Annelies

by David R. Gillham

  “So. You are an excellent typist,” Anne says. “That’s your answer?”

  Mrs. Zuckert gazes at her. “It’s the only one I can offer.” And then she says, “You know, Anne, we have all suffered. You, me, your father. But for me, losing everything has made it easier to embrace the idea of starting over. When you have lost everything, then you have nothing else that can be lost. Only gained.”

  The smoke from Anne’s cigarette drifts upward.

  Mrs. Zuckert draws in a breath before slowly releasing it as if she is drawing in strength. “Your father has insisted that I keep silent about this till he can determine that the correct time has come. And I’m sure that he’ll be piqued with me when he finds out that I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer, but honestly, when does the ‘correct time’ ever come? And I have never seen the point in surreptitious behavior. To me, if a thing needs to be said, it should be said. So I think you should know. I think everyone should know.”

  Anne still stares, though she is feeling a queasiness in her belly.

  “Anne,” the woman says, pronouncing her name as if it’s a solid piece of iron. “Your father has asked me to marry him. And I have accepted his proposal.”

  Anne blinks. The room seems to have gone crooked. Then there’s noise on the stairs, rising with a thumping urgency. The door shudders open, and it’s Pim. He’s winded. Shaken. Hunted. The sight of Anne and Mrs. Zuckert together at the desk shoves him backward a step.

  “Otto,” Mrs. Zuckert says, “Anne and I were just having a conversation.”

  “Yes?” he asks with a blighted anxiety. “Were you?” It’s obvious he’s guessed. It was obvious he’d guessed the second he heard her call him by his given name. He glances at Anne, who meets his eyes with steel.

  “How did things develop with the bureau?” Mrs. Zuckert wants to know.

  Pim breathes roughly. Shakes his head at his answer to her question. “It’s still very complicated. There are still obstacles to be overcome, and the questions are endless. I’m quite confident that the matter will be properly resolved, but it will take more time than originally anticipated. I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “but I stopped by only to pick up my spectacles.”

  “Your spectacles, Pim?” says Anne. “Since when do you ever wear your spectacles?”

  “Anne, you shouldn’t question your father,” says her father’s fiancée. “There must be something he needs to see clearly.”

  Pim blinks at them both. “Excuse me,” he says, and exits down the hall toward his private office. A moment later he is out again and hurrying past the door, heading down the steps. For a man who’s in his mid-fifties and who has endured ten months at Auschwitz, he can certainly move with clean agility when he decides it’s warranted.

  Mrs. Zuckert crushes out her cigarette in the red ashtray. “There are some customers who placed orders, Anne,” she says. “They should be contacted about the delays this matter will cause. Perhaps you can help me make the telephone calls? We’ll say that we’re experiencing a temporary disruption of supply from our wholesalers. They probably won’t believe us—news travels fast, especially when it involves the bureaus. At best they’ll think we can’t pay our bills, but then who among us can? In any case I’ve found that the Dutch are far too polite to ask embarrassing questions. So leave your father in peace and concentrate on work. It’ll be better for you in the long run,” she says. “Besides, you can always excoriate him at a later date.”

  “You don’t feel guilty?” Anne demands.

  “Guilty?” Mrs. Zuckert lifts her eyebrows again.

  “Guilty at forcing my father to be disloyal to his wife’s memory?”

  “Oh, so now it’s me who forces him, is it? Fine. The answer, I can assure you, is no. I feel no guilt over my feelings for your father. I feel no guilt, period. The dead are gone and lost to us now. And guilt is the worst kind of poison. That much, Anne, you should learn.”

