Annelies Read online

  She has taught herself tricks when the panic overtakes her. Focusing on the clouds floating above like grand barges. Counting backward from a hundred. Or simply bawling her eyes out. She could easily do that now, but she does not wish to sob in public, so instead she chooses to concentrate on the progress of a long-legged spider up the lamppost. Spinning his silky filament, Mr. Longlegs. Higher and higher on a silvered thread. Anne breathes in deeply and exhales slowly. She swallows hard, and the clutch of dread begins to loose its grip. Her pulse retrieves its usual tempo. Wiping a clammy sheen from her brow, she slings her schoolbag back over her shoulder. Like the clouds above her head, she is on the move, herself again. The emptiness safely locked away.

  * * *

  • • •

  The rows of modern sandstone apartment buildings radiate in symmetry from the central star of a tall yellow tower called the Wolkenkrabber. The Cloud Raker. A twelve-story jut of concrete masonry, steel, and glass scraping the cloud bellies as it anchors a commons of well-groomed turf. The afternoon smells of the bread in the ovens of the Blommestein bakery with a trace of pithy river air. This is the Merwedeplein, which Anne likes to call “the Merry.”

  Her home is number 37. Four rooms, a kitchen, a bath, and a water closet, plus a room upstairs, which they rent to a bachelor tenant. It’s an airy flat, with a wonderful little platje—their narrow, tar-pebble terrace that’s as good as any lakeshore for sunbathing in the summer. Anne bounds up the stairwell from the doorway and meets her mother, who’s dressed in her housecoat, a look of glum disappointment on her face. She is a stolidly built lady, her mother, with a broad brow and the easy smile of the Holländer family, though she seldom smiles these days. “Anne.” Mummy frowns. “I need to speak to you for a moment. Come sit down.”

  The sea-green French doors of the living room are open. Plunking her book satchel down on her mother’s camelback sofa without argument, she plunks herself down as well and exhales her annoyance, head tilted toward the more arrogant side of obedience. Old Mrs. Snoop must have absolutely sprinted home to telephone Mummy and inform on Anne. She watches her mother seat herself in the club chair opposite, ankles crossed, and waits for it, the downpour of scorn and criticism.

  But instead her mother says simply, “You’re growing up.”

  Anne blinks.

  “I know that,” her mother tells her. “Only days away from thirteen, and how that happened so soon I can’t begin to guess. But it’s clear; you’re becoming a young lady. You think I don’t understand,” she says, “but you’re wrong. I understand very well. I was once thirteen, too, believe it or not, and I thought that your oma Rose, bless her name, didn’t understand a single fig’s worth about me. At that age I wanted to try new things. I wanted to be like your uncles and get in trouble once in a while. Break a rule or two. But since I was the girl, well . . .” Mummy releases a breath. “It was unacceptable at the time. My mother watched me closely to make sure I stayed firmly within the limits of what was proper.”

  “Really?” Anne says. She must admit that she is surprised. Oma Rose, may she rest in peace, always liked to tease Mummy over her addiction to propriety. Anne’s mother shakes her head with a wry smile, pursing her lips.

  “Oh, I know. You think that your oma was always on your side, that she liked to have her jokes about how Her Majesty Edith must have everything just so, but believe me, she was much, much stricter than I have ever been. I wasn’t even permitted to speak in the company of adults unless spoken to first. Can you imagine that, my dear daughter?”

  Anne must admit, “No, I can’t, Mummy. I think I would explode.”

  “Yes,” her mother agrees, still with her dry smile. “I think you would. So I am not that way. I try, Anne, I do try to allow you and your sister as much latitude as I am able. And it’s not as if I haven’t suffered plenty of criticism as a result. Many of the other ladies think that I’m far too modern with you, far too permissive. But I say time passes, the world changes. So when you tell me that you simply cannot tolerate brussels sprouts, I let you have another helping of roasted carrots. When a boy rings our doorbell and asks to take you for a walk or for an ice cream, I hold my breath and don’t object. When you want privacy, I try to give it to you. And when you have something you think is important to say, I do try to listen, regardless of what you choose to believe. But,” Anne’s mother says finally, “I am still your mother, and I am still responsible for your well-being. That, my dear girl, will never change, no matter how grown-up you become.”

  Anne gazes from the sofa. She is trying to figure this out. Her mother’s eyes are moons. She tries to imagine Mummy evolving someday into a sweet grandmother, just like Oma, but her mother’s face has thinned since the moffen have come, and her skin is rumpled around her chin. There is no sweetness in her face. Her thick head of lustrous caramel-colored hair, of which she’s always been so proud, is pinned neatly with an amber comb and threaded with silver. Her mother’s hands have been folded in her lap all this time, in the proper position, but now they fidget. She strokes her hair as if to smooth an errant strand, a sure sign that Mummy is either about to say something that will start an argument or is deciding not to say something that she knows will start an argument. “I don’t want to be harsh,” she tells Anne. “As I said, I know that you are growing up. But for now I must insist on this: You cannot smoke, Annelies. After all the illnesses you’ve suffered since you were small, you must realize how harmful smoking will be to your respiration.”

