Annelies Read online

  “I’ll agree with that,” Anne says. “Don’t you agree, Margot?”

  “There are other things more important than fun,” her sister informs her.” Now, that’s Mummy.

  “Your sister is sixteen,” their mother explains approvingly. “She’s not a child any longer.”

  Margot gives her sister a quietly dismissive shrug. “You just don’t understand, Anne.”

  “I understand plenty, thank you very much. What I don’t understand is why grown-ups take such pleasure in chewing over the worst of the world like gristle.”

  “Finish your brussels sprouts,” her mother says, frowning.

  Anne frowns back, her voice fizzling with dejection as she says, “I don’t like them.”

  “Finish them anyway.”

  Pim breaks in gently. “Edith. Perhaps she can have more carrots.”

  Mummy quite definitely disapproves, but she shrugs. “Of course. By all means. Let her do as she pleases. It appears that children rule the world after all, Anne.” To her husband she says, “It’s only that one must wonder, Otto. It may all just be ‘propaganda,’ as you like to suggest, but one must wonder how many hungry Jewish girls there are right now in terrible circumstances who would give quite a lot for a plate of healthy food.”

  No answer to this. How could there be? Mummy takes a grim sip from her coffee cup as Anne quietly scoops a small helping of carrots onto her plate, isolating them from the abominable choux de Bruxelles. Pim exhales, releasing a breath of smoke from his cigarette. Again he suggests a change of subject.

  Poor Pim thinks he can shield his daughters from the ugly realities. Impossible. It’s obvious that things are not good for the Jews since the Hun occupied the city. It’s even obvious to a child that terrible things are happening. Anne is not so oblivious as everyone believes. But why in the world should they dwell on it so? If Anne confined her thoughts each morning to the lurking menace of the German hordes billeted in her lovely Amsterdam, she would be paralyzed, hiding under her bed, refusing to budge. She must believe that tomorrow will come unimpeded. That the sun will rise at dawn in spite of the old Herr Six-and-a-Quarter Seyß-Inquart on his high Nazi perch. Margot calls her childish when she says this, but who cares what sisters think? And really, whether there are crimes against Jews in progress a thousand kilometers away or in the center of Amsterdam, what can she do about it? Crimes against Jews are as ancient as Scripture. And doesn’t she have a duty to God to enjoy the life he has given her? She is about to turn thirteen, and the entire German Wehrmacht has not been able to prevent that from happening. Besides, she has an ultimate, unshakable faith that Pim will figure things out for all of them, as he always has. Mummy isn’t completely wrong—there are plenty of Jews in much, much worse circumstances than the family Frank, and there is only one reason for that: Pim is too smart to allow them to be caught in the Hitlerite net. Surely even Mummy must recognize that fact. It’s only too bad she cannot see past her own fear and give her husband the credit he deserves, instead of always moaning about the past. One would think a wife would do as much for the man she’s wed. As for Anne, there is no one on earth who can make her feel as safe and loved as her papa. And though it may hurt Mummy when Anne chooses Pim to listen to her prayers at bedtime, she cannot help it. She knows that as long as God and Pim are on the job, she is protected.

  * * *

  • • •

  After the dishes are cleared, her father bends down to her and whispers the good news. “Go get your coat. It’s time to put our troubles aside.”

  Anne claps her hands together and hooks Pim with a hug, inhaling the zesty scent of his cologne. Her parents are allowing her to choose a present for herself in advance of her birthday party. There are still hours before the Jewish curfew begins, so they all visit the stationery shop a few blocks away. Blankevoorts Subscription Library at Zuider Amstellaan 62. One of Anne’s favorite spots. She loves the inky smell of the place. The neat boxes of thick writing paper tied with ribbons. The sleepy orange tom lounging on one of the shelves, purring when she strokes his fur. At least Jews are still allowed to pet cats!

  Mummy tries to draw her attention to a flower-pressing kit and then a scrapbook with a Moroccan leather binding, but Anne knows precisely what she wants. She has picked out a red tartan autograph album with a lock that snaps shut, because her favorite writer is Cissy van Marxveldt and she has been absolutely captivated by the adventures of the author’s plucky young heroine, Joop ter Heul. Joop keeps a secret diary and addresses her many entries to her friends: Phien, Loutje, Conny, and especially her very best friend for all time, Kitty. Anne thinks this is a breathtaking idea, and she intends to have loads of fun keeping her own diary of adventures. When it’s time to leave, Pim’s cheery voice separates Anne from her mother. “So the young lady has made her choice?”