  Suddenly Anne pushes herself up from the chair and bolts away from the desk. Away from Mrs. Zuckert, away from the office, down the stairs, and into the warehouse, where she mounts her bicycle and shoves off into the street. A squat little automobile scolds her with a toot, but she ignores it and pedals away, up the street and across the shaded Leidsegracht. Her heart is thrumming in her chest. Her muscles clammy. She is following the strongest of her urges, the urge to flee. To escape. Why she loses control is hard to say. Maybe it’s because of a bump in the sidewalk, or maybe because her bike tires have lost too much tread, or because she has pedaled too close to the curb. Or maybe it’s simply her own panicked anguish that derails her. The screech of a lorry’s rubber tire is deafening, and then she is falling, nothing but a vivid helplessness between her and the pavement, until the impact of the fall slams the breath from her body. She sees a wheel wobbling above her and hears a voice swimming dizzily in her head. She can tell it’s the driver of the lorry, who’s out from behind the wheel, demanding to know if she’s hurt as he’s lifting her bicycle. She feels an uncomfortable throb in her leg, when suddenly Margot is there, trying to help her up, dressed in her school clothes, reporting on the accident. Your knee. You’ve scraped up your knee.

  “I can see that,” Anne answers flatly. But suddenly something’s off. Through the dizziness she sees that it’s not Margot helping her stand, it’s the boy with the straw-blond hair. “Can you walk?” he asks her.

  “I don’t know. Yes, I think. Is my bicycle damaged?”

  The lorry driver is a middle-aged Dutchman in a frayed cap, with callused hands and thick jowls. He lifts her bicycle to perform an examination. “Looks like the tire burst. And—I don’t know—fender’s a little bent. But it’s not hard to fix. If you’re not too bad off, I can put the bike in the rear of the lorry and take you to your house,” he volunteers. “Where do you live?”

  “In the Jekerstraat,” says Anne. “But my father’s office is just around the corner in the Prinsengracht.”

  “That’ll do. Hold on.” And as the driver makes room in the back of his lorry for the bicycle, Anne cannot help but be aware of the strength of the blond boy’s arms and the salty aroma of his sweat.

  “I saw you standing by the canal,” she tells him.

  “Did you? I saw you fall off your bicycle.”

  “I’m sure I can walk,” she declares, though she’s not sure that she wants to. Not just yet. Her leg does hurt, that’s true. And maybe she’s not quite ready to give up the weightless feeling of her body hung in the boy’s half embrace.

  “You smell nice,” the boy offers, and Anne looks up at him, surprised. There’s a kind of pale statement of fact in his eyes. The driver returns, yanking open the passenger door with a creak of hinges, and he and the boy load her into the passenger seat. The boy shuts the door behind her and steps away, hands stuffed back into his pockets.

  The window is rolled down. Anne hooks her elbow over the door and leans her head out. “Your name is Raaf,” she tells him.

  “And yours is Anne,” the boy answers.

  “Why did you vanish?”

  “I didn’t vanish. I’m standing right here.”

  “But at the warehouse. You stopped showing up. Was it because of what I did?”

  The boy almost grins. “Well. Usually when I wanna get bit, I steal a bone from a dog.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The driver hops into the seat beside her and slams his door shut before revving the engine.

  “Will you come back to work?” she asks the boy.

  He shakes his head. “Nah. I got another job at a brewery house in the Lindengracht.”

  “But don’t you miss the smell of the spices?”

  “Never thought about it,” the boy replies.

  “Still, you’re hanging about,” she says, surprised by her own desire to flirt. “There must be something you miss about the place,” Anne calls to him as the dri
ver throttles the lorry into gear and shifts it forward. “I wonder what it could be?” she shouts out over the noise.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s one of the warehousemen who helps her up the leg-breaking stairs. He’s a short, stocky old snuiter whose name is Dekker, but the rest of the men call him “Duimen”—Thumbs—because he’s so well known for dropping everything he picks up. “Don’t you worry, though, little miss, I won’t drop you,” he tells Anne. He’s also known as a bit of a schapenkop, a sad sack. A Simple Simon with room in his noggin for only one thought at a time. His smile is full of gaps, and his breath stinks badly of shag tobacco, but Anne can tell that he is trying to be kind to her, and so she does her best to arrange her face in an appreciative expression. At the top of the stairs, he knocks respectfully at the office door before pushing it open and calling out, “Halloo!”

  Miep is back, and she stands up suddenly from her desk. “Oh, my heavens, what’s happened?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Really, I’m fine,” Anne responds to the note of emergency.

