When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit. Judith Kerr

outgrown it Heimpi always brought a paper bag just in case. Did Mama have a paper bag?

      The train was crowded and Anna and Max were glad that they had window seats. They both looked out at the grey landscape tearing past until it began to rain. Then they watched the raindrops arrive with a splash and slowly trickle down the glass pane, but it became boring after a while. What now? Anna looked at Mama out of the corner of her eye. Heimpi usually had a few apples or some sweets about her.

      Mama was leaning back in her seat. The corners of her mouth were pulled down and she was staring at the bald head of the man opposite without seeing him at all. On her lap was her big handbag with the picture of a camel on it which she had brought back from some journey with Papa. She was holding it very tight – Anna supposed because the tickets and passports were in it. She was clutching it so hard that one of her fingers was digging right in the camel’s face.

      ‘Mama,’ said Anna, ‘you’re squashing the camel.’

      ‘What?’ said Mama. Then she realised what Anna meant and loosened her hold on the bag. The camel’s face reappeared, to Anna’s relief, looking just as foolish and hopeful as usual.

      ‘Are you bored?’ asked Mama. ‘We’ll be travelling right through Germany, which you have never done. I hope the rain stops soon so that you can see it all.’

      Then she told them about the orchards in Southern Germany – miles and miles of them. ‘If only we were making this journey a little later in the year,’ she said, ‘you’d be able to see them all in blossom.’

      ‘Perhaps just a few of them might be out already,’ said Anna.

      But Mama thought it was too early and the bald man agreed. Then they said how beautiful it was, and Anna wished she could see it.

      ‘If the blossom isn’t out this time,’ she said, ‘can we see it another time?’

      Mama did not answer at once. Then she said, ‘I hope so.’

      The rain did not let up and they spent a lot of time playing guessing games at which Mama turned out to be very good. Though they could not see much of the country they could hear the change in people’s voices every time the train stopped. Some were almost incomprehensible and Max hit on the idea of asking unnecessary questions like, ‘Is this Leipzig?’ or ‘What time is it?’ just for the pleasure of hearing the strangely accented replies.

      They had lunch in the dining car. It was very grand, with a menu to choose from, and Anna had frankfurters and potato salad which was her favourite dish. She did not feel train-sick at all.

      Later in the afternoon she and Max walked through the train from end to end and then stood in the corridor. The rain was heavier than ever and dusk came very early. Even if the orchards had been in blossom they would not have been able to see them. For a while they amused themselves by watching the fleeing darkness through their reflections on the glass. Then Anna’s head began to ache and her nose began to run as though to keep pace with the rain outside. She snuggled back into her seat and wished they would get to Stuttgart.

      ‘Why don’t you look at Gunther’s book?’ said Mama.

      There had been two presents in Gunther’s parcel. One, from Gunther to Max, was a puzzle – a little transparent box with a picture of an open-mouthed monster drawn on the bottom. You had to get three tiny balls into the monster’s mouth. It was very difficult to do on a train.

      The other was a book for both children from Gunther’s mum. It was called They Grew to be Great and she had written in it, ‘Thank you for all the lovely things – something to read on the journey.’ It described the early lives of various people who later became famous, and Anna, who had a personal interest in the subject, leafed through it eagerly at first. But the book was so dully written and its tone was so determinedly uplifting that she gradually became discouraged.

      All the famous people had had an awful time. One of them had a drunken father. Another had a stammer. Another had to wash hundreds of dirty bottles. They had all had what was called a difficult childhood. Clearly you had to have one if you wanted to become famous.

      Dozing in her corner and mopping her nose with her two soaked handkerchiefs, Anna wished that they would get to Stuttgart and that one day, in the long-distant future, she might become famous. But as the train rumbled through Germany in the darkness she kept thinking ‘difficult childhood … difficult childhood … difficult childhood …’

      

       Chapter Four

      Suddenly she found herself being gently shaken. She must have been asleep. Mama said, ‘We’ll be in Stuttgart in a few minutes.’

      Anna sleepily put on her coat, and soon she and Max were sitting on the luggage at the entrance of Stuttgart station while Mama went to get a taxi. The rain was still pelting down, drumming on the station roof and falling like a shiny curtain between them and the dark square in front of them. It was cold. At last Mama came back.

      ‘What a place!’ she cried. ‘They’ve got some sort of a strike on – something to do with the elections – and there are no taxis. But you see that blue sign over there?’ On the opposite side of the square there was a bluish gleam among the wet. ‘That’s a hotel,’ said Mama. ‘We’ll just take what we need for the night and make a dash for it.’

      With the bulk of the luggage safely deposited they struggled across the ill-lit square. The case Anna was carrying kept banging against her leg and the rain was so heavy that she could hardly see. Once she missed her footing and stepped into a deep puddle so that her feet were soaked. But at last they were in the dry. Mama booked rooms for them and then she and Max had something to eat. Anna was too tired. She went straight to bed and to sleep.

      In the morning they got up while it was still dark. ‘We’ll soon see Papa,’ said Anna as they ate their breakfast in the dimly-lit dining room. Nobody else was up yet and the sleepy-eyed waiter seemed to grudge them the stale rolls and coffee which he banged down in front of them. Mama waited until he had gone back into the kitchen. Then she said, ‘Before we get to Zurich and see Papa we have to cross the frontier between Germany and Switzerland.’

      ‘Do we have to get off the train?’ asked Max.

      ‘No,’ said Mama. ‘We just stay in our compartment and then a man will come and look at our passports – just like the ticket inspector. But’ – and she looked at both children in turn – ‘this is very important. When the man comes to look at our passports I want neither of you to say anything. Do you understand? Not a word.’

      ‘Why not?’ asked Anna.

      ‘Because otherwise the man will say “What a horrible talkative little girl, I think I’ll take away her passport”,’ said Max, who was always bad-tempered when he had not had enough sleep.

      ‘Mama!’ appealed Anna. ‘He wouldn’t really – take away our passports, I mean?’

      ‘No … no, I don’t suppose so,’ said Mama. ‘But just in case – Papa’s name is so well known – we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves in any way. So when the man comes – not a word. Remember – not a single, solitary word!’

      Anna promised to remember.

      The rain had stopped at last and it was quite easy walking back across the square to the station. The sky was just beginning to brighten and now Anna could see that there were election posters everywhere. Two or three people were standing outside a place marked Polling Station, waiting for it to open. She wondered if they were going to vote, and for whom.

      The train was almost empty and they had a whole compartment to themselves until a lady with a basket got in at the next station. Anna could hear a sort of shuffling inside