“Der doo glass terweens, der doo glass terweens!” cried Madame Laroche impatiently and she tapped her finger on Anna’s machine and shouted something that sounded like “Write!”
There was nothing for it but to take it down.
Anna typed “Der doo glass ter-weens” carefully on the paper tape and hoped that the next bit might be easier to understand – but it wasn’t. It was just as incomprehensible as the beginning and so was the next bit and so was the bit after that. Every so often Anna recognised a real word, but then the dictation dropped back again into gibberish. She sat there, red-faced and miserable, and took it all down. She wished it would stop, but she knew that when it did she would have to read it back, which would be worse.
It stopped.
And just as Anna was wondering how she could possibly survive the next few minutes she was struck by an idea. Perhaps the dictation really had no meaning. Perhaps Madame Laroche had dictated gibberish to her on purpose, to demonstrate that the system could record even sounds that did not make sense. She suddenly felt much happier and began quite confidently to read back what she had taken down.
“Der doo glass terweens,” she read, carefully pronouncing it just as Madame Laroche had done, and went on from there.
But something was wrong. Why was the father puffing and choking with suppressed laughter? Why were the mother and even the mousy daughter tittering? Why had Madame Laroche’s face gone pink with anger and why was she shouting at Anna and piling the book, the machine, the paper into her arms and pushing her out of the room? The door slammed behind her and Anna stood in the corridor, dumbfounded.
“What happened?” asked one of the English teachers, emerging from another room. She must have heard the noise.
Anna shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.
The teacher took the book which was still open from the top of the machine. “Is this what she dictated to you?” she asked. “The Douglas twins?”
“No,” said Anna. What Madame Laroche had dictated to her started with “der doo glass terweens”. You could not possibly mistake “the Douglas twins” for “der doo glass terweens”.
But you could, with Madame Laroche!
“Oh!” she cried. “They must have all thought …” She looked at the teacher. “What shall I do? They must have all thought I was making fun of her accent! D’you think I’d better explain?”
They could hear Madame Laroche shouting excitedly in her office.
“Not just now,” said the teacher.
“But I’ve got to do something!”
There was the sound of chairs being pushed back in the office, overlaid by a burst of masculine laughter and an incomprehensible but clearly unfriendly remark from Madame Laroche.
“Come along,” said the teacher firmly and propelled Anna along the corridor and into one of the classrooms. “Now you just get on with your work and put this little misunderstanding right out of your mind. I’m sure that by Tuesday it will all have been forgotten.”
Anna sat down at an empty desk and began, automatically, to take down the dictation slowly read out by a senior student. But how could she forget all about it? she thought. It had been so unfair. Madame Laroche had no right to shout at her when she had always worked so well. No one in the school could understand her Belgian accent – she must know that. And as for thinking that Anna was making fun of her…I’ll go and tell her, thought Anna. I’ll tell her she can’t treat me like this! Then she thought, suppose she doesn’t believe me? Could one be expelled from secretarial school?
By the end of the morning she was in such a state of confusion that she could not make up her mind either to go home or to face Madame Laroche. She went to the cloakroom where she stared at her reflection in the mirror and alternated between framing grand phrases with which to justify herself and taking the teacher’s advice and forgetting the whole thing. Eventually a cleaner came to lock up and she had to go.
When she emerged into the corridor she found that everyone else had left. Probably Madame Laroche had gone home too, she thought, half-relieved – but now the whole weekend would be spoiled with worrying. Oh, damn! she thought – and then, as she passed Madame Laroche’s office, she heard someone talking inside. Quickly, without giving herself time to think, she knocked and went in. She had expected to see one of the teachers, but Madame Laroche was alone. The voice came not from her but out of her radio.
“Madame Laroche,” said Anna, “I just wanted to explain …” She had meant to sound fierce but found to her annoyance that she merely sounded apologetic. “About this morning…” she started again.
Madame Laroche looked at her blankly and then waved to her to go away.
“But I want to tell you!” cried Anna. “It wasn’t at all as you thought!”
The radio had suddenly stopped and her voice sounded absurdly high in the silence.
Madame Laroche got up and came towards her and Anna saw to her horror that there were tears in her eyes.
“Mon enfant,” said Madame Laroche quite clearly in French, “the Germans have invaded Belgium and Holland.”
Anna stared at her.
“What will my people do?” asked Madame Laroche as though Anna would be able to tell her. Then she said again, “What will they do?”
Anna wanted to say something sympathetic but could think of nothing. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. Guiltily, she realised that she was still fretting about the misunderstanding over the Douglas twins. But as Madame Laroche seemed to have forgotten all about it, it must be all right.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Madame Laroche. “Don’t you understand what it means? How would you like to have the Germans here, in England?” And as Anna remained helplessly silent she shouted, “Well, don’t just stand there! Go home, for heaven’s sake! Go home to your parents!”
Anna went out of the office, through the building and out into the sunshine. The street looked just as usual. Even so, she began to run, dodging the other pedestrians on the pavement. When she was out of breath she walked as fast as she could, then she ran again until she reached the Hotel Continental. There she found Mama and Papa in the lounge with Cousin Otto and surrounded by excited Germans, Czechs and Poles. Cousin Otto’s eyes were shining above his large Jewish nose and his hair hung untidily into his face. Everyone was talking and even the porter behind the desk was giving his views to anyone who would listen.
“They’ll be smashed to pieces!” Cousin Otto was saying triumphantly. “It’s just what the English have been waiting for. They’ll go in there and smash the Germans to smithereens. The French will help, of course,” he added as an afterthought. Cousin Otto had an infinite admiration for England. To be English to him was to be perfect, and he was quite upset when Papa disagreed with him.
“I don’t trust Chamberlain,” said Papa. “I don’t believe the English are ready for battle.”
“Aha!” cried Cousin Otto. “But you don’t understand them. Just because a man like Chamberlain appears not to be doing anything, doesn’t mean that he’s not organising it all secretly. That is the British understatement. No drama or fuss – and he’s fooled the Germans completely.”
“He seems also to have fooled the British Parliament,” said Papa. “I understand they are trying to get rid of him at this very moment.”
“Such a time to choose!” wailed an old Czech lady, astonishingly dressed in a tweed coat and flowery hat as though ready to flee from the Germans at a moment’s notice.
Cousin Otto looked troubled. “Parliamentary procedure,” he said, comforting himself with the Englishness of the phrase.
It