From another room, we heard Oma shout at the neighbor’s dog. Peeing on the tree again, no doubt. I heard Vickie tell Oma to calm down in a voice that was decidedly uncalm. I turned back to Franklin D. “The irony is, I know her password anyway.”
I hoped Franklin D. didn’t think I’d been spying on Vickie. When I passed by her the other day, I caught the string of numbers. They weren’t hard to see. She pecked so slowly that I considered buying her the SpongeBob SquarePants typing program for Christmas.
“I can’t turn off my kind of brain,” I told him. “Especially numbers. They burn into my memory.”
“So what are you waiting for? Spit it out.”
I laughed. “I might’ve missed one.”
“Let’s try and see.”
“The first three digits match an area code in Michigan.” I pointed out. Vickie says her boyfriend lives in the Midwest, so maybe it’s his phone number, but I only saw nine numbers.”
Franklin D.’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Seems to me there’s only one way to find out.”
I balked. “It’s her password! And besides, I don’t care to know more about her.”
“I have no interest in reading Vickie’s lovestruck e-mails. I’m fascinated by your mind. It’s damn sexy.”
To be honest, I was curious if it would work, too. I rattled off the numbers.
“Whoa, slow down.”
I repeated it. Sure enough, Vickie’s desktop pulled up on the screen. Franklin D. grinned. “I’m just curious. How many numbers of pi do you know?”
“Well since you asked, I memorized the first twenty-three in elementary school, but then it got boring, so I moved on.”
He laughed. I nodded to the screen. Franklin D. typed Irma and Bergen-Belsen into the search engine. Images of the female Nazi warden made my heart stutter. The woman’s cold eyes focused to the side like she was drawn by something shocking. Her expression was as stiff as the collared shirt that protruded from her knitted vest. Even the ringlets in her hair looked rigid as metal pipes.
Franklin D. switched to the Jewish Virtual Library website. He clicked on a link that described the “most notorious of the female Nazi war criminals” and how she beat women prisoners to death with a plaited whip.
“‘Acts of pure sadism, beatings and arbitrary shooting of prisoners, savaging of prisoners by her trained and half starved dogs,’” I read out loud, choking on the description.
I wondered if Franklin D. remembered Oma’s exact words: Irma says, ‘Wash outside or you will die, dirty Jew!’ She snaps her whip and calls her dogs.
“She was executed a few months after the war ended,” Franklin D. said.
Irma Grese was twenty-two when she died. In the photograph, she looked twice as old. Hate and evil had a way of aging a person.
As Franklin D. cleared the history and shut down the computer, I thought of Vickie’s expression when I’d opened the door earlier. Now I realized she looked a little like Irma Grese in this photo, staring with disapproval at something happening outside of camera range.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
I CARRIED THE FOLDER WITH THE PAGES, REAL AND fake, to school with me on Monday. I wasn’t ready to let it out of my sight.
After a quiz, or when a teacher gave extra class time for homework, I read Dan’s notes again.
My grandma’s past was as much a mystery as it had ever been. I wondered if she’d suffered through the same storm that had collapsed Anne and Margot’s tent. Maybe Oma had been bunkmates with the sisters in the women’s barrack? They might have become friends. Anyway, I could still learn a lot about my grandmother through Anne’s words. Having decided that, I could hardly wait for the last two entries from Dan.
After school, I made sure Vickie was occupied before ducking into the library to hide the folder. After dismissing the too-obvious desk drawers, I considered the file cabinet. Oma would have to slide the knob to the right while pulling the drawer at the same time. She couldn’t pull off the coordination, I was sure of it. I sandwiched the folder behind the gas and electric bills from August 2001, the month and year I was born. It would be safe there. A person would need an asthma inhaler to survive the dust cloud.
As I was closing the cabinet door, I spotted a folder marked PUBLISHER that I hadn’t noticed before. Inside were two letters. The first was dated March 22, 1987.
