Chip is slow to leave the doorway to the museum. How come we never do what I want to do?

TOLMAR HAD A PHOTOCOPY of an old social-services poster. A dark-haired child posed against a white backdrop.

“That’s me,” she said. “I was two. When they put us up for adoption, they made up posters with our pictures. You know, the kind of thing people do for lost animals.”

How did you justify that kind of racism? Tolmar had wanted to know. How did you explain that kind of hate?

I was tempted to tell Tolmar that at the time, social services made up the same kind of posters for White kids as well.

“I’m a single mother,” Tolmar told me. “I’m Native. My husband died of cancer last year. So now are they going to take my kids?”

THE WALK TURNS into an aimless stroll with stops in front of store windows filled with glassware and clothing, puppets and pastries. I wander up and down streets and narrow lanes, through small squares with statuary and water features, into the shadow of old churches and the golden arches of McDonald’s.

Wenceslas Square, says Kitty as we break out onto a broad boulevard with a wide centre median. At the far end is where Jan Palach burned himself alive.

Protest against the Soviet invasion, says Eugene. Now there’s someone who lived his principles.

For all the good it did him, says Chip.

Why are there so many people? ask the twins. Big crowds make us nervous.

The twins are right. There are more people in Wenceslas Square than I would have expected. The closer I get to the top of the boulevard, the denser the crowd becomes.

Maybe it’s a celebration, says Didi. We like celebrations.

Like a circus, says Desi. We like circuses.

Celebrations and circuses make us happy, says Didi.

A group of men are putting up a wooden structure of some sort. I don’t recognize it right away.

And then I do.

Is that a gallows? says Kitty. Are they going to execute someone?

Hey, Birdman. Eugene makes a hanging gesture with his hand. Maybe they heard you were in town.

I back up against the side of a Burger King and let a squad of grim-faced men and women push their way through. They wear helmets and carry placards. One of the men has a bullhorn. Several have brought Czech Republic flags that they wave over their heads.

Kitty squeezes up against me. Everyone stay together and watch for white panel trucks.

I’ve never seen this many people in one spot. In Barcelona, we stumbled upon a Catalan independence march that filled one of the wide avenues of that city, but this crowd looks to be even larger.