by Judith Kerr
Anna suddenly felt sick.
At night the famous professor had to sleep in the dog kennel. The chain was too short for him ever to stand up straight. After two months—two months... ! thought Anna—the famous professor had gone mad. He was still chained to the dog kennel and having to bark but he no longer knew what he was doing.
A black wall seemed suddenly to have risen up in front of Anna’s eyes. She could not breathe. She clutched her book in front of her, pretending to read. She wanted not to have heard what Omama had said, to be rid of it, to be sick.
Mama must have sensed something, for there was a sudden silence and Anna could feel Mama looking at her. She stared down fiercely at her book and deliberately turned a page as though absorbed. She did not want Mama and especially Omama to speak to her.
After a moment the conversation started up again. This time Mama was talking rather loudly not about concentration camps but about how cold it had been lately.
“Enjoying your book, dear?” said Omama.
“Yes, thank you,” said Anna and managed to make her voice sound quite normal. As soon as possible she got up and went to bed. She wanted to tell Max what she had heard but could not bring herself to talk about it. It was better not even to think about it.
In future she would try never to think about Germany at all.
The next morning Omama packed her bags. She had no heart to stay the last few days, now that Pumpel was gone. But there was one good thing that came of her visit. Just before she left she handed Anna and Max an envelope. She had written on it, “A present from Pumpel” and when they opened it they found that it contained a little over eleven Swiss francs.
“I want you to use this money in any way that gives you pleasure,” said Omama.
“What is it?” asked Max, overcome by her generosity.
“It’s Pumpel’s return ticket to the South of France,” said Omama with tears in her eyes. “I got it refunded.”
So Anna and Max had enough money after all to go to the fair.
Chapter Eleven
Papa arrived back from Paris on a Sunday, so Anna and Max went to meet him in Zurich with Mama. It was a cool, bright day in early October and as they came back with him on the steamer they could see some new snow on the mountains.
Papa was very cheerful. He had enjoyed being in Paris. Although he had stayed in a scruffy little hotel to save money he had eaten delicious food and drunk lots of good wine. All these things were cheap in France. The editor of the Daily Parisian had been very nice and Papa had also spoken to the editors of several French papers. They too had said that they wanted him to write for them.
“In French?” asked Anna.
“Of course,” said Papa. He had had a French governess when he was small and could speak French as well as he spoke German.
“Are we all going to live in Paris then?” asked Max.
“Mama and I must talk about it first,” said Papa. But he clearly thought that they should.
“How lovely!” said Anna.
“Nothing’s been decided yet,” said Mama. “There may be possibilities in London too.”
“But it’s damp there,” said Anna.
Mama got quite cross. “Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t know anything about it.”
The trouble was that Mama did not speak much French. While Papa had learned French from his French governess Mama had learned English from an English governess. The English governess had been so nice that Mama had always wanted to see the country she came from.
“We’ll talk about it,” said Papa. Then he told them about the people he had met—old acquaintances from Berlin who had been distinguished writers, actors or scientists and were now trying to eke out a living in France.
“One morning I ran into that actor—you remember Blumenthal?” said Papa, and Mama knew at once whom he meant. “He’s opened a cake shop. His wife bakes the cakes and he serves behind the counter. I met him delivering apple strudel to a special customer.” Papa smiled. “The last time I’d seen him he was the guest of honour at a banquet at the Berlin Opera.”
He had also met a French journalist and his wife who had invited him several times to their home.
“They’re delightful people,” said Papa, “and they have a daughter about Anna’s age. If we go and live in Paris I’m sure you will like them enormously.”
“Yes,” said Mama, but she did not sound convinced.
For the next week or two Mama and Papa talked about Paris. Papa thought that he would be able to work there and that it would be a lovely place to live. Mama who hardly knew Paris had all sorts of practical considerations like the children’s education and what sort of a home they would find, to which Papa had not given much thought. In the end they agreed that she must go back to Paris with Papa and see for herself. After all, it was a very important decision.
“What about us?” asked Max.
He and Anna were sitting on the bed in their parents’ room where they had been summoned for a discussion. Mama had the only chair and Papa was perching like a rather elegant goblin on an up-turned suitcase. It was a bit cramped but more private than downstairs.
“I think you’re old enough to look after yourselves for a few weeks,” said Mama.
“You mean we’d stay here on our own?” asked Anna. It seemed an extraordinary idea.
“Why not?” said Mama. “Frau Zwirn will keep an eye on you—she’ll see that your clothes are clean and that you go to bed at the right time. I think you can manage the rest yourselves.”
So it was settled. Anna and Max were to send their parents a postcard every other day, to let them know that everything was all right, and Mama and Papa would do the same. Mama asked them to remember to wash their necks and put on clean socks. Papa had something more serious to say to them.
“Remember that when Mama and I are in Paris you will be the only representatives of our family in Switzerland,” he said. “It’s a big responsibility.”