  “So Mrs. Lipschitz reported,” says Anne heavily. Finally they are at the root of the matter, and she can barely keep herself from rolling her eyes. At least it’s the smoking she’s in trouble over and not, amazingly enough, the boys.

  But there’s a tick in her mother’s expression, and she looks a bit confused. “Mrs. Lipschitz?”

  Glaring at the sofa’s velvety upholstery. “She told you I took a puff off that boy’s cigarette on the way home from school.”

  “Anne.” A frown immediately collapses her mother’s expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m talking to you because I found these in your desk cubby,” she says, removing one of the thousands of blue, red, and white Queen’s Day cigarette packets dropped over Holland by the British Royal Air Force. A map of the Dutch Colonial East Indies on the front of the packet and on the back the Dutch tricolor. VICTORY APPROACHES, the slogan proclaims. Anne suddenly laughs, slapping the knobby knees poking out from her skirt.

  “What?” her mother demands, her expression tensing. “What’s funny?”

  “Oh, Mummy, those are Papa’s. He gave them to Margot as a souvenir.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows knit together when she frowns, causing her eyes to look beady and too close-set. “Margot?”

  “Yes, the good daughter,” says Anne. “Don’t you know that she’s collecting cigarette cards of the royal family?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, she is. Mr. Kugler is always saving them for her,” Anne says, the relief of her laughter losing steam. “Ask her if you don’t believe me. Ask Pim.”

  “No. No, I believe you, Anne.”

  “Though, I might note that you automatically assumed that I was the criminal.”

  “I didn’t,” says Anne’s mother. “I didn’t. It’s just that . . .” But her mother doesn’t seem to be able to finish this sentence, so Anne finishes it for her. Helpfully.

  “It’s just that you can’t imagine Margot ever doing anything against the rules, and it’s just that you always assume that Anne is at fault.”

  Her mother blinks. Then her face sharpens. “So you took a cigarette from a boy on the street?”

  Anne huffs lightly. “It was only a puff, Mummy.” Frowning at the strands of hair she is twirling around one of her fingers.

  “A puff from a strange boy’s cigarette?” Her mother’s voice is rising. “First of all,
think of the diseases he may have transferred to you.”

  “Oh, diseases,” Anne repeats, emphasizing the ridiculousness of the word.

  “Not to mention,” her mother adds, “the appalling lack of good judgment on your part to be consorting with a strange boy.”

  “I wasn’t ‘consorting.’”

  “With a strange boy, on the street.”

  “Oh, that’s what’s really worrying you, isn’t it? Not the diseases.”

  “You were endangering your reputation.”

  “Mine or yours, Mother? You’re not worried about me. Not really. You’re just worried about what gossip that busybody Mrs. Lipschitz is going to spread about Mrs. Frank’s little troublemaker.”

  “You don’t understand, Anne. You’re still so young.”

  “I’m old enough to know that things are changing, Mummy.” She slants forward to emphasize her point. “Girls my age simply aren’t accepting the old rules that our mothers bowed to. We intend to make our own decisions.”

  “And that will include acting like . . . like a strumpet?”

  Anne recoils as if she has just been slapped. She can feel her eyes heat with tears. Snatching her book satchel, she darts from the room. She can hear her mother calling after her. “Anne! Anne—please! That was too harsh. I’m sorry, I just lost my temper. Please come back.” These are the last words Anne hears before she slams shut the door to her room.

  * * *

  • • •

  Bedtime. Anne is dressed in her silky blue pajamas. She had begged for these pajamas after seeing a magazine picture of Hedy Lamarr in a pair, but now her legs are too long for them. Her mother complains that she won’t stop growing.

  In the lamplight the room’s wallpaper is warmed to a pale honey color. Beds were too difficult and expensive to transport from Frankfurt and were a scarce and pricey commodity in Amsterdam, a city flooded by waves of immigrants fleeing the Reich. So they don’t have regular beds, Margot and she, not really. Anne sleeps on a davenport with an upholstered back and Margot sleeps on a bed that folds up into the wall! Still, Anne appreciates the room for its coziness. Her prized swimming medals, her schoolroom paintings, and the pictures of royal families and film stars that she’s pinned onto the wall give her a sense of proprietorship over her space. Mummy’s mahogany-veneered secretaire, where they do their homework, stands in the corner like a friendly sentry. And thanks to their lovely tall window, she can look out at the trees. She stares for a moment at the dark branches rustling under the clouded night.

  Margot is still busy with her ablutions in the washroom, but Anne has hurried through hers and has wrapped two curlers in her hair in the continued hope of obtaining wavy bangs. Now, though, lying in bed, she feels a heavy silence resting on her chest. She barely glances up when Pim knocks on the doorframe.

  “Do you want to hear my prayers, Pim?” she assumes.

  “Yes. But in a moment.” He enters and sits on the corner of her bed. “We need to talk first.”

  Anne moans dully and stares blankly at the ceiling. “Fine.” She sighs.

