Max!”
Papa tried to reason with her, but she shouted, “No! I didn’t care about anything else, but now it’s too much!” She stared accusingly at an innocent Polish lady who happened to be sitting at the next table. “Wasn’t it enough,” she said, “for us to have lost everything in Germany? Wasn’t it enough to have to rebuild our lives again and again?”
“Of course—” began Papa, but Mama swept him aside.
“We’ve been fighting Hitler for years,” she shouted. “All the time when the English were still saying what a fine gentleman he was. And now that the penny’s finally dropped,” she finished in tears, “the only thing they can do is to intern Max!”
Papa offered her his handkerchief and she blew her nose. Anna watched her helplessly. The Polish lady got up to greet a man who had just come in and they began to talk in Polish. Anna caught the word Rotterdam and then some other Poles joined them and they all became excited.
At last one of them turned to Papa and said haltingly in English, “The Germans have bombed Rotterdam.”
“It is thought,” said another, “that ten thousand people were killed.”
Anna tried to imagine it. She had never seen a dead person. How could one imagine ten thousand dead?
“Poor people,” said Papa.
Did he mean the dead or the ones who were still alive?
The Polish lady sat down on a spare chair and said, “It is just like Warsaw,” and another Pole who had seen Warsaw after the Germans had bombed it tried to describe what it was like.
“Everything is gone,” he said. “House is gone. Street is gone. You cannot find …” He spread his hands in a vain attempt to show all the things you could not find. “Only dead people,” he said.
The Polish lady nodded. “I hide in a cellar,” she remembered. “But then come the Nazis to seek for Jews …”
It was very warm in the lounge and Anna suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“I feel a bit sick,” she said, and was surprised by the smallness of her voice.
Mama at once came over to her and Papa and one of the Poles struggled to open a window. A rush of cool air came in from the yard at the back of the hotel and after a moment she felt better.
“There,” said Papa. “You’ve got your colour back.”
“You’re worn out with the heat,” said Mama.
One of the Poles got her a glass of water, and then Mama urged her to go home to the Bartholomews’, to go to bed, get some rest. She nodded and went.
“I’ll ring you if we hear anything about Max,” Mama cried after her as she started down the street.
It was awful of her, but when she reached the corner of Russell Square, out of reach of Mama’s voice, of everyone’s voice, she felt a sense of relief.
By Friday, Brussels had fallen and the Germans had broken through into France. A French general issued the order, “Conquer or Die!” but it made no difference – the German army swept on across France as it had swept across Holland. Madame Laroche was too upset to come to the secretarial school and some of the students, especially the refugees, spent their time listening to the radio and running out to buy newspapers – but not Anna.
Curiously enough she was no longer worried about the German advance. She simply did not think about it. She thought a lot about Max, wherever he had been taken, desperately willing him to be all right, and every morning at the Bartholomews’ she rushed to the letter box, hoping that at last he might have been able to write. But she did not think about what was happening in the war. There was nothing she could do about it. She did not read the papers and she did not listen when the news was on. She went to her secretarial school each day and worked at her shorthand. If she became good enough at it she would get ajob and earn some money. That was why the Refugee Organisation had paid her fees and that was what she was going to do. And the more she thought about her shorthand the less time
Papa tried to reason with her, but she shouted, “No! I didn’t care about anything else, but now it’s too much!” She stared accusingly at an innocent Polish lady who happened to be sitting at the next table. “Wasn’t it enough,” she said, “for us to have lost everything in Germany? Wasn’t it enough to have to rebuild our lives again and again?”
“Of course—” began Papa, but Mama swept him aside.
“We’ve been fighting Hitler for years,” she shouted. “All the time when the English were still saying what a fine gentleman he was. And now that the penny’s finally dropped,” she finished in tears, “the only thing they can do is to intern Max!”
Papa offered her his handkerchief and she blew her nose. Anna watched her helplessly. The Polish lady got up to greet a man who had just come in and they began to talk in Polish. Anna caught the word Rotterdam and then some other Poles joined them and they all became excited.
At last one of them turned to Papa and said haltingly in English, “The Germans have bombed Rotterdam.”
“It is thought,” said another, “that ten thousand people were killed.”
Anna tried to imagine it. She had never seen a dead person. How could one imagine ten thousand dead?
“Poor people,” said Papa.
Did he mean the dead or the ones who were still alive?
The Polish lady sat down on a spare chair and said, “It is just like Warsaw,” and another Pole who had seen Warsaw after the Germans had bombed it tried to describe what it was like.
“Everything is gone,” he said. “House is gone. Street is gone. You cannot find …” He spread his hands in a vain attempt to show all the things you could not find. “Only dead people,” he said.
The Polish lady nodded. “I hide in a cellar,” she remembered. “But then come the Nazis to seek for Jews …”
It was very warm in the lounge and Anna suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“I feel a bit sick,” she said, and was surprised by the smallness of her voice.
Mama at once came over to her and Papa and one of the Poles struggled to open a window. A rush of cool air came in from the yard at the back of the hotel and after a moment she felt better.
“There,” said Papa. “You’ve got your colour back.”
“You’re worn out with the heat,” said Mama.
One of the Poles got her a glass of water, and then Mama urged her to go home to the Bartholomews’, to go to bed, get some rest. She nodded and went.
“I’ll ring you if we hear anything about Max,” Mama cried after her as she started down the street.
It was awful of her, but when she reached the corner of Russell Square, out of reach of Mama’s voice, of everyone’s voice, she felt a sense of relief.
By Friday, Brussels had fallen and the Germans had broken through into France. A French general issued the order, “Conquer or Die!” but it made no difference – the German army swept on across France as it had swept across Holland. Madame Laroche was too upset to come to the secretarial school and some of the students, especially the refugees, spent their time listening to the radio and running out to buy newspapers – but not Anna.
Curiously enough she was no longer worried about the German advance. She simply did not think about it. She thought a lot about Max, wherever he had been taken, desperately willing him to be all right, and every morning at the Bartholomews’ she rushed to the letter box, hoping that at last he might have been able to write. But she did not think about what was happening in the war. There was nothing she could do about it. She did not read the papers and she did not listen when the news was on. She went to her secretarial school each day and worked at her shorthand. If she became good enough at it she would get ajob and earn some money. That was why the Refugee Organisation had paid her fees and that was what she was going to do. And the more she thought about her shorthand the less time
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