Annexed Read online

  I don't move. I try not to blink. I stare at him.

  "Show me you can get out of bed and do a day's work before you talk of fighting!" he says.

  "You're in my way," I hiss back. He stands up. I run my hands through my hair, it's stiff with dirt. I get up slowly, partly because I'm still shaking, partly just to annoy him. He stands by the attic steps. There's not enough room to change with him there. I can't get up without having to touch him.

  "I'll see you in the kitchen," he says. "Two minutes."

  I don't say anything. I wait for him to leave, and then I dress.

  I go downstairs. Mr. Kugler is trying to make the entrance to the Annex secret.

  "Hello," he says. He has a nice face. "Can you give me a hand?"

  I try. I collect wood shavings and put them in a pillowcase. I make a pad for the door to stop everyone from banging their heads on the frame. It's awkward and useless work, ugly, not like the things I used to make for Aunt Henny: mending the pieces she loved, fixing her sofa. I need to forget about all that. We've disguised the door as a bookcase, and the lintel is hidden, so you have to duck down. Great, I think, a bookcase. As though it isn't bad enough already being locked up with the book-crazy Franks.

  "Oh!" says Anne. "So you've graced us with your presence, have you?" I don't answer. I'd like to. I'd like to ask her why she's always breaking things, dropping them, and banging into things? Why isn't she more careful? Why does she always behave as though this is a house party?

  But I don't say anything.

  "Thank you, Peter," says Margot.

  "That's all right." I blush. Margot turns away, trying not to see, but Anne stares at me as though she is trying to decide exactly what shade of red I'm going. I turn away and stumble back upstairs.

  "What an idiot!" says Anne, and then she drops her cup and they both start laughing.

  Mutti's at the door to my room, smiling at me like I've just wiped out a whole platoon of Nazis all by myself, not simply nailed up a bag full of wood shavings!

  "Better?" she asks.

  "Better," I say, even though it isn't.

  "Unlike your hair!" And she smiles. I smile back. It feels strange, muscles creaking into a new shape.

  "Let me wash it for you," she says, and I'm about to say no, but then I think of her stealing an extra sheet out of the communal cupboard. I think of the clean white sheet on my bed. I think of how she washes away my sins and dries them—all without saying a word. I think of the insults she takes from Mrs. Frank because of me.

  "If you think you can use all of our sheets and none of your own you are very much mistaken!" says Mrs. Frank. Mutti says nothing, nothing of how they use our bowls and hide their own. Of how Anne has broken nearly all of ours and never said sorry. So I say yes. I let her wash my filthy hair.

  She scrubs and digs and rubs at my scalp as though she could chase all the evil away with her fingers. It hurts. At last she is done.

  "Ah!" she says. "Now you are my Petel."

  "Thanks," I mutter.

  "Margot!" We both hear Anne's voice outside the bathroom door. "His mother's in there washing his hair! I'm only thirteen and I even dye my own mustache!"

  "Shhh!" says Margot quickly, but the damage is done. Mutti's smile falls off her face and all the way to the floor. Poor old Mutti; never as good as the Franks, never as clever, or funny—or wise. If Anne were a boy I'd punch her. I'd spit on my palms, draw a line straight between those brown superior eyes and land my fist right in the middle of all that confidence.

  I hate her.

  "Much better," I say out loud. "Thank you, Mutti, I feel wonderful."

  And as soon as I say it, I realize it's true.

  I do feel better.

  A bit.

  AUGUST 22, 1942—PETER GETS ANNOYED

  Anne and Margot have discovered the attic. It's a pain. The way they just walk right through my "room" to get to it. I know. I know. The world is ending outside the Annex (as Anne calls it) or at least it is for the Jews and gypsies and anyone else who doesn't measure up to the Nazi standard! Mr. Frank said they think they know we're Jewish by measuring our noses, or our skulls! Mutti snorted and said, "Well, I know an easier way to tell if a man's a Jew!" But she didn't say it in front of the Franks; she waited until it was just the three of us alone, upstairs.

  All that happening outside, and I'm stupid enough to be angry with two of the most annoying girls in the world. At least Margot looks a bit apologetic, but Anne! She just flounces through my room.

