Then Max said, “Un crayon,” because he needed one too.
“Oui, oui,” said the man, smiling and nodding and pointing to the pencil in Anna’s hand. He agreed with Max that it was a pencil.
“Non!” said Max. “Un crayon!” He sought about for a way to explain. “Un crayon,” he cried, pointing to himself. “Un crayon!”
Anna giggled because it looked as though Max were introducing himself.
“Aah!” said the man. He took another pencil out of the box and handed it to Max with a little bow.
“Merci,” said Max, much relieved. He gave the man the two francs and waited for the change. After a while it appeared that there wasn’t any. Anna was very disappointed. It would have been nice to have some money.
“Let’s ask him if he has any other pencils,” she whispered. “They might be cheaper.”
“We can’t!” said Max.
“Well, let’s just try,” said Anna who was sometimes very pig-headed. “Look up the French for other.”
Max leafed through the dictionary while the man watched him curiously. At last he found it. “It’s ‘autre’,” he said.
Anna smiled brightly and held out her pencil to the man. “Un autre crayon?” she said.
“Oui, oui,” said the man after a moment’s hesitation. He gave her another pencil from the box. Now she had two.
“Non,” said Anna, handing one of the pencils back to him. His smile was getting a bit frozen. “Un autre crayon …” – she made a face and a shape with her fingers to suggest something infinitely small and unimportant.
The man stared at her to see if she was going to do anything else. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said something hopeless in French.
“Come on!” said Max, pink with embarrassment.
“No!” said Anna. “Give me the dictionary!” She turned the pages feverishly. At last she found it. Cheap …bon-marché.
“Un bon-marché crayon!” she cried triumphantly, startling two ladies who were examining a typewriter. “Un bon-marché crayon, s’il vous plaît!”
The man looked very tired. He found another cardboard box and took from it a thinner blue pencil. He gave it to Anna who nodded and gave him back the red one. Then the man gave her twenty centimes change. Then he looked questioningly at Max.
“Oui!” said Anna excitedly. “Un autre bon-marché crayon!” and the procedure was repeated with Max’s pencil.
“Merci,” said Max.
The man just nodded. He seemed worn out.
“We’ve got twenty centimes each,” said Anna. “Think of what we’ll be able to buy with that!”
“I don’t think it’s very much,” said Max.
“Still, it’s better than nothing,” said Anna. She wanted to show the man that she was grateful, so as they went out of the shop she smiled at him again and said, “Bonsoir, Madame!”
Mademoiselle Martel arrived in the afternoon – a French lady in a neat grey suit, with a shaggy pepper and salt bun. She had been a school teacher and spoke a little German, a fact which so far had been of little interest to anyone. But now Paris was suddenly crowded with refugees from Hitler, all eager to learn French, and she was run off her feet trying to give them all lessons. Perhaps, thought Anna, this was the reason for the perpetual expression of mild surprise on her slightly faded face.
She was a good teacher. Right from the beginning she spoke French to the children nearly the whole of the time, using sign language and mime when they did not understand.
“Le nez,” she would say, pointing to her well-powdered nose, “la main”, pointing to her hand, and “les doigts”, wiggling her fingers. Then she would write the words down for them and they would practise spelling and pronouncing them until they knew them. Occasionally there were misunderstandings, such as when she said “les cheveux”, pointing to her hair. Max became convinced that cheveux meant bun and burst into embarrassed giggles when she asked him to point out his own cheveux.
On the days when she did not come to give them a lesson they did homework. At first they just learned new words but after quite a short time Mademoiselle Martel demanded that they write little stories in French.
How could they? asked Anna. They didn’t know enough French.
Mademoiselle Martel tapped the dictionary with her finger. “Le dictionnaire,” she said firmly.
It turned out to be a terrible struggle. They had to look up almost every word and it took Anna nearly all morning to write half a page. Then, when she showed it to Mademoiselle Martel at their next lesson, most of it was wrong anyway.
“Never mind, it will come,” said Mademoiselle Martel in one of her rare excursions into German, and “Never mind, it will come!” Max said mockingly to Anna the following day, when she was still struggling after more than an hour to put down some boring incident between a dog and a cat.
“What about you? You haven’t done yours yet, either,” said Anna crossly.
“Yes I have,” said Max. “A page and a bit.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Look for yourself!”
It was quite true. He had written more than a page and it all looked like French.
“What does it mean?” Anna asked suspiciously.
Max translated with a flourish.
“Once a boy had his birthday. Many people came. They had a big feast. They ate fish, meat, butter, bread, eggs, sugar, strawberries, lobsters, ice cream, tomatoes, flour …”
“They wouldn’t eat flour,” said Anna.
“You don’t know what they ate,” said Max. “Anyway, I’m not sure that word is flour. I looked it up at the time but I’ve forgotten.”
“Is all this a list of what they ate?” asked Anna, pointing to the page crawling with commas.
“Yes,” said Max.
“What is this last bit?” There was just one sentence at the end which had no commas in it.
“That’s the best part,” said Max proudly. “I think it means ‘then they all burst’.”
Mademoiselle Martel read Max’s composition without batting an eyelid. She said she could see it had increased his vocabulary. But she was less pleased when, for the following day’s homework, he produced an almost identical piece. This one began “Once there was a wedding,” and the food the wedding guests ate was different, but it ended with everyone bursting as before. Mademoiselle Martel frowned and drummed her fingers on the dictionary. Then she told Max very firmly that he must write something different next time.
Next morning the children were sitting at the dining-room table with their books spread out on the red oilcloth as usual. Anna was wrestling with a piece about a man who had a horse and a cat. The man liked the cat and the cat liked the horse and the horse liked the man but it did not like the cat …It was sickening stuff to be turning out when there were so many interesting things she could have written about if only she had been able to write in German.
Max was not writing anything at all, but staring into space. When Grete came in and told them to clear their things away because she wanted to lay the table for lunch his sheet of paper was still blank.
“But it’s only twelve o’clock!” cried Anna.
“I