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‘That’s Russian,’ said Peter. ‘She says it’s the first and last time we shall see you here, as the Sweet Lady is only for men over 21.’

‘Shame,’ said André.

Peter told us that he would be going to school in Zutphen. In Kampen he had been in the fourth year of high school.

‘Great, then you’ll be in our class. At least if you’re coming to Baudartius.’

‘Of course he isn’t,’ declared André. ‘It’s a Christian school.’ Madame Olga nodded to indicate that he was.

‘We have another friend,’ said David, after he had explained to Peter where our school was. ‘Joost. He’s not here at the moment, he’s stargazing on the heath. His father’s a doctor.’

‘A d-doctor,’ cried Captain Willem. ‘We n-need one here for the girls.’ He said something in Russian to his wife, who nodded in agreement.

David grabbed a pen from the bar and wrote something on a beer mat. ‘Perhaps it will be better if you call yourself. This is the number.’

Captain Willem nodded. ‘If you lads will excuse me, then I’ll g-g-get to work for a bit, because everything must b-b-be ready by tomorrow. Peter will stay with you for a bit. He’s a poet. I’m very proud of him.’ Those last words came out without a stutter. For the first time, Peter looked a bit embarrassed. ‘He’s a b-bit ashamed of it, but that’s non-non-nonsense. His poems are won-won-won-derful.’ We looked at Peter.