concentration camps…and he killed all those Jews…six million, I think, that’s why it’s called the Holocaust.’
‘Six million people!’
‘There were lots of others he killed, too. Gypsies and people in Trade unions…there was a TV program on it last year, but we turned over to a movie halfway through. It’s hard to watch that sort of thing. I don’t know why they put them on TV…oh, he killed people who were disabled in some way, too…I think there was something like eleven million people altogether.’
‘Eleven million!’ Mark tried to work it out. ‘That’s more than half the population of Australia.’
‘They weren’t just in Germany,’ said Mum. ‘Turn the heater down, will you, Mark, it’s getting stuffy. There were also camps in all the other countries he conquered. It was a long time ago, Mark. I don’t know why you’re so interested.’
The car bounced through another puddle. ‘Blast,’ said Mum again. ‘That nearly hit the sump…’
‘But why?’ demanded Mark.
‘What do you mean why?’
‘Why did he do it?’
Mum shrugged. ‘That was the sort of person he was.’
‘But he must have had a reason!’
‘I think he wanted to breed a Super Race,’ said Mum reluctantly, trying to concentrate as she negotiated the puddles. ‘You know—Aryans. Yes, that’s what they were called. A pure Aryan race. So he had to get rid of anyone who didn’t fit his idea, anyone who was different. Oh, look out you silly roo.’
The kangaroo watched them uneasily from the middle of the road, then jumped once, twice, and over the fence.
‘I always wanted to be able to jump like that,’ said Mum, sighing in relief as the car hit the bitumen. ‘Oh, that reminds me—Jesse Owens. Yes, that was his name. He was a runner… I
‘What was so bad about that?’ asked Mark.
‘He was black!’ explained Mum. ‘And he beat all the Aryans hands down.’ The car drew to a stop slowly by the bus stop. ‘Hitler wouldn’t even shake Jesse Owens’ hand.’
‘How could someone as dumb as that run a country?’ asked Mark.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mum vaguely. She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s still pretty early.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Mark. He kissed her hurriedly. ‘See you.’
‘See you tonight. Don’t worry if I’m a bit late. I need to get the books done before the stocktake,’ said Mum. ‘Have a good day. Don’t get too wet. Are you sure you’ve got your homework? How about your lunch money?’
‘Yep, I’m sure. Bye Mum.’ The car trundled slowly back down the muddy road.
It was Tracey’s mum’s turn to pick up Anna today. Mark hoped they’d be early too…yes, there was the green truck, pulling out of Anna’s driveway down the road.
Mark watched as Little Tracey hugged her mum and dashed for the bus shelter. She was wearing her old yellow raincoat with the tear in the sleeve. Anna followed more slowly, the hood of her jacket shading her face.
‘We got here early so Anna can go on with the story,’ announced Tracey. ‘She said she would. Didn’t you, Anna?’
Anna nodded. Her hood had slipped back, so her fringe hung limply against her forehead. ‘If you want,’ she said offhandedly.
‘Yeah,’ said Mark, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. After all, it was just a story. Anna told lots of stories…‘Better get a move on before Ben gets here and wants to put the Red Baron in it or something.’
‘Ben’s not coming today. He’s got a cold. His mum rang my mum so I could tell Mrs Latter not to wait for him…’ Anna pushed her wet hair back out of her eyes.
‘Go on then!’ urged Little Tracey impatiently.
‘I’m not sure where to start,’ admitted Anna.
Mark stared. Anna always knew where to start. She’d never been stumped with a story before.
‘What did Heidi have for breakfast?’ demanded Little Tracey. ‘Did she have any pets? A dog? Or a horse?’
Anna relaxed. ‘I can tell you that,’ she said. ‘She had bread for breakfast—hot rolls coiled up into shapes with seeds on them. Sometimes they were caraway seeds and sometimes they were poppy seeds and once, for her birthday, the cook made her a bread roll in the shape of a cat, with a tail and poppyseed eyes and whiskers.
‘Like this.’ Anna traced a rudimentary picture of a cat in the mud with the toe of her shoe. ‘And she liked it so much that her father ordered the cook to make her a bread cat every Monday, or a frog or a goat or a donkey. And once, for Easter, she made a sheep, too, with a whole lot of little baby lambs.’
‘Did Heidi eat them?’
Anna nodded. ‘She could eat them because every Monday morning there’d be another one. And she had milk for breakfast, too, with some sugar in it.’
‘Then what did she do?’ asked Little Tracey. ‘Did she go to school?’
Mark leant back against the wall of the bus shelter. Anna’s face was absorbed, as it always was when she told a story, her hands flying and gesturing as though they wanted to tell the story too.
‘No, she didn’t go to school.’
‘Why not?’ asked Mark, suddenly interested.
‘Because,’ Anna hesitated. ‘Because people might discover Hitler had a daughter. Or they might tease her about the mark on her face or maybe…maybe Hitler himself had hated school so he said his daughter didn’t have to go. She had lessons with Fraulein Gelber instead.’
‘Didn’t she go anywhere?’ asked Little Tracey, disappointed.
‘She went to Church, I think,’ said Anna hesitantly. ‘I don’t think she went every Sunday. Maybe it was only once or twice…I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just not working.’
Mark considered. ‘How about start with, As far back as she could remember,’ he suggested. ‘Mr McDonald got us to start an essay with that last term. You know: “As far back as I can remember…”’
Anna took a deep breath. Her fingers looked white and cold and she shoved them in her pockets.
‘As far back as Heidi could remember…’ she began.
chapter four
Remembering
As far back as Heidi could remember there had been Fraulein Gelber. Fraulein Gelber looked after her. She was tall and thin, with hips that looked like she had a coat-hanger in her skirt, and she had dark hair pulled back and wore narrow skirts that meant she couldn’t run or walk too fast.
There was Frau Mundt, who was a widow, whose hands smelt of butter. Frau Mundt looked after her sometimes, when Fraulein Gelber visited her family.
Frau Mundt wore flowered dirndls under her apron. Once she took Heidi on her knee and told her a story.
‘We had no money, no work, no bread,’ she said. ‘Even if you had money, it was worth nothing in those days! A wheelbarrow full of money wouldn’t buy you a loaf of bread.
‘We begged. It was horrible, but we had to beg just to get food to eat. The occupying troops, the French and the Belgians, took all we had. They had whips and they whipped us off the sidewalks so we had to walk in the gutter. They threw us in the mud. That is how it was then, after the Great War.
‘Then it was 1932. My Willi had a motorbike. It was an old motorbike, from before the war, but sometimes we got a little petrol, and I sat on the back seat and we went to hear the Fuhrer give a great speech. He wasn’t the Fuhrer then but it was so wonderful—thousands of people, oh, so many people cheering.
