Annelies

by David R. Gillham

  And then comes her dream.

  A wonderful dream. Wonderful and dreadful. She is back in the hiding place and following Peter. They are running. Laughing. He has challenged her to a race up the stairs to the kitchen, and now he is threatening to eat all the strawberries before she gets there. She is sure she is going to beat him, though, sure of it. Until the stairs elongate and there are more and more of them, and soon Peter is far ahead of her. So far ahead that she can’t see him at all. So far ahead that she can only hear his voice calling to her. Come on, slowpoke! Come on!

  That’s when something wakes her. It is Margot, or rather Margot’s ghastly cough. She is coughing so loudly it’s as if she’s turning herself inside out, so sharply that it’s like a blade chopping at Anne’s ear, and all Anne wants to do is stay in that dream just a moment longer. Just a moment, because she is still so sure she can catch up to Peter. Still so sure she could, if it were not for Margot, who won’t let her. Her sister’s clawing cough has pried her from sleep and dragged her back to their filthy pallet.

  Anne burns. “Can’t you be quiet? Can’t you for God’s sake shut up?” She is shouting this in her head. It’s hard to tell if it’s actually coming out as a shout or if it’s coming out at all, but it doesn’t matter. She is so angry that Peter has surely finished every strawberry by now.

  * * *

  • • •

  She bolts up, shivering, her nightdress soaked through with sweat, desperate to find her breath. Someone is rapping on the door and calling her name with a chill of panic.

  “Anne, Anne!”

  She is trembling, balled up on her bed.

  “Anne!” her father calls.

  But she does not answer him. Only rocks slowly forward, hugging herself, feeling the shudder of her heartbeat.

  The truth is, she can’t forgive him, because the truth is, she doesn’t want to forgive. She despises forgiveness.

  18

  BREAD

  Everything revolves around bread and death.

  —Yiddish proverb

  1946

  Amsterdam

  LIBERATED NETHERLANDS

  There are nights when she cannot sleep. So at supper, and not for the first time, she steals bread from the table. Slips a roll from the bakery into a pocket of her apron dress. In her bedroom she closes the door and hooks the lock. Dropping onto her bed, she removes the roll and stares at it. She touches the rough texture of its yeast-swollen crest, thinly chalky with a residue of flour. Once it would have been impossible to save a bite of this bread. When bread fell into her hands, she could do nothing but devour it. Yet now she secretes it under her mattress.

  She finds that she can sleep through the night knowing it’s there.

  * * *

  Nussbaum

  Tweedehands-Boekverkoper

  The Rozengracht

  Kneeling on the floor of Mr. Nussbaum’s bookshop, she has spent an hour or more unpacking boxes. Mr. Nussbaum himself has just returned from a meeting with a dealer and is hanging up his patched-over coat and old felt hat. “So,” he says with a lively curiosity, returning to the sales desk to sort through a bundle of new acquisitions. “How is your work progressing?”

  “Well, I’ve finished reorganizing the biographies,” she tells him. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  A smile to himself as he tucks in his chin. “Yes, I’m sure I will be, but that’s not what I meant. I meant, Miss Frank, how is your writing progressing?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes drop. “All right, I suppose,” she says, and removes a book from an open carton. Anne has continued to write since the day her pen discovered its words again. But though she once found meaning in her diary, in securing the events of the day on paper and molding them into an account of a life, her narrative is now fractured. She feels as adrift on the page as she does in this alien Amsterdam she’s come home to, without a mother, without a sister, and with a father who continues to infuriate her with his vacant crusade to live in the present.

  “That’s all?” Mr. Nussbaum doubts. “Just all right? Not astonishingly well or appallingly badly?”

  She grips the book in her hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Mr. Nussbaum.”

  “I want you to say what you’re thinking, Anne. What’s your plan? Have you started that novel yet?”

  “Novel?”

  “Didn’t you say you had a novel in the works? A book of some sorts?”

  “No.” Anne shakes her head. “It’s not a novel. It’s not anything.”

