The photos

After a few days Dave recovered from the adverse effects of the brown liquid. Lotte had run from the kitchen to the bedroom with delicious snacks and my mother had offered all sorts of advice.

‘Give him plenty of milk. That always helps in cases like this,’ she said, as if she had a world of experience.

‘Let him rest,’ said my father. But before long Dave was downstairs again, though he looked unwell for quite a while. Still, he went with us to the photographer to have his portrait made like everyone else.

Mrs Zwagers had started it. ‘We’ve all had our photos taken,’ she told my mother one afternoon when she came for tea. ‘One of my husband and me, as well as one of the children. The thing is, it makes such a nice keepsake. You never know what will happen, but at least you’ll have each other’s photograph.’

My mother agreed. ‘We should do it too,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a good idea.’

‘Let’s all go to Smelting’s,’ said my father after my mother and he had discussed it. ‘Make sure you look your best,’ he said to us.

‘I’m not photogenic,’ I said. I didn’t really feel like going with them.

‘That’s beside the point,’ said my mother.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘we have plenty of photos. A whole album.’

‘Most of those are holiday snapshots,’ said my mother. ‘Taken years ago.’

‘But they’re nice,’ I said. ‘What’s the use of such posed photographs!’

‘Smelting makes very good portraits,’ said my mother.

I ended up going with them even though I wasn’t planning to have my picture taken. Lotte wore a new summer dress. She had carefully combed her blue-black hair into an upswept hairstyle. She and Dave posed together on Mr Smelting’s sofa. ‘Keep your eyes on my hand,’ the photographer instructed them. He raised his hand and my brother and his wife looked at it.

‘Now smile,’ said Mr Smelting. They smiled simultaneously.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Who’s next.’

My parents also stared at his hand. ‘Feel free to smile as much as you can,’ he said. ‘People should look as cheerful as possible in a photo.’

‘I’ll come another time,’ I said.

A busy time began for Mr Smelting. Word spread from one person to another. Friends kept dropping by to show us their portraits. They all looked the same. Everyone had looked at the hand and smiled.

One afternoon my mother set off to visit Mrs Zwagers so she could show her our photos. But she was back within half an hour, looking upset.

‘They’re gone!’ she said. ‘The entire Zwagers family has gone into hiding. I heard it from the neighbours. They left everything behind. I walked by the house. It looked as if they were still living there.’

It was the first time we’d heard that anyone had gone into hiding.

‘Where could they have gone?’ I asked.

‘Somewhere in the countryside, of course,’ said my mother. ‘On a farm. She didn’t breathe a word of it to me.’