It was the usual conversation and, as usual, Anna’s mind edged away from it. She sat on the bed next to Max and rested her feet. She liked being in Papa’s room. No matter where they had lived, in Switzerland, Paris or London, Papa’s room had always looked the same. There had always been a table with the typewriter, now getting rather rickety, his books, the section of the wall where he pinned photographs, postcards, anything that interested him, all close together so that even the loudest wallpaper was defeated by their joint size; the portraits of his parents looking remote in Victorian settings, a Meerschaum pipe which he never smoked but liked the shape of, and one or two home-made contraptions which he fondly believed to be practical. At present he was going through a phase of cardboard boxes and had devised a mousetrap out of an upside-down lid propped up by a pencil with a piece of cheese at the base. As the mouse ate the cheese the lid would drop down over it and Papa would then somehow extract the mouse and give it its freedom in Russell Square. So far he had had little success.
“How is your mouse?” asked Anna.
“Still at liberty,” said Papa. “I saw it last night. It has a very English face.”
Max shifted restlessly on the bed beside her.
“No one is worrying about the war in Cambridge,” he was saying to Mama. “I went to see the Recruiting Board the other day and they told me very firmly not to volunteer but to get my degree first.”
“Because of your scholarship!” cried Mama proudly.
“No, Mama,” said Max. “It’s the same for all my friends. Everyone has been told to leave it for a couple of years. Perhaps by then Papa might be naturalised.” After four years of public school and nearly two terms at Cambridge Max looked, sounded and felt English. It was maddening for him not to be legally English as well.
“If they make an exception for him,” said Mama.
Anna looked at Papa and tried to imagine him as an Englishman. It was very difficult. Just the same she cried, “Well, they should! He’s not just anyone – he’s a famous writer!”
Papa glanced round the shabby room.
“Not very famous in England,” he said.
There was a pause and then Max got up to go. He embraced Mama and Papa and made a face at Anna. “Walk to the tube with me,” he said. “I’ve hardly seen you.”
They went down the many stairs in silence and as usual the residents of the lounge glanced at Max admiringly as he and Anna walked through. He had always been handsome with his fair hair and blue eyes – not like me, thought Anna. It was nice being with him, but she wished she could have sat a little longer before setting out again.
As soon as they emerged from the hotel Max said in English, “Well, how are things?”
“All right,” said Anna. Max was walking fast and her feet were aching. “Papa is depressed because he offered himself to the BBC for broadcasting propaganda to Germany, and they won’t have him.”
“Why on earth not?”
“It seems he’s too famous. The Germans all know that he’s violently anti-Nazi, so they won’t take any notice of anything he says. At least that’s the theory.”
Max shook his head. “I thought he looked old and tired.” He waited for her to catch him up before he asked, “And what about you?”
“Me? I don’t know.” Suddenly Anna didn’t seem to be able to think of anything but her feet. “I suppose I’m all right,” she said vaguely.
Max looked worried. “But you like your art course?” he asked. “You enjoy that?”
The feet receded slightly from Anna’s consciousness.
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s all so hopeless, isn’t it, when no one has any money? I mean, you read about artists leaving their homes to live in a garret, but if your family is living in a garret already…! I thought perhaps I should get a job.”
“You’re not sixteen yet,” said Max and added almost angrily, “I seem to have had all the luck.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Anna. “A major scholarship to Cambridge isn’t luck.”
They had arrived at Russell Square tube station and one of the lifts was about to close its gates, ready to descend.
“Well—” said Anna, but Max hesitated.
“Listen,” he cried, “why don’t you come up to Cambridge for a weekend?” And as Anna was about to demur, “I can manage the money. You could meet some of my friends and I could show you round a bit – it would be fun!” The lift gates creaked and he made a dash for it. “I’ll write you the details,” he cried as he and the lift sank from sight.
Anna walked slowly back to the hotel. Mama and Papa were waiting for her at one of the tables in the lounge and a faded German lady had joined them.
“…the opera in Berlin,” the German lady was saying to Papa. “You were in the third row of the stalls. I remember my husband pointing you out. I was so excited, and you wrote a marvellous piece about it next morning in the paper.”
Papa was smiling politely.
“Lohengrin, I think,” said the German lady. “Unless it was the Magic Flute or perhaps Aîda. Anyway, it was wonderful. Everything was wonderful in those days.”
Then Papa saw Anna. “Excuse me,” he said. He bowed to the German lady and he and Mama and Anna went into the dining-room for lunch.
“Who was that?” asked Anna.
“The wife of a German publisher,” said Papa. “She got out but the Nazis killed her husband.”
Mama said, “God knows what she lives on.”
It was the usual Sunday lunch, served by a Swiss girl who was trying to learn English but was more likely to pick up a bit of Polish in this place, thought Anna. There were prunes for pudding and there was some difficulty afterwards about paying for Anna’s meal. The Swiss waitress said she would put it on the bill, but Mama said no, it was not an extra item since she herself had missed dinner on the previous Tuesday when she wasn’t feeling well. The waitress said she wasn’t sure if it was all right to transfer meals from one person to another. Mama got excited and Papa looked unhappy and said, “Please don’t make a scene.” In the end the manageress had to be consulted and decided that it was all right this time but must not be regarded as a precedent. By this time a lot of the good had gone out of the day.
“Shall we sit down here or shall we go upstairs?” said Mama when they were back in the lounge – but the German lady was looming and Anna didn’t want to talk about the opera in Berlin, so they went upstairs. Papa perched on the chair, and Anna and Mama sat on the bed.
“I mustn’t forget to give you your fare money for next week,” said Mama, opening her handbag.
Anna looked at her.
“Mama,” she said, “I think I ought to get a job.”
Anna and Mama were sitting in the waiting room of the Relief Organisation for German Jewish Refugees.
“If only they’ll help us with the fees for this secretarial course,” said Mama for at least the sixth time, “you’ll always be able to earn your living.”
Anna nodded.
All round the room other German refugees were sitting on hard chairs like Mama and herself, waiting to be interviewed. Some were talking in nervous, high-pitched voices. Some were reading newspapers – Anna counted one English, one French, two Swiss and one Yiddish. An elderly couple were eating buns out of