Anne settles. He kisses her again on the forehead as Margot enters from her toilette.
“Good night, my dear Mutz,” he tells Margot.
“Good night, Pim,” Margot answers, and stops for a kiss on the head before their father exits into the hallway. Anne’s tabby has pranced into the room behind her sister, slinking around Margot’s ankle, but when he hops up to the end of Anne’s bed, Anne seizes him, gazing at her sister closely. Margot does not bother with curlers. She never talks about cosmetics, like Anne does, or begs Mother to let her wear lipstick, as it’s generally agreed that of the two of them Margot is the Naturally Pretty One. Anne is all gawky elbows and limbs, with a too-pointy chin and therefore in need of some cosmetic improvement. She stares as her sister says her prayers alone in an intimate whisper into God’s ear, too old to require Pim to watch over her. “What?” Margot demands thickly when she finishes.
Anne squeezes Moortje like the little bag of stuffing he is. “I didn’t say a thing.”
“Maybe not.” Margot fluffs her pillow with a spank. “But I could hear you anyway.”
“I asked Pim if we were going into hiding.”
“Yes?” Margot faces her, now alert.
Anne lifts the cat up under his front legs so that his paws dangle loosely. “He said they have given Oma Rose’s silverware to Christian friends for safekeeping. But that’s it.”
Margot expels the breath she has been holding. “Good.”
“Good?”
“I don’t want to go into hiding,” she says as she slips into her bed. “Do you?” she asks, as if Anne might be harboring some silly desire on the subject.
“No, of course not.” Anne returns her attention to Moortje, who mews lightly when she lowers him enough to press his nose against hers. “You think I want to be stuck in a smelly old farmhouse somewhere and lose all my friends?”
“I never know with you,” her sister says, settling her head on the properly fluffed pillow. “Anyway, you told me that Pim said there’s nothing happening.”
“No,” Anne must point out, letting Moortje loose on the blanket. “In fact, he didn’t say that. Not in so many words. He said I should go to sleep.”
“What a tremendous idea,” Margot replies with sisterly sarcasm.
Anne huffs but says nothing further, settling under her bedclothes as Moortje finds his spot at the foot of her davenport. Hiding. A frightening prospect, but also slightly exciting. Can she be forgiven for feeling a certain sly thrill at outsmarting the Nazis? Diving under. Onder het duiken! Farewell, Boche! Auf Wiedersehen! May we never meet again.
The rumor at school is that the whole Lowenstein family is paying a Christian farmer in Drenthe to let them live in a hayloft. Could she live in a hayloft? Surely not. She draws her knees up under the covers and rolls over toward the wall. Certainly, if the day comes, they will do better than a hayloft. If. If the day comes. Until then she will rely on Pim and God, as always, to make the right decisions.
* * *
Prinsengracht 263
Offices of Opekta and Pectacon
Amsterdam-Centrum
The Canal Ring West
When Anne was still a toddler, Pim had purchased an Amsterdam franchise of the Opekta pectin company to cover their exit from Germany, opening the office with Mr. Kugler, selling products for quick jam. Mr. Kleiman had come aboard soon after to keep the books, and then came Miep, who had quickly been promoted to senior secretary, though, as Miep tells it, Pim had her in the kitchen for her first month making batch after batch of ten-minute jam so that she’d learn everything that could possibly go wrong with every recipe. “Too much fruit,” says Miep. “That was the main problem. People didn’t follow the recipe. They put in too much fruit and not enough sugar.”
Dearest Miep. She was sent to a foster home in Holland as a child because her parents in Vienna were too poor to feed her. It’s difficult for Anne to imagine such a thing, but it happened, though Miep is not the least bit bitter about it. She is such a trustworthy and understanding soul, Anne thinks. And even if she still speaks with a ghost of a wienerisch accent, she can be forgiven that, because in every other way she is completely Dutch.
A Dutch husband. Dutch fortitude. Dutch honesty and stubbornness. Miep possesses them all.
The window glass rattles. Another squadron of Luftwaffe Junkers grumbles through the sky from its air base north of Arnhem. Eyes rise for as long as it takes the buzz of the bombers to drift away, but no one has much to say about it. The German occupation is a fact of life, like a chronic bowel problem.