“Why?” asked Anna. “What will we have to do?”
Once, at the Berlin Zoo with Onkel Julius, she had seen a small mouse-like creature with a notice on its cage claiming that it was the only representative of its species in Germany. She hoped no one was going to come and stare at her and Max.
But this was not what Papa had meant at all.
“There are Jews scattered all over the world,” he said, “and the Nazis are telling terrible lies about them. So it’s very important for people like us to prove them wrong.”
“How can we?” asked Max.
“By being better than other people,” said Papa. “For instance, the Nazis say that Jews are dishonest. So it’s not enough for us to be as honest as anyone else. We have to be more honest.”
(Anna at once thought guiltily of the last time she had bought a pencil in Berlin. The man in the paper shop had not charged her quite enough and Anna had not pointed out the mistake. Suppose the Nazis had got to hear of this?)
“We have to be more hard-working than other people,” said Papa, “to prove that we’re not lazy, more generous to prove that we’re not mean, more polite to prove that we’re not rude.”
Max nodded.
“It may seem like a lot to ask,” said Papa, “but I think it’s worth it because the Jews are wonderful people and it’s rather splendid to be one. And when Mama and I come back I’m sure we’ll be very proud of the way you have represented us in Switzerland.”
It was funny, thought Anna. Normally she hated to be told that she must be extra good, but this time she did not really mind. She had not realised before that being a Jew was so important. Secretly she resolved really to wash her neck with soap each day while Mama was away so that at least the Nazis would not be able to say that Jews had dirty necks.
However, when Mama and Papa actually left for Paris she did not feel important at all—just rather small and forlorn. She managed not to cry while she watched their train pull out of the local station, but as she and Max walked back slowly to
the inn she felt quite clearly that she was too young to be left in one country while her parents went off to a different one.
“Come on, little man,” said Max suddenly, “cheer up!”—and it was so funny to be addressed as “little man” which was what people sometimes called Max that she laughed.
After this things got better. Frau Zwirn had cooked her favourite lunch and it was rather grand for her and Max to eat it in the dining-room at a table all by themselves. Then Vreneli came to collect her for afternoon school and after school she and Max played with the three Zwirn children just as usual. Bed-time, which she had thought would be the worst bit, was actually very nice because Herr Zwirn came in and told them funny stories about some of the people who came to the inn. Next day she and Max were able to write quite a cheerful postcard to Mama and Papa, and one arrived for them from Paris the following morning.
After this life went along quite briskly. The postcards were a great help. Each day they either wrote to Mama and Papa or heard from them, and this made it feel as though Mama and Papa were not so far away. On Sunday Anna and Max and the three Zwirn children went into the woods to collect sweet chestnuts. They brought back great baskets full and Frau Zwirn roasted them in the oven. Then they all ate them for supper in the Zwirns’ kitchen, spread thick with butter. They were delicious.
At the end of the second week after Mama and Papa’s departure Herr Graupe took Anna’s class on an excursion into the mountains. They spent a night high up on a mountainside, sleeping on straw in a wooden hut, and in the morning Herr Graupe got them up before it was light. He walked them along a narrow path up the mountain and suddenly Anna found that the ground under her feet had become cold and wet. It was snow.
“Vreneli, look!” she cried, and as they looked at it the snow which had been dimly grey in the darkness suddenly became brighter and pinker. It happened quite quickly and soon a rosy brilliance swept across the entire mountainside.
Anna looked at Vreneli. Her blue sweater had turned purple, her face was scarlet and even her mouse-coloured plaits glowed orange. The other children were equally transformed. Even Herr Graupe’s beard had turned pink. And behind them was a huge empty expanse of deep pink snow and slightly paler pink sky. Gradually the pink faded a little and the light became brighter, the pink world behind Vreneli and the rest divided itself into blue sky and dazzling white snow, and it was fully daylight.
“You have now seen the sunrise in the Swiss mountains—the most beautiful sight in the world,” said Herr Graupe as though he personally had caused it to happen. Then he marched them all down again.
It was a long walk and Anna was tired long before they got to the bottom. In the train on the way back she dozed and wished that Mama and Papa were not in Paris so that she could tell them about her adventure. But perhaps there would soon be news of their return. Mama had promised that they would only stay away three weeks at the most and it was now a little more than two.
They did not get back to the inn until evening. Max had held back the regular postcard of the day and, tired as she was, Anna managed to cram a lot on it about her excursion. Then, although it was only seven o’clock, she went to bed.
On her way upstairs she came upon Franz and Vreneli whispering together in the corridor. When they saw her they stopped.
“What were you saying?” asked Anna. She had caught her father’s name and something about the Nazis.
“Nothing,” said Vreneli.
“Yes, you were,” said Anna. “I heard you.”
“Pa said we weren’t to tell you,” said Vreneli unhappily.
“For fear of upsetting you,” said Franz. “But it was in the paper. The Nazis are putting a price on your Pa’s head.”