  "Any ailments today, Petel-pie?" she laughs.

  They spend ages up there, taking it for themselves, the only place where we can see the sky.

  Mrs. Frank does try to cut Anne down to size: "Hanneli's mother was right about you, Anne," she says. "Do you remember what she said?"

  Anne glares at her mother, then turns to her father who looks away. I think he might be smiling.

  "She said, 'God knows everything, but Anne Frank always knows it better.' Well, you don't know it better, young lady!" says Mrs. Frank.

  Anne goes white with rage and her lips tremble. She storms off, saying nothing.

  We all pretend to be busy. After a while Margot follows her.

  "Well!" says Mrs. Frank. "No doubt that's another episode for Kitty to enjoy." Mr. Frank glances at her—a warning glance. I wonder who Kitty is, and how Anne keeps in touch with her.

  "Every child needs privacy. What she writes in her diary is her business," remarks her father in his normal voice, quiet and calm. No one has heard Mr. Frank raise his voice. Ever.

  "But why call her diary Kitty?" asks Mrs. Frank. But Mr. Frank doesn't answer, just shakes his paper.

  Ah! So Anne keeps a diary. I bet I know what she writes in it—how wonderful she is!

  AUGUST 26, 1942—PETER DISCOVERS THE JOYS OF READING

  During the day, all the office workers are downstairs: Miep, Bep, Mr. Kugler, Mr. Kleiman—and so on. We are entirely dependent on them. They bring us our food. They order the courses for Anne and Margot to study. They drop off Anne's magazines and they give us paper. They do everything for us.

  All we do is sit here.

  Today Miep brought yet more books—a great pile of them on the table. We're meant to study. That's easy for Anne and Margot because they want to study Greek and Latin and so on and so on ... but I don't. I want to make things, to be a carpenter. There are no books for that. But there on the table is a book I would like to read, even though I know Papi wouldn't want me to. Just seeing its cover makes me think of Liese. I want it. I pick it up and glance at it. No one notices, or says anything.

  "He held her in his arms, her breath came faster as his lips brushed her..." I look up and carefully, casually, I drop it back on the pile—then I pick up an armful of books and walk away. Nobody says anything, only Mutti glances at me, a smile at the corners of her mouth. Our eyes hold for a second and I know she won't say anything.

  "Anything good?" asks Mr. Frank from behind his newspaper.

  "Oh! I like a good romance myself," Mutti says loudly. "The best type is where the hero is very tall, very dark, and very bad ... a bit like you, perhaps, Otto!"

  Mr. Frank's eyes open wide. "I hardly think I'm the type of man who ... Oh, Gusti," he says, "you're teasing me!" And he smiles, raising his newspaper. The other Franks all look at Mutti as though she is slightly mad, but she doesn't care. She's covering for me. Only Anne answers her. "Oh yes!" she breathes at Mutti, her hands clasped beneath her chin. "There's nothing like a good story!"

  I'm in the attic. The sun shines and I sit in it and read. The book makes time change. Stops it hanging. Somewhere I can hear the breeze in the tree behind me. I can feel the sun on my back and the pages turn and I forget. There are only the people on the page and what will happen next. What will happen to the people in the book, not what will happen to me—or what might be happening to Liese. I forget everything. I even forget the time—until I hear Papi behind me.

  "Peter!"

  He'
s standing at the top of the stairs. Of course he is. We can't shout anymore. We can't bang doors or run upstairs, or storm outside if we're angry. We sneak up on each other and hiss instead of shout.

  "Peter, come down! What have you been do—" And then he sees the book in my hands. He doesn't say anything at all, or give me a chance to explain, he just grabs it from my hands and turns away from me, walking quickly down the stairs. For a moment I'm so startled I just sit there, but then I stand up and follow. I want that book. I want to know what happens.

  Everyone's in the kitchen, it must be lunchtime. I don't care. I grab the book out of his hands. He grabs it back. We struggle. I'm winning. I realize I am bigger and stronger than him and that I will ... and then he SMACKS me!

