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fists against his chest grew feeble. Then they stopped.
    Presently Old Joost went out behind the windmill and dug a hole. Because the ground was wet he could remove the sod in big rectangular chunks matted with grass. The spade splattered him with mud.
    When he was finished, he carried her there. He felt a terrible pain in his chest. He stood absolutely still, breathing in gasps. When the pain was gone he buried the mayor’s wife. Groping in the mud on hands and knees, he carefully replaced the sod. Tomorrow he would tell the Americans that Milo Hacha was not dead but had merely gone away.
    When he returned to the house, moving heavily, feet dragging, he bumped into the dead woman’s car. It was just like the other time, when he had stumbled over the Englishman’s bicycle.
    But he could not bury a car.

6
    The porter at the hotel agreed to drive them to Old Joost’s farm and act as interpreter for ten guilders.
    â€œPretty fancy job,” Steve said, indicating the red-and-black Karmann Ghia parked in front of the stone farmhouse.
    â€œBut that is not Old Joost’s car. Joost cannot drive. That is Mayor Hilversum’s car.”
    â€œYou think his nibs found out about the note?” Steve asked Andy.
    â€œHow could he have?”
    The porter, still wearing his green apron, pulled his old Citroën up behind the sleek Karmann Ghia. “Joost!” he called.
    A girl came from behind the windmill, leading a cow. She was small and darkly pretty. Perhaps sixteen, Andy thought. She had high cheekbones and pale olive skin. Obviously she was not a native of Oosterdijk. In fact, she looked Slavic.
    As she passed, Andy smiled at her. She did not return his smile, but goaded the cow with her stick and walked faster. Just then the door of the farmhouse opened.
    An old man appeared in the doorway and shouted something to the girl. Her answer was to goad the cow again and walk still faster. The cowbell clanked. The old man stared straight ahead.
    â€œHe’s blind, isn’t he?” Andy asked the porter.
    â€œYes. The Nazis did it.”
    They walked over to the farmhouse. Although Old Joost was a big man, he had once been even bigger, for the shirt and black trousers he wore hung loosely. The stubble of his beard was white, like his hair.
    â€œWho’s the girl?” Andy inquired.
    â€œHis granddaughter,” the porter said in a rather peculiar way. “Katrina.” The old man stood aside so they could enter. There was sweat on his face and his head was shaking. He looked sick.
    Andy said, “Tell him we’ll only take a minute. Tell him we were told he had information about Milo Hacha.”
    â€œHacha?” the porter said in surprise. “But Hacha is dead.”
    â€œI’m telling you, it’s a wild-goose chase,” Steve said.
    Andy shrugged. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To find out about Hacha?”
    The porter said something in Dutch. The old man stood motionless, his bluish lips parted, his breath whistling. At last he went directly to a hard-backed chair and sat down. His pale, sightless eyes told nothing. He spoke in a low voice, and what he said seemed to surprise the porter.
    â€œOld Joost says that Milo Hacha is not dead.”
    â€œAsk him where Hacha is,” Andy said.
    â€œHe doesn’t know.”
    Steve frowned. “How the hell does he know the guy’s still alive then?”
    The porter asked a question and the blind man answered at length. “Once Old Joost did Milo Hacha a favour. Hacha was grateful. Also, right after the war, he lived here for a while. (That is the truth.) They were friends. Then, one day in 1947, Hacha was out on the old Zuider Zee in a fishing boat. There was a storm, and Hacha’s boat never returned. No one in Oosterdijk ever saw him again. Everyone believed he had gone down with his boat.
    â€œBut now Old Joost claims Hacha came to say good-bye to him afterward. There were