“Does it hurt?” he persisted.
“No, it doesn’t.” She closed her mouth with a snap. Otherwise the words “little brat” might have been audible.
Claire was still there, kind and helpful, but a trifle unconscious of the children’s studied indifference.
“Let me help you,” Judy said time and again, only to be rebuffed.
Less than a week later Claire left amid a scene of tears and heartbreaking farewells. She had scarcely left the camp premises when the children of their own accord turned to Judy, ready to transfer their affection to her. How could they forget their adored Claire so quickly! Judy wondered if she had even been so callous or so lacking in loyalty in that faraway time when she was seven or eight years old.
When she saw Karl at the Swiss Shop, he made light of her complaints. “All kids are like that.”
The shop was empty. Uncle Yahn was taking his siesta. “All Europeans take an afternoon nap. Besides, he gets up at five o’clock every morning.”
They sat down at his improvised desk on which were spread sheets of music.
“I’ve been trying to enlarge that little melody of my father’s. Write it for violin, piano, and oboe, as a start—I want to make something fine out of it. I will—some day! But I don’t know enough yet about other instruments.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe I’m just sentimental.”
“No, it’s a wonderful melody,” Judy said, surprised at her own vehemence. “You can make variations on it, like Paganini did on his beautiful theme. Why don’t you talk to my father about it? He loves composing.”