Annexed Read online

  She's standing by the sink washing up after supper.

  "Mutti?" I whisper in her ear, and she turns and smiles at me.

  "Peter!" she says, and it's hard, hard to say the words when she's smiling and looking at me like that—so happy to have me near her. But I do it. I say the words quickly.

  "Mutti, they've emptied the apartment."

  At first she just closes her eyes. Closes her eyes and stands there. She turns away from me and puts her palms down on the old granite surface and takes a deep breath. I watch, helpless, as she grits her teeth, lifts her hands, and wraps her fingers around the brass tap, squeezing.

  "I won't cry, I won't cry," she whispers.

  Papi comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her.

  "Kerli," she whispers, "our home, our..."

  "Gusti," he says.

  And he holds her.

  "Please," she whispers to him, "please don't tell me we're lucky ... don't ... I just can't..."

  Papi rests his head against her shoulder.

  "No..." he says. "I won't."

  "Everything?" she asks, and he nods his head against her body. She sags.

  "Papi," I whisper, "do you want to lie down in my room?"

  He nods, and they walk the few steps to my room.

  I close the door. They're lying there together, holding each other. This is all we have now. These four rooms that aren't even ours, but borrowed from the Franks. These rooms—and each other.

  NOVEMBER 8, 1942—PETER IS SIXTEEN

  Today is the eighth of November. I'm sixteen.

  I hear Anne's footsteps running up the stairs. "Wake up! Wake up, Peter, aren't you excited?"

  I smile.

  Mutti and Papi have tried so hard. There is a board game, a razor, even though I haven't got much to shave, a cigarette lighter, and two cigarettes. I think of the piles of presents I used to have on my birthday and going out to tea in any place I chose. Now there are only these few things, and they are a miracle of effort.

  I smile at Mutti. "Thank you!"

  Last night she came into my room. She didn't say anything. She sat on the bed and held my hand. After a while she left. Sometimes there's nothing that can be said.

  Now it's my birthday, and Anne's standing in our kitchen as though it's the most exciting day of the year, and so something has to be said, however we feel.

  "Hey, cigarettes!" I lift one to my mouth and pretend to smoke it. I strut with my hand behind my back and say in German, "Ach, so, you are in hiding, yah? You say you are German? German? Can a Jew be German?"

  "No!" says Anne passionately. "We'll never be German again. We're Dutch now!"

  "No!" I say in German. "You are not Dutch or German. You are only Jewish!" Everybody laughs except me. I don't know why I said it. It's not even funny. It's sad.

  I stand by the window and wish I could look out.

  "Ah," I say. "Nothing like a good smoke first thing in the morning!" And then I turn back. "Thanks, Papi."

  Mutti has the beginning of tears in her eyes. "I am..." she says. "I am so..."

  "I know," I say quickly, hoping she'll stop, hoping that she won't say it. But she goes on anyway, as I know she will, as I know she has to, however much I wish she wouldn't. "I'm so grateful you are here," she says. I nod, and make myself smile and look at her.

  "I know," I answer. And I do. I do know. I know that sometimes love is as hard to bear as hate, that it can hurt as much.

  I wonder what Mr. Frank would say about that!

  Anne follows me around all day.

  "So, Peter van Pels, what's it like to be sixteen?" She holds an imaginary microphone to my face. "Don't worry, I can make you incognito in my diary. So you can say whatever you like, and no one will ever know it was you!" She gives me that last bit of information when I'm right at the top of the attic steps, with a sack full of beans on my back. I turn and the whole sack splits, beans pour out, bouncing everywhere. The noise is terrifying! Anne drops her imaginary microphone and covers her head as they shower down around her. At last, I've finally found a way of shutting her up! When the noise stops she lifts her head and looks up, shocked. She reminds me of a newly born chick poking its head out of its shell. We wait, the way we always do after a loud noise.

  "Goodness!" says Mutti, popping her head around the door. "Lucky that wasn't heard by a passing policeman! Pick them all up, both of you, birthday or no birthday."

  We start to pick up the beans.

  "You looked just like a chick!" I say.

  "Well you looked like a convict!"