  “Well, it must be something if you’re writing it,” Mr. Nussbaum points out.

  Anne draws a small breath and releases it. “Have you ever written a book, Mr. Nussbaum?” she asks to change the subject.

  “Me? Oh, no. God no. I don’t have the gift for that. When I was young, of course, I thought I was destined to pen a magnum opus. That it was only a matter of time before my name would be carved beside those of the greats. Tolstoy, Proust,” Mr. Nussbaum says with a wry laugh. “But no. As it turned out, I was nobody’s idea of Tolstoy.” An affable shrug. “I can say this, however: I did, over time, become a rather decent editor. I even made a living at it. So I suppose the point I’m getting at is, if ever you would like to show me something, Anne, I’d be happy to give it a look.”

  Anne swallows. “Well. Thank you. I’ll think about it,” she answers, and tries to smile, but she feels suddenly vulnerable, maybe embarrassed by it all, so she begins sorting through a box of children’s books that Mr. Nussbaum bought in an auction. “If I ever actually produce anything worthwhile.” She says this, and then her face brightens, and she feels a lift in her chest. “Oh! Cissy van Marxveldt!” A swell of sweetness as she pulls out one book after the other. The New Beginning, Confetti, Caprices, The Storms, A Tender Summer. “I loved her books!” Anne exclaims. “I think I’ve read every one four or five times each.”

  “Then you should take them home,” Mr. Nussbaum tells her.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. You can make a good profit on these. They’re still in wonderful condition.”

  “All the more reason you should have them. Profit?” He waves the word away. “Unimportant.”

  “Are you sure?” She grips the top book in her arms.

  “Positive.” He puffs on his cigar. “Consider them your pay for the day.”

  “Thank you. But I’m sure they’re much more valuable than that.”

  “Oh? Are you suggesting I don’t pay you enough?” he jokes.

  Anne feels herself smile again as she gazes back down at the book in her arms. Cracking it open, she skims through a paragraph. How joyful she was when she first read these treasures! At first, like all her friends, she wanted to be Joop ter Heul, that sprightly, fearless, madcap girl, always launching herself into the next adventure. It wasn’t till she started her diary that Anne had realized it wasn’t Joop the character but Joop’s author she longed to become: The Jewish Cissy van Marxveldt! “Marxveldt’s only her pen name. I don’t remember what her real name is.”

  “It’s Beek-de Haan.”

  Anne looks up.

  “Did you know she was married to a Jew? A man named Leo Beek.”

  “No,” says Anne, holding the book in her lap. She feels a pinch of inner dread. Married to a Jew? She knows what happened to Dutch Jews. Must even her girlhood adoration of Joop’s exploits be tagged with sorrow now?

  “I was quite friendly with them both, actually,” Mr. Nussbaum tells her. “Many years before the war. The Netherlands was a large market for German publishers back then, have I said that? I used to visit Amsterdam regularly. But then all that ended.” His eyes flicker at the memory. “Leo was executed by the Gestapo, I’m sorry to report. He was active in the resistance. They took him to the Overveen Dunes, like so many others, and shot him.” He says this and then sees Anne’s face. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’ve u
pset you.”

  “No, it’s nothing,” Anne says, and she sets the books down and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nussbaum, but I should go. I promised I’d help out at my father’s office today.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Nussbaum grants. “Just don’t forget your pay,” he says, lifting a smile and nodding to the books. “I’m quite serious.”

  “Thank you,” Anne says, but suddenly she feels the desire to evacuate. She’s not sure why, but she feels oddly trapped by Mr. Nussbaum’s generosity, and when the telephone rings loudly, she has her opportunity. Mr. Nussbaum picks it up, and in the matter of a moment his expression has blackened. “Yes, yes, I received your so-called correspondence on this so-called matter. And I can only say that I am both insulted and appalled.”

  Anne gathers the books into her arms, but before she makes her exit, Mr. Nussbaum covers the receiver’s mouthpiece with his hand. “Anne,” he says. “You know, we’re still in touch, Cissy and I. I should try to arrange a meeting between you.”