There’s a German, in fact, in the private office. A Herr So-and-So from the Frankfurt office of the Pomosin-Werke that oversees all Opekta franchises. He is cloistered in there with Mr. Kleiman, but the managing director of the franchise, Mr. Frank himself, is in the kitchen washing out dirty cups and saucers.
Anne has abandoned her after-school office duties, sorting invoices and such, out of boredom, and also out of a kind of nervous curiosity. “So what are you doing in here?” she asks Pim, hanging in the kitchen’s threshold.
A glance and a half smile. “What would you guess I’m doing?”
“Well, you’re washing dishes, but why?”
“Because they are dirty.”
“You know what I’m asking,” Anne says, and she captures Pim by the arm. “Why is there a mof in your office?”
“I don’t appreciate that term, Anne,” he tells her.
“So why is there a Hun in your office?”
Pim sighs. Shakes a few drops from the cup he has just rinsed. “He’s going over our books.”
“Not with you.”
“No,” Pim admits, “with Mr. Kleiman.”
“But not with you.”
“Mr. Kleiman is our bookkeeper.”
“And you’re the owner of the company.”
There’s a small lesion in her father’s composure, as if he’s trying to swallow a nail.
“You are still the owner, Pim, aren’t you?” Only now does Anne drop her prodding tone and betray a note of the fear she so often tries to conceal. Even from herself.
“It’s business, Anne.” Pim’s voice softens, perhaps in response to the slip of anxiety in Anne’s tone. “We’ve had to make some adjustments to the company’s organization,” he explains.
“Because we’re Jews.”
Pim places a cup on a towel to drain. “Yes,” is all he says.
“But you are still the owner, correct?”
“Of course,” says Pim. “Nothing has really changed, Anne. It’s only paperwork. Speaking of which, don’t you have a job to finish for Miep? Filing invoices?”
“Maybe,” Anne mutters, and she allows herself to collapse girlishly against her father. “But it’s absolutely boring me to pieces.”
“Well, life cannot always be electrifying, can it? We’d be worn to a frazzle.” Pim hugs her shoulder. “You must go and see to your responsibilities, yes? What is our motto?”
“I don’t remember,” Anne lies.
“You do. ‘Work, love, courage, and hope.’ You know this, I’m sure. Now go. Miep needs all the help she can get with the paperwork. You and Margot are essential to the operation here.”
“Ha,” says Anne glumly. “Essential as well-trained monkeys.”
“Would you like to come down to the warehouse with me instead? You can say hello to Mr. van Pels.”
“No. I’ll return to the salt mines.” She sighs, surrendering to her fate. She likes to watch the grinder at work, milling spices, even though it’s loud, but today she can comfortably skip an opportunity to visit with Hermann van Pels, who’s often as loud as any grinder while expressing his opinions. Also, he tells the worst jokes in the world and thinks they’re hilarious. Better that she returns to the front office. The business has only recently moved from the Singel to this
roomy canal house in the Prinsengracht, and the room still smells of newly applied floor wax. Mr. Kugler’s desk is vacant, but she and Margot are squished into sharing Mr. Kleiman’s desk across from where Miep and Bep toil as secretaries—though, where is Bep anyway? Her chair is empty. “Where’s Bep?” she asks curiously.
Miep is on the telephone, but when she covers the mouthpiece for a moment, all she says is, “She’ll be here, Anne.”
Margot is matching up invoice copies with numbers in a large ledger. “And where have you been?” she wants to know.
“To the moon,” answers Anne.
“I believe it. That’s where you live most of the time.” Margot is dressed in a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt she has sewn herself. Another of the Amazing Margot’s talents. Anne gazes at her sister. They’re only three years apart, but since Margot turned sixteen last February, she most definitely takes the adults’ side. Margot’s body has grown so womanly, too, while Anne still feels as shapely as a broomstick.