  "What? I did not!"

  "You did!" She starts to laugh. "You looked just like someone who's been caught doing something bad!"

  We laugh together. Quietly. We laugh so hard that we have to sit down.

  So! She writes about me in her diary, does she? I wonder what she says.

  Later we all go and listen to the radio.

  "Peter," Father whispers. "The best birthday present! The Allies have landed in North Africa! Listen!"

  I listen to Mr. Churchill's voice.

  "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning!" I look over at Anne and smile. Her lips are moving, trying out the words. Over the next few days she says them over and over again. She takes the words apart and puts them back together again, and when she's finished she announces that they are perfect.

  "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning. Do you get it, Peter?" she says for the millionth time.

  "So it's not nearly over then?" I ask.

  And for some reason everybody laughs.

  Trains. A platform.

  That was the beginning of our end.

  The selected.

  It is hard to believe there was ever a before.

  Or that there could ever be an after.

  Is there anybody left?

  Is anyone listening?

  The bodies around me still make noises, they sigh, even though they are dead.

  I wait for the command.

  But still it doesn't come.

  WYSTAWACH!

  Wake up!

  The word that will make me move—get up—and go on dying.

  NOVEMBER 16, 1942—THE ARRIVAL OF AN EIGHTH PERSON IN THE ANNEX

  Last week Mr. Frank announced that there would be another person in the Annex. He didn't ask me if I minded, although everybody's been talking about it.

  "It's a good thing!" says Anne quickly. "And I don't mind sharing my room. I mean, what does that matter if we can save one more person?"

  I stare at her. I hate the thought of another person here, even if it is Dr. Pfeffer, the dentist. He's nice enough, and the woman he lives with, Lotte, is lovely. But, still, another person—one more in the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, in fact, everywhere.

  Mutti and Papi are nodding. "It'll be difficult, but a good thing to do—Anne's right," says Papi.

  Well, that's not what he said last night when the Franks had gone to bed.

  I look at Margot.

  "Margot will share with us, so it will inconvenience you as little as possible," says Mrs. Frank—and suddenly I feel ashamed. That means they'll have no privacy at all, and we will—especially me. It also means I can't say anything against it. We don't have the right. This isn't our Annex. I stare at my knees hoping no one can tell what I'm thinking.

  I always thought I liked Dr. Pfeffer, but now I know I don't. His face looks different in the Annex. It's pudgy, and there's a dimple in his chin that moves when he speaks. He's tall and he always knows best. He's always talking about his Lotte, who he's left behind. Lucky she's not Jewish; otherwise we might have had to fit her in as well! Although I always liked her more than him.

  "You'll soon remember how much you like him if you get toothache!" Mr. Frank says.

  I won't.

  Dr. Pfeffer walks into the Annex with the outside still clinging to him.
He moves differently from the rest of us. He feels too big and too loud. He doesn't fit. He squints as though it's too dark, and leans forward to see and hear us better.

  He brings news I don't want and can't ignore. He tells us how terrible it is out there; that they're rounding up Jews, netting us like fish. The south of the city where we used to live is ringed off so no one can escape. They go from house to house. Searching. Questioning. Looking for anyone hiding.

  "But where are they taking us all?" asks Father.

  "You've heard the rumors, haven't you?" says Dr. Pfeffer. And it makes me want to punch him. Is he enjoying it? Loving being the one with all the news.

  "There's a camp near Westerbork. They shave everybody's heads. They say they're only relocating us. They say they're sending us to work camps, they say many things. Who knows what the truth is?"

  There's a long silence.

  "How much longer must we wait?" whispers Mutti.

  "It's not only us suffering," Pfeffer says, looking around at all of us. "It's the Dutch too. Every act of resistance, the Nazis kill someone. Doesn't matter who. One moment an innocent man's walking home, the next he's up against a wall—then he's dead!"

  Pfeffer shakes his head. I stroke Mouschi. Our parents ask questions, over and over again, as though they really believe that if they could only understand it properly then one day it might actually make sense.

  Margot stares at them and sighs quietly.

