was interrupted in her astonishment by a middle-aged Pole who emerged from a door marked WC.
“The wanderer has returned,” said the Pole in satisfied tones as he observed Anna. “I told you, Madame, that she had probably just been delayed,” and he disappeared into his room on the other side of the corridor.
Anna blushed. “I’m not as late as all that,” she said, but Mama hurried her on.
Papa’s room was on the top floor and as they went in Anna almost fell over Max who was sitting on the end of the bed just inside the door. He said, “Hi, sister!” in English like someone in a film and gave her a brotherly kiss. Then he added in German, “I was just leaving. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.”
Anna said, “It took me ages to get here,” and squeezed round the table which held Papa’s typewriter to embrace Papa. “Bonjour, Papa,” she said, because Papa loved to speak French. He was looking tired but the expression in the intelligent, ironically smiling eyes was as usual. Papa always looked, thought Anna, as though he would be interested in whatever happened even though nowadays he clearly did not expect it to be anything good.
She held out the daffodils. “I got these,” she said. “It’s seven years today since we left Germany and I thought they might bring us all luck.”
They were drooping more than ever but Papa took them from her and said, “They smell of spring.” He filled his toothglass with water and Anna helped him put the flowers in. They immediately fell over the edge of the glass until their heads rested on the table.
“I’m afraid they’ve already overstrained themselves,” said Papa and everyone laughed. Well, at least they had cheered him up. “Anyway,” said Papa, “the four of us are together. After seven years of emigration perhaps one shouldn’t ask for more luck than that.”
“Oh yes one should!” said Mama.
Max grinned. “Seven years is probably as much as anyone actually needs.” He turned to Papa. “What do you think is going to happen about the war? Do you think anything is going to happen at all?”
“When Hitler is ready,” said Papa. “The problem is whether the British will be ready too.”
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