  I drop the book. I drop it so I can hit him. I draw my fist back and... I can't do it. I can't do it. The thoughts fly through my head as my fist waits. What if I hurt him? What if he needs a doctor? Where will we get one? I turn and run from the room. I can't even hit my own father, what use would I be to any resistance?

  I run to the attic. My heart is wild. My guts are writhing ... I don't know what to do. I walk up and down. I throw open the window, I don't care who sees it. I wonder if I can make it across the roofs. I have to get out, but the window won't open wide enough to let me through. I'm trapped.

  I want to...

  I want to...

  SCREAM.

  I want to stretch out my arms and knock the walls down. I want to run so far and fast that I remember what it's like to feel my breath burn in my body. I want to move. I want to live. I want to ...

  I whistle. I whistle so loud that I imagine the whole of Holland could hear me. I'm a Jew. I'm a Jew! And I'm right here in the middle of Amsterdam. Hiding. Hear me! I take a big, deep breath and shout as loud as I can down the chimney.

  "I won't come down... down ... down!" My voice echoes through the pipe and out into the rooms below.

  I start to laugh.

  Out loud.

  There! At last! A real silence in the Annex. Not the silence that hangs around us all the time and that we're so afraid to break, but a proper silence. I made it. I imagine them all sitting down there with their breath held, waiting...

  Waiting...

  Waiting, to know if my scream has made anybody in the houses and gardens around us jump, look up, and reach for the telephone ...

  But all that happens is that Papi shouts too.

  "I've had enough of that boy!"

  I've made him shout! I've made him shout as loud as me. They appear at the top of the stairs. Him and Mr. Frank.

  "Apologize!" says Father.

  "Peter, you should go to your room and think about this," says Mr. Frank.

  I stand very still. The truth is I'm so afraid of what I've done, I can't move. "Peter?" asks Mr. Frank.

  They begin to walk toward me. I back away until I can feel the wall behind me and there's nowhere else to go. They stretch out their hands toward me. They're taking me back down, back into the dark and the whispers and the dreams. I push them away. I kick and scream and twist and turn like the pain and fear in my guts, but they hold me tight. They lift me down the stairs and drop me on the bed.

  I turn to the wall.

  "One day, Peter, and hopefully it will be soon, you'll learn to think of others instead of yourself," says Father.

  "Try to understand," says Mr. Frank. "And please, Peter, no more noise. That's important."

  They leave.

  My fingers reach out and touch the wall.

  My face is wet.

  I think I must be crying.

  AUGUST 28, 1942, EVENING—PETER WAKES UP IN HIS ROOM

  When I wake there are voices in the kitchen and the light from the attic is fading. I go up the stairs and stand by the window. I look at the outside. I watch as the light fades right out of the sky, and is gone.

  Outside.

  Outside.

  How can one small word mean such a big thing?

  I watch as the branches of the chestnut tree slowly darken and turn black against the sky. The wind drops. The leaves are still. The sun fades and dips beyond the square of the window. The clouds are lit up with gold in the middle; deep dark lines score their edges. I watch the color leave them, watch it leak out in pink and purple, until the whole sky is burning and bruised and finally black.

  I watch the night come, and the day end. I understand that I am saying goodbye. Not just to this day itself, but to the world outside.

  Outside.

  I'm giving it up.

  I have to because there's no place for me in it. If I can't give it up then I put us all in danger. I know that now.

  The clock strikes half past midnight. Outside there are no stars in our patch of sky. I stand up in the dark. I feel stiff and grope my way to the top of the steep stairs. For a moment I stand still. I listen to my breathing in the dark.

  I'm scared.

  Scared that I might fall and never stop.

  Scared that I'll never make love to a girl.

  Scared I'm a coward.

  Scared we're trapped.

  Scared we'll be caught.

  Scared that it's my own ghost standing there, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. That this is it—all that's left of my life.

  I take a step forward ... first one and then another ... I feel my way in the dark, until I'm at the bottom of the stairs and can reach out in the dark for the edge of my bed.

  I lie in it with my eyes wide open—and wait for sleep.

  SEPTEMBER 15, 1942—ANNE AND PETER ARGUE

  Anne's standing in my doorway. For once she's not insulting me. She just insults my room instead.

