Annelies

1946

Amsterdam

LIBERATED NETHERLANDS

School ends for the term, and the summer holiday begins. Anne’s grades are terrible. Pim sits morosely at the breakfast table and examines her report as if it is a mournful thing indeed. He is quite disappointed by the low marks she received in classroom behavior. “It makes me sad to see you waste your education.”

But she is surprised when Dassah speaks up. “Perhaps, Otto, Anne is no longer suited for school,” she suggests. Sipping her coffee, she meets Anne’s eyes starkly. “Perhaps she’s ready for the world.”

That morning Anne arrives at the bookshop but finds Mr. Nussbaum staring in a kind of trance at the window, unaware, it seems, that his cigar has gone cold. Unaware of her, it seems, as well. The pages of a newspaper lie on the floor, abandoned.

“Mr. Nussbaum?”

Nothing.

“Mr. Nussbaum?” she repeats.

And then, without breaking his trance, he speaks in a voice that is floating. Untethered. “Anne . . . have you heard?”

A dull pulse in her belly. “Heard?” She’s seen him depressed before, yes, but this is the first time she’s really seen him in the grip of despair. The first time, she thinks, that she’s really seen his Auschwitz face.

“They’re killing Jews again in the east,” he announces.

Her heart tightens. Confusion strangles any response, but Mr. Nussbaum does not appear to notice.

“It’s in the newspaper,” he says. Anne glares back down at the discarded paper’s headline. The word “Pogrom” stands out blackly. A favorite tool of the angel of death.

• • •

The blood libel. It’s an ancient excuse for a pogrom. A small town. A gentile boy claims to have been “kidnapped” by a Jew, and the old rumors start swirling—Jews abducting gentile children for ritual murder! Siphoning innocent blood to consecrate their unholy matzo bread. Nothing new there. In any case, the shooting starts when the police arrive, but soon the mob takes over the murdering and the looting. By the next day, at least forty Jews—men, women, and children—are dead. Stoned, stabbed, shot, beaten to death. Including a Jewish mother and her infant son, arrested in their own home, robbed, and then shot “while trying to escape.”

“That it still continues!” Anne laments.

Pim has finished his standard breakfast, toast and margarine with a powdered egg, and ignites his standard cigarette. He shakes his head heavily over the folded newspaper.

“Hideous,” he declares.

Anne blinks. “That’s all you have to say?”

Her father lifts his eyes to her, burdened pale things. “What else would you have me say, daughter?”

“Must I really teach you, Pim? Must I put the words in your mouth? You are a Jew who has suffered through Auschwitz. You should be outraged.”

“I am long past outrage, Anne,” he says with a sorrowful but maddening composure. “Such hateful violence. It’s horrific. But as we have learned, the world of men can be a horrific place. I cannot allow it to drag me down.”

“Really, Pim,” Anne says, burning. “This is your response? The world is bitter, but we must rise above it? That’s the type of thinking that sent Jews to the Kremas.”

Pim’s gaze grows deep. He surveys his daughter as if from a distance. “How can I help you, meisje?” he asks. “How can I help you?”

The question only makes Anne angrier. “You can help me, Pim—you can help me by waking up to reality!”

“Anne isn’t wrong,” her stepmother suddenly injects. Anne and Pim share the same surprise, turning their heads as Dassah enters the room with the coffeepot to refill Pim’s cup. “Perhaps she’s being overdramatic as usual. That’s Anne. But I must agree, it would be foolish to abandon our caution.”

Pim huffs, obviously feeling ambushed. “Hadas. Aren’t you the one who said that one should have faith in God’s intelligence?”

Pouring coffee into her own cup. “Of course. But that doesn’t mean we should go blind. We should trust in God to keep us vigilant, not to tend us like sheep. The wolves are still hungry, Otto. That hasn’t changed.”

Pim stubs out his cigarette. “No, I’m sorry, but I refuse,” he says, frowning. “I refuse to live in fear.” He taps his lips with his napkin and stands, his tone resolute. “Live a just life. Do good when you can. That’s the answer to the madness of such cruelties.” Slipping on his suit jacket, he asks, “Anne, are you coming to the office with me today?”

