Hitler's Daughter

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It was raining the day that Mark first heard about Hitler’s daughter. The cows in Harrison’s paddock were wet and brown and mournful. Raindrops dripped down their noses as they huddled their backs to the wind.

There was nothing in the world quite as sad-looking as wet cows, thought Mark, as he hauled his damp schoolbag further into the bus shelter. Do cows ever get colds? he wondered. What would happen if they sneezed?

The Wallaby Creek Progress Association had built the bus shelter last year. It was made of curved yellow tin—easily big enough for the four kids who caught the bus at this corner by Harrison’s bottom paddock.

The idea had been to keep the kids out of the wind and rain while they waited for the bus. In Mark’s opinion the whole idea was a flop.

Before the bus shelter was built he sat in the car with Mum when it rained, dry and warm with the heater going till the bus trundled round the corner. And everyone else sat in their cars too.

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