When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit

by Judith Kerr

  Papa had read it without a word and then had put it with the rest of Onkel Julius’s cards and letters which he kept carefully in his table drawer. He had hardly spoken for the rest of the day, and now it was good to see him as animated as Monsieur Fernand.

  “But you live in a free country,” he was saying. “Nothing else matters!”

  “Yes, but ...” said Monsieur Fernand, and Anna realised that he must be worrying about the Depression again.

  The Depression was the only thing that ever got Monsieur Fernand down, and though Anna had asked several times what it was no one had been able to explain it to her. It was something that had happened in France, and it meant that there was less money for everyone and fewer jobs, and it had caused some of Monsieur Fernand’s colleagues to be sacked from his paper. Whenever Monsieur Fernand talked about the Depression Papa reminded him that he lived in a free country and this time, perhaps because of Onkel Julius, Papa was more eloquent than usual.

  Monsieur Fernand argued with him for a while and then he suddenly laughed. The white cat opened its mouth in surprise at the noise and a crumb of chocolate fell out. When Anna looked up Monsieur Fernand was refilling Papa’s glass and patting him on the shoulder.

  “It’s a funny thing,” he said, “you trying to point out the more cheerful aspects of the situation, when you’ve got more to worry about than any of the rest of us!”

  Then Mama and Madame Fernand came back into the room and soon it was midnight and everyone, even the children, drank a toast to the New Year.

  “Happy 1935!” cried Monsieur Fernand, and “Happy 1935!” echoed everyone.

  “To us and to all our friends,” said Papa quietly, and Anna knew that he was thinking of Onkel Julius.

  In February Mama caught ‘flu and just as she was getting better the concierge developed a bad leg, which was very unfortunate. Since Grete’s departure Mama had done most of the cleaning herself, but the concierge had come up for an hour each morning to help with the rough work. Now Mama was left with the lot. She did not like housework at the best of times and was feeling gloomy, as people tend to do after ’flu, and the burden of all the cleaning and cooking and washing and ironing and mending seemed to her simply too heavy to be borne. Anna and Max helped by doing odd jobs like shopping and emptying the dustbin, but of course most of the work fell back on Mama and she grumbled about it incessantly.

  “I don’t mind the cooking,” she said, “but it’s the endless washing and ironing and mending—it takes so long and it goes on for ever!”

  Papa was no help at all. He had no idea what needed to be done in a household and when Mama complained how tired she got ironing the sheets he seemed genuinely astonished.

  “But why do you bother?” he asked. “They get crumpled again anyway when people sleep in them.”

  “Oh, you don’t understand anything!” cried Mama.

  She felt extra bad about it because Omama was planning a visit to Great-Aunt Sarah and she wanted the flat to look nice when she came to see it. But while she cleaned the rooms—and Mama cleaned them with a kind of ferocity which they had never encountered from either Grete or the concierge—the washing accumulated, and while she cooked good and inexpensive meals the pile of mending grew and grew. Because Papa seemed quite unable to understand her difficulties she somehow felt that he was to blame and one evening they had a row.

  Mama was trying to mend an old vest of Anna’s and groaning a good deal because there was a pile of socks and pillow-cases waiting to be darned after she had finished, when Papa spoke.

  “Surely this is quite unnecessary,” he said. “There can be no real need to mend the children’s underwear when no one ever sees it!”

  He might have known, thought Anna, that this would cause an explosion.

  “You have no idea—but no idea—” shouted Mama, “of the work I have to do. I get worn out washing and cooking and ironing and mending, and all you ever say is that it isn’t necessary!”

  “Only because you complain so much,” said Papa. “After all other people seem to manage. Look at Madame Fernand.”

  This provoked another outburst.

  “Madame Fernand loves housework!” shouted Mama. “Also she has a daily woman and a sewing machine. Look at this,” she cried, waving a torn pillow-slip. “She’d be able to mend this in two minutes, whereas it’ll take me at least half an hour. If you compare me with her it just shows you have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  Papa was taken aback by her vehemence. He loved Mama and hated to see her distressed.

