‘If you hadn’t have wanted to get rid of the child …’ ‘Oh, so now it’s my fault?’ Dad says. ‘That’s why God took away our oldest son.’ ‘We weren’t married yet …’ ‘It’s the tenth plague, I’m sure of it.’ I hold my breath. My coat feels damp from the wet bear against my chest, and its head droops forwards. I wonder for a moment whether Hitler would have told his mum what he was planning and that he was going to make a mess of it. I haven’t told anyone that I prayed for Dieuwertje to survive. Could the tenth plague be my fault?
