The neighbour shrugged and plucked a leaf out of his hedge. ‘When you hear what they do over there …’

‘Things won’t get that bad here,’ said my father.

We walked on. At the end of the street we ran into Mr Van Dam.

‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘we’re all back.’

‘So it seems,’ said my father. ‘Everyone’s back home, safe and sound. Have you spoken to many of the others yet?’

‘I sure have,’ said Mr Van Dam, ‘several. The son of the Meier family has apparently gone all the way to the French border with some friends.’

‘Oh well,’ said my father, ‘boys like that are always looking for adventure. Can’t say I blame them.’

‘Your other daughter and your son didn’t go with you?’

‘No,’ said my father, ‘they’re in Amsterdam. They’ll be fine there.’

‘For the time being at any rate,’ said Mr Van Dam.

‘Well, we’re off,’ my father said.

‘What did Mr Van Dam mean by “for the time being”?’ I asked as we kept walking.

‘He’s pessimistic, I think.’

‘Just like our next-door neighbour,’ I said.

My father frowned. ‘It’s hard to say what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘Do you think they’ll do the same to us as they did to …’ I didn’t finish my sentence. I thought about all the gruesome stories that I’d heard during the past few years. It had always seemed so far away.

‘Nothing like that can ever happen here,’ said my father. ‘Things are different here.’

A thick cloud of tobacco smoke hung in the small office of Mr Haas’s clothing shop on Catharinastraat. Several members of the congregation had gathered, as if for a meeting. Short, stocky Mr Van Buren swivelled around in his office chair, gesticulating wildly. He had a rasping voice. When we went in, he was talking about holding a special service.

‘It sounds like a good plan,’ my father said.

‘Will all that praying do any good?’ asked Mr Haas’s son. Apparently, no one had heard him, as his remark was ignored. I was sorry I’d come here with my father, for I realised it would be a while before he could get away. Since I didn’t feel like sitting in that smoky room, I went through the hall to the shop. No one was there. I walked past the counters and shelves filled with clothes. As a child I had often played there with Mr Haas’s children. We used to hide behind the coats and the boxes, adorn ourselves with the ribbons and remnants from the workshop, and play shop after business hours. The same smell still hung in the air, sweetish and dry, the way new textile smells. I wandered through the narrow halls to the workshop and the stockroom. It felt like a Sunday. No one would come and buy anything today or be measured for a new coat. I sat down on a stack of boxes in a corner of the workshop and waited. The room was rather dark because the shutters were closed and the only light was coming from the hall. A coat, with the tacking thread still in it, was hanging against the wall. Perhaps no one would ever pick it up now. I took it off the hanger, put it on, and looked at myself in the mirror. It was much too long.