Margot turned sixteen on February 16. It was a Monday, and Edith and Otto had decided to celebrate despite the darkening mood in the city and the despair they all felt. Margot’s gift was a book she had wanted, Camera Obscura; there were cards, and Otto wrote the traditional birthday poem, which he recited after cake was served. They all applauded, and the candles were blown out quickly so that they would not be wasted. “How does it feel to be sixteen?” Anne asked her sister. Margot laughed. “I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday. I’ve always been the same.” Anne felt herself flush with
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