My neighbor, the one I always identify in these pages as a graduate of Auschwitz whose degree was handed her personally by Mengele, constantly provides me with a perspective. Last night she was sitting outside as we came home from a very sweaty walk. Ezi ran upstairs to dry off but I always feel compelled to exchange a few words. Sometimes her psychotic fantasies are a bit frightening, and I tell her that even if this man comes out of her paintings and prevents her from painting, she is the one holding the brush and she can paint over him. But other times she is totally clear. Last night, for instance, she said – we really have nothing to complain about – it’s not like the Warsaw ghetto when they had to fight over a piece of bread and had nothing to keep out the cold.

I had been feeling really confined and depressed over the latest outbreak and Ezi’s lack of antibodies, but a few sentences with her turned my mood around. We’re okay – so far.