Asta and Jürgen shared a look. Had Polgo found out who they were – had he phoned their parents?
‘We can explain, Mutti… um, we didn’t mean to take your brassiere,’ said Jürgen.
‘Well…’ hedged Asta. ‘I mean, we did, but it was an old one – it had a hole this size,’ she said, making one as big as her head with her hands to emphasise, never letting a chance to exaggerate escape, despite the fact that her mother wasn’t exactly a heavy-breasted woman.
‘And we found it in the rag bag,’ lied Jürgen. They’d used one of her good ones – thinking Frederick deserved to look his best.
Mutti blinked. ‘My brass— no, it’s not about that,’ she said. ‘Though I wish the two of you would stop and think about what you’re doing – you can’t get away with this sort of thing anymore. It’s far too dangerous.’
‘What’s dangerous about it? I don’t think he minds that much. I know he says he wants to skin us alive, but we have seen him laughing – even when he chases us – and the punters love it.’
Mutti stared at them, realising they were each speaking of different things. ‘What on earth are you two talking about?’
‘The stuffed gorilla. What are you talking about?’
‘The stuffed gorilla?’
They tried to explain, but it was hard with her frowning so fiercely.
Mutti pinched the skin between her eyes. ‘God help me,’ she said, and she looked so crushed they both felt an overwhelming stab of guilt. ‘Come into the sitting room, your father is home early – we need to speak to you both, it’s important.’
They followed after her in surprise. Papa was never home early. ‘Is he sick?’
It was funny but as a doctor he was always the last person to look after himself when he was ill, always too busy looking after everyone else to take time off.
‘No, he is fine. He came home early because of the news.’
‘The news?’ asked Asta.
Their mother nodded. Her face was grave as she made her way to the sofa where their father was sitting. The twins paused in surprise. Their dapper father, always so well-groomed, with his perfectly styled hair and starched shirts, looked dishevelled. His hair was a mess, from where he’d been rubbing his hands through it, his clothes were wrinkled and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. But it was the look in them that caused both twins to swallow in sudden fear.
‘Sit down,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s something we need to tell you.’
Jürgen closed his eyes. This had happened to his friend, Hans. He was sure of it. Now he had two fathers. His real one and someone he now had to call ‘Uncle’.
‘You’re getting a divorce,’ he accused them, his blue eyes wide.
Asta gasped. ‘No!’
To their surprise, their parents smiled for a moment. ‘I wish it were that simple, in a way,’ said their mother.
The twins blinked at each other.
‘No, my dears. It’s much worse than that… and for people like us – Jews – as Hitler has been made chancellor,’ said their father.
The twins shared wide-eyed looks. They knew about him, of course. The leader of the Nazi Party who had been making promises that he was going to turn things around for Germany. The man who blamed the Jews for everything that had gone wrong since the First World War – instead of the actual war that had caused mounting debts in reparations to many countries, not to mention the stock market crash that had occurred just four years earlier. Yet, for some reason, people believed that the Jews were to blame. When the twins had heard these claims they had always thought he seemed like a crazy, angry man, looking for someone to be crazy and angry about, and that people would see that. But maybe not.
Jürgen frowned. ‘But—’ He looked at their mother. ‘He doesn’t mean us, though – I mean, we celebrate Christmas.’
‘We aren’t even really Jewish, are we?’ asked Asta. ‘It’s not like we ever go to synagogue with Granny. Surely he just means to make life hard for those Jews who don’t really see themselves as German? I mean, it’s not nice, but maybe they just need to adapt a bit more…’
Mutti shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Asta wasn’t alone in that prejudice – it was a feeling shared by a lot of the more westernised Jews, that the problem was a case of not blending in enough. She’d heard her parents talk about it before – even her neighbours too. About how the very Orthodox ones were different to them… Later, they would realise how wrong that was and in time Asta would grow intensely ashamed of this prejudice, but at that moment it was just something she’d been taught – and she took comfort in the idea that Hitler’s dark plans and ideas for the future might not apply to them.
Their father looked at them, and shook his head. ‘Somehow, I doubt we’ll seem more German to him even if we nail the Nazi flag with a cross on our door.’
That night Jürgen lay in bed, listening to the sounds of their parents as they spoke long through the small hours. Their voices were anxious, and the mood inside the flat was tense. He couldn’t sleep. It was past two in the morning when he called out to Asta in the bed opposite. ‘You still awake?’
‘Yes,’ came her quiet voice. ‘Can’t sleep.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Want to play cards?’
‘Now?’ Asta sat up to look at him in surprise. She could just make out his tousled dark head.
‘I don’t know – maybe.’
‘Mutti and Papa will murder us if they find us up.’
‘I doubt it. They’re up too.’
Asta swung her legs out of bed. He was right, of course. ‘Okay,’ she said, switching on the small bedroom light that sat on a low table between their beds. There had been a time, after they’d turned nine, that their parents had suggested that perhaps they should have their own separate rooms now they were growing up.
‘You might want some privacy,’ suggested Mutti delicately. ‘You know, for when you undress and that sort of thing.’
‘We turn our backs, Mutti, what more privacy would we need than that?’ Jürgen had asked.
‘Well… when you’re older things might change and you might need a bit more than that.’ Then she sighed, muttering something about why was Papa never home to explain boy things to his son, while her face turned a bit red.
But the suggestion had only made them upset. ‘But, Mutti, what if I wake up in the middle of the night and need someone to talk to?’
‘Yes, and how will I sleep without listening to Asta’s snoring. I couldn’t!’
‘Besides, who needs privacy from their twin?’ demanded Jürgen.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Asta.
‘Well, maybe one day you’ll change your mind…’ their mother had said. ‘It’s not a bad thing to have some space to yourself, it doesn’t mean you love each other any less.’
‘Course it does,’ Asta had cried, clutching Jürgen with tears in her eyes, while the boy sobbed and said he would just break the wall between them down…
Mutti had sighed. ‘I give up – have it your way, but we will revisit this matter when you are twelve, all right?’