Anne looks at a spot on the white linen tablecloth before she meets Dassah’s cool eyes and says, “No, Pim. I promised Mr. Nussbaum.”

• • •

At the bookshop Mr. Nussbaum reaches down behind the sales desk and pulls out a large, flat magazine, slapping it on the counter. Drawing a breath, he declares, “This is for you.”

LIFE. It’s the name of an American magazine.

Anne has Mr. Lapjes in her arms, the old furry rug, purring in a bored fashion. She takes a step forward. Looks down at the photo on the cover. “I don’t understand.”

“I found it in a lot I picked up from the library sale,” he tells her. “And I’ve been saving it for you. For the right time.”

The magazine’s pages are so large, the size of America itself. She stares at it. On the cover is a jutting tower, piercing the cloud line with its steeple. The caption tells her it is the Empire State Building.

“So you see, Anne. What just happened in that village in the East? It made me realize the truth. We may pretend different, but Europe is dead. Dead for the Jews. Dead for you. America,” he tells her. “That’s where you belong.”

She looks back at him in silence.

“You should talk to your father. I know he prides himself on his faith in the future. It’s one of the things that I admire most about him. But even he must see the truth. You should talk to him. Tell him you need to emigrate.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“It’s what I believe, Anne,” Mr. Nussbaum tells her.

Anne shakes her head. “He’ll never agree.”

“He won’t want to give you up. Of course he won’t. He’ll resist mightily, I’m sure. But even Otto must recognize the truth underneath it all. Even he must recognize that America is where a girl with your intellect and perception should find her future.”

• • •

Biking home, she bumps over the uneven cobblestones, distracted by the images of America in her head. She has thought about it before in the abstract. She does have uncles there, her mother’s brothers near Boston. They could sponsor her. And her father has his university friend running a big department store in New York City.

But the idea of emigration is both terrifying and gripping. She tries to picture herself in a café, ordering coffee in English. She imagines taking a bite out of a hot dog, as she’s seen in the newsreels. She imagines herself exiting a crowded elevator, crossing the concourse of Grand Central Terminal, or at the top of a skyscraper, gazing out over the vigor of a vast and animated metropolis. In America there are no memories of the dead that must be pushed aside. There is only a spotless, uncorrupted future.

She uses cellophane tape on the oversize pictures she’s scissored from the magazine and lines them up on the wall of her room.

“And what is this display?” Pim asks, failing to keep the iron in his voice from dragging this question toward criticism.

Anne looks over from her last taping job. “New York City.”

“Yes, I recognize that fact. But where did it all come from, is what I’m asking.”

“From a magazine Mr. Nussbaum gave me,” she responds with innocence.

“I see,” says Pim with a kind of neutral suspicion.

“I thought I might improve my English by reading the articles. But really, Pim, look at these pictures. Can such a place exist?”

“Oh, it exists, all right,” her father replies, and his small frown confirms it. “Though, it’s a very problematic city, New York, especially for foreigners. It’s so large and really quite impersonal.”

“Really? If I remember correctly, Pim, you once called it the most astonishing city you’d ever seen.”

“Never mind,” Pim says, his tone turning parental. “Didn’t you agree to help your stepmother with the laundry?”

“I want to go there, Pim,” Anne announces suddenly, not realizing until she speaks the words how deeply true they are. “I want to go to America.”

What follows is a silence with many moving parts. She can see it rearranging Pim’s expression in minute calibrations. The tic of an eye, the laxity of his mouth as it droops into the ruts of a frown. The decline of his shoulders and the tilt of his head toward conflict. A measure of hard fortification barricading his eyes. “I beg your pardon?” is all he says.

“I want to go to America,” she repeats.

Pim releases a long breath and shakes his head. “These photographs. They may depict an exciting metropolis, but take my word for it, the place is so large it can easily swallow a person whole.”

“Maybe that’s precisely what I want, Pim,” Anne replies. “To be swallowed whole.”