  “A meeting?” She feels a shock of surprise. “Really?”

  “Two great literary minds.” Mr. Nussbaum grins but then must return to his scowling telephone exchange. Anne loads her “pay” into the basket of her bike and wheels it out the door with a wave that Mr. Nussbaum misses, his back to her now as he continues with his battle. Outside, she breathes the air in deeply. Stares at the stream of bicycle traffic passing her, then swallows lightly as she runs a finger over the cover of the top book.

  These novels, Margot says. She has appeared, head shaven, wearing her KZ rags. They were your favorites, weren’t they? Anne only shakes her head. “Do you think it’s possible? Possible that I could actually meet Cissy van Marxveldt in person? That would be so wonderful.” But when she looks up, Margot is gone. Anne climbs onto the worn leather seat and pedals out into the street.

  The sun is shining, opening up the sky above the city into a cloudless stretch of blue. Light polishes the surfaces of the canals into pristine mirrors and brightens the dingy paint jobs of the houseboats bumping against their moorings. She navigates the streets of the Grachtengordel, pedaling harder over the bridges, and then breezing along, looping around a corner, racing the gulls. Her legs have gained muscle; her calves have gained shape, no longer matchsticks. She thrills at the breeze that combs through her hair and her clothes, at the speed of her turns and the bumpy terrain of cobbles under her tires. But mostly she covets the thorough clean sweep of her mind that riding her bike provides. No memories, no fears, just bright adrenaline pumping into her brain.

  She’s breathy and sweet with sweat when she arrives at the warehouse doors. One is cracked open, and a teasing whiff of spicy aroma wafts out into the street as she climbs from the bike’s seat and adjusts her skirt, but then she stops. She freezes like the mouse that’s just spied the cat—or exactly the opposite. It’s him. The boy with the straw-blond hair, standing across the street at the edge of the canal. He stands with a watchful posture, back straight, shoulders tilted slightly forward, hands stuffed in the pockets of his patched-up trousers in a manner that almost makes him appear armless. His appearance adds urgency to her heartbeat, and she must swallow the impulse to call out his name or dump her bike against the side of the building and run to him. She feels herself take a step, but then a lorry rumbles between them, and when it passes, the boy is gone. The Westertoren chimes the half hour.

  Taking the steep stairs to the office, she feels a disorienting itch. She glances over her shoulder halfway up, feeling as if the boy might be there behind her, but there’s nothing, and she finds that her breezy physical elation has been depressed by something else. By the time she opens the door at the top of the stairs, she feels restless and unsatisfied. But when she stops again, it’s because there’s no one in the office. The place has a certain ransacked quality to it. The middle drawer of the filing cabinet stands empty, desktops are disheveled, and the drawers of Miep’s desk are ajar. She feels a sharp pinch of panic, but then, with a noise of her shoe heels, Mrs. Zuckert enters the room. She faces Anne, and as if she is a mind reader, she says, “Nothing to worry about. Just a misunderstanding. Everyone’s fine.”

  “But”—Anne stares—“what’s happened?”

  Mrs. Zuckert draws a breath and surveys the room. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Men from one of the state bureaus arrived. Your father said we were to be cooperative.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With them at their offices.”

  “He’s under arrest?”

  Mrs. Zuckert frowns. “Arrest? No, of course not. Don’t jump to conclusions, Anne. They came to collect records, that’s all. Your father accompanied them, along with Mr. Kugler. Quite voluntarily, I should add. I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, though her tone seems slightly unsure if that’s so. “Simply part of the process. Come,” she instructs, “sit down. Let me fix you a cup of tea. You look stricken.”

  And she is stricken. The thought of men from the state bureaus, rifling through the building, undoes her underpinnings. She feels suddenly fragile as she sits at her desk, glaring at the pale cup of tea that Mrs. Zuckert has delivered. “Do you know what they’re looking for?” she asks, still staring blindly at the teacup.

  “Do I?” The woman has pulled up a chair to the side of the desk. “No.”

