One Sunday afternoon, Rietje’s mother and father came to visit. Miriam heard a commotion in the foyer but didn’t dare move from her wicker chair on the sun porch to see what was causing it. A moment later, Rietje burst through the French doors exclaiming, “Christina! Christina! Play music!” She was followed by a worried-looking woman and a tall, red-faced man with a stern expression and an emblem of the Dutch Nazi Party on his lapel. Miriam’s lungs squeezed. A wave of nausea washed through her as she did her best to stare vacantly past her friend, who was tugging on her arm, saying, “Play your violin! Play music!”

Miss Willy scurried into the room and gently took Riejte’s arm. “Come, dear. You know you aren’t allowed to bother the other residents.”

“I want her to play!” Rietje insisted. She sank to the floor, kicking her feet and throwing one of her rare tantrums. Miss Hannie came running to help, and together they managed to pull Rietje from the room and close the French doors. Miriam continued her blank, vacant stare, fighting nausea, not daring to see if Rietje’s father was scrutinizing her and seeing through her facade.

The incident left Miriam badly shaken, even after Rietje stopped crying and Frits stopped adding to the commotion with his shouts. Miss Hannie gave a huge sigh when she came to sit beside Miriam a while later. “They’re gone, Christina. Are you all right?”

“Yes . . . How’s poor Rietje?”

“Oh, she’s fine. She always bounces back quickly, just like a child.”

“Did you call Dr. Elzinga? I’ll need to be moved, won’t I?” The thought of returning to the chicken coop made Miriam want to weep. It meant another change, another loss.

“We won’t call him yet, dear. Rietje’s father was more concerned with how his monthly fees were being spent than he was with his daughter. The very idea that she’s imperfect disgusts him. I don’t think he paid any attention to what she was saying.”

Miriam felt her stomach do another slow turn. “When I lived in Germany, the Nazis not only hated Jews, but people like Rietje and Frits too. We heard rumors that babies who were born with imperfections were left to die.”

Miss Hannie nodded sadly. “My husband felt that way. He was a believer in eugenics.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes. But I’m sorrier for him. He missed the joy of knowing and loving our Frits.”