“I didn’t know you could cook,” said Anna. She had never before seen Mama in the kitchen.
“It’ll be ready in five minutes,” cried Mama, stirring excitedly. “Oh, my potatoes …!” They were going to burn again, but she just caught them in time. “I’m making fried potatoes and scrambled eggs – I thought you’d like that.”
“Lovely,” said Max.
“Now where’s the dish …and some salt …oh!” cried Mama, “I’ve got another lot of potatoes to do!” She looked appealingly at Papa. “Dearest, can you pass me the colander?”
“Which is the colander?” said Papa.
By the time the meal was ready on the table it was nearly an hour later and Anna felt so tired that she no longer cared whether she ate anything or not. But she did not like to say so as Mama had gone to so much trouble. She and Max ate their supper quickly and sleepily and then fell into bed.
Through the thin walls of the flat they could hear the murmur of voices and a clattering of dishes. Mama and Papa must be clearing the table.
“You know, it’s funny,” said Anna just before she went to sleep. “I remember when we lived in Berlin Heimpi used to make us fried potatoes with scrambled egg. She used to say it was quick and easy.”
“I expect Mama needs more practice,” said Max.
When Anna woke up in the morning it was bright daylight. Through a gap in the yellow curtains she could see a patch of windy sky above the rooftops. There was a smell of cooking and a clicking sound which she could not at first identify, until she realized that it was Papa typing in the room next door. Max’s bed was empty. He must have crept out while she was still asleep. She got up and wandered out into the hall without bothering to dress. Mama and Grete must have been busy, for all the luggage had been cleared away and through the open door she could see that Mama’s bed had been turned back into a sofa. Then Mama herself appeared from the dining room.
“There you are, my darling,” she said. “Come and have some breakfast, even though it’s nearly lunch-time.”
Max was already installed at the dining-room table, drinking milky coffee and pulling pieces off a long and incredibly thin loaf of bread.
“It’s called a baguette,” explained Mama, “that means a stick” – which was exactly what it looked like.
Anna tried some and found it delicious. The coffee was good too. There was a red oilcloth on the table which made the cups and plates look very pretty, and the room was warm in spite of the blustery November day outside.
“It’s nice here,” said Anna. “We wouldn’t have been able to have breakfast in our pyjamas at the Gasthof Zwirn.”
“It’s a bit small,” said Mama. “But we’ll manage.”
Max stretched himself and yawned. “It’s nice having our own place.”
There was something more that was nice. Anna could not at first think what it was. She looked at Mama pouring coffee and at Max tilting back his chair as he had been told a hundred times not to. Through the thin walls she could hear Papa’s typewriter. Then it came to her.
“I don’t really mind where we are,” she said – “as long as we’re all together.”
In the afternoon Papa took them out. They went on the Underground which was called the Metro and had a peculiar smell. Papa said it was a mixture of garlic and French cigarettes and Anna rather liked it. They saw the Eiffel Tower (but did not go up it because it would have cost too much) and the place where Napoleon was buried, and at last the Arc de Triomphe which was quite near home. By this time it was getting late, but Max noticed that you could go up to the top and that it was quite cheap, probably because it was not nearly as high as the Eiffel Tower – so they went.
No one else wanted to go to the top of the Arc de Triomphe on this cold, dark afternoon and the lift was empty. When Anna stepped out at the top she was met by an icy blast of wind and a prickle of raindrops and she wondered whether it had been a good idea to come. Then she looked down. It was as though she were standing at the centre of a huge sparkling star. Its rays stretched out in all directions and each one was a road lined with lights. When she looked closer she could see other lights which were cars and buses crawling along the roads, and immediately below they formed a bright ring circling the Arc de Triomphe itself. In the distance were the dim shapes of domes and spires and the twinkling spot which was the top of the Eiffel Tower.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Papa. “Isn’t this a beautiful city?”
Anna looked at Papa. His overcoat had lost a button and the wind was blowing through it, but Papa did not seem to notice.
“Beautiful,” said Anna.
It was nice to get back to the warm flat, and this time Grete had helped Mama with the supper and it was ready in good time.
“Have you learned any French yet?” asked Mama.
“Of course not,” said Grete before anyone else could answer. “It takes months.”
But Anna and Max found that they had picked up quite a few words just from listening to Papa and other people. They could say “oui” and “non” and “merci” and “au revoir” and “bonsoir, Madame”, and Max was particularly proud of “trois billets s’il vous plaît” which was what Papa had said when he bought tickets for the Metro.
“Well, you’ll know a lot more soon,” said Mama. “I’ve arranged for a lady to come and give you French lessons, and she’s starting tomorrow afternoon.”
The lady’s name was Mademoiselle Martel and the following morning Anna and Max tried to collect everything they would need for her lesson. Papa lent them an old French dictionary and Mama found them some paper to write on. The only thing neither of them had was a pencil.
“You’ll have to go and buy some,” said Mama. “There’s a shop at the corner of the street.”
“But we can’t speak French!” cried Anna.
“Nonsense,” said Mama. “Take the dictionary with you. I’ll give you a franc each and you can keep the change.”
“What’s the French for pencil?” asked Max.
“Un crayon,” said Mama. Her voice did not sound as French as Papa’s but she knew quite a lot of words. “Now off you go – quickly.”
By the time they had travelled down in the lift by themselves – and it was Anna’s turn to press the button – Anna felt quite bold about the enterprise, and her courage did not falter even when she found that the shop was rather grand and sold more office equipment than stationery. Clutching the dictionary under her arm she marched through the door ahead of Max and said in ringing tones, “Bonsoir, Madame!”
The owner of the shop looked astonished and Max nudged her.
“That’s not a Madame – that’s a Monsieur,” he whispered. “And I think bonsoir means good evening.”
“Oh!” said Anna.
But the man who owned the shop did not seem to mind. He smiled and said something in French which they could not understand. They smiled back.
Then Anna said hopefully, “Un crayon,” and Max added, “S’il vous plaît.”
The