Something Oranje
Feb. 25, 1923 I’m here, back in Brussels. Nothing has changed. Sure, I’ve only been in France for fifteen months, but come on. Not even some of the decaying brick on the cathedrals has been retouched. That was ordered to be done when I was still a boy! The address they gave me in the telegram is odd. It is only a few blocks from my parent’s home. Do I know the building? Wow, this is the most obvious place to house intelligence. How have I never thought twice about it before? I used to pass this building daily on my way home from grammar school. It’s a wide, marble white building with two black, solid doors. It seems everything is so solid, like it would weigh tons! And boy, those doors probably do! Trying to open those suckers is no easy task, you really have to heave your back into it. And apparently they know it there. Upon entering, I was told there is a set of smaller doors just to the side of the heavy ones, and those are meant for actual use; the heavy ones haven’t been oiled and remounted in ages. I looked down at the floor and saw deep scratches where the corner of the door had drug from being a bit crooked in the wall. Oops, hopefully nobody saw me examine that.
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