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on his lap. Emil and the Detectives, it was called.
    â€œThank you very much,” he stammered.
    â€œIt’s about a boy who does not want to be afraid, and who fights the injustice in the world,” Mrs. van Amersfoort explained. “You can keep it.”
    She finished her coffee and Thomas his cordial.
    â€œYou’ve been very brave today,” she said. “You’ve come in even though all the children say I am a witch.”
    Thomas didn’t dare look at her. She knew! She said it just like that, straight to his face.
    â€œThey’re right, of course,” she said. “I am a witch.”
    It became dead quiet. So quiet Thomas could hear Father shouting and Mother wailing, clean through the wall. “Goodness,” he said. “It’s after half past five. I have to get home.” He jumped up with his book in his hand. “Good-bye. And thank you.”
    He walked out of the room, but stopped at the front door. Had he thanked Mrs. van Amersfoort sufficiently? No. He returned to the room. “For everything,” he said.
    â€œThat’s all right, my boy,” said Mrs. van Amersfoort. “You won’t be afraid anymore, will you?”
    â€œNo,” said Thomas. “Not of witches, anyway.”

W hen he walked into the living room, clutching his book, Father and Mother were sitting at the table in silence. Mother’s housekeeping book lay open in front of them. That was where she wrote down all the things she bought and how much everything had cost.
    â€œI really must get dinner going now,” she said.
    â€œNo,” said Father. “First we have to finish this.”
    He checked the housekeeping book, one purchase after the other. He had a red pencil in his hand.
    â€œHello, Thomas,” said Mother.
    She turned her cheek toward him, but Thomas said, “The other cheek, Mama.”
    â€œWhy?” she asked.
    â€œBecause,” said Thomas.
    He saw her flush. Then she turned her right cheek toward him. He kissed it. It was the cheek that had been hit.
    â€œWhere did you get that book?” asked Father. He wrote figures on a sheet of paper, one underneath the other.
    â€œFrom Mrs. van Amersfoort.”
    Father looked up. He took off his glasses and looked atThomas absently. “So you met Mrs. van Amersfoort and she said, ‘Here you are, have this book’?”
    â€œNo, that’s not how it went,” said Thomas.
    â€œSo how did it go?”
    â€œI carried her shopping bag in for her.”
    â€œThat was nice of you!” Mother exclaimed. “That poor woman is so alone….”
    Father put his glasses back on and continued his figuring. “I would rather you did not go there,” he said.
    There was a silence. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six. Thomas looked at the copper geckoes that climbed up the chimney-piece toward the ceiling.
    â€œBut why not?” Mother asked softly.
    â€œThat woman is a Communist, you know that perfectly well,” said Father. “When the Russians come, she’ll be out on the sidewalk cheering. And all of us Christians will become slaves.”
    There was another silence. The veranda doors stood open and you could hear the neighbors talking and laughing in their gardens. A wave of music floated into the room.
    â€œIsn’t that lovely,” Mother whispered. “Beethoven … All men will be brothers …”
    â€œLet me have a look at that book,” said Father.
    Thomas put it down on the table.
    â€œ Emil and the Detectives ,” Father read out. “By Erich Kaestner. He is a Communist too, I think.”
    â€œIt’s only a children’s book,” said Mother. “What harm could it do?”
    Father pushed the book across the table at Thomas. “Take it back as soon as possible,” he said. “And don’t ever go in there again.”
    â€œCan I go and start dinner now?” asked