zle was falling, dripping off trees and buildings as slowly as it collected. We were standing outside Town Hall, under the roof of the bicycle shed: Mrs. Vos, Father, Nel, Sini, who had come home yesterday, me-and most of Winterswijk’s Jews. “That Ies de Leeuw is sure in a hurry,” a passerby called out. “Had to make up for lost time, I guess,” someone answered. Father did not seem to hear. He was too busy looking down the street that led to the station. From the opposite direction two people were moving toward us. They got off their bicycles. Confused, they looked around. “J0han and Dientje,” Sini and I shouted, running up to them. They had come! We hugged. Father had seen them, too. “Magda,” he said proudly, “These are the people who hid Annie and S’mi. They’ve come by bicycle all the way from Ussdo.” Briefly she looked at their faces, then, curiously, at the rest of them. “How d’you do, Mrs. er-” “Call her Magda,” Father suggested. “Hello,” Mrs.
