​​Here I am in Holland, eleven years old, circa 1949. I hated having my picture taken back then, but I was proud of those braids, because I’d done them all by myself. And my father approved of them, because they made my hair stay nice and neat. But it was tricky. With a comb, I’d part my hair neatly in the middle at the top of my head, and make two thin braids on each side. Then I’d part my hair at the back of my head and work the thinner braids into the thicker ones. I really liked the ribbons!

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But I cannot read that smile. I’m just doing what I’m told, pleasing my mother. That’s what I always did. I think I’m smiling, because my smile would make my mother happy. Whatever other feelings I might have had, if any, I don’t remember them. Four decades later, when I was fifty, the signal dream of my analysis revealed what unconsciously I felt about the events of that year, the year they went away again, the feelings so painful I could barely feel them, even then.