“But how could that be so, Anne?” her father asks, obviously trying to calm his responses, obviously intent on maintaining the gentlest of possible tones. “You’re young. Of course you have an urge to see the world. Perhaps we can think about a visit. Next year, maybe. I do understand the wanderlust of youth.”

“No, I think you don’t, Pim. I don’t want to visit New York. I want to live there. I want to emigrate.”

Pim shakes his head, glaring at his shoes. “Anne.” He speaks her name sternly. “I’m sorry,” he says, abandoning any softer tone. “But that is not in any way, shape, or form a realistic possibility.”

“Not realistic? My English is good. I hear the Canadian soldiers talk, and I can understand almost everything they say. Why is it not realistic?”

“How could it be? So you can speak some English? Do you think that’s all there is to it? Do you imagine that a person simply packs a bag and boards a boat? Show me your passport, Anne. Where have you been hiding it?”

“Passports aren’t the end of the world, Pim,” she tells him.

“So says the world traveler. Emigration is an extremely difficult process, Anne. Immensely complicated,” he says, “and expensive. So what about money? Where does the money come from for such an adventure? You think it can be pulled from a hat, do you, daughter? Even if the legalities were possible to sort through, where would the money for passage come from? You think that’s cheap, Anne? It’s not. Where would the money to live on come from? Thin air?”

“People get work, Pim,” she answers. “People get jobs.”

“Not seventeen-year-old girls. And that’s another thing. Who would protect you? Who would keep you safe? No. My answer to this nonsense is no. I will not be drawn into further discussion,” her father insists.

“What if I agree, then? The difficulties are immense. If you say so, I won’t argue the points. But haven’t you always taught me that difficulties are to be overcome?”

“It’s out of the question.”

“Why? Mummy’s brothers are there,” Anne says. “And you still have your friend in New York. Mr. Straus.”

“It’s much more complicated than that.”

“Always your answer to everything.”

“Because the world is not a simple place,” Pim shoots back. “Your uncles entered the States fifteen years ago, long before the war. They were seeking asylum. The Gestapo had already imprisoned Walther once, and it was only a matter of time before both of them would land in a camp for good. So it was a completely different set of circumstances.”

“Who cares how they got there? The point is they’re still there. They could help us.”

“Again—not so simple. Your uncle Julius is in poor health. And I say this in confidence, Anne—they’re barely scraping by. They’re workmen in a box factory, for heaven’s sake. They couldn’t possibly support more mouths to feed.”

“But Mr. Straus isn’t scraping by. He’s rich. He must have connections.”

“Enough, Anne. I’m not going hat in hand, begging, to Charley Straus. Not again. You have no idea what you’re asking of me.”

“So it’s your pride that’s stopping you, Pim? Is that what you’re telling me? Your pride?”

Pim glares at her with red eyes. Then he turns his back and strides from the threshold, but Anne is still shouting after him. “You know what the proverb says, Pim! Pride is the mask of a man’s faults!”

“Pride has nothing to do with it!” Pim halts and turns back to her. “We owe a debt, Anne, to the Netherlands. Has that ever occurred to you? We owe a debt to the Netherlands and to its people. Oh, there may have been some bad apples in the barrel—of course there were—but the Dutch welcomed us when few others did. And it was good Dutch people who risked their own lives to protect us. That cannot be forgotten. The Netherlands has become our home.”

“You keep telling me that, Pim, but it’s a lie. I have nothing here. Nothing left.”

“We have people who care for us, Anne. That’s not nothing. We have people we can trust.”

“But that’s the point, don’t you see? I don’t know who to trust.”

“Then trust in me,” he says, both a command and a plea. “I’m your father. If no one else, trust in me.”

Anne goes silent, staring back. When she speaks, her voice is low, barely controlled. “Amsterdam is a haunted place. I don’t belong here anymore,” she insists.

“And you think you will belong in America? That’s absurd, Anne. And even if it weren’t, half of Europe wants to go to America. There are, however, quotas in place severely restricting immigration.”

“You mean for Jews?”

