had been missing for weeks. His parents, close acquaintances of mine, had, deep in their hearts, without daring to admit it to one another, given up hope of being able to lock him in their arms ever again. The police had dragged all possible rivers, canals and waterways in the area for a body, with no results whatsoever. His description had appeared in the newspapers and had been broadcast on the radio. Clairvoyants had offered their services but had not succeeded in finding a trace of the blond, six-year-old little boy.Anton, Bertje's father, who was in the service of one of our biggest weekly magazines as an academic correspondent, sat for most of the day, as if paralysed, in an armchair by the radio which was switched on from morning till night, washing waves of sound over the head of the unhappy man. At times, however, he would jump up and telephone police inspectors whom by turn he would bawl out or, weeping, plead with to continue the search with all available force. Or he would take his car and drive around, with a pale face in which his eyes glinted feverishly, at wild speeds along little back roads, stopping, tyres screeching, at whatever farmers child he happened to spot.Sonja, his wife, was in bed in her room, refused to take any food and had surrounded herself with photos of Bertje, toys he enjoyed playing with and drawings he had made.
