by Sharon Dogar
"Of course!" I whisper.
"What things?" she says quietly. For a while I don't know what to say. Not because there aren't enough things, but because there are too many. So many things I miss. And if I let them all out, how will I ever get them all back in again? That's what I'm thinking in the darkness, as I feel her waiting for an answer.
"I miss the rain," I say after a while. "The rain on my face." And I can feel it as I say the words, rain falling fresh like pine needles on my face. I miss the rain with a physical ache, like a pain inside me.
"Outside!" breathes Anne. "I miss it more than I can say." She's still crying. I wish I could make it stop. I wish I could make everything all right. I wish I had words, like she has, that can explain things. But I don't. I don't tell her not to cry—that would be stupid. I hold her, although I don't know if I should. It feels odd. I don't know if I'm doing it right, or what she might say about it in her diary.
The tears go on until I forget everything except wanting to hold her tighter. I help her stand and we sit on the trunk and she puts her head on my shoulder, where I feel the tears slowly soak through my shirt. She is shaking.
I'm angry.
What chances do we have?
What choices?
None.
Outside the window the wind lifts the branches of the chestnut tree in the dark. A bird sings suddenly before remembering it's night, and Anne goes on crying. I never knew she was so sad. After a while I go and get her apron from where it's hanging to dry. She wipes her face.
"Better?" I ask, and then I blush. What a stupid thing to say. How can any of this be better? I wait for her to say so. She doesn't.
"Actually, yes," she says quietly.
"Oh, good," I say. "I'm glad."
She sniffs.
"Sometimes, I just ... just get the feeling it's all too much, everything we've missed out on," she whispers. I nod.
"Mutti's chicken stock, with peas!"
"What?" she asks.
"Something else I miss," I say, and she smiles.
"Idiot! Can anything put the van Pelses off their food?"
"Could anything stop you writing your diary?"
"No," she laughs, and even though I knew that's what she'd say, it still hurts, knowing I come second to a notebook and pen!
I grab a huge pair of Pfeffer's pants off the line and offer them to her to blow her nose on. She giggles. "Put them back. I can't bear to even touch them."
"Anne?" I say, and she nods. "You do have something of your own."
She doesn't answer, just shakes her head.
"You do," I say. "You have your diary."
She looks up at me. Sudden. Sharp. And that's the way I'd draw her, if I could.
Just like that.
And that's the way I see her in my dreams. Am I awake or asleep? Alive or dead? I don't know. I only know that she's here with me all the time.
Her eyes are wide and her hands are busy writing, writing—recording each memory.
She hears everything.
Seesev erything.
Just as she always has.
APRIL 9, 1944—PETER AND ANNE TRY TO TALK ABOUT OUTSIDE
I'm almost asleep when Anne appears in the doorway with a cushion in her hands. We take it upstairs and make our own sofa. I put the cushion on a trunk and push it against two packing cases.
"There," I say.
"How much for the whole set?" she asks.
"It's not for sale, but to you it's free. Take a seat."
"Ah!" She sighs as she sits down. "There's nothing like a brandy and a cigarette after an evening spent listening to Mozart."
"I couldn't agree more!" I say. I'm learning how to play her games. I'm getting better. But so is she—at being quiet. We sit and stare out the window. The night takes longer to come now it's nearly summer. The sky's all shades of blue before turning black. The tree isn't just a silhouette of branches. It has fat, fat buds and curled leaves just waiting to burst. Buds that stand out against the dark. We sit down. Slowly I put my arm around her. Slowly she leans against me. Mouschi lies across our laps and keeps us warm. It is very cold. It's always cold. We wear so many clothes. "At least no one can see how thin we are," says Papi.
But we weren't thin, were we? Not really, not yet.
It's peaceful, for a while, being in the attic, with Anne.
"It's bad, isn't it?" she says.
I nod against her hair.
"Everything's running out," she says. "The food, the coal." She stops for a moment.
