War is like a nightmare ([5naItmZE] 恶梦). During World War II thousands of families all over the world suffered a great deal and Mr. Koffer’s family was one of them.

    Rupert Baker put on his glasses and sat down to read the newspaper. It was nearly time for dinner, but his son was not yet back from school.

    “Why is Peter so late this evening?” he asked his wife.

    “I don’t know, dear. He usually gets home at five o’clock, and now it’s nearly half past seven. Perhaps he has a new girl friend.”

    Mr. Baker did not like some of Peter’s girl friends, but he was too wise to say so. The boy worked hard at school and gave no trouble at home. At seventeen he was old enough to take care of himself. Just then the door opened, and Peter came in.

    “I’m sorry to be so late, Dad. I was selling tickets for the school dance tomorrow night.”

    “School dance? That’s something new. Why are you having a dance in the summer?”

    “There’s a school in Switzerland for children who have no fathers or mothers. They come from many different countries, and the school is their home. Mr. Koffer, our new German teacher, told us about it. Look at these.” He pulled some pictures out of his school bag and began to show them to his father.

    “Come along, you two,” Mrs. Baker called from the next room. “Come and have your dinner before it gets cold.”

    Peter took the pictures with him to the dinner table and went on talking. “Mr. Koffer was at that school himself when he was a boy. He was very happy there and he wants us all to do something to help. We are selling dance tickets for one pound each, and all the money will go to the school in Switzerland.”
“You want me to buy two tickets, I suppose?” said Mr. Baker, laughing.

    “Yes. And I want you to sell some tickets too, Dad.”

    Mr. Baker stopped laughing. “I can’t do that. I’m much too busy. Why can’t you do it all yourself?”

    “Each boy has to sell the tickets to people who live in his own road. I called at every house, but at number 17 and number 28 nobody answered the door. I have to go to school tomorrow, but you don’t work on Saturdays, so you can try those two houses in the morning.”

    “Number 17? That’s my dressmaker’s house,” said his mother. “I’ll go and see her for you.”

    “That leaves me with number 28.” Mr. Baker did not seem very pleased. “It’s that old house, with a high wall round the garden, isn’t it? There’s something strange about that place. A man called Box lives there with his wife. I’ve never seen them, because they never go out. Their servant buys everything for them in the shops, and he isn’t English. I spoke to him once, but he didn’t understand me.”

    His son looked at him and laughed. “You’re not afraid, are you, Dad?”

    “Of course I’m not.” Now Mr. Baker had to go. “I’ll be gald to meet Mr. Box. Give me the tickets.”

    Next morning, when his wife was shopping, Mr. Baker went down the road to number 28. He tried the front door first, but nobody came to open it. Then he walked round the house to the back door.

    Before he reached it, he noticed a man and a woman sitting in the garden. They both had white hair, like very old people. The man had only one arm.

    “What do you want, please?” he called.

    At first Mr. Baker was too surprised to answer, for the man’s voice seemed quite young, and it was not an English voice.

    “I’m selling tickets for a dance.” Mr. Baker wanted to run away. How could he sell dance-tickets to a man with only one arm? But it was too late to turn back now. He had to go on. “It’s to help a school in Switzerland for children with no mothers and fathers.”

    He walked over to their chairs, and the man looked at the tickets. Then he looked at his wife. She had a beautiful face, but it was sad and deeply lined.

    “Yes,” he said at last, speaking very slowly, “I will buy tow tickets. We do not dance, but we will help the children.”

    Mr. Baker thanked him and went home. Soon his wife came back from the shops.

    “You needn’t go to number 28,” she said. “My dressmaker is away in London; but I met the servant from number 28 in the flower shop, and he bought my two tickets for Mr. And Mrs. Box.”

    Mr. Baker was not surprised. When his wife wanted to do something, like selling tickets for a dance, nobody could stop her. Peter often said that his mother “could talk the back leg off a donkey.” Few people were strong-minded enough to say “no” to her.

    “You don’t look very pleased, dear. Have I done the wrong thing?”

    “Yes. Mr. Box now had four tickets.” He told her about his visit to number 28. “I’m not going back there. Mr. Box will be angry. Peter must go and see them about it when he comes home. I’ve had enough.”
Mr. Baker did not like trouble. He put on his oldest clothes and went out to work in the garden.’

    Peter was busy at school, helping Mr. Koffer to get everything ready for the dance. He did not return home until late in the afternoon.

    “I can’t go now, Dad,” he said when his father told him about Mr. Box’s four tickets. “If he comes to the dance, I’ll see him there. If he doesn’t, ill call at his house tomorrow.”

    The Bakers could not see any sign of Mr. Box when they got to the dance. There were several hundred people there, and it was almost impossible to move round the room. Peter soon found a girl friend and began to dance with her, but his father and mother felt too old for this kind of dancing. They sat down at a small table and watched.

    When the music stopped, Peter brought them something to drink. Then Mrs. Baker noticed something.

    “Look! There’s a man with one arm on the other side of the room. There’s a lady with him, and they’re both with-haired. They must be your people form number 28, Rupert.”

    “Yes, and they’re talking to Mr. Koffer,” said Peter.

    “And they’re talking so noisily that everyone is looking at them,” said his father. “They must be very angry.”

    The music started again, and they could not see across the room any more because of the dancers. But Mr. Koffer and the two white haired people were walking round the room towards them.

    “Here comes trouble!” said Mr. Baker. “Oh, why did we come here? Everyone will hear about it now.”

    He stopped and stood up in surprise as they reached his table. The German teacher and Mr. Box were laughing, but Mrs. Box was crying. He gave her his chair.

    “I’m very, very sorry,” began Mr. Baker, but Hans Koffer stopped him. He looked young to be a teacher and he had a friendly face.

    “There is nothing to be sorry about, Mr. Baker. This is the happiest day of my life. And I have to thank your family for that.”

    Mr. Baker stood there with his mouth open, but said nothing. He could not understand at all. Then the white-haired man spoke.

    “My good friend,” he said in his slow, heavy English, “today you have given us back our son!”

    “Your son? But — I don’t understand.”

    “Hans Koffer is our son, Mr. Baker. He was one year old when the war started. I was a soldier, and my wife was working for the government in Berlin. In 1944 she sent Hans to live with friends in the country, as it was not safe in Berlin. We never saw him again.”

    He put his one arm round his wife. She was not crying now, but her gentle face looked more sad and tired than ever.

    “My wife and I were caught by the enemy and taken to Moscow. After four years we were set free, but all our friends in Germany were dead. We could not find Hans.”

    “But why do you have a different name?”

    “I understand that, I think,” said Peter, looking at his German teacher. “Many people change their names when they come to live in England. And Koffer is the German word for a box, you know.”

From Faces and Places, ed., A.G. Eyre, Longman, 1966.

Approximately 1400 words.