Dear Anonymous,
Per our phone conversation yesterday, we are pleased to publish your memoir titled Bergen-Belsen: An Insider’s Account for our Spring 1989 list, under the pseudonym “Anonymous.”
Our committee feels that this is an important work with a voice and perspective that will intrigue a wide readership. A contract will follow shortly, as well as an editorial letter sent to the post office box provided.
As discussed, in order to assure an appropriate level of privacy, and for your own safety, please provide a bank account number so that the advance and any future royalties may be deposited in a prompt and secure manner.
Thank you again for permitting us to take a role in bringing this important work to light.
A memoir! All my questions about Bergen-Belsen and Oma’s life could be answered within the pages of that book. It was probably out of print by now, but there had to be a copy somewhere. I’d pay anything to fill in the blanks. The memoir might even give a hint as to why my grandmother had Anne’s camp diary.
I pulled out the next letter.
Dear Marla,
I deeply appreciate your devotion to my Bergen-Belsen memoir. It takes courage to publish such a perspective, one that could cause an unknowable disruption to both publisher and author. It is for those reasons that I have made the difficult decision to pull it at this time. I know it is highly irregular at this stage of development, but I fear the attention it may bring us all. I am returning the advance to you, in its entirety, along with my most sincere apologies.
There was no signature, but the meaning was clear: Oma had chickened out. I didn’t get it. This letter was written in the 1980s, long after the war was over. So much about the Holocaust had already been said. I pushed my sleeves up and studied the letter a second time. Why would Oma want to be anonymous, anyway?
My imagination kicked into gear. What could she have done that would cause her to pull the project? Perhaps something scandalous had happened, like she’d had an affair with the enemy. Could my grandmother have killed a Nazi officer? That last one would make her a hero in some people’s eyes, but others might not see it that way. I wondered if she’d feared retribution.
All I knew was that I had to find the memoir. My grandmother’s story was probably in the house, but where? Maybe it was with the missing photo albums. Oma had trashed the library in a frantic search for the journal pages. I hoped she hadn’t thrown the memoir out after retracting it from the publisher. I honestly couldn’t tell how much of her volatile behavior was brought on by the disease, or if she’d been this way her whole life.
I searched through the library again, but gave up a half hour later. I wanted to check the rest of the house, but I couldn’t—not as long as Vickie was around.
As I reached for the edge of the bookshelf to pull myself up, I noticed something strange. Vanity Fair beside Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. I looked at some other books: Dracula, Anna Karenina, Oliver Twist … all shelved in the wrong spots.
Oma couldn’t have been the one to move them—she would have just dumped the books on the floor. That left one person. I remembered Vickie’s gasp as I’d opened the door yesterday, the pitcher trembling in her hands. Had I mentioned putting the pages back on the bookshelf?
The file cabinet didn’t seem like a safe place to hide the journal anymore. I studied the room for a few minutes before finding a solution. Flipping the couch cushion over, I ran my fingers along the seams until I hit the invisible zipper. Then I buried the file—Anne’s entries and Franklin D.’s handwritten copies, along with the translation notes—in a sea of foam pelle
ts.
When Vickie and I changed shifts an hour later, I told the lie.
“Did you know Oma wrote short stories?”
Vickie moved the Dell over to make room for my plate of chocolate chip cookies. I took a sip of milk and continued. “I found something that Oma wrote a long time ago.”
Her eyes stayed on me like a hawk watching a mouse. “I thought she was a poet.”
“I guess she dabbled in other stuff. Like, she wrote this amazing story about Anne Frank’s diary. You know, what it might’ve said if Anne had written it in a concentration camp. It was pretty creative, actually.”
“Can I see?” Vickie said. “I’d love to read it. It’s always nice to know something about the people you take care of. It’s a reminder of their human side.”
My stomach turned. I stuffed a cookie in my mouth, chewing slowly, to give myself time to think.
“I wish, but I took it to school. Bonehead move. A friend of mine spilled chocolate milk on it, and I had to throw it out. There wasn’t much to it, anyway. Only a few paragraphs.”
