Writing The Blue Hippopotamus was great fun—sort of reliving my early life and making some incidents even better than they were the first time. What I wanted most of all was to write a page-turner, to give the reader a chance to actually live and feel what I had lived and felt. In a sense, my own life was a page-turner, from day to day, and a wonderful one that I enjoyed and loved—even the difficult and painful happenings. I think that I’ve been tremendously lucky to have had such a—almost a charmed life—and that’s what I wanted to share with the reader.
Yes, there were moments and incidents that were difficult and sometimes very painful, like when I said my final goodbye to Maidi, the love of my life, and what a remarkable love that was—several professional authors have called that good-bye “heartbreaking,” and so it was. It was my heart that was breaking, and Maidi’s, but we both knew that it had to be that way, and we accepted it. And then of course, many, many years later, we finally met again by chance, or by accident, in Paris, and the closure we had needed for so many years finally arrived.
I wrote the book when I was ninety, and I was the last survivor of our group of five. We had all been made to swear that we would never tell. But after seventy years, I felt the story could, and should, be told.
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