  The lilt of disappointment colors Mummy’s response. “This is what she wants,” she says, and shrugs.

  * * *

  Joods Lyceum

  Stadstimmertuin 1

  Amsterdam-Centrum

  The so-called Jewish Lyceum, where it has been decreed that all Jewish children attend classes, is housed in a decaying cavern of sandy red brick west of the Amstel. In the classrooms paint peels from the ceiling. The hallways stink vaguely of moldering plumbing. Her mathematics teacher is a bespectacled old bird who speaks passable Dutch with a sharp, clip-clop Berliner’s accent. The rumor is that he had been a member of the Royal Prussian Academy of Sciences until the Nazis purged all Jews. His pupils call him “the Goose,” because his name is Gander and because of his habit of honking into his handkerchief.

  As the Goose opens his lesson that Monday morning, drawing down a clean blackboard, he glances about the room, and when he spots the newest vacancy among the desks, he waits for the silent explanation. It’s a code that’s developed between teacher and pupils. The teacher’s glance is the question. Another empty desk—what has become of the former occupant? The pupils answer with subtle hand signals. The clenching of a fist means arrested, a small downward swooping motion means gone into hiding. “Diving under,” it’s called. Onder het duiken. This time the Goose pauses slightly and then goes about chalking an equation onto the board.

  Anne, though, catches the tart scent of the river breezing through the open windows. It’s not that she doesn’t want to pay attention to the teacher, but she can be so easily distracted—by a breeze, by a scent, by a slant of light—and her mind veers off into another direction. Outside, the beauty of nature beckons her. If she had her way, she would be sitting in the grass watching the river flow by. It’s a secret she keeps to herself, but being with nature allows her to sink into herself, not in a lonely way, mostly, but in a private way that permits her to ponder the Anne on the inside, who is not always so bold or confident. Not always so wonderfully cheerful or impervious. She thinks about what a good time she had with Mummy and Margot last Saturday, baking macaroons. They were laughing and joking with one another, and when Anne used too much coconut, Mummy wasn’t critical at all but instead started singing a ditty about the little monkey who steals too many coconuts from the coconut palm.

  “Miss Frank?”

  It’s in those moments that Anne wonders if she is completely wrong about her mother. If Mummy is not a faultfinder at heart but is generous and loving and appreciates Anne for who she is. For who God made her to be.

  “Miss Frank?”

  She looks over at the sound of her name, only to find the Goose glaring at her under his bushy eyebrows, a wry expression on his face. “Are you in dreamland again, Miss Frank?”

  The class titters.

  “No, sir,” she replies, doing her best to gather her dignity, though she can feel her face flush.

  “Then please,” the Goose says, “solve the equation for x.”

  “Oh, Mr. Gander,” Anne replies, “I’m sure we both know that’s not very likely to
happen.”

  And this time when the class titters, she feels a lift. Victory.

  * * *

  • • •

  On the playground she shows off with her favorite trick, displacing her shoulder from its socket and then, like magic, popping it back into place. A performance guaranteed to draw a crowd of admirers. Even the boys leave their football to come watch. She likes the attention. Especially from the boys. Her many beaux, as her mother would call them, with her favorite overtone of criticism. Mummy always warns her about flirting. The dangers of it. “Look at Margot,” she insists. “Do you see her behaving in such a way?”

  There’s a boy whom everyone calls Hello, who’s much closer to Margot’s age. A Good Jewish Boy, excruciatingly polite, with only a hint of playful devilishness. He once took Anne for a gelato at Oase on the Geleenstraat, one of the last ice-cream parlors to serve Jews, and it made her feel grown-up. She liked his attention. She likes the attention of boys in general, it’s true. It makes her feel bright and adored.

  * * *

  • • •

  The name of her friend, her very best friend, is Hanneli, but Anne often calls her by her nickname, Lies. She lives in the Amsterdam South, too, with her parents and baby sister. Her father was once an underminister and a press secretary in the Prussian government, but the Nazis took care of that, purging Jews from the civil service, so now the family has made their adopted home here in Amsterdam, just like the Frank family. Anne finds Lies to be sweet and thoughtful, and shy enough to make for a good counterpoint to Anne’s bravado.

