It was the very ordinariness of what she was describing that undermined her: Gini saw the realization come into her face—that the girl she was describing might be any young girl from a reasonably privileged and educated background. Her own inability to convey her daughter’s uniqueness—that was what made her suddenly choke on her words. Tears rose to her eyes. With a gesture of apology she rose and turned away.

Gini expected Fricke to go to her mother then, and attempt to comfort her, but the girl did not move. She continued to sprawl, exactly as before, watching with an air of surly condescension. Gini stood.

“Mrs. van der Leyden,” she said. “This is distressing you. I’m sorry. Perhaps it would be better if I left now?”

“No. Please. You’ve come a long way. I said I would see you. Perhaps—there’s a photograph of Anneke I would like to show you. I’ll get it. If you would excuse me one moment…”

She left the room. In the heavy silence that followed, Gini returned to her chair. She picked up the note Anneke’s mother had produced earlier, the note that Anneke had left behind. It was dated the second of April, the previous year. On an attached sheet of paper, for Gini’s benefit, was a neatly inscribed translation. It read:

Dear Mother and Father,

Yesterday I met a new friend, called Star. He is a wonderful man, and very kind. I’m going with him to England for just a few days. I’ll be back Friday. I’ll call from England. Don’t worry.

Lots of love,

Anneke

Nine months later she was dead. Her parents never saw her alive again. It was the stuff of every parent’s nightmares, and the note’s insouciance, its naïveté, chilled Gini to the bone.

“She actually believes all that, you know.”

Fricke spoke so suddenly that Gini started.

“I’m sorry?”

“My mother.” Fricke rose. “She actually believes all that rubbish she said now. Pen pals. Ballet lessons.” She gave Gini a measuring look. “I suppose you believed it too.”

“Not necessarily.” Gini returned that look coldly. “Your mother was trying to help me. She may be mistaken in what she said.”

“Oh, yeah? She’s mistaken all right. My father too. They didn’t understand Anneke. They didn’t know her at all.”

“Look, do you have something to tell me?”

“I might have.”

“Then why don’t you get on with it and stop wasting my time?”

The girl flushed, then gave a shrug and turned away. Gini waited. Her instinct was not to prompt and not to plead—and it seemed to be correct, for it was Fricke who was the first to give way.

“I can’t talk to you here.” She hesitated. “You know the Leidseplein? It’s a big square, near the Vondel Park.”

“I know it. I’ve been to Amsterdam before.”

“There’s a café there, on the north corner. It’s called the Rembrandt. I’ll meet you there in half an hour. I have a violin lesson then. I’ll skip it. She’ll never know…”