When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit (22 page)

When Anna told Papa he was just as pleased as he had been about Max’s
prix d’excellence.

“It’s your first professional fee as a writer,” he said. “It’s really remarkable to have earned it in a language not your own.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The summer holidays arrived and Anna suddenly realised that no one had said anything about going away. It was very hot. You could feel the heat of the pavement through the soles of your shoes and the sun seemed to soak deep into the streets and the houses, so that they did not cool even at night. The Fernands had left for the seaside right after the end of term, and as July turned into August Paris gradually emptied. The paper shop at the corner was the first to put up a sign saying “Closed until September” but several others soon followed. Even the owner of the shop where Papa had bought the sewing machine had put up his shutters and gone away.

It was difficult to know what to do during the long hot days. The flat was stifling, and even in the shady square where Anna and Max usually played the heat was too great for them to do anything very interesting. They would throw a ball about or play with their spinning tops for a while, but they soon became tired and sank on to a seat to dream of swimming and cold drinks.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely,” said Anna, “if we were sitting by the edge of Lake Zurich and could just jump in!”

Max pulled at his shirt where it had stuck to his skin.

“It’s not likely to happen,” he said. “We’ve hardly enough money to pay the rent, let alone go away.”

“I know,” said Anna. But it sounded so gloomy that she added, “Unless someone buys Papa’s film script.”

Papa’s film script had been inspired by his conversation with the children about Napoleon. It was not about Napoleon himself but about his mother—how she had brought up her children without any money, how all their lives were changed by Napoleon’s success and how at last she outlived him, an old blind lady, long after his final defeat. It was the first film script Papa had ever written and he had been working on it when Anna imagined that things had “sorted themselves out” with the
Daily Parisian.
Since the paper was now in greater difficulties than ever she hoped that the film would make Papa’s fortune instead—but up to now there had been little sign of it.

Two French film companies to whom Papa had shown it had returned it with depressing speed. Finally Papa had sent it to a Hungarian film director in England, and this seemed an even less likely bet since it was not known for certain whether the Hungarian could read German. Also, thought Anna, why should the English, who had been Napoleon’s greatest enemies, be more eager to make a film about him than the French? But at least the script had not yet come back, so there was still hope.

“I don’t really think anyone’s going to buy that film, do you?” said Max. “And I don’t know what Papa and Mama are going to do for money.”

“Oh, something will turn up,” said Anna, but secretly she was a little frightened. Suppose nothing turned up. What then?

Mama was more irritable than they had ever known her. Quite small things seemed to upset her, like the time when Anna had broken her hairslide.

“Why couldn’t you have been more careful?” Mama had stormed, and when Anna pointed out that the hairslide only cost thirty centimes, Mama had shouted, “Thirty centimes is thirty centimes!” and had insisted on trying to glue the hairslide together again before buying a new one. Once she had said, out of the blue, “How would you children like to stay with Omama for a while?”

Max had answered, “Not at all!” and they had all laughed, but afterwards it did not seem so funny.

At night in the dark, hot bedroom Anna worried what would happen if Papa’s financial situation did not improve. Would she and Max really be sent away?

Halfway through August a letter arrived from England. It was signed by the Hungarian film director’s secretary. She said that the Hungarian film director thanked Papa for the script and that he looked forward to reading anything written by so distinguished an author, but that he felt he must warn Papa of the general lack of interest in films about Napoleon at present.

Mama, who had got quite excited at the sight of the English stamp, was deeply disappointed.

“He’s had it nearly a month and he hasn’t even read it yet!” she cried. “If only we were in England! Then we could do something about it!”

“I can’t think what,” said Papa—but lately “if only we were in England” had become Mama’s constant cry. It was not only because of the nice English governess she had had as a child, but she kept hearing of other refugees who had settled in England and found interesting work. She hated the French papers for not asking Papa to write for them and she hated the French film companies for rejecting his film, and most of all she hated being always so short of money that even the purchase of small necessities like a new tube of toothpaste became a major worry.

About two weeks after the letter from England, things came to a head. It began when something went wrong with Mama’s bed. She was trying to make it after breakfast, and when she had packed the sheets and pillows away and was about to turn it back into a sofa, it suddenly stuck. The padded seat-cum-mattress which was supposed to slide over the bedding refused to move. She called Max to help her and they both pushed, but it was no use. The seat stuck obstinately out into the room while Mama and Max mopped their faces, for it was already very hot. “Oh, why does something always have to go wrong!” cried Mama and then added, “The concierge will have to fix it. Anna, run and ask her to come up.”

This was not a very attractive task. Recently, in order to save money, Mama had terminated the arrangement by which the concierge came up each day to help with the cleaning, and now the concierge was always very bad-tempered. But fortunately Anna met her just outside the door.

“I’ve brought up the mail,” said the concierge—it was only a circular—“and I’ve come for the rent.”

“Good morning, Madame,” said Papa politely as always, meeting the concierge in the hall, and, “Could you have a look at this bed?” asked Mama as the concierge followed Anna into her room.

The concierge gave the bed a perfunctory push.

“I expect the children have been messing about with it,” she said and then repeated, “I’ve come for the rent.”