  “But wouldn’t you rather have a surprise?” Hanneli wants to know. They are soldiering on with their book satchels after leaving school. They walk now because no Jews are permitted the use of bicycles. Or streetcars. Or public parks. No more swimming in the Amstelparkbad pool for Jews, or ice-skating, or tennis at the Apollohal, because that’s all for gentiles only now. But today who cares? These are the final days of school before the summer holiday. And on a fresh, cloudless afternoon like this one, Anne can inhale the briny-sweet drift of the Amstel and listen to the chatter of the gulls. She feels light in her body, as if she could easily fly away on a breeze, and she might just do so.

  “I’m mad about surprises,” Lies declares wistfully. “I mean, for me, half the fun of birthdays is the surprises.”

  Her chestnut hair is woven into braids, which swing lightly as she walks. They make Anne jealous sometimes, those braids, but in a delicious way. Sometimes she’d just love to give them a good yank. Instead, Anne delivers her opinion. “For me surprises are overrated. I’d rather get what I know I want,” she says with conviction, and then her heart tightens in her chest. An angry gust of thunder invades the street as a German motorcycle squadron blasts past with their steel helmets and goggles, polluting the air with their fumes. Anne grimaces, clutching her school satchel against her breast, concealing her yellow Judenstern, though she knows it’s illegal. But Lies just stares at them with a blank kind of terror, her hands clapped over her ears and her star on perfect display as the squadron roars down the street, uninterested in two scrawny Jewish schoolgirls on the sidewalk. “They’re such beasts,” Anne breathes.

  Lies has lowered her hands from her ears, but her expression is racked by anxiety. “I asked Papa if we were going to go into hiding.”

  “Really?” This interests Anne. “And what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Hiding from what?’” she answers vacantly.

  Anne shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she suddenly decides. Instead she has a swift desire to misbehave. She tastes it like spice on the back of her tongue.

  Up ahead there’s a clot of older boys loitering on the sidewalk. They are congregated in a slump at the corner of the Uiterwaardenstraat by a tobacconist shop that has a reputation as a black-market hangout, run by a Galician Jew who trades in Jewish valuables. At least that’s the story from Mr. van Pels, Pim’s business partner.

  “These sorts of operations are a growing concern,” Mr. van P. had insisted while visiting their flat for coffee. “So you’ve been hiding the jewelry under a floorboard to keep it from the Germans? Your heirloom set of silver is under the bed? Your great-great-granny’s gold-plated menorah’s at the bottom of the laundry hamper, and in the meantime you’re wondering how to feed your family? Why not resign yourself to the inevitable and sell off the lot to the Galician? It’s better than handing it over to the robbery bank. You’ll only get a pittance, but at least it’s a pittance from another Jew.”

  “The robbery bank? What is that?” Anne had wanted to know, because she likes to know everything. No harm in that. Mummy had shushed her, but Pim had explained it in his quiet way. Along with all the other indignities, Jews have been ordered to deposit any assets of worth with the Sarphatistraat branch of the Lippmann, Rosenthal & Company. Now run by the Nazis, of course.

  At this point Mrs. van Pels, who’s anything but retiring, puffed herself up to declare, “I don’t care how hungry I get, Putti. I’m never going to let you sell off my furs. I’ll be buried in them first,” causing her husband to hoot out a laugh.

  “And she’s not joking!” he assured all assembled with a fat grin.

  One of the boys up ahead is kicking at a crack in the sidewalk, sending pebbles flying. Another laughs suddenly, sounding like a mule braying. Who knows what boys think is funny? Yellow stars are stitched onto their pullovers and jackets. Maybe Mummy likes to believe that if they must wear the Magen David in public, then they should do so with pride, but these boys wear their stars like what they are: badges of exclusion. Of rejection. Badges that assert their status as outsiders, as rough cuts on the edge. Their clothes ragged at the seams, their hair poorly groomed, the boys examine the two approaching girls with the kind of sullen interest common to street-corner troublemakers.

  “Don’t look at them,” Lies warns. She has already cast her eyes downward to the uneven pavement of the sidewalk, tracking the progress of her feet. But Anne cannot quite follow Hanneli’s example. She knows that Hanneli thinks she’s overly obsessed with boys, but this isn’t about silly flirting with their well-mannered schoolmates. Anne cannot help glancing at the wild challenge of their eyes.