"Even the Jews!" I whisper. We start to laugh. We know we shouldn't. We know it isn't funny, and soon we stop. We stop abruptly.
"Miep says that even the children steal."
"They're desperate!" I say.
"I know!" she says quickly. She knows how much I hate it when she calls them slum children. We would do the same if we were them, wouldn't we?
"I keep thinking of all those people in Hungary. How can they kill so many, Peter? Do you think it's..."
"Shh," I say. Because there are no answers and there's no point in the question. "We can't do anything—not yet." She sits up and Mouschi curls away from her and onto my lap.
"But we can," she says. "We can tell!"
"You can," I say.
"Anyone can," she says back.
"Maybe."
"Miep says it's terrible outside. The Dutch are turning on each other, stealing from each other."
"We're lucky," I say. "Lucky we're warm and fed and might last it out."
"I know. Well, reasonably warm," she whispers and snuggles in closer. "The thing about writing," she says suddenly, "is that it lasts forever."
I smile. "That's wonderful," I say, and I think that it must be. It must be wonderful to be Anne Frank and to never be alone because you always have something inside you. A story to tell. People to describe. Another idea to explore.
She leans against me, contented. These are the best moments. Not the moments where she longs for something I don't know if I can give her, but these moments. The easy moments, when I can tell her "Yes."
"Peter, I've been thinking, about what you said, about the things you want ... and I—"
There's a low, urgent whistle and we leap up, guiltily, even though we've barely touched. Papi is on the stairs.
"Dr. Pfeffer says you've stolen his cushion." We grin at each other and rush downstairs.
"Oh, Anne!" Pfeffer grumbles, beating the cushion against his thighs. "I'll be jumping with fleas all night."
"No, no, it was only me who sat on it, and I don't have fleas." Anne smiles.
"Did you know fleas can jump several times their own height?" says Margot, and we all smile and try not to laugh at the thought of Pfeffer leaping anywhere at all.
"Good Lord," says Papi, "you could put us on your back, Pfeff, and leap us all the way to freedom."
"It's not funny!" Pfeffer says, and he storms off to his room.
I lie in my room and wonder what Anne was going to say next.
I was so busy thinking about Anne that I missed it. Because the footsteps were coming closer—and we weren't listening. Even when the break-in happened, we didn't really notice—we got too comfortable. We forgot how dangerous it was.
Outside.
We thought we would make it.
LATER THAT EVENING...PETER IS ABOUT TO DISCOVER ANOTHER BREAK-IN
As soon as I step out from behind the bookcase I hear it. Two loud bangs, and my heart jumps. I wait for the sound of them again, but they don't come. I take off my shoes and run down the secret stairway. All the way down. Silently. The warehouse door is closed but a huge panel is broken off, the air's rushing through.
I run back up and ask Mr. Frank to help me with my homework. I can see Anne knows I'm lying, but I hope she won't say anything to Mutti. We pick up tools (well Father and I do, but Mr. Frank refuses again) and run down to the warehouse.
"Police!" shouts Papi and we hear footsteps running away down the street. In the dark we pi
ck up the board and begin to replace it. It's impossible to do without making a noise. We try not to think of the centimeters between us and the outside, or about the sound of hammering so loud in the night.
"That'll do!" whispers Mr. Frank. We all take a deep breath and listen; unable to believe it's over. I breathe out, turn away. There's a loud, tearing noise and the board comes flying off the door. I turn back, a boot is sticking through the door, a big black boot, pushing itself into the warehouse, into the quiet and dark and safety. Threatening us. I swing my hammer at it and try to drive it straight back to the outside.
The hammer smashes against the splintered board. Father drives his ax against the floor in a fury. Sparks fly up. The footsteps run. Silence. Father and I lean against each other, breathing hard.
"Well, that seems to have done the trick," whispers Mr. Frank drily. "Let's put the board back up again."
We have only just lifted it when we hear more footsteps. We stop. Torchlight comes through the splintered door. Behind it are the shadows of a man and a woman.