  “I only meant,” he said, “that for an intelligent person like you there must be ways of simplifying ...”

  “Then you’d better ask Madame Fernand!” shouted Mama. “All I ever learned to do was how to play the piano!”—and she walked out of the room and slammed the door.

  The following day when Anna came home from school she met Papa in the lift. He was carrying a large wooden box with a handle.

  “What is it?” asked Anna and Papa said, “A present for Mama.”

  Anna was all agog to see what it was and could hardly wait for it to be opened, but Mama’s face fell at the sight of it.

  “Surely you haven’t bought ...” she began, as Papa lifted the lid, and Papa said proudly, “A sewing machine!”

  It was not a bit like Madame Fernand’s sewing machine, thought Anna. Madame Fernand’s sewing machine was silver but this one was greyish black and a peculiar shape.

  “Of course it’s not new,” said Papa, “and it may need to be cleaned. But you’ll be able to mend the pillow-cases and socks with it, and make the children’s clothes without asking Madame Fernand ...”

  “I don’t know how to make clothes,” said Mama, “and you can’t mend socks with a sewing machine.” She looked absolutely horrified.

  “Well, whatever it is you do with a sewing machine,” said Papa.

  They all stared at the thing on the table. It did not look, thought Anna, as if it would do anything.

  “How much did it cost?” asked Mama.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Papa. “They paid me for that extra article I wrote for the Daily Parisian today.”

  At this Mama became quite frantic.

  “But we need that money!” she cried. “Don’t you remember? I have to pay the rent and the butcher, and Anna needs new shoes. We said we’d use the money from the article to pay for them!”

  Papa looked distressed. Clearly he had not remembered about these things, but before Mama could say any more the bell rang and Anna opened the door to Madame Fernand. In the excitement over the sewing machine everyone had forgotten that she was due to drop in for tea.

  “Look!” cried Mama and Papa, but in very different tones of voice, as Anna led her into the dining-room.

  Madame Fernand looked at the machine incredulously.

  “Where on earth did you get it?” she said. “It must be out of the Ark!”

  “Is it so old?” said Papa.

  Madame Fernand inspected the machine more closely.

  “Did you buy it?” she asked, still sounding astonished.

  “Certainly!” said Papa.

  “But the needle-plate—It’s broken,” said Madame Fernand. “And the whole shaft is bent sideways—someone must have dropped it—so that it couldn’t possibly work.”

  She noticed some raised marks on the side of the machine and rubbed at them with her handkerchief. Gradually some figures appeared from beneath the grime. They formed a date—1896. Madame Fernand put her handkerchief back in her pocket.

  “As an antique it may be interesting,” she said firmly, “but as a sewing machine it’s got to go back to the shop.”

  Papa still could not believe that his wonderful present was no use.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Quite sure,” said Madame Fernand. “Take it quickly and tell them to give you your money back.”

  “And then will I be able to have new shoes?” asked Anna. She
knew it wasn’t really the moment to ask about them, but her old ones were quite worn out, apart from pinching her toes, and she had been looking forward to a new pair for a long time.

  “Of course, of course,” said Mama impatiently, but Papa still hesitated.

  “I hope they’ll agree,” he said. “The man who sold it to me did not seem very helpful.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Madame Fernand. “I want to see this place where they sell antique sewing machines,” and Anna went along too.

  The shop did not sell sewing machines only as Anna had expected but all sorts of different things like old chairs and little rickety tables and cracked pictures. Some of these had been put out on the pavement and a small ill-dressed man was busy draping a balding tiger skin over a chest of drawers in the middle. When he saw Papa his eyes, which were strangely pale, half closed.

  “Good afternoon,” said Papa politely as always. “I bought this sewing machine earlier today but I’m afraid it doesn’t work.”