  “The little miss took a spill on her bicycle,” Duimen reports diligently.

  Miep is already across the floor assisting him in the minor burden of Anne’s weight. “Let’s get her in the chair, please, Mr. Dekker.”

  “Really, it’s just a scrape. Oww!” Anne yelps when she must bend her knee to sit.

  At this point Mrs. Zuckert returns to the room. “And what’s happened here?” she demands blankly, a thick binder in her arms.

  Miep pretends for a moment that she is deaf, inspecting the damage, leaving poor Duimen to respond, cap in his hands. “The little miss took a spill,” he repeats with a trickle of anxiety this time. “From her bicycle,” he adds, so as not to omit any significant detail.

  Only now does Miep look up. “Mrs. Zuckert, there’s a first-aid kit in the kitchen. The top drawer just under the sink. Would you mind? I think a bandage and some iodine are in order.”

  Mrs. Zuckert listens to this but remains where she is. “What about the bicycle?” she asks Duimen.

  “Missus?”

  “Is it badly damaged?”

  “Oh, uh. No. I think it’s not. The fender maybe, but I’m sure I can hammer it back into shape without much of a fuss.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Zuckert approves. “Bicycles are impossible to replace.” Only now does she turn back to Miep, who is sharing a glare of amazement with Anne. “Bandage and iodine. Top drawer under the sink,” Mrs. Zuckert repeats, and then exits the room.

  “Incredible,” Anne whispers. “As long as the bicycle is fine, only then is it permitted to tend to my wound.”

  “I’m not quite sure that this qualifies as a wound, Anne.” Miep is arranging a chair to act as a footstool. “More like a knee scrape. But you should keep it straight,” she instructs before turning to dismiss Duimen. “Thank you, Mr. Dekker,” she informs the man. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Dekker,” Anne says, joining in, and Duimen is relieved to return to his toothless smile, giving a nod and flapping his cap back onto his bald head. “No trouble, miss,” he tells Anne. “You just be careful now,” he says, and out he goes, tromping noisily down the stairs.

  “What exactly happened?” Miep wants to know.

  “I’m not sure. My tire burst, and I slipped off the curb. Or maybe it was the other way around.”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” Miep says, her voice dropping ever so slightly. “I mean here. With Mrs. Zuckert.”

  Anne feels her jaw go rigid. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because she says you threw a fit and stormed out when she tried to give you work.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Well, then, what did happen?”

  But the words are suddenly stuck in Anne’s throat, and before she can possibly unstick them, Mrs. Zuckert has returned with the first-aid kit and a glass of something. “First-aid kit requisitioned,” she reports to Miep, and then extends the glass to Anne. “Here. Drink this.”

  Anne stares at the glass and then at Mrs. Zuckert. She takes the glass but doesn’t drink. It smells strong. “What is it?”

  “Brandy,” Mrs. Zuckert answers.

  “Brandy?” Miep frowns with surprise.

  “Drink it,” she tells Anne again. “It’ll calm your nerves.”

  “Where did you get brandy?” Miep wonders aloud.

  “Oh, I thought you knew,” Mrs. Zuckert replies. “Mr. Frank keeps a bottle of Koetsiertje in his office cabinet. To offer clients.”

  “But Mr. Frank . . .” Miep must take a breath before finishing. “He always locks the office.”

  “So he does, yes,” Mrs. Zuckert agrees, “but he gave me a key. Now drink it,” she orders Anne. And then to Miep she says, “You should take her back to your flat and put a cold press on her knee so it doesn’t swell.” She follows this order with a shrug. “Of course, that’s just a suggestion.”

  Miep nods, standing. It’s clear she’s had enough. “Yes,” she agrees archly. “What a good idea. Anne, drink the brandy,” she commands. “I’ll call for a taxi.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It does hurt. Her knee, that is. There’s a slow ache in the joint. The iodine stings under the bandage, and the brandy burns, pooling in her belly. She is planted beside Miep in the back of a bicycle taxi, bumping along the street, following the noise of the gulls. The taxi man is a large fellow, with dusty gray hair bristling from under his cap and a metal livery badge hung from his coat. The air smells of motor traffic, and the morning sun has been clouded as it drags toward midday. “How worried should I be?” Anne asks.