"What the..." says Papi, and we all take off. Now we're the burglars. Papi and Mr. Frank rush to their wives. I run into the office and make a mess, as though there's been a burglary. I open windows. Papi remembers Dr. Pfeffer's in the toilet and helps him up the stairs. I close the bookcase carefully and stand behind it for a moment, listening. Nothing. I let the hammer hang in my hands, and wait.
There's no sound.
Mr. Frank gets the women upstairs. We open my window and listen. No sound.
And then we hear them. Footsteps in the office—on the staircase, and finally right at the bookcase.
The door rattles.
No one speaks.
No one moves.
I don't think any of us even breathes, but we all have the same thought. This is it. Now. But still none of us moves. Whoever is out there rattles the bookcase again. And again.
A tin falls off the shelves.
They know! I think. Why else would they do this?
We hear footsteps walking back through the office, closing windows and going down the stairs. But the light still shines beneath the door. Why have they left the light on? Will they come back to investigate? Have they gone to get tools? All these thoughts flash silently through my mind. We gather in the kitchen.
"All this excitement, I need the pot!" says Papi. And we realize the night buckets are in the attic and so we have nothing to piss in. In the end we use my bin—all of us. It reeks. It really does. It smells of all the piss and fear and shit in the room. Because that's what we are—afraid—scared for our lives.
I want to lie down with Anne under the table. I want to hold her in my arms. I want to have something to hold, anything—but all that's available is a cigarette. So I smoke. I don't inhale in case it makes me cough. I sit near the sink and wonder who they are, the couple with the torch. I hope they are a nice young Dutch couple out walking. I hope the fear in our faces made them pity us, not hate us.
I think my eyes close, but I don't think I sleep.
In the end I creep out to my room. Anne stands up as pale as a ghost in the dawn light, and follows me. We sit by my window and wait for the sun to come up. We don't say anything, but I think we're thinking the same thing. Is this it? Is this our last day? We sit very close together. So close I can feel her tremble. I have words in my mind. Words I can't say. Simple words.
Lie down and make love with me.
We are so cold. So tired. Lie down with me so we can sleep in each others arms.
But we stay upright and silent at the window.
Like sentries.
Until, behind us, the others begin to whisper and wake. To make plans. And in the end I lie down on my bed alone. And fall asleep.
When I wake, Miep and her husband, Jan, are at the door.
I get up and stand in the kitchen doorway. Everyone's crying and talking. The place still smells terrible. I get the bleach and begin to tidy the smell away. The bin is full and leaking. I find a bucket. Mr. Frank helps me. It's heavy, but not as heavy as the feeling of fear inside me.
"Well done, Peter," he says, but the words slip off me. I nod anyway. It's hard to get all that fear to flush away down the toilet. We only have half an hour before the office staff arrive. We manage it in the end. When we come back, everyone has tidied the place as though nothing's happened. I stand and stare at the kitchen, at everybody talking. I remember the day I arrived. I feel the heat and remember how small and dark it felt. I feel dizzy with the lack of sleep. I imagine the rooms empty—everything gone, including us. But we're already gone, my mind whispers. There's no sign of us anywhere outside of these Annex walls.
Nothing for anyone except the office staff to miss if we're taken away.
I shake my head and try to focus.
Jan tells us the couple who saw us in the warehouse were Mr. van Hoeven and his wife, who deliver the potatoes. They didn't tell the police. They guessed someone was in hiding. Everyone starts talking and laughing with relief.
"But who broke in in the first place, and why?"
"How much longer can we hold on?"
We all sleep after lunch. I lie on my bed and stare at the cracks in the yellow ceiling. My eyes feel dry and gritty. Like there's salt in them. After a while I go down to the bathroom to wash them. Anne's there. She looks at me with her wide eyes.
"Do you still want to go to the attic?" I ask, and she nods. We go up. I put my arm around her shoulders and rest my head in her hair. I touch it with my fingers. She puts her arms around me. She does it shyly. She hugs me to her, or tries to. She's very small.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"What for?"