“I mean for everyone,” her father answers. “For anyone. And we are fine just where we are. I have responsibilities here, Anne. A life to lead.”

“You have a life!” Anne is suddenly incensed. “You! But what life do I have, Pim? What life do I have?”

“A life with the people who love you, Anne. Isn’t that enough? You belong where your family is.”

“My family is dead!” she hears herself shout.

“I am not dead!” Pim, angry now, ignites. “I am not dead, Annelies! I am your father, and I am still very much alive!”

“Are you sure of that, Pim? Everyone tells me that I have survived. What joy! Anne Frank has survived! Praise God in his heaven! But I don’t feel it, Pim. I feel like this is an illusion and that I really belong in the burial pit with Margot!”

His eyes panic. “Anne.”

“Then, at the same moment, I want everything,” she declares, her hands clenching into fists. “I want everything there is to have, and America has everything. That’s why I cannot stay here. That’s why I must go. With you or without.”

Pim swallows. “I won’t permit it.”

“You think I require permission? You say I have no passport, but what does that matter? This is all the permission I need,” she says, yanking up her sleeve. “This will be my passport.”

She watches a shadow fall across Pim’s expression as he gazes down at the number tattooed on his daughter’s forearm. It’s a radical transformation. His skin seems to shrink tightly across his skull. His eye sockets deepen. His mouth contracts into a straight line, and something terrible scalds the color from his eyes. She thinks perhaps this is his true face now. The face that meets him when he’s alone with the mirror.

“Anneke,” he whispers. The blunt rebuke in his voice has disappeared. He sounds hollow. “You must realize how much I need you here with me,” he tells her. “How desperate I am to have you close by. I thought I had lost you both. Both my children. You cannot possibly comprehend the pain that a parent feels. For a father to lose his children? It’s so tragic. So unbelievably tragic. But then I found you. I found you, and my heart found a reason to keep beating. Please. You’re so young still. You need a father. And a father needs his daughter. Think about this. You must.”

Anne gazes back at him. Her mouth opens, but she has no words left to speak. The air is suddenly too thin. The walls too close. She shoves past him to get out. Out of the flat, out of the prison that the past has made of her present. She bursts into the street, and the open air swallows her. She runs. Runs until she sinks down on her knees in the grassy scrub beside the sidewalk. And there she remains, breathing in the tang of an approaching storm as a stripe of thunder unrolls above the chimneys.

Is this how you’re going to behave? Margot inquires. She has knelt beside Anne, dressed in the dirty blue-and-red prisoner’s smock they were forced to wear in the Westerbork Punishment Barracks. Her glasses are broken at the left hinge and repaired with a twist of wire.

Anne gives her a stare, then shakes her head. “So now you’re judging me, too?”

No one’s judging you, Anne.

“Liar.”

Well, if I am, it’s only because you’re being selfish. Besides—since when has Anne Frank cared what other people think of her?

Gazing at nothing. “I’m not so impervious as everyone has always believed.”

Then do the right thing, her sister urges. Pim needs you. I can’t help him, but you can.

Thunder rolls through the clouds, and a sudden dash of rain starts to patter the sidewalk. Anne feels the rain as if it’s nothing. In the camps they stood on the Appelplatz for hours in driving rain during the endless roll calls. The SS guards called the prisoners “Stücke.” Pieces. Nothing human, only pieces. And pieces think nothing of the rain.

“I want so much, Margot,” Anne whispers. “I want so much. Enough for ten lifetimes. How can I stay here? How can I possibly make this my life? I want to mean something. To be someone other than just a girl who did not die. I want to be a writer!” It’s the first time she’s actually spoken the words aloud since her return, even if she is only speaking to the dead. She glares into Margot’s eyes, but the dead do not comprehend urgency. Her sister’s eyes blacken into a pair of holes. Mummy would want you to stay, Margot tells her. Think how she cared for us in Birkenau. Think how she sacrificed for us. Are you saying, she asks, that you can’t now sacrifice a little for Pim?

“Sacrifice . . .” Anne speaks the word as if it tastes of a burnt offering.