“I thought you were playing with Franz and Vreneli,” said Mama.
Max explained what had happened.
“That’s very odd,” said Mama.
“Perhaps you could speak to the mother,” said Anna. She had just noticed the German lady and a man who must be her husband sitting at a table in the corner.
“I certainly will,” said Mama.
Just then the German lady and her husband got up to leave the dining room and Mama went to intercept them. They met too far away for Anna to hear what they said, but Mama had only spoken a few words when the German lady answered something which caused Mama to flush with anger. The German lady said something more and made as though to move off. But Mama grabbed her arm.
“Oh no, it isn’t!” shouted Mama in a voice which echoed right across the dining room. “It’s not the end of it at all!” Then she turned on her heel and marched back to the table while the German lady and her husband went out looking down their noses.
“The whole room could hear you,” said Papa crossly as Mama sat down. He hated scenes.
“Good!” said Mama in such ringing tones that Papa whispered “Ssssh!” and made calming motions with his hands. Trying to speak quietly made Mama angrier than ever and she could hardly get the words out.
“They’re Nazis,” she said at last. “They’ve forbidden their children to play with ours because our children are Jewish!” Her voice rose higher in indignation. “And you want me to keep my voice down!” she shouted so that an old lady still finishing breakfast was startled into almost spilling her coffee.
Papa’s mouth tightened. “I would not dream of allowing Anna and Max to play with the children of Nazis,” he said, “so there is no difficulty.”
“But what about Vreneli and Franz?” asked Max. “It means that if they’re playing with the German children they can’t play with us.”
“I think Vreneli and Franz will have to decide who their friends are,” said Papa. “Swiss neutrality is all very well, but it can be taken too far.” He got up from the table. “I’ll have a word with their father now.”
A little while later Papa returned. He had told Herr Zwirn that his children must choose whether they wished to play with Anna and Max or with the German visitors. They could not play with both. Papa had asked them not to decide in a hurry but to let him know that evening.
“I suppose they’ll choose us,” said Max. “After all we’ll be here long after those other children have gone.”
But it was difficult to know what to do with the rest of the day. Max went down to the lake with his fishing rod and his worms and his bits of bread. Anna could not settle to anything. At last she decided to write a poem about an avalanche which engulfed an entire city, but it did not turn out very well. When she came to do the illustration she was so bored at the thought of making it all white that she gave up. Max, as usual caught no fish, and by mid-afternoon they were both so depressed that Mama gave them half a franc to buy themselves some chocolate – although she had previously said it was too expensive.
On their way back from the sweet-shop they caught a glimpse of Vreneli and Franz talking earnestly in the doorway of the inn and walked past self-consciously, looking straight ahead. This made them feel worse than ever.
Then Max went back to his fishing and Anna decided to go for a bathe, to try and salvage something from the day. She floated on her back which she had only just learned to do, but it did not cheer her up. It all seemed so silly. Why couldn’t she and Max and the Zwirns and the German children all play together? Why did they have to have all this business of decisions and taking sides?
Suddenly there was a splash in the water beside her. It was Vreneli. Her long thin plaits were tied in a knot on top of her head so as not to get wet and her long thin face looked pinker and more worried than ever.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” said Vreneli breathlessly. “We’ve decided we’d rather play with you even if it does mean that we can’t play with Siegfried and Gudrun.”
Then Franz appeared on the bank. “Hello, Max!” he shouted. “Worms enjoying their swim?”
“I’d have caught a great big fish just then,” said Max, “if you hadn’t frightened it away.” But he was very pleased just the same.
At supper that evening Anna saw the German children for the last time. They were sitting stiffly in the dining room with their parents. Their mother was talking to them quietly and insistently, and even the boy never turned round once to look at Anna and Max. At the end of the meal he walked right past their table as though he could not see them.
The whole family left the next morning.
“I’m afraid we’ve lost Herr Zwirn some customers,” said Papa.
Mama was triumphant.
“But it seems such a pity,” said Anna. “I’m sure that boy really liked us.”
Max shook his head. “He didn’t like us any more at the end,” he said. “Not by the time his mother had finished with him.”
It was true, thought Anna. She wondered what the German boy was thinking now, what his mother had told him about her and Max, and what he would be like when he grew up.
Just before the end of the summer holidays Papa went to Paris. There were so many German refugees living there now that they had started their own newspaper. It was called the Daily Parisian and some of the articles Papa had written in Zurich had appeared in it. Now the editor wanted him to write for the paper on a more regular basis. Papa thought that if it worked out they might all go to Paris to live.
The day after he left Omama arrived. She was the children’s grandmother and had come on a visit from the South of France.
“How funny,” said Anna. “Omama might pass Papa in the train. They could wave to each other!”
“They wouldn’t, though,” said Max. “They don’t get on.”
“Why not?” asked Anna. It was true, now she came to think of it, that Omama only came to see them when Papa was away.
“One of those family things,” said Max in an irritating would-be-grown-up voice. “She didn’t want Mama and Papa to marry each other.”
“Well, it’s a bit late now!” said Anna with a giggle.
Anna was out playing with Vreneli when Omama arrived, but she knew at once that she had come because of the hysterical barking that issued from an open window of the inn. Omama never moved without her dachschund Pumpel. She followed the sound and found Omama with Mama.
“Darling Anna!” cried Omama. “How lovely to see you!” and she hugged Anna to her stout bosom. After a moment Anna thought the hug must be finished and wriggled, but Omama held on tight and hugged her a bit more. Anna remembered that Omama had always done this.
“It’s been such a long time!” cried Omama. “That dreadful man Hitler …!” Her eyes, which were blue like Mama’s but much paler, filled with tears and her chins – there were two – trembled gently. It was difficult to hear exactly what she was saying because of Pumpel’s noise. Only a few phrases like “torn from our homes” and “breaking up families” emerged above the frantic barks.
“What’s the matter with Pumpel?” asked Anna.
“Oh, Pumpel, my poor Pumpel! Just look at him!” cried Omama.
Anna