  “Your mother is very upset,” Pim tells her quietly.

  “Well, she should be,” Anne insists self-righteously.

  “She’s very distraught,” says Pim.

  “Did she tell you what she called me? Did she tell you the word she used?”

  “Yes, she did. And she regrets it deeply.”

  “So she sent you in to tell me that?”

  “Well. Quite honestly, Anne, I think she is ashamed to tell you herself.”

  “She would never have called Margot a name like that. Never.”

  “Your mother’s relationship with Margot has nothing to do with this. Mummy made a mistake. A dreadful mistake. She hurt your feelings, and she is very, very sorry for it.”

  Anne says nothing.

  “But it is also true, Annelies, that you have a talent for provoking your mother in unnecessary ways.”

  A gleam of tears appears. “So it’s my fault as usual.”

  “I’m saying it takes two to argue. Mummy lost her temper and said something she didn’t mean. But she was also looking out for you. Trying to teach you about certain behavior that, as a child—”

  “Of course! I’m such a child.”

  “That as a child,” her father repeats, “you are still quite uninformed about.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Pim. I may be a child, Pim, but children are quite well informed these days.”

  “In that case you should have known better.”

  “I accepted a puff, Pim.” She frowns, pushing herself up on her elbow and glaring into her father’s face. “A single puff from a boy’s cigarette. That’s all. I didn’t even like it. And yet in her eyes that was enough to make her daughter a strumpet.”

  Pim breathes in and exhales slowly. “You must understand that your mother’s nerves are stretched. You must remember what she was forced to leave behind when we came to Holland. She had a life in Frankfurt. A lovely house. Lovely things.”

  “I know all about it, Pim. We’ve all heard it a hundred times. The big house, the maid, everything. But may I point out that you left a life behind in Germany as well, and yet you don’t hate me.”

  “Your mother doesn’t hate you,” Pim corrects her firmly. “She loves you. She loves you and Margot more than anything.”

  Anne drops back down onto her pillows, wiping her eyes on her pajama sleeve. “Well. Margot maybe.”

  “Anneke.” Pim sighs forlornly, shaking his head. “You can be so hard on her. And she can be hard on you, too, I know this,” he concedes. “But she is sorry. Sincerely sorry. And when a person’s regret is sincere, then the only decent thing to do is to forgive them.”

  Anne frowns at the air. “All right,” she agrees thinly. “All right. For your sake I’ll forgive her. I’ll pretend it never happened. But you’re wrong about one thing,” she tells him. “Mummy will never love me. Not like you do. You’re the one who truly loves me.” She pushes herself up and embraces him, arms around his neck and her ear pressed to his chest so she can hear the tick of his heart.

  “Your mother loves you,” he insists quietly, patting her back. “We both love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it, young lady. Now, let’s forget all about tears and angry words. It’s your birthday coming. Sleep tight and dream about what a marvelous day it’s going to be.”

  But as her father rises to leave, she calls out to him, “Pim, are we going into hiding?”

  Her father stiffens as if he has just stepped on a tack but wants to keep it a secret. “Why do you ask such a thing?”

  “Because I wonder where Oma Rose’s sterling-silver set has gone.” One hundred and thirteen pieces from Koch & Bergfeld of Bremen, and one of her mother’s prized possessions. “I was hoping that I would be allowed to use it for the party, but when I looked for it in the cabinet, it was missing. I even looked under the beds. The entire case has vanished.”

  “And did you ask your mother about this?” Pim wonders.

  “No. I’m asking you. Did you have to turn it over to the robbery bank?” Anne asks, worried to know the answer if it’s yes.

  But Pim’s expression remains calm. Rational. “Your mother’s silverware is quite valuable to her,” he explains. “We thought it would be safer to ask some friends to hold on to it for the time being.”

  “Friends who aren’t Jewish,” says Anne.

  “That’s right,” her father admits without embarrassment.

  “So the silverware has gone into hiding, but not us?”

  “This is nothing you need to worry about tonight, my dear,” her father tells her. He returns to her bedside long enough to give her forehead a kiss. “Now sleep.”

  “Pim, wait. My prayers.” Anne closes her eyes. Sometimes when she prays, she pictures God listening. A colossal, snow
y-bearded bompa, the contented Master of the Universe, who gladly sets aside the governing of the cosmos long enough to listen to Anne Frank’s small recitation. Her prayers are in German still, just because they always have been so, and she ends them as she always has, with her closing message to the Father of Creation. Ich danke dir für all das Gute und Liebe und Schöne. Her thanks for all the goodness and love and beauty in the world. Amen.

  “Very nice,” her father says with quiet satisfaction.

  She gazes for a moment at the misty image of the divine in her head but then blinks it away. “Do you think that God can protect us, Pim?”

  Pim appears surprised by this question. “Can he? Well. Of course he can, Anne.”

  “Really? Even when the enemy is all around?”

  “Especially then. The Lord has his plan, Anneke,” Pim assures her. “No need to worry yourself. You should simply have a good night’s sleep.”