  Anne is pale and shaking, she stands up and leaves. Mouschi leaps off my lap and follows her down the stairs. After a while, so do I.

  She's standing by the window in the front office, peering through the tiny gap between the blackout curtain and the glass, down onto the street below. I stand behind her and look over her shoulder onto the slice of street. It's surprising how much you can see through such a narrow gap. It's dark and the gaslight shines on the water of the canal. A line of people comes into view walking along the street—a line of Jews. They straggle, but there are plenty of guards to watch over them. The people are shadowy in the dusk. They look strangely bulky.

  "They must be wearing all their clothes," whispers Anne. She has tears in her eyes.

  They look so close, even though they're walking right by the canal. It feels like we could reach out and touch them. We stand very still, scared to move; scared someone might turn and notice a movement behind the dark windows.

  A baby cries out and a woman in the line stops. She has a suitcase in one hand and the baby in the other. She can't carry both of them. The guard shouts at her, pushes her. She drops the suitcase and holds onto the child.

  And then they're gone and the street is quiet. Only the suitcase is left, lying on its side. Anne's breath mists the glass.

  Neither of us speaks.

  Out of the shadows comes a skinny, ragged boy. He opens the case and begins to pull out clothes and candlesticks from it. Soon there's a silent crowd of children all pulling and fighting in the street. They come from nowhere. In seconds it's over and the street is empty again. The suitcase lies wide open. A man steps off the houseboat onto the street. Anne steps back rapidly, straight into my chest. The man feels very close. For just a moment I'm holding her in my arms where I can feel her shaking. "Sorry!" she whispers, and when we look back, the suitcase has gone.

  There's only the lamplight shining on an empty street.

  "Slum children!" hisses Anne, but her cheeks have tears on them, two of them glistening like small candle flames. I don't answer and she runs upstairs. I can still feel the sudden shape of her in my arms.

  Mouschi twines himself around my legs.

  I look out at the sliver of empty street.

  All sign of the people has gone.

  There's only a memory left.

  My memory.

  I'm frightened.

  Frightened that I'll forget.

  ***

  That night I dream. I dream I'm holding something in my hands. I can't look at it. It's bristly like a pig's back—but also somehow smooth and round. I cradle it to my chest. I hold it close like a baby. I know I must keep it safe. Treasure it. Never drop it. Hold onto it forever. It is very heavy.

  I look down.

  Liese's eyes stare back at me.

  I'm holding her shaven head close in my hands.

  These are my memories. I cannot stop them coming.

  If I lay them before you, will you believe them?

  You, who remain on the outside?

  Are you listening?

  In the Annex I could wake up from my dreams—but in the camps the dream never ends. I wake up and the nightmare is real.

  I can't really believe it is happening myself, so why should you?

  Do you?

  Will you notice that I'm missing—or that the street looks strangely empty?

  Ach! She made the right decision that woman. She didn't need her suitcase where she was going. But then again, she didn't need her child either.

  NOVEMBER 18, 1942—PETER THINKS ABOUT GOD

  It's dark when we wake up and even darker when we go to bed. We go to bed early. We get up late. Sometimes there's frost on the inside of the glass. We shiver. We wear all our clothes. Anne and Margot even wear their dressing gowns on top of everything. We do anything we can to make the time pass. We're waiting.

  Waiting for news.

  Waiting for the war to end.

  Will we make it?

  Will we run down Prinsengracht again one day? It's best not to think about it. I set myself tasks. I've drawn all the streets around here. I've drawn the route from here back to Merwedeplein, near where we used to live, with landmarks along the streets. And the tram route from Merwedeplein to Zaandvoort. I've drawn the streets around Prinsengracht.

  When I'm sitting in the attic at night I picture being in a plane. I look down and see all the streets spread out around me. I imagine the chemists and the cafés. Sometimes Anne and Margot and I try to remember all the shops in a particular street—or all the stops on a tram route.

  "We haven't really been to many places, have we?" Anne says.

  "Well, you spent time in Aachen with Granny!" says Margot.

  "Yes, but Germany and Holland, it's hardly the world, is it?"