  "You know, Peter, if only you put a rug there and a cupboard on the wall, or maybe some pictures ... Mmm!" she says, and she puts one hand on her hip and her head to one side, a finger on her lips. She's looking at my tiny room, but by the look in her eyes it could be a palace—with her, of course, as its world-class decorator. She makes me smile sometimes, even though she's so irritating, especially when she comes into my room without asking.

  "Mmm," she says again, "you could put up a table or a shelf and do you have your own bedcover? Patchwork is good to brighten a dark room, and there's space on your wall for pictures..." She casts me a sly glance, as if she knows exactly who I'd like to hang on my wall. And she goes on talking. I stare at her. The words don't stop. They just pour out of her. If they were bullets, we could stop a whole platoon with them. A few thousand Annes and the world might be saved. I see a picture in my mind, a cartoon. A frontline full of Annes.

  "Talk!" yells the commanding officer and at once they all begin. The opposition fall like skittles as the words hit them. I laugh. Then blush. Anne stops mid-sentence. We stare at each other. She's very thin. Her eyes are very brown and the light in them dances. Her hair curls and kinks around her face like electricity. But behind all her words she's still a child—not like Liese.

  "What was in the book you stole?" she blurts out. I blush again.

  "It's not for children," I say.

  She curls her lip and turns on her heel. She changes her mind, stops and looks back at me. She's angry, there are two bright spots of red on her cheeks.

  "It's obvious to everyone, you know," she says.

  "What is?" I ask. I feel the blush hot on my cheeks, and my heart sinks.

  "That you're a lovesick puppy!" she hisses, and she spins around and leaves.

  Hearing her say it, it's like a punch in the gut. Is it? Is it obvious? I hate her. What does she know? Nothing but books and words. I'm furious. I'm blushing and that just makes me even more furious. What right does she have to come into my room? Who does she think she is? Mutti says we should put a pea in her bed and see if she's really quite as noble as she thinks she is.

  A lovesick puppy!

  The words tear at me.

  Am I lovesick?

  Yes. I think I am.

  Is it something to be ashamed of?

  I don
't know.

  Maybe sometimes there are no answers. Maybe sometimes there are only the feelings and the questions—1 ike, where are you, Liese?

  Are you dead?

  Why?

  Because you were born a Jew.

  Why?

  Another question no one can answer.

  Maybe I'm ashamed because it's hard not to feel ashamed, when just being born is something you can be killed for.

  I remember that feeling, that shame. But shame is a feeling for free men. I am less than a man now. I am a Häftling—a beast of burden, carrying their hate. A beast who has been forced to lose sight of everything except the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. And when that fails, I must take one breath after the other—and survive.

  Lying here doing nothing makes the feelings waken.

  I do not want to feel.

  This shame—the shame of being a Häftling.

  SEPTEMBER 23, 1942—ANNE AND PETER ARE PLAYING IN THE ATTIC

  Nothing happens. Everything happens. Anne reads and talks and drives us all mad. Margot studies and cleans and is kind and quiet. Mutti cooks and flirts with Mr. Frank (yes she does, I know she does, I wish she wouldn't, but maybe she's bored, like I am). Papi looks forward to the next meal, repairs everything until there's nothing left that's broken—and smokes and tells jokes. Mrs. Frank mends our clothes, praises Margot, and gets angry with Anne. Mr. Frank reads and smiles and tries to keep the peace. Some nights we listen to the radio. I hate it. It reminds me that everyone's fighting while I just sit here—and listen.

  Afterward we all argue about what it means.

  "You see it will all be over in a few months!"

  "It will never end and we'll all die in the camps!"

  But all we're really talking about is how we feel that day. Yet you must never say so—ever! If you do you are suddenly the enemy, and you'll be shot down in flames, like a plane.

  We don't want reason. We don't want truth. We just want to believe that the British will come, because if they don't ... well if they don't, we won't be here to tell anyone about it. Which is why ... we don't want reason and we don't want truth. We just want to believe ... and so we go on. Round and round, in the same rooms, with the same people. In the half-dark. It's always half dark, even in the daytime. Only in the attic is there light. And sky. But in winter I know that some days the light will never arrive. The thought scares me.