In the Cohens’ London living room, Priscilla played with paper dolls. Becca handed Mrs. Daniels a returned letter she had sent to her mother. It was stamped: Nicht Lieferbar.
“What does that mean?” Becca asked, pointing to the word.
“Undeliverable, I guess. It’s been returned. It means she’s no longer at that address, but she’s probably fine,” Mrs. Daniels said. “She moved. That’s all.”
“But she has no place to go,” Becca countered.
“Come on now, love. Let’s go have a bit to eat,” Mrs. Daniels said. “You, too, Priscilla.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I don’t want to eat with her. She has to go. Hitler didn’t want her, and I don’t either.”
Becca’s face grew red, and she turned on Priscilla, the pampered invalid. “Hitler doesn’t like people whose legs don’t work, either. He thinks they’re weak and not perfect.” Becca shook with anger. “I know why your parents wanted me to live here, not because they wanted to help me, but because you needed a friend. No one likes you, but it’s not because of your legs. It’s because you’re a brat, Priscilla. You think you’re better than everyone. You make everyone miserable around you.”
Priscilla wheeled toward her. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit in this wheelchair on the playground and not play hopscotch. I used to be able to fly before I got polio. I hate my legs, and I hate you!”
Becca stomped her feet. “Well, my Papa’s dead, and I’m afraid my mother and baby sister will never get here. I had my brother, but your family didn’t want him, so I lost him, too. I hate you, and I don’t want to live here anymore! I don’t care about your stupid legs!” Becca grabbed the handles of Priscilla’s wheelchair and spun it in a circle.
Then she ran out, leaving Priscilla shrieking: “Send the little Kraut back to Germany!”
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