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collaborator.”
    “Did you see him?” she asked softly. “Was he really dead?”
    Anton nodded. He realized that she could not see him, could at most feel him, and said: “As a doornail.” Once more the bloodstains in the snow were there in front of his eyes. “I’m in his son’s class. He’s also called Fake.”
    He heard her take a deep breath.
    “You know,” she said after a while, “if those Underground people hadn’t done this, Ploeg would have murdered many more, and then …”
    She pulled her arm away and began to sob. It frightened Anton; he wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. He sat up and carefully reached out till he felt her hair: thick, springy hair.
    “Why are you crying?”
    She took his hand and pressed it against her heart.
    “It’s all so horrible,” she said in a choking voice. “The world is hell, hell. I’m glad it’s almost over now, I can’t take it anymore …”
    Under the palm of his hand he felt her soft breast, a strange softness such as he had never felt before, but he didn’t dare remove his hand.
    “What’s almost over?”
    She took his hand in hers. From her voice he could tell that she had turned to face him.
    “The War, the War, of course. Just a few more weeks and it’ll all be over. The Americans are at the Rhine and the Russians at the Oder.”
    “For sure? How do you know?”
    She had said it with total conviction, whereas at home he had only heard vague rumors that seemed to promise one thing and then turned out to mean another. She didn’t answer.Though the strip of light under the door was very faint, now he could just see the outline of her head and body, her loose, somewhat wild mass of hair, the place where she sat, an arm approaching him.
    “Do you mind if I touch your face so I can make out what you look like?”
    Softly her cold fingertips caressed his forehead, his eyebrows, cheeks, nose, and lips. He sat motionless, his head slightly tilted back. He felt that this was something very solemn, a kind of initiation, something they might do in Africa. All of a sudden she pulled her hand back and moaned.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked, frightened.
    “Nothing … Never mind.” Now she sat bent over.
    “Do you hurt?”
    “Really, it’s nothing. Honest!” She straightened and said, “A few weeks ago I was in an even darker place than this.”
    “Do you live in Heemstede?”
    “Don’t ask. It’s better for you not to know a thing about me. You’ll understand later. All right?”
    “Sure.”
    “Then listen. Tonight there’s no moon, and yet it’s very bright, but that time it was cloudy and there was no snow yet. I had gone to visit a friend in my neighborhood and we sat and talked. I didn’t leave him till the middle of the night, long after curfew. It was so dark that no one would be able to see me. I know the neighborhood by heart and walked home feeling my way along the walls and fences. I couldn’t see a thing. I might as well have had no eyes. I had taken off my shoes so as not to make any noise. I really saw absolutely nothing, but all along I knew exactly where I was. At least, so I thought. I visualized everything in my memory, I had walked along here at least a thousand times, I knew every corner, every hedge, every tree, every stoop—everything.
    “And suddenly I lost it. Nothing fitted anymore. I felt abush where there should have been a windowsill, a lamppost where there ought to be a garage exit. I took a few more steps and couldn’t feel anything more. I was still standing on the cobblestones, but I knew that a moat was somewhere near, and I was afraid I might fall into it if I took another step. I crept around on hands and knees for a while. I didn’t have any matches or a flashlight. Finally I just sat down and waited for dawn. Can you imagine how alone I felt?”
    “Did you cry?” asked Anton, and held his breath. It was as if here in the pitch dark, he could see whatever had been invisible then,