Margot exits into the corridor with the file, and Anne can hear her descending the steep, break-ankle stairway, but then she hears an exchange of greetings, and a second later, when the office door bumps open, Anne is delighted to see that it’s Bep, the firm’s typist. Thoughtful Bep. Bashful Bep, but cheery when she feels at ease. “I’m here,” she announces. She’s a slim girl, Bep, with an oval face and a high forehead. A barrette inserted in her wavy hair. Not, perhaps, a conventional beauty, but beautiful on the inside, Anne knows. Her papa is the foreman of the work crew, a trusted friend of Pim’s and well known as the handiest man in the warehouse. Bep has his shy, gentle eyes.
“Hello, Bep,” Miep replies. “Just in time. Would you mind brewing a pot of coffee for Mr. Kleiman?”
“Of course not,” says Bep. “Happy to do it.”
“I can brew coffee,” Anne chimes in, but gets ignored for her trouble.
“Where is everyone?” Bep wonders, hanging up her hat and scarf on the coat tree.
“Mr. Kugler’s on a sales call,” Miep reports, “and Mr. Kleiman’s in the private office.”
“With a mof,” Anne is compelled to insert.
“Anne,” Miep scolds with a half frown.
“Well, he is a mof.”
“He’s a representative from the Frankfurt office,” Miep explains to Bep.
“And he’s wearing a Nazi stickpin,” Anne adds, putting two fingers to her lip to imitate the infamous Hitlerite mustache and flapping up her hand in a mock salute.
“Anne, please,” Miep corrects, obviously trying to contain her alarm. “This is not how we behave in the office.” It’s a sensible warning, Anne knows, but one that she feels suddenly compelled to ignore.
“It’s true,” she says. “I’m not making that up.”
“And neither are you being helpful,” Miep can only point out. “Now, I’m sure Bep is not frightened of a stickpin. Just as I’m sure you have plenty of work to occupy you.”
“It’s all right, Anne,” Bep tells her lightly. Bep’s eyes are bright behind her eyeglasses, but something about her makes Anne wonder if she’s forcing it a bit. Bep frets. They all know that. And today her smile strikes Anne as rehearsed. Anne, in fact, has made Bep a sometime project of hers. Trying to boost cheerful, sunny Bep to the surface more often. So what else can she do but investigate?
The telephone rings, and Miep picks it up. Anne surrenders to her desk work, but not for very long. As soon as she’s convinced that Miep is deeply enough involved in her call, she makes her escape.
In the kitchen Bep and she often gossip together, mostly concerning the male of the species, Anne gabbing away on the subject of her many beaux and Bep on her up-and-down relationship with her boyfriend, Maurits. But now as she enters, she finds Bep with her back to the door, head down, and bracing herself against the counter.
“Hello again,” says Anne.
Bep turns. A flicker of alarm is quickly overlaid by the smile she pushes up. “Oh. Hello again yourself,” she says, opening the cabinet and bringing down the surrogate. But her eyes are slightly panicked.
“Mummy taught Margot and me how to brew perfect coffee. You must start with cold water, else it’ll taste flat.”
Bep nods but does not reply.
“Bep, is something the matter?”
Bep glares at the spoonful of peaty surrogate she is leveling off from the tin. “What makes you ask that?” she wonders.
“I have instincts for that sort of thing.” This is what Anne likes to believe. “There’s something on your mind, I can just tell.”
A swallow, and then Bep drops a bomb in a whisper. “I think Maurits is going to ask to marry me.”
Anne’s eyes pop wide open. “Are you serious, Bep? Maurits?”
“Yes. That’s the one.” Bep’s glance is shy as she replaces the lid on the tin of Hotel Koffiesurrogaat. Her eyes are cool lakes.
Anne feels a giddy grin on her face. “Oh, Bep. You must be beside yourself.”
“Yes. I know I should be,” Bep agrees.
And now Anne feels a tiny secret thrill. Bep getting a proposal of marriage is one thing. Bep refusing a proposal of marriage? That’s something else again. She tries to trim the eager curiosity from her voice. “Are you thinking of telling him no?”
Bep plugs the percolator into the electric socket. “Maybe,” she says, and then she stops and looks at Anne with blunt trepidation. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”
“Terrible? I—” Anne shivers. “I don’t know. Are you sure he’s going to ask?”