  “Wanna smoke?” one of them inquires, offering his cigarette butt. His clothes are unkempt, and he looks poorly cared for.

  “No,” Lies replies firmly.

  But Anne has stopped.

  “Anne,” her friend prods with a scandalized whisper.

  “It’s just a cigarette,” Anne insists. “I’ve never tried one.”

  Only for an instant does she catch the curious smirk on the boy’s face when she plucks the cigarette from his fingers. The butt is damp from his saliva as it touches her lips, and she inhales with what she believes is a certain aplomb. But her body quickly convulses and her breath contracts as she chokes on the gritty smoke. Garbo she is not. The boys laugh as she coughs it out, her face flushing, her eyes tearing up. She drops the cigarette without thought as Lies seizes her by the arm, dragging her away. “Anne,” she says with both reproach and sympathy.

  “Don’t tell your mother,” Anne manages to beg as they leave the sniggering boys.

  “What? My mother?”

  “Don’t tell her, please,” Anne begs, smearing tears from her eyes. “I don’t want her to think I’ve gone boy-crazy. She already thinks I’m a know-it-all.”

  “She does not think you’re a know-it-all, Anne,” Lies replies in a tone that suggests she is defending her mother as much as defending Anne.

  “She does,” Anne insists. “You heard her: God knows everything, but Anne knows everything else.”

  “That was a joke.”

  “No it wasn’t. It was true. I am a know-it-all.”

  “All right,” Hanneli concedes. “And you’re boy-crazy, too. But we still love you.”

  And now Anne laughs. She sni
ffs back her tears, flinging her arm around Lies’s shoulder. Darling Lies. But then she says, “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Lipschitz,” Anne sings, properly polite, at the approach of a matronly mitteleuropäische specimen with the star on her coat.

  “Good morning, child,” the gnädige Mrs. Lipschitz replies with disapproval, a shopping bag looped over her arm and a scowl stamped onto her face as she passes.

  “Oh, now I’m really in for it,” Anne predicts with dread when they’re a safe distance away.

  “Who was that?”

  “Mrs. Lipschitz. I call her Old Mrs. Snoop. She’s always looking for something to criticize me over. If she saw me taking a puff off that cigarette, she’ll go straight to Mummy about it,” Anne huffs. But there’s nothing to be done about it now. “I want a pickle,” she announces.

  She’s spotted an old fellow with a pushcart across the street. “The town’s most delicious pickle!” he claims, calling out to all who pass. The girls laugh as their pickle halves crunch satisfyingly in their mouths, tasting nutty-sweet from a hint of mace. Anne parts with Lies at the Zuider Amstellaan, indulging a sudden urge to hug her good-bye for no other reason than just because. Lies does not seem to mind.

  But traveling up the Deltastraat with her schoolbag on her shoulder, Anne feels the light flush of joy drain from her heart as a stinging loneliness, unbidden and enigmatic, creeps over her. She tries to cheer herself with another crunching bite of her pickle, but she really only wanted it to mask the smell of tobacco on her breath, so she tosses it down a storm drain when she crosses the street. It’s this loneliness that often makes her cry for no reason. If her parents catch her, she pretends to have a stomachache, because they’ll readily fall for that one. Mummy is always saying how sickly she is. What a weak constitution she has, catching everything there is to catch. But really it’s an ache like a hook that threatens to drag her into a dark hole. Maybe it was the puff on the cigarette. The dizziness that seized her and the bitter choking. She stops and hugs a lamppost, her breath rising. This is the Anne she keeps secret from others. The panicked Anne. The helpless Anne on the edge of a lonely void. It would not do for such an Anne to show up in the world. Grabbing her wrist, she thumbs her pulse and tries to calm its speed. Mummy will say she’s just a nervous child, like so many girls, and dose her with valerian. But Anne knows it’s something more than a twitch of girlish nerves. When it arrives in force, she feels as if there’s a black fog coming for her. It’s a fear that has clutched at her since she was too young to define it. A fear that beneath her smiles and jokes and know-it-all antics, she is simply a fraud. That she will live her life with nothing to offer but her shadowboxing frolics and leave not a single lasting mark, because no one will ever truly love her or truly know her, and that her heart is nothing but dust that will return to dust.