His cough subsided immediately. Once again we waited and waited, but heard nothing.
Finally we came to the conclusion that the burglars had taken to their heels when they heard footsteps in an otherwise quiet building.
The problem now was that the chairs in the private office were neatly grouped around the radio, which was tuned to England.
If the burglars had forced the door and the air-raid wardens were to notice it and call the police, there could be very serious repercussions.
So Mr. van Daan got up, pulled on his coat and pants, put on his hat and cautiously followed Father down the stairs,
with Peter (armed with a heavy hammer, to be on the safe side) right behind him.
The ladies (including Margot and me) waited in suspense until the men returned five minutes later
and reported that there was no sign of any activity in the building.
We agreed not to run any water or flush the toilet; but since everyone's stomach was churning from all the tension,
you can imagine the stench after we'd each had a turn in the bathroom.
Incidents like these are always accompanied by other disasters, and this was no exception.
Number one: the Westertoren bells stopped chiming, and I'd always found them so comforting.
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