“Pretty sure.” Bep nods. “I mean, I think he’s hinting at it. He’s saying things like at our age his parents were married with two children.”
“Do you love him?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“Is it?” Anne wonders. “I wouldn’t think so.” In Anne’s mind this is the only question that truly matters. She suspects that her parents married less for love than for the requirements of society, and look what happened. Pim stuck in an arrangement for the rest of his life with Mummy. A respectful arrangement maybe, but still Anne can never imagine settling for something like that. She knows that love is waiting for her out there somewhere. A heart that will match her own in every detail. And she doesn’t want Bep to settle for anything less either.
Bep, however, shakes her head. “He always tries to be good to me. Do I wish he had a little more ambition? That maybe he would want more than just a job as a laborer for a concrete company? I don’t know. My father thinks he’s perfect material for a husband.”
“And certainly it’s good that your father approves.”
“And he does. Very much so.”
“Though, on the other hand, your father is not the one who’s going to be married to him,” Anne points out. “You are.”
“Funny,” Bep says with her lips in a straight line. “That is exactly what I said, too. Though Papa didn’t think it was so amusing. He says Maurits is honest and a hard worker and if he wants to marry me, shouldn’t that be enough?”
“Yet I still can’t help but return to the most important question: Do you love him, Bep?” Anne asks again.
This time Bep expels a heavy breath as the percolator begins to pop. “I don’t know. Yes. In a way. Of course I do, in a way.”
“But. Not in the way you want to,” Anne suggests. “Not in the way you want to love someone you’re going to marry.”
Bep loops her hair behind her ears. “I’m twenty-three, Anne. I know you’re only thirteen. You’re probably still much too young to really understand the sort of pressure that puts on me. My mother is continually making her ‘jokes’ about her eldest daughter, the ‘Old Maid.’”
“But certainly that’s no reason to say yes if you’re not sure. Because your mother makes jokes.”
“Maybe not,” Bep says dubiously
. “But where exactly is the long line of suitors for me to choose from?” She locks her gaze onto Anne’s. There is a certain small terror in her whisper. “Maybe Maurits will be my only chance.”
Anne blinks. “Only chance?” She doesn’t understand. “Only chance for what?”
“For a husband, Anne. A family. For happiness,” Bep says, and then her eyes go bright with tears. A breath catches in her throat, and Anne can only step forward and embrace her like a sister, gripping her tightly, trying to absorb the shiver of Bep’s sobs. “Bep, Bep,” she murmurs. “Don’t tear yourself to pieces. You will make the right decision when the time comes. Have faith in God that you will. Have faith in yourself.”
Bep swallows her sobs, nodding, and Anne allows her to slip from Anne’s embrace.
“Yes,” Bep agrees. “Yes, of course you’re right. When the time comes,” she says, fumbling for the handkerchief in the pocket of her shift, “I’m sure I’ll know.”
A voice comes from the corridor. “Anne?” Margot steps into the kitchen threshold and then stops as abruptly as if she’s bumped into a wall. “Oh. Excuse me.”
“That’s all right,” Bep replies quickly, clearing her throat of its thickness, hiding away her handkerchief. “Anne was just showing me how your mother taught you to brew coffee. Quite informative.” She forces a smile.
Margot observes the scene for a moment, then says, “Anne, we should be going. It’s almost time to help Mummy with supper.”
“But it’s still early—” Anne starts to protest, till Bep cuts her off.
“No, no,” Bep insists, sniffing. “You go, Anne. I was so late back from lunch, I have plenty of work I need to catch up with.”
For an instant Anne considers arguing the point, but then instead she reaches over and plants a loud kiss on Bep’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” she tells Bep, who flashes her a sharply grateful smile as the percolator steams, a smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears.
Outside, Margot wants to know, “What was that all about?”
“What was what all about?” Anne replies with faux innocence. She does a quick survey of the street, a habit now, just to be sure that there’re no fascist types ready to initiate hostilities over the yellow star sewn to her climbing jacket.
Annelies Page 4