  “You mean my father hasn’t let you in on all the doings behind closed doors? I thought he would have.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, Anne. But I can assure you, your father has told me nothing about any ‘doings,’ as you put it. Why would he? I’m just a secretary.”

  “Ha,” Anne replies quietly, then turns to the tea, blowing ripples on its steamy surface. “You know you’re more than that. We all know you’re more than that.”

  And now Mrs. Zuckert expels a breath, her eyebrows arched. She stands and walks over to her handbag, usually stored in a drawer but now sitting out beside the Herr Typewriter. Anne watches her from behind, lighting up a cigarette. Highly unorthodox for the women to smoke in the office. “Would you care for one?” she asks, still with her back to Anne.

  Anne pauses. “Yes,” she says, and Mrs. Zuckert nods. Repeats the process and ferries a lit cigarette back to Anne along with Mr. Kleiman’s red enamel ashtray. Anne takes the cigarette and draws in deeply. She watches Mrs. Zuckert return to the chair and adjust her skirt. Anne can see the machinery of the woman’s mind churning before she releases smoke and fixes Anne with her eyes.

  “All right. You’re correct. I was being slightly disingenuous with you when I said I was just an office secretary to your father. You’ll have to forgive me for that,” she instructs Anne. “I wasn’t sure what he has said to you and what he hasn’t.”

  “He doesn’t say much,” Anne answers. “He’s bent on treating me like a child. It’s maddening.”

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Zuckert nods her agreement with this. “Yes, I can understand how it would be. Clearly you are no longer a child, Anne. Clearly,” she repeats. “You’ve become a young woman. That’s a very difficult time, I think, for any parent, and especially for a father. He’s feeling lost. So he prevaricates. He avoids the issues or becomes suddenly authoritarian. But the truth is, he is completely out of his depth with you. Add the fact that you yourself are so implacably furious with the world, and, well . . . There’s nowhere for him to turn.”

  Anne’s gaze goes hot. “I was his child. He was supposed to protect me,” Anne says. “He was supposed to protect us all.”

  “Yet he could not even protect himself,” Mrs. Zuckert points out. “If he had died in Auschwitz, would you still find him so culpable?”

  “But he didn’t die.”

  “No, he didn’t. And I’m thankful to God for that.”

  Anne says nothing. Mrs. Zuckert trims the ash from her cigarette on the rim of Kleiman’s ashtray. She appears to be making some sort of internal choice. And then she say
s, “At Birkenau I was part of the Kanada Kommando. You know ‘Kanada,’ yes?”

  Anne nods. Kanada was the name of the warehouse filled with the stolen luggage of prisoners. It was called such because Kanada was believed to be a land of great riches.

  “I was assigned to the White Kerchief work group. Most of the women were Hungarian, and since my father was born in Budapest, I had a bit of the language. And there were advantages to be had as a Kanada Jewess. We all kept our hair. The work was not physically debilitating. The SS mostly turned a blind eye to our eating the food we found, so that was good, but still a horrific job in its own way. We had a direct view of the Krematorien as people were marched into the gas chambers, which pushed us all to the edge of insanity. We heard what went on inside,” she says, “the screaming, the cries. And then nothing.”

  Silence. A tear dampens Anne’s cheek, but she does not wipe it away.

  “So I do understand your rage,” Mrs. Zuckert tells her. “I do understand your grief.”

  “Why do you think you survived?” Anne asks bluntly.

  The woman lifts her eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I ask this question of Pim, and he tells me that it was because of hope. But how can I believe that? Because when I ask myself the same question, I have no answer. So now I’m asking you. Was it luck that sent you to the Kanada Kommando? Was it God?”

  “God? I should be so presumptuous. Actually, it might have been nothing more than my ability as a typist. The SS were lazy, I found. They hated typing up paperwork, so I did it for them.” She shrugs. “In the final months, I was transferred from Birkenau to the Siemens camp in Bobrek to work as a stenographer. The food was not as plentiful, but no Jews were gassed there, and I could keep my sanity.”