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Das doppelte Lottchen © Atrium Verlag, Zürich 1949. Published by agreement with Atrium Verlag AG.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.
Please direct inquiries to:
Lizzie Skurnick Books
an imprint of Ig Publishing
392 Clinton Avenue #1S
Brooklyn, NY 11238
ISBN: 978-1-939601-55-1 (ebook)
Lisa and Lottie
CONTENTS
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Bohrlaken on Lake Bohren • Girls’ camps like beehives • Twenty new girls • Curls and braids • On biting off noses • A King of England’s twin • On the difficulty of getting smile-wrinkles
Do you happen to know Bohrlaken? I mean the village in the mountains—Bohrlaken on Lake Bohren? Odd—none of the people I ask seem to know Bohrlaken. Maybe Bohrlaken is one of those places known only to the people I don’t ask. Such things do happen.
Well, if you don’t know Bohrlaken on Lake Bohren, then of course you have never heard of the summer camp of Bohrlaken on Lake Bohren either. But never mind. Girls’ camps are as alike as peas in a pod; if you know one, you know them all. And if you happen to stroll past one, you may think it is a giant beehive. Such a hum of shouts, laughs, giggles, and whispers. These camps are beehives of happiness and high spirits. And however many there may be, there can never be enough of them.
Though sometimes of an evening, of course, the gray dwarf Homesickness sits by the beds in the dormitories, takes from his pocket his gray notebook and his gray pencil, and with a glum face counts up the tears around him, those shed and those unshed.
But next morning—presto!—he’s vanished. Then the milk glasses clink and the tongues chatter for all they’re worth. Then again swarms of bathing caps race into the cool, bottle-green lake, splash, scream, yelp, crow, swim—or at least pretend to be swimming.
That’s how it is at Bohrlaken on Lake Bohren, where the story begins which I am going to tell you. It’s a rather complicated story. And now and then you’ll have to pay careful attention if you are really going to get the hang of it. It’s quite straightforward at the beginning; it doesn’t begin to get complicated till later on.
Well, now they are all swimming in the lake, and the most active of all is, as usual, a girl of nine with a head framed in curls and filled with bright ideas, whose name is Lisa. Lisa Palfy. From Vienna.
A gong booms from the house—one, two, three! The children and the counselors who are still swimming clamber up the bank.
“That means all of you,” called Miss Ursula, “including Lisa.”
“I’m coming!” shouted Lisa. “I’m jet-propelled!”
Miss Ursula drove her cackling flock into the pen—oh, no,—into the house. At twelve sharp they had lunch. And then they waited, looking forward eagerly to the afternoon.
That afternoon twenty new girls were arriving. Twenty little girls from South Germany. Would they be a lot of old ladies of thirteen or fourteen? Would they bring some decent toys? With good luck one might bring a large rubber ball. Trudie’s had no air in it. Brigit had one, but she would not bring it out. She had shut it up in her locker. And locked it.
That afternoon Lisa, Trudie, Brigit, and the others stood around the big, wide-open, iron gates, waiting impatiently for the bus which would bring the new girls from the nearest railway station. If the train came in on time, they ought to be . . .
A car honked. “They’re coming!” The bus came speeding up the road, turned cautiously through the gates, and came to a stop. The driver got down and lifted the girls, one after the other, out of the bus. Then he unloaded the trunks, suitcases, dolls, baskets, paper bags, woolly dogs, parcels, umbrellas, thermos bottles, raincoats, knapsacks, blankets, books, specimen cases, and butterfly nets—a gaudy jumble of baggage.
Finally the twentieth little girl appeared at the door of the bus with her belongings. A grave, demure little girl. The driver held out his arms.
The little girl shook her head and, as she did so, her two braids flew out behind her head.
“No, thank you,” she said, firmly and politely, and climbed down, calm and sure, from the step. She looked around with a shy smile, and suddenly her eyes opened wide with surprise. She had caught sight of Lisa. Then Lisa’s eyes opened wide, too. Startled, she gazed into the new girl’s face.
The other girls and Miss Ursula stared from one to the other. The driver pushed back his cap, scratched his head, and forgot to close his mouth.
Lisa and the new girl were the image of each other. One had long curls and the other tight braids—but that was really the only difference between them.
Lisa turned and ran into the garden, as though pursued by lions and tigers.
“Lisa!” cried Miss Ursula. “Lisa!” Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned to shepherd the twenty new girls into the house. And the last to follow, surprised and uncertain, was the girl with the braids.
Mrs. Muther, the camp director, was seated in her office, discussing with the rugged old cook the menu for the next few days.
There was a knock. Miss Ursula came in and announced that the correct number of new girls had arrived safe and sound.
“Very