  “Doesn’t it?” said the man, but he did not seem very surprised.

  “No,” said Papa. “So I’ve brought it back.”

  The man said nothing.

  “And I’d be glad if you would be so kind as to refund the money.”

  “Ah, no!” said the man. “I can’t do that. A bargain’s a bargain.”

  “But the machine does not work,” said Papa.

  “Look, sir,” said the man, momentarily abandoning the tiger skin. “You came in here and bought a sewing machine. Now you’ve changed your mind and you want your money back. Well, I don’t do business that way. A bargain’s a bargain, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I quite agree,” said Papa, “that a bargain is a bargain. But the machine is broken.”

  “Where?” said the man.

  Papa pointed vaguely.

  The man dismissed it.

  “Few little bits out of order,” he said. “Cost you almost nothing to replace those. After all, you can’t expect it to be perfect—not at the price you paid for it.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Papa, “but since it does not work at all, don’t you think you should take it back?”

  “No, I don’t,” said the man.

  Papa seemed at a loss what to say next and Anna could see the money for her new shoes slipping away. She knew that Papa had been cheated but she also knew that he had meant it all for the best and that he was not the sort of person who could force the man to hand back the money. She sighed—but she had reckoned without Madame Fernand.

  “Now you listen to me!” she shouted so loudly that several passers-by turned round to look at her. “You’ve sold this man a wreck of a sewing machine while giving him to understand that it works. That’s an offence against the law. I intend to inform the police immediately and I have no doubt they will also be most interested in all the other junk you sell here.”

  “Now, lady—please!” cried the man. His eyes were suddenly wide open.

  “Don’t tell me you came by this stuff honestly!” shouted Madame Fernand, giving the tiger skin a contemptuous tug. “There’s nothing honest about your business! When the police have finished with you my husband, who is a journalist, will expose you in his paper ...”

  “Please, lady!” cried the man again, digging in his pocket. “Just a little misunderstanding!” And he hurriedly handed Papa some notes from a grubby wallet.

  “Is that the right amount?” asked Madame Fernand sternly.

  “It appears to be,” said Papa.

  “Then we’ll go,” she said.

  They had only walked a few steps when the man came running after them.

  What was it now? thought Anna nervously.

  The man pointed apologetically.

  “Excuse me, sir, but would you mind?” he said.

  Papa looked down and discovered that he was still carrying the sewing machine in his hand. He put it down quickly. “I am terribly sorry,” he said. “I am afraid I was a little confused.”

  “Of course, sir. Very natural, sir,” said the man with no conviction whatever.

  When Anna looked back a moment later he was gloomily arranging the sewing machine on top of the tiger skin.

  They accompanied Madame Fernand to her Metro station.

  “Now let’s have no more nonsense about sewing machines,” she said before she left them. “You know you can borrow mine any time you like. And tell your mother,” she added to Anna, “that I’ll drop in tomorrow and give her a hand with the mending.”

  She looked at Papa with a kind of admiration.

  “You two,” she said. “You must be the two most impractical people in the world !”

  Anna and Papa walked home together. It was cold, but the sky was a bright, clear blue, and though there was no sign yet of spring there was a feeling that it was not too far away. At school that morning Anna had got seven out of ten for her dictation—only three mistakes. The money for her new shoes was safe in Papa’s pocket. She was very happy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Omama arrived at Great-Aunt Sarah’s just before Easter and came to see Mama and the children the following afternoon. With the help of the concierge (whose leg was now better) Mama had cleaned and tidied the flat so that it looked as nice as possible, but nothing could disguise the fact that it was very small and sparsely furnished.

  “Can’t you find anywhere bigger?” asked Omama while they were all having tea on the red oilcloth in the dining-room.

  “A bigger flat would cost more,” said Mama, helping Omama to some home-made apple flan. “We can barely afford this.”

  “But surely your husband ...?” Omama seemed quite surprised.

