‘Now you can’t read what it says,’ I said, sighing. ‘But that won’t be a problem. They’ll know anyway.’

‘Look at this,’ said Lotte. ‘It fits right into the check pattern of my coat.’ We looked at her coat, which she instantly put on.

‘Very nice,’ said my mother, ‘you’ve sewed it on very neatly.’

Then Bettie slipped on her coat as well and the two of them paraded through the room.

‘Just like on the Queen’s Birthday,’ I said. ‘Wait a minute, I’ll put mine on too.’

‘That star is bound to fall right off,’ said Lotte.

‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it’ll never come off.’

‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Dave. He was standing in the doorway, staring at us in amazement.

‘We’re sewing on the stars,’ said Lotte.

‘I’m looking for my coat,’ he said. ‘Has anyone seen my coat?’

‘It’s right here,’ Lotte said. ‘I haven’t got around to it yet.’

‘I have to pop out,’ said Dave. ‘Can I still wear it without a star?’

‘It’s still OK today,’ my father said.

‘Shall I sew it on for you?’ I offered. ‘I’m very good at it.’

‘No, let me still be a normal human being today,’ said Dave.

He opened the garden gate and walked down the street, while the five of us watched him as if there were something very special about him.

The bottle

My brother looked closely at the small medicine bottle he was holding. It was filled with a brownish liquid.

‘Are you ill?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said, ‘why?’

‘Isn’t that medicine?’

‘It’s for tomorrow,’ he said.

‘For … er … nerves?’ I asked.

‘No, for something else,’ he said.

‘Is it dangerous?’ asked Lotte.

‘Maybe,’ he said. He pulled out the cork and sniffed it.

‘So should you be taking it?’ she said.

‘Who knows?’ said Dave. He put the bottle in his pocket and walked into the garden through the open French doors. He picked up a pebble from the gravel path and flung it over the gate. I had followed him out to sit under the awning in my deckchair because I still wasn’t allowed to expose my skin completely to the sun. Only my legs. I moved the chair so that the sun would only hit my feet.

‘It’s certainly taken a long time, hasn’t it?’ I said to Dave, who was staring into the garden with his back to me.

‘What took a long time?’ he asked.

‘My illness,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of being a convalescent.’

‘Be glad that you’re better,’ he said.

‘Will it make you sick?’ I asked.

‘What will?’

‘The … bottle,’ I said hesitantly.

He shrugged. ‘It makes you feel miserable,’ he said, ‘which is what it’s supposed to do.’ He turned and went back inside. The next day my father and he, along with all the Jewish men in Amersfoort, were required to undergo a physical examination to see if they were fit for the work camps. My father didn’t think he’d pass the exam. To his delight, he’d developed a rash. ‘They won’t want me,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’ I suspected that he was doing something to make it worse. I knew that Dave was also intent on trying to find a way to avoid ending up in a work camp. As soon as he heard the news, he called on a number of his acquaintances and, after a few days, he claimed to have found a solution. At first I didn’t know what the medicine bottle had to do with it. After all, I had always associated medicine with getting better.