“Oh,” Vickie said, looking disappointed.
The story felt weak, but it was all I could come up with under pressure.
Vickie logged off the laptop and stood up. “I didn’t get a chance to feed your grandmother before she fell asleep. There’s broccoli and chicken pasta in the fridge from a few days ago. Should still be good.”
Leftovers more than a day old turned my stomach, but I nodded, fixing a smile on my face. “Got it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. See you tomorrow morning.”
I listened as Vickie dropped off the computer in the living room, then clomped to the front door with no attempt to be quiet. My grandmother’s naps were only important when they made her shifts easier.
I texted Franklin D.: Looks like I’m as good a liar as the rest of my family.
When Vickie left, I searched the rest of the house for the memoir. Nothing. Exhausted, I fell onto the living room couch and used the computer to search for Anne Frank facts. I was soon caught up in what had happened to the eight residents of the “Secret Annex” after they’d been arrested. First they went to Westerbork, a “transit” camp in the Netherlands where they had to break apart dusty batteries. A month later, they were sent out on the last train to ever leave Westerbork. If only they’d been able to hide in the attic for a little longer, they would’ve spent the rest of the war at the transit camp—a much safer place than Auschwitz, which would one day be called “the world’s largest grave.”
After arriving in Auschwitz, the men and women were separated. That was the last time Anne and Margot Frank saw their father. Two months later, the sisters were transferred to Bergen-Belsen, this time without their mother. They did end up traveling with one original resident. As I read his name, I thought about one of Dan’s notes that I hadn’t understood the first time. He’d written, they took v.P. away.
In the annex diary, Anne had referred to him as “Van Daan” to protect his identity, but the man’s real name had been Auguste van Pels.
Finally I checked out the separate living sections in Bergen-Belsen. About three thousand women, most of them arriving from Auschwitz, were immediately shuttled to temporary housing. Tent living was worse than I’d gleaned from the entry. No electricity, water, heat, or toilets.
These prisoners were sent to Bergen-Belsen to die.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
I WAS LYING ON MY BACK, WATCHING THE ICICLE-drop chandelier throw rainbow darts on the wall, when Mom called.
“Hi, sweetie,” she whispered.
I bolted upright. “Mom! I thought it was against the rules to call me.”
“I borrowed a friend’s phone, but they’re giving mine back soon for good behavior. Anyway, I miss you so much that I had to call and say hi.”
“It feels like you’ve been gone for so long.”
“I know, but I’m almost done. I’m flying back a week from tomorrow. My flight gets in at two fifteen on Friday.”
I wanted to ask how rehab had gone. Had it helped? Would it stick this time? “That’s great, Mom.”
There was an awkward silence. I tried to come up with something neutral to say but drew a blank. Finally Mom asked, “How was your Halloween?”
Yes! That was a safe subject. “One of my friends, Elizabeth, was a singing water bottle—she just got the lead in our school musical—and I was her sidekick, a recycle bin. You know Kermit’s song, ‘It’s Not Easy Being Green’? Elizabeth sang it all over school, only she gave it a cool environmental twist, and I danced around—well, as much as I could in a trash can costume.” I ran out of air and had to take a breath. “We actually raised one hundred and three dollars and forty-two cents for the Trash Museum in Berkeley,” I finished.
“I’d love to meet her. She sounds great.”
“I’d like that, too,” I said, thinking how Mom would love Franklin D. and his outspoken personality. I almost told her about him but didn’t. I couldn’t handle a ton of nosy questions right now. “So, what’s it like in Vermont?” I asked.
“Gorgeous. The leaves look like they’re on fire. The best part is, I don’t have to rake them.”
I was the one who’d done the raking. “Can we afford this place? Evergreen, I mean.”
“Mr. Laramie’s arranged everything. It will come out of my trust.”