  “It’s the Depression, Mother,” said Mama. “Surely you’ve read about it! With so many French writers out of work no French paper is going to engage a German to write for them, and the Daily Parisian can’t afford to pay very much.”

  “Yes, but even so...” Omama looked round the little room, rather rudely, thought Anna, for after all it wasn’t as bad as all that—and at that very moment Max, tilting his chair as usual, collapsed on the floor with a plateful of apple flan in his lap. “... This is no way for children to grow up,” Omama finished her sentence, exactly as though Max had crystallised the thought for her.

  Anna and Max burst into uncontrollable laughter, but Mama said, “Nonsense, Mother!” quite sharply and told Max to go and get himself cleaned up. “As a matter of fact the children are doing extremely well,” she told Omama and added when Max was safely out of the room, “Max is working for the first time in his life.”

  “And I’m going to take the certificat d’études!” said Anna. This was her big news. Madame Socrate had decided, since her work had improved so much, that there was now no reason why she shouldn’t take the examination in the summer with the rest of the class.

  “The certificat d’études?” said Omama. “Isn’t that some kind of elementary school examination?”

  “It’s for French twelve-year-old children,” said Mama, “and Anna’s teacher thinks it remarkable that she should have caught up so quickly.”

  But Omama shook her head.

  “It all seems very strange to me,” she said and looked sadly at Mama. “So very different from the way you were brought up.”

  She had bought presents for everyone and during the rest of her stay in Paris, as in Switzerland, she arranged several outings for Mama and the children which they enjoyed and would never normally have been able to afford. But she did not really understand their new life.

  “This is no way for children to grow up” became a sort of catch-phrase in the family.

  “This is no way for children to grow up!” Max would say reproachfully to Mama when she had forgotten to make his sandwiches for school, and Anna would shake her head and say, “This is no way for children to grow up!” when the concierge caught Max sliding down the banisters.

  After one of Omama’s visits Papa, who usually managed to avoid meeting
her, asked Mama, “How was your Mother?” and Anna heard Mama reply, “Kind and utterly unimaginative as usual.”

  When it was time for Omama to go back to the South of France she embraced Mama and the children fondly.

  “Remember now,” she told Mama, “if ever you’re in difficulties you can send the children to me.”

  Anna caught Max’s eye and mouthed, “This is no way for children to grow up!” and though it seemed mean in the face of all Omama’s kindness they both had to make terrible grimaces to stop themselves from bursting into giggles.

  After the Easter holidays Anna could hardly wait to go back to school. She loved it all since she had learned to speak French. Suddenly the work seemed quite easy and she was beginning to enjoy writing stories and compositions in French. It was not a bit like writing in German—you could make the words do quite different things—and she found it curiously exciting.

  Even home-work was no longer such a burden. The large lumps of French, history and geography which had to be learned by heart were the hardest part, but Anna and Max had discovered a way of mastering even this. If they studied the relevant passage last thing before going to sleep they found they always knew it in the morning. By the afternoon it began to fade and by the following day it was completely forgotten—but it stuck in their memories just as long as they needed it.

  One evening Papa came into their bedroom when they were hearing each others’ lessons. Anna’s was about Napoleon and Papa looked amazed as she reeled it off. It began “Napoleon was born in Corsica” and then followed a long list of dates and battles until the final “he died in 1821.”

  “What an extraordinary way to learn about Napoleon,” said Papa. “Is that all you know about him?”

  “But it’s everything!” said Anna, rather hurt, especially as she had not made a single mistake.

  Papa laughed. “No, it’s not everything,” he said, and settling down on her bed he began to talk about Napoleon. He told the children about Napoleon’s childhood in Corsica with his many brothers and sisters, about his brilliance at school and how he became an officer at fifteen and commander of the entire French army at the age of twenty-six; how he made his brothers and sisters kings and queens of the countries he conquered but could never impress his mother, an Italian peasant woman.