even more when I laugh at his joke, and he smiles for having thought of it. Sweet, fumbling kid. “Well. I should go back to the group,” he says finally. “They’re already teasing me because I can’t stay out with them tonight. Papa leaves early to go back to Den Haag for work tomorrow.”

“It was nice to see you,” I say.

He turns to walk away, but something else about his last statement paws at my brain. His second mention of Den Haag. Why was I just thinking of that city? Something to do with Mirjam. Something Mina knew.

“Wait, Christoffel. I have a favor to ask,” I say. He turns back. “Do you think your father could make a small side trip? To a hotel in Kijkduin? I need to get a letter to someone there, and in the mail it would take forever. But if your father is already going there…”

“What kind of letter?” he asks.

I’m already taking out a pencil, using my knees as a table as I scrawl out a note. It will be harder for him to refuse if I hand him something already finished. “Nothing special,” I say. “It’s just that the postal system is so unreliable these days, and I’m trying to track down an old friend through a mutual acquaintance. I want to make sure it actually gets there.”

Whatever I write now must be beyond reproach. Unlike Ollie, who I’ve known for years, I know virtually nothing about Christoffel. Whether his father is or isn’t NSB, Christoffel could be a sympathizer. He’s only sixteen, but I’ve seen members of the Nationale Jeugdstorm, the Dutch version of the Hitler Youth, far younger than Christoffel marching around public squares, performing drills.



Dear Amalia,

We’ve never met, but I understand that we have a pair of mutual acquaintances—Mirjam and Tobias. I wonder if you may have heard from them recently. I live in Amsterdam now and was hoping to introduce them to some other friends who are visiting. Please respond as soon as possible; I only have a short amount of time.



I add my name to the bottom of the message and mention that any response can be returned via the same man who delivered the letter. Then I read over the short note again, weighing whether to put in any more details. My pencil hovers just over the page. Finally, I decide to add just one more line.

I am a friend.

Behind Christoffel, the other students call for him to hurry up. I start to fold the paper in thirds, the way I would a normal letter, but instead decide to crease the paper into the complicated star pattern that Mirjam’s letter to Amalia was folded into. I do it so Amalia will believe that I can be trusted, that I’m a girl just like her. I also do it because Christoffel won’t dare unfold this letter to read it—he’d never be able to refold it into this shape. Across the face I write, in block letters, AMALIA. C/O PROPRIETOR. GREEN HOTEL, KIJKDUIN. I hope there’s not more than one green hotel.

“Thank you,” I say. The ferry has almost crossed the river. Passengers are beginning to line up their bicycles to get off quickly.

“Christoffel! Let’s go! Come on, Mr. Cool!”

He blushes again at the nickname, which must be a private joke of some kind. I don’t wait for him to leave before elbowing my own way to the front of the line for disembarkation. I don’t want him to think he still has the option to give me back the paper, or that he has any other choice but to do me this favor.