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 a job 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 she would have to think about anything else.
When she returned to the house one afternoon, Mrs Bartholomew was waiting for her. Anna had stayed on at the school after hours to do some typing and she was late.
“My dear,” said Mrs Bartholomew, “I must talk to you.”
Mei dea-r, thought Anna, automatically moving her fingers into position on an imaginary keyboard, Ei mus-t tor-k tou you. Lately she had developed this habit of mentally taking down in shorthand everything she heard. It had improved her speed and saved her from having to make sense of what she did not want to hear.
Mrs Bartholomew led her into the drawing-room.
“We have been advised by the American Embassy to return at once to the States,” she said.
Wea hav bean ad-veis-d bei the A-me-ri-can Em-ba-sea tou re-turn at wuns tou the Stai-ts, went Anna’s fingers, but then something in Mrs Bartholomew’s voice broke through her detachment.
“I’m so very sorry,” cried Mrs Bartholomew, “but we shall have to give up this house.”
Anna looked at her face, and her fingers stopped moving in her lap.
“What will you do?” asked Mrs Bartholomew.
It was nice of her, thought Anna, to be so upset about it. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ll go and stay with my parents.”
‘But will they be able to manage?” asked Mrs Bartholomew.
“Oh yes,” said Anna airily. “And anyway, I’ll probably get a job quite soon.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Bartholomew, “I hate doing this.” Then she picked up the telephone to explain to Mama.
Mama always shouted when she was excited and Anna realised that of course she must have been hoping that the call would bring her news of Max. All the same, she wished that her sole reaction to Mrs Bartholomew’s news had not been so loud and accusing.
“Does that mean,” cried Mama, and her distorted voice came right out of the telephone to where Anna was sitting across the room, “that Anna won’t be able to stay in your house any more?”
Anna knew as well as Mama that there was no money to pay for her to stay at the Hotel Continental, but what was the use of shouting at Mrs Bartholomew about it? There was nothing she could do. Mama should at least have wished her a safe journey, thought Anna, and her fingers tapped out in her lap, shea shoud at lea-st have wi-shd her a sai-f jur-nea.
The Bartholomews began to pack up their possessions and a growing pile of garments was put aside for Anna because Jinny and Judy would not need them in America. She carried them to the Hotel Continental with her own, a few at a time, on the tube, so as to save a taxi for the move. Mama had counted all their money – she had added what was left of Papa’s earnings from the leaflets to the few pounds she had managed, somehow, to save from her meagre weekly wage, and she had worked out that there would be enough to pay Anna’s bills at the hotel for three weeks. After that they would have to see. It was really no use looking farther ahead. In the meantime they did not spend a halfpenny that was not absolutely necessary and Anna hoped that the Bartholomews would not mind her staying at the house until the last moment.
“Well, of course we don’t mind,” Mrs Bartholomew reassured her. “We’d love you to be here just as long as you can.”
All the same, as the preparations progressed and more and more familiar objects disappeared into packing cases, it began to feel rather strange. Judy and Jinny still played tennis and sat in the sun and chatted, but they were excited at the prospect of going to America and sometimes it was as though they had already gone. When the day for their departure arrived it was difficult to know what to say. They stood outside the house in Campden Hill Square and looked at each other.
“Promise you’ll write,” said Jinny.
“And don’t let any bombs drop on you,” said Judy.
Mr Bartholomew said, “We’ll be seeing you…” and then looked confused and said, “Good luck!”
Mrs Bartholomew hugged Anna and murmured, “Take care of yourself,” and then climbed quickly into the taxi, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. Then the taxi drove off and Anna waved until it turned the corner. When it had completely disappeared she began to walk, slowly, towards the tube station.
The square was green and leafy and the chestnut tree at the bottom was covered with blossom. She remembered how, her first spring in England, Jinny had shown it to her and pointed out the “candles”. “Candles?” Anna had said. “Candles are only on Christmas trees,” and everyone had laughed. She could hear the plop of tennis balls from the courts where they had played only a few days before. When she reached the shop in Holland Park Avenue where they had always