"Being so brave," she says.
"I'm not," I whisper.
"You fought for us," she says, "and then you cleared up the mess."
"We all did," I answer. The look of admiration in her eyes, and the feel of her arms around me are nice.
"Peter?"
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking, about what you said, and after last night I..."
Margot appears at the top of the steps.
"Come and sit down, Margot," I say, realizing how much we've left her out. "We're just sitting in the sun."
Margot smiles. "Ironic, isn't it?" she says. "Bad things happen and the sun shines. Tea's ready." And she disappears. We get up.
Downstairs everyone's happy with relief. They've made us real lemonade.
I wonder why we're celebrating.
I'm exhausted.
After a while I go to my room. I hope Anne might come. I hope the look of admiration might finally turn into a touch, a kiss, a ... I fall asleep.
APRIL 14, 1944—PETER IS IN LOVE WITH ANNE
Anne talks and talks and talks. She doesn't even stop when my fingers run across her face, or touch her hair. I love the feel of her curls in my fingers. I love everything around me. I'm seeing it all differently since the break-in. I notice everything.
The world feels special and wonderful. A miracle: the sound of birds in the chestnut tree outside the window, the sun in a blue sky, the leaves. One day soon I'll come up here and the buds will be open. Wide open, and I won't have seen it happen.
I feel the sun on my face; watch it light up the skin on Anne's face. The light falls in a bar across her eyes as she reads me her poem about love and hope.
Work, love, courage and hope.
Make me good and help me cope!
"It's wonderful!" I say.
"Well," she smiles, "that's how you make me feel."
"Really?" I say. "I think that's how the writing makes you feel." And she stares at me. Gives me that sharp look.
"No," she says slowly. "Just sometimes, Peter, you know, the words come after the feeling."
Sometimes, in the camp, her words came to me. Appeared in my head out of nowhere. They came like a taunt. A curse. A dream from another world that has no meaning here.
They made me hope she died quickly. Quickly. That sh
e walked into the chambers full of love, courage, and hope—and went out like a light. A bright light.
Not like this.
This living death.
APRIL 15, 1944—PETER IS SUFFERING
I lie with my eyes wide open knowing that sleep won't come. That fear will instead. It happens sometimes, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I close my eyes tight. Squeeze them. I curl up into a ball and try to make myself small, hoping the fear will pass over me. But it's inside me. I can't escape it.
The house is hot. Airless. I can't open the window. There's something I need to remember.
I don't fall asleep; I just am asleep. Even in my dreams I'm naked and shivering and trying to remember something. In the dream everyone is naked. Everyone shivers. Everyone is Jewish, or broken or homosexual, or mad. We're all stumbling around, looking for a key. There are thousands of us—and yet somehow I'm alone.
I think I can hear the Westertoren bells again. I open my eyes—joyous, but it's not real, they're not here.
I don't fall asleep. I am asleep.
Anne's voice is calling me.
"Peter, Peter!" I feel her take my hand. I open my eyes, see her—and then I remember.
"I didn't unbolt the door!" I say, and sit bolt upright. She doesn't answer, just squeezes my hand.
"Come to breakfast," she says. My heart is beating so fast. I didn't unbolt the door. Every night I bolt the door so that no one can get in from the outside. Every morning I have to unbolt it, so that Mr. Kugler can use his key to get in. I can't speak. How did he get in? What's happened?
"Come on," says Anne, and she strokes my hand. "We should have reminded you," she says.
I get dressed. I can hear them in the kitchen, low voices muttering. When I go in they look at me. Not with anger, but with pity.
"Come, sit down, Peter," says Mr. Frank.
"Eat, darling," says Mutti. "Try and eat."
Papi just smiles at me. I try. I put the food on my plate. I can chew it but I can't swallow. Anne reaches across the table and touches my hand. Mr. Frank squeezes my shoulder.
"It's Peter I feel most sorry for in all this," says Mrs. Frank. I swallow. I try not to cry.