  "Where would you go, Peter?" asks Margot. I curl up on the bed and think.

  "I'd like to go somewhere hot: with sand for me and maybe a forest for Mouschi!"

  "It's so cold," says Anne.

  "Freezing!" we all say together.

  Margot sighs: "I'd go to America!"

  "Why?" laughs Anne.

  Margot shrugs. "I want to go somewhere new," she says. "Somewhere where none of this has happened."

  Anne stares at her. "I think you're both mad. I don't ever want to leave!" she says. "I want to stay here in Holland forever!"

  "And marry Mr. Ku-gler!" laughs Margot.

  "Mar-got!"

  "An-ne!" says Margot, exactly like Anne.

  "Right!" says Anne.

  I get up off the bed and out of the way. Anne and Margot go for each other. They're furious and concentrated and silent. That's what's so funny. They're lethal with the pillows, but they do it all so silently. I catch Margot's glasses before they hit the floor. Anne stops.

  "Are they broken?"

  "No."

  "Thank goodness. Sorry."

  "Quits?" asks Margot.

  "Quits!" And they collapse in giggles.

  "Mr. Kugler!" laughs Anne. "What an idea! How desperate would you have to be?"

  For some reason they both look at me. I give Margot her glasses back and leave the room. Their giggles follow me all the way up the stairs.

  "Good to see you smiling!" says Mutti, but Papi signals silently that he wants to talk. I walk into my room and a few minutes later he follows.

  "Can you make a menorah, Peter?" he asks.

  "The Franks'll have one," I say quickly. I don't want to think of the menorah we had at home; the thick silver candlesticks we lit each Friday evening. It's gone now,
and there's nothing I can do about it.

  "And what about Mutti?" he asks. "Will the Franks bring it up here each night? Will it be special to her?"

  I don't answer.

  "Well?" he says.

  "Perhaps we could ask Miep to..." I look up. We both know what I was about to say—and that it's stupid.

  "Right! So exactly which workshop is Miep going to walk into and ask for a Jewish menorah to be made?" Papi asks.

  I breathe out. Papi sits down next to me.

  "Sorry," he says. "I would make it myself, Peter, but you know how much it would mean to her if you did it."

  "All right. But don't tell anyone I made it."

  He stands up. "If anyone asks we'll say I made it; and thank you, Peter."

  "I'll do it in the storeroom and the attic, so she doesn't know."

  He smiles.

  Mutti's head appears around the door: "What are you two cooking up?"

  "Nothing as tasty as you are!" says Papi.

  "Shh! the Franks will hear!"

  "And what's wrong with that?" he replies. "Isn't a man allowed to find his wife tasty?"

  "Oh, please!" I say.

  "Well I wouldn't make much of a meal these days," Mutti mumbles. "We're all turning to skin and bone."

  ***

  Later, I find a piece of paper and begin to draw. A Hanukkah menorah must have nine candleholders. I make a diagram and begin to plan.

  Mr. Voskuijl, Bep's father, finds the wood for me. I would like to make it all out of one piece of wood, but that's not possible, so I do it in pieces and make joins.

  I like to carve at night, downstairs in the storeroom or warehouse. I like the smell. I like being alone. I like the way that Boche, the warehouse cat, sometimes comes and sits beside me. It's good to feel my hands working again. I can see the shape in the wood; the shape that will come if I make the right cuts in the right places. I think of the wood, of its grain. I imagine where it wants to give itself to me and where it will resist. The curves grow under my hands. Eight side candles, with a raised ninth one in the center. Nine flames—one for each person in the Annex, and one for the temple.

  As I carve each one I make a sign, a notch in the wood, a symbol for each person. Anne is an eye because she sees everything. Father is a smile and Mother a hand. They all come easily. Mr. Frank is a book, also easy. Margot is the hardest. She slips in and out of my mind and I have to wait and see what comes. Mrs. Frank is a needle. She's sharp, but she also mends all our things! Pfeffer's easy—a sour lemon! Margot's a wave. I don't know why. And me? In the end I make a symbol of the kippah. A Jew. If that's what I am in the eyes of the world, well then, that's what I'll be.