“But you haven’t gotten it yet.” I didn’t like to think about that part, no matter how it would make our lives easier. Getting that money would mean my grandmother wouldn’t be around anymore.
“This is an advance.” Her businesslike voice brought back the pathetic relationship between her and Oma. I thought about all Mom and I had gone through in the past month—the vodka bottle behind the armchair, the harrowing ride through Pacific Heights, her arrest. Her drinking problem didn’t have to ruin us. I couldn’t let our relationship turn out like theirs.
“This place would be a perfect vacation if it weren’t for all the work they make me do,” she said.
“They make you work?” I pictured Anne Frank’s family, hands black from grimy old batteries. I shook my head, wishing the images would leave me alone.
Mom giggled. “On myself, silly. Therapy’s a bitch.”
“Oh.”
“So how’s it going on the West Coast? Are you managing?”
“It’s okay.” I filled her in on Oma’s condition, how she’d lost some agility and balance. I explained how she never let me dress her, even though it took her a half hour to put her blouse on.
“Liv, I just want to say thank you for all you’ve done. For her, for us. I know it hasn’t been easy.”
The worst part was watching Oma deteriorate. But I knew Mom saw it through a different lens, and the last thing I wanted to hear right now was how it would all be better soon. “Everything’s fine,” I said.
Mom heard someone and gave a clipped good-bye. A second later my cell rang again. I propped myself on an elbow and switched the phone to my other ear. “Hello?”
“Dan dropped the rest of the translation off. It’s killing me not to look.”
“Don’t you dare!” I told Franklin D. “I want to see it with you.”
“Then I’m coming over right now.”
“Don’t your parents wonder why you’re at my house so much?”
“I’ve found a way around that problem. I said I was dating a Jewish girl, so now my mom’s willing to drive me anywhere, anytime.”
“You didn’t!”
“Yeah, um, I kind of did. They were thrilled, Liv. You won them over at Shabbat.”
I paused. “Now I can’t come to your house without them thinking … well, you know.”
“Is that so bad?”
That stopped me. Was it? I didn’t know.
“I’ll bring the entries over right now. See you soon.” He hung up before I could think of an answer.
I heard Vickie rustling in the hallway, getting ready to leave. At least I wouldn’t hav
e to worry about her big ears when Franklin D. and I looked over the new translation. The reshelving of the books still bugged me. It had to have been her—who else?
When I came out of my room, she was zipping up her coat. “So, what are you up to tonight?” she asked.
My first instinct was to lie, but there was nothing to hide. “Franklin D.’s coming over for a while.”
Her mouth puckered in disapproval. “Did you tell your mom that you have a guy coming over all the time?”
Why did it feel like Vickie was looking for ways to get me into trouble? Did she really think that because my mom wasn’t around, Franklin D. and I were going to act like animals in perpetual mating season? “Not yet. But Mom has bigger issues to deal with. Besides, she trusts me.”
“Well I left the laptop in the living room so you and Franklin D. can work on your homework.”
“We’re just friends, Vickie.”
“Very, very good friends,” she said, imitating Franklin D.
When she strode out the door, I kicked it shut behind her.
The temperature outside had dropped in the past week. Now it was drizzling. Drops of water beaded in Franklin D.’s hair, capturing the porch light.
We put Oma to bed, and then I went to the kitchen to make us hot chocolate, leaving Franklin D. to light a fire in the fireplace. When I came back, I handed him today’s newspaper from the recycle bin and watched him stuff sections under a log. I wasn’t sure how to make a fire, having grown up with the electric variety. Our old fireplace was a lot easier to operate, though I loved the smoky wood scent that floated through Oma’s living room.
Franklin D. was about to crumple up the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle when he said, “Did you see this?” He handed it to me.
I read the headline. Startled, I shook my head.
“Swastikas were painted on the walls of two synagogues in the Sunset district,” he said. “Another one on the Jewish Community Center.”
“You think it might be a prank?”
“Joke or not, it’s anti-Semitic. I hope they nail the bastards.”
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