“The children haven’t been near it,” said Mama crossly, “and what’s all this about the rent? It’s not due till tomorrow.”

“Today,” said the concierge.

“But it’s not the first of September.”

In reply the concierge pointed silently to the date on a newspaper she was carrying in her hand.

“Oh, very well,” said Mama and called to Papa, “It’s the rent.”

“I didn’t realise it was due today,” said Papa. “I’m afraid I shall have to give it to you tomorrow,” whereupon a peculiarly unpleasant expression came over the concierge’s face.

Mama looked worriedly at Papa.

“But I don’t understand,” she said quickly in German. “Didn’t you go to the
Daily Parisian
yesterday?”

“Of course,” said Papa, “but they asked me to wait until this morning.”

Recently the
Daily Parisian
had been in such difficulties that the editor sometimes found it hard to pay Papa even for the few articles that he was able to publish, and just now he owed him for three of them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about to each other,” the concierge interrupted rudely, “but the rent is due today. Not tomorrow but today.”

Both Mama and Papa were surprised by her tone.

“You’ll get your rent,” said Mama, the colour rising in her face. “Now will you please fix this ramshackle contraption so that I shall have somewhere to sleep tonight!”

“Hardly worth my while, is it?” said the concierge, making no move to do so. “I mean—people who can’t even pay the rent on time...!”

Papa looked very angry.

“I will not have you talk to my wife in that tone!” he said, but the concierge was unimpressed.

“Giving yourself airs,” she said, “with nothing to show for it!”

At this Mama lost her temper.

“Will you please fix this bed!” she shouted. “And if you can’t fix it, get out!”

“Ha!” said the concierge. “Hitler knew what he was doing when he got rid of people like you!”

“Get out!” shouted Papa and pushed the concierge towards the front door.

As she went through Anna heard her say, “The government should have had more sense than to let you into our country!”

When they went back to Mama she was standing motionless, staring at the bed. There was an expression on her face which Anna had never seen, and as Papa came in she shouted, “We can’t go on like this!” and gave the bed a tremendous kick. It must have dislodged something, for all at once the padded seat shot forward across the frame and closed with a bang. At this everyone laughed except Mama, who suddenly became very calm.

“It’s Thursday,” she said in an abnormally quiet voice, “so there’ll be a children’s matinee at the cinema.” She searched in her purse and handed Max some money. “You two go.”

“Are you sure?” said Max. The children’s matinees were a franc each and for some time now Mama had said they were much too expensive.

“Yes, yes,” said Mama. “Go quickly or you’ll be late for the beginning.”

There was something that did not feel right about it, but it was too big a treat to miss. So Anna and Max went to the cinema and watched three cartoons, a newsreel and a film about deep-sea fishing. When they returned they found everything normal. Lunch was on the table and Mama and Papa were standing very close together by the window, talking.

“You’ll be glad to hear,” said Papa when the children came in, “that the monstrous concierge has been paid her rent. I extracted my dues from the
Daily Parisian.”

“But we must have a talk,” said Mama.

They waited while she dished out the food.

“We can’t go on like this,” said Mama. “You can see that for yourselves. It’s impossible for Papa to earn a decent living in this country. So Papa and I think the only thing is to go to England, to see if we can start a new life there.”

“When would we go?” asked Anna.

“Only Papa and I would go to start with,” said Mama. “You and Max would go to stay with Omama and Opapa until we get things sorted out.”

Max looked depressed but nodded. Clearly he had been expecting this.

“But supposing it took you quite a long time to get things sorted out,” said Anna. “We wouldn’t see you.”

“It just wouldn’t have to take us too long,” said Mama.

“But Omama ...” said Anna. “I know she’s very kind, but...” She couldn’t very well say that Omama did not like Papa, so she asked Papa instead, “What do you think?”

Papa’s face had the tired look that Anna hated, but he said quite firmly, “You’ll be properly looked after there. And you’ll go to school—your education won’t be interrupted.” He smiled. “You’re both doing so well.”

“It’s the only thing to do,” said Mama.

Something hard and unhappy rose inside Anna.

“Is it all settled, then?” she asked. “Don’t you even want to know what we think?”

“Of course we do,” said Mama, “but the way things are, we haven’t much choice.”

“Tell us what you think,” said Papa.

Anna stared at the red oilcloth in front of her.

“It’s just that I think we should stay together,” she said. “I don’t really mind where or how. I don’t mind things being difficult, like not having any money, and I didn’t mind about that silly concierge this morning—just as long as we’re all four together.”

“But Anna,” said Mama, “lots of children leave their parents for a while. Lots of English children go to boarding schools.”

“I know,” said Anna, “but it’s different if you haven’t got a home. If you haven’t got a home you’ve got to be with your people.” She looked at her parents’ stricken faces and burst out, “I know! I know we have no choice and I’m only making it more difficult. But I’ve never minded being a refugee before. In fact I’ve loved it. I think the last two years, when we’ve been refugees, have been much better than if we’d stayed in Germany. But if you send us away now I’m so terribly frightened ... I’m so terribly frightened ...”

“Of what?” asked Papa.

“That I might really feel like one!” said Anna and burst into tears.