“Don’t worry, Heimpi will fix it,” said Anna. “Can I see the badge?”
It was a small piece of red enamel with a black hooked cross on it.
“It’s called a swastika,” said Gunther. “All the Nazis have them.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Max and Gunther looked at each other.
“D’you want it?” asked Max.
Gunther shook his head. “I’m not supposed to have anything to do with the Nazis. My mum’s afraid I might get my head cut open.”
“They don’t fight fair,” agreed Max. “They use sticks and stones and everything.” He turned the badge over with increasing dislike. “Well, I certainly don’t want it.”
“Put it down the what-not!” said Gunther. So they did. The first time they pulled the chain it would not flush away, but the second time, just as the gong went for lunch, it disappeared very satisfactorily.
They could still hear the piano as they went downstairs but it stopped while Heimpi was filling their plates and a moment later the door burst open and Mama came in.
“Hello, children, hello, Gunther,” she cried, “how was school?”
Everybody immediately began to tell her and the room was suddenly filled with noise and laughter. She knew the names of all their teachers and always remembered what they had told her. So when Max and Gunther talked about how the geography master had flown into a rage she said, “No wonder, after the way you all played him up last week!” And when Anna told her that her essay had been read out in class she said, “That’s marvellous – because Fräulein Schmidt hardly ever reads anything out, does she?”
When she listened she looked at whoever was talking with the utmost concentration. When she talked all her energy went into it. She seemed to do everything twice as hard as other people – even her eyes were a brighter blue than any Anna had ever seen.
They were just starting on the pudding (which was apple strudel) when Bertha the maid came in to tell Mama that there was someone on the telephone, and should she disturb Papa?
“What a time to ring up!” cried Mama and pushed her chair back so hard that Heimpi had to put out her hand to stop it falling over. “Don’t any of you dare eat my apple strudel!” And she rushed out.
It seemed very quiet after she had gone, though Anna could hear her footsteps hurrying to the telephone and, a little later, hurrying even faster up the stairs to Papa’s room. In the silence she asked, “How is Papa?”
“Feeling better,” said Heimpi. “His temperature is down a bit.”
Anna ate her pudding contentedly. Max and Gunther got through three helpings but still Mama had not come back. It was odd because she was particularly fond of apple strudel.
Bertha came to clear away and Heimpi took the boys off to see to Gunther’s trousers. “No use mending these,” she said, “they’d split again as soon as you breathed. But I’ve got an outgrown pair of Max’s that will just do you nicely.”
Anna was left in the dining room wondering what to do. For a while she helped Bertha. They put the used plates through the hatch into the pantry. Then they brushed the crumbs off the table with a little brush and pan. Then, while they were folding the tablecloth, she remembered Fräulein Lambeck and her message. She waited until Bertha had the tablecloth safely in her hands and ran up to Papa’s room. She could hear Papa and Mama talking inside.
“Papa,” said Anna as she opened the door, “I met Fräulein Lambeck …”
“Not now! Not now!” cried Mama. “We’re talking!” She was sitting on the edge of Papa’s bed. Papa was propped up against the pillows looking rather pale. They were both frowning.
“But Papa, she asked me to tell you …”
Mama got quite angry.
“For goodness’ sake, Anna,” she shouted, “we don’t want to hear about it now! Go away!”
“Come back a little later,” said Papa more gently. Anna shut the door. So much for that! It wasn’t as though she’d ever wanted to deliver Fräulein Lambeck’s silly message in the first place. But she felt put out.
There was no one in the nursery. She could hear shouts outside, so Max and Gunther were probably playing in the garden, but she did not feel like joining them. Her satchel was hanging on the back of a chair. She unpacked her new crayons and took them all out of their box. There was a good pink and quite a good orange, but the blues were best. There were three different shades, all beautifully bright, and a purple as well. Suddenly Anna had an idea.
Lately she had been producing a number of illustrated poems which had been much admired both at home and at school. There had been one about a fire, one about an earthquake and one about a man who died in dreadful agonies after being cursed by a tramp. Why not try her hand at a shipwreck? All sorts of words rhymed with sea and there was “save” to rhyme with “wave”, and she could use the three new blue crayons for the illustration. She found some paper and began.
Soon she was so absorbed that she did not notice the early winter dusk creeping into the room, and she was startled when Heimpi came in and switched on the light.
“I’ve made some cakes,” said Heimpi. “Do you want to help with the icing?”
“Can I just quickly show this to Papa?” asked Anna as she filled in the last bit of blue sea. Heimpi nodded.
This time Anna knocked and waited until Papa called, “Come in”. His room looked strange because only the bedside lamp was lit and Papa and his bed made an island of light among the shadows. She could dimly see his desk with the typewriter and the mass of papers which had, as usual, overflowed from the desk on to the floor. Because Papa often wrote late at night and did not want to disturb Mama his bed was in his workroom.
Papa himself did not look like someone who was feeling better. He was sitting up doing nothing at all, just staring in front of him with a kind of tight look on his thin face, but when he saw Anna he smiled. She showed him the poem and he read it through twice and said it was very good, and he also admired the illustration. Then Anna told him about Fräulein Lambeck and they both laughed. He was looking more like himself, so Anna said, “Papa, do you really like the poem?”
Papa said he did.
“You don’t think it should be more cheerful?”
“Well,” said Papa, “a shipwreck is not really a thing you can be very cheerful about.”
“My teacher Fräulein Schmidt thinks I should write about more cheerful subjects like the spring and the flowers.”
“And do you want to write about the spring and the flowers?”
“No,” said Anna sadly. “Right now all I seem to be able to do is disasters.”
Papa gave a little sideways smile and said perhaps she was in tune with the times.
“Do you think then,” asked Anna anxiously, “that disasters are all right to write about?” Papa became serious at once.
“Of course!” he said. “If you want to write about disasters, that’s what you must do. It’s no use trying to write what other people want. The only way to write anything good is to try to please yourself.”
Anna was so encouraged to hear this that she was just going to ask Papa whether by any chance Papa thought she might become famous one day, but the telephone by Papa’s bed rang loudly and surprised them both.
The tight look was back on Papa’s face as he lifted the receiver and it was odd, thought Anna, how even his voice sounded different. She listened to him saying, “Yes …yes …” and something about Prague before she lost interest. But the conversation was soon over.