“A price on his head?” asked Anna stupidly.
“Yes,” said Franz. “A thousand German Marks. Pa says it shows how important your Pa must be. There was a picture of him and all.”
How could you put a thousand Marks on a person’s head? It was silly. She determined to ask Max when he came up to bed but fell asleep long before.
In the middle of the night Anna woke up. It was quite sudden, like something being switched on inside her head, and she was immediately wide awake. And as though she had been thinking of nothing else all night, she suddenly knew with terrible clarity how you put a thousand Marks on a person’s head.
In her mind she saw a room. It was a funny looking room because it was in France and the ceiling, instead of being solid, was a mass of criss-crossing beams. In the gaps between them something was moving. It was dark, but now the door opened and the light came on. Papa was coming to bed. He took a few steps towards the middle of the room—“Don’t!” Anna wanted to cry—and then the terrible shower of heavy coins began. It came pouring down from the ceiling on to Papa’s head. He called out but the coins kept coming. He sank to his knees under their weight and the coins kept falling and falling until he was completely buried under them.
So this was what Herr Zwirn had not wanted her to know. This was what the Nazis were going to do to Papa. Or perhaps, since it was in the paper, they had already done it. She lay staring into the darkness, sick with fear. In the other bed she could hear Max breathing quietly and regularly. Should she wake him? But Max hated being disturbed in the night—he would probably only be cross and say that it was all nonsense.
And perhaps it was all nonsense, she thought with a sudden lightening of her misery. Perhaps in the morning she would be able to see it as one of those silly night fears which had frightened her when she was younger—like the times when she had thought that the house was on fire, or that her heart had stopped. In the morning there would be the usual postcard from Mama and Papa, and everything would be all right.
Yes, but this was not something she had imagined—it had been in the paper ... Her thoughts went round and round. One moment she was making complicated plans to get up, take a train to Paris and warn Papa. The next moment she thought how silly she’d look if Frau Zwirn should happen to catch her. In the end she must have fallen asleep because suddenly it was daylight and Max was already half-dressed. She stayed in bed for a moment, feeling very tired and letting the thoughts of the previous night come creeping back. After all they seemed rather unreal now that it was morning.
“Max?” she said tentatively.
Max had an open textbook on the table beside him and was looking at it while he put on his shoes and socks.
“Sorry,” said Max. “Latin exam today and I haven’t revised.” He went back to his book, murmuring verbs and tenses. Anyway, it didn’t matter, thought Anna. She was sure everything was all right.
But at breakfast there was no postcard from Mama and Papa.
“Why do you think it hasn’t come?” she asked Max.
“Postal delay,” said Max indistinctly through a mouthful of bread. “ ’Bye!” and he rushed to catch his train.
“I daresay it’ll come this afternoon,” said Herr Zwirn.
But she worried about it all day at school and sat chewing her pencil instead of writing a description of the sunrise in the mountains.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Herr Graupe. (She usually wrote the best compositions in the class.) “It was beautiful. You should have been inspired by the experience!” And he walked away, personally offended by her lack of response to his sunrise.
There was still no postcard when she came home from school, nor was there anything in the last post at seven o’clock. It was the first time that Mama and Papa had not written. Anna managed to get through supper thinking cool thoughts about postal delays, but once she was in bed with the light out all the terror of the previous night came flooding back with such force that she felt almost choked by it. She tried to remember that she was a Jew and must not be frightened, otherwise the Nazis would say that all Jews were cowards—but it was no use. She kept seeing the room with the strange ceiling and the terrible rain of coins coming down on Papa’s head. Even though she shut her eyes and buried her face in th
e pillow she could still see it.
She must have been making some noise in bed for Max suddenly said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Anna, but even as she said it she could feel something like a small explosion making its way up from her stomach towards her throat, and suddenly she was sobbing, “Papa ... Papa ...” and Max was sitting on her bed and patting her arm.
“Oh, you idiot!” he said when she had explained her fears. “Don’t you know what is meant by a price on someone’s head?”
“Not ... not what I thought?” said Anna.
“No,” said Max. “Not at all what you thought. Putting a price on a person’s head means offering a reward to anyone who captures that person.”
“There you are!” wailed Anna. “The Nazis are trying to get Papa!”
“Well, in a way,” said Max. “But Herr Zwirn doesn’t think it’s very serious—after all there’s not much they can do about it as Papa isn’t in Germany.”
“You think he’s all right?”
“Of course he’s all right. We’ll have a postcard in the morning.”
“But supposing they sent someone after him in France—a kidnapper or someone like that?”
“Then Papa would have the whole of the French police force to protect him.” Max assumed what he imagined to be a French accent. “Go away, pleeze. Ees not allowed to keednap in France. We chop off your head with the guillotine, no?”
He was such an awful mimic that Anna had to laugh and Max looked surprised at his success.
