While war waged on the borders of Belgium.
In Amsterdam, the air was no less charged.
The press hall was packed to suffocation, hot with the reek of sweat, and ink.
Dutch, German, Belgian, even a handful of American reporters pressed shoulder to shoulder, their coats rumpled, their eyes wide.
The scrape of chairs, the hiss of whispered speculation, the clatter of typewriter keys in the back row, all of it died when the doors opened.
Prime Minister Hendrikus Colijn stepped to the podium.
His suit was immaculate, his chin freshly shaven, but fatigue hung heavy in the set of his jaw.
When he spoke, it was not the voice of a politician but of a man who had carried the weight of silence too long.
"Years ago, King Albert of Belgium met with my predecessor here in Amsterdam. There, they pledged a mutual defense. Should either of our nations be struck, the other would come to its aid. That was our bond, sworn in trust, and in faith."