  “About your knee?” Miep says.

  “About the bureau men collecting the office files.”

  Miep expels a weary breath. “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “You don’t like her, do you?” Anne asks.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. Mrs. Zuckert.”

  Miep looks directly at Anne and almost smiles. “No, I do not.”

  “Neither do I,” says Anne. “So what does Pim see in her?” she complains to the air. “I shouldn’t tell you this probably, but he’s asked her to marry him.”

  Miep stiffens visibly. “Yes,” is all she says.

  “You know, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Pim told everyone but me?”

  “No. Your father said nothing about it.”

  “Ah. Then she told you. She must have taken great satisfaction in that moment. Don’t you find it all too disgusting?”

  Miep lifts her sharply tweezed eyebrows. Her eyes are blue oceans. “Your father is a very good man, Anne. One of the best men I’ve ever known. He’s not perfect, as I’m sure he would be the first to admit. But he has sacrificed a great deal for the good of others. More than you know. We should not begrudge him a little happiness for a change. And if it’s Mrs. Zuckert who makes him happy, then it’s not for me or for you to criticize him. So I would advise you to bridle your anger. He deserves respect.”

  “As does my mother’s memory,” Anne points out.

  “Then why don’t you grant your mother’s memory respect and stop insulting her husband? Do you honestly believe that she would have wanted your father to live in misery and loneliness for her sake?”

  Anne, however, is not willing to answer this question. The taxi man shouts impatiently at a cyclist, and an auto horn sounds. A swift patter of rain peppers the taxi’s canopy. Anne turns away to hide her face, pretending that it is the pain in her knee causing her eyes to well. Why should he be miserable or lonely? He has, after all, a living daughter.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s late when her father returns to the flat. Miep and Jan have long since retired, leaving Anne sitting on the sofa, one
stocking foot extended onto one of Miep’s batik pillows, the open notebook on her lap. When the key grates in the lock and the front door opens, she can see, even in the room’s waxy lamplight, that her father is slumped with exhaustion.

  “Anne,” he says with a kind of apologetic dread. A tone that matches the expression installed in his eyes. “You were injured.”

  “Injured.” Anne repeats the word as if it has many sides to examine. “Yes,” she answers, then shuts her composition book and stands with an overtly discreet grimace of pain. “My bicycle went off the curb. But that’s unimportant.” Tucking the notebook under her arm, she informs him with lifeless formality, “What’s important is that Mrs. Zuckert has informed me of your plans. So let me be the first,” she says, adding the absurdity of a half curtsy on her stiff knee, “to wish you every happiness in your new life.”

  “Anne,” Pim repeats, more urgently, “Anne, please. Permit me a moment to speak with you.” But Anne is making her exit with a small hobble, and shuts the door of her room behind her. Inside, she sits on the edge of her bed gripping the notebook, listening to her father’s earnestly distressed knocking and the sound of her name on his lips. But she does not move.

  So you’re just going to shut him out like this? Margot asks. She is wearing the dirty pullover displaying the Lager star fashioned from yellow triangles. Her face is shrunken against her cheekbones, her glasses long gone, and her eyes popping like a starved animal’s.

  “He’s shutting me out. He’s shutting us both out.”

  “Please, Anne,” her father keeps saying, “please open the door.”

  “I’m sorry, Pim,” Anne calls back. “I’m undressed.”

  She hears him huff dryly. Disappointed in her resistance, disappointed in his inability to overcome it. “I see,” he finally breathes. “Very well. Tomorrow, then, we can talk tomorrow. Good night, my darling.”

  “Good night,” Anne calls back. And then to Margot she says, “She’s got him now.”

  Got him?

  “Do you really imagine that a woman like Hadassah Zuckert is going to permit his memory of either you or of Mummy to intrude upon her agenda?”