Annexed Page 8

  "There is absolutely no reason why your sister should clear up after you and your affectations!" I hear him whisper to her. Anne nods and swallows. She holds her head up, but her fallen hair makes her look ridiculous.

  "I'll help," I say, and together we do the washing up. Margot dries. You'd be amazed at how silently we manage it in the half-dark.

  "You don't have to help, Margot," says Anne, but Margot doesn't answer.

  "Doesn't everyone think you're perfect enough already?" Anne hisses. Margot sighs.

  Anne giggles. "You thought Boche was a girl, didn't you, Peter?"

  "Leave him alone, Anne!" says Margot. I wash another plate.

  "He did! He thought he was going to have babies!" I blush some more.

  "I hadn't checked," I say. "He had a swollen stomach."

  "Everyone makes mistakes, Anne, even you!" Margot mutters, but Anne ignores her.

  "Can you tell whether it's a boy or a girl? Do you know how?" she asks.

  "Mmmm," I say.

  "I am here," hisses Margot.

  "Are you?" asks Anne.

  "Cats!" I say, and then blush.

  If they were cats their backs would be arched and they would be showing each other their teeth. Or at least Anne would. Margot would just stick her tail in the air and walk away. Which is what I do as soon as we've finished. "Come down with me if you want, and I'll show you he's a boy," I say. I don't think they'll come, not really, but Anne follows me down the stairs. When we get there Boche isn't around. I sit against the wall and we wait. I don't want to talk. This is my place, my quiet place. I don't really know what to do with Anne in it. After a while we leave.

  Later I go down on my own. I'm trying to dig out a picture on some old cork tiles. It's good because it takes a long time. Down each side I've cut out a curtain and a slice of window. I'm drawing the houseboat across the canal. Well, cutting it out really. It's very basic. I'm not very good at it, but I like it because it takes time. Anything that takes time is good.

  It's so dark in the room that I almost do it by feel. I hear the footsteps, even though they're very quiet. I hide the work quickly and pick up Boche. He yowls and Anne pokes her head through the door. Her hair's tied back, with just a few curls escaping, and she has her ragged old dressing gown over her clothes. It's cold. Sometimes we wear nearly everything we possess—and if we're lucky the old holes cover up the new ones.

  "Hello!"

  "Hello!"

  She comes over to Boche and holds her hands out.

  "What are you doing with him?" she asks. Boche twists away from her and I dig my fingers into his thick fur, running my hands along his spine the way he likes. After a bit he settles. When I look up, Anne's staring at me—at my hands.

  "What?" I ask. I wish she'd go away. I like being alone in the dark, feeling a picture take shape. I like the sound of Boche yawning and prowling.

  "So, how do you tell if he's a he?" she asks, and blushes.

  "Oh, right, well it's right here."

  I tip Boche over and show her.

  "He's a male cat, you can tell because he doesn't have teats, and he has this instead."

  I point, it's hard to say the word.

  "Oh!" says Anne, "and is it the same in humans?"

  "Yes," I say, looking hard at Boche, who's scrabbling to turn over, "although not furry!"

  We both start to laugh.

  It's obvious she doesn't know much. She asks a lot of questions, mostly about how it's possible not to get preg nant. She asks if Mutti and Papi only wanted one child. It's nice to be the one who knows a little bit more than she does for a change.

  Boche begins to tap my hand with his paw; he wants to play. I hide a bean in my hand.

  "Peter?" Anne blurts out. "Women and men are different, aren't they?"

  "Yes," I smile. I wonder what it is Anne wants to know. When she wants to know something, nothing will stop her, not even the fact that she's obviously embarrassed. But then she says, "Well I know that geschlechsteil means sexual organ, and I know the woman's name for it, but what's the man's called?"

  I'm so shocked I don't say anything for a while.

  I'm shocked by the word.

  I'm shocked that she's asking me.

  I'm shocked to be talking to a girl about boys.

  "You know all about Greek," I say, "but not about this?"

  "Well," she says, and smiles, "you can only get so much from books."

  I don't know what to say. I don't want to get into trouble. What will Mr. Frank think of me, discussing the word penis with his daughter? Should I be having this conversation?

  "I'll ask my parents," I blurt out. "After all they're the ones with the experience in these matters!"

  She nods seriously, not realizing it was a joke. Thank goodness for that. I don't want Mr. Frank to think I'm corrupting his daughter. Although it feels more like she's corrupting me.

  I pick up the key and head for the stairs.

  "Can you ask your parents?" she says.

  "Mmm," I mutter.

  "It's just that I heard your mother say that she never discussed such things with you."

  "You heard that?"

  "I hear a lot," she says.

  "Well"—I take deep breath—"perhaps Mutti just didn't want to hear what a fat flirt she was who should know better than to tell her son such things!"

  I give her a big smile and run up the stairs.

  FEBRUARY 1, 1944—PETER CATCHES SIGHT OF THE DIARY

  Anne's sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling. For a moment I think I might get a glance at the famous diary she always says she's writing, but all she's doing is writing her name over and over. Signing it, like she's practicing for when she's famous. She stops and sighs. A deep sigh, right up from her guts. "Do you think anyone will ever know about us?" she asks, but quietly, because there's always someone around who might hear. And if our parents do hear us ask a question, they leap on it like a cat with a rat, and pull it to pieces until there's nothing left for us to even want to think about. I sit down next to her.

  "I don't know," I say. "What do you mean? Just us, in here, or the whole of the race?"

  "Oh no!" she says, and she half smiles. "Just us, in here, in the Annex. Thinking about any of the rest of it's just too depressing." She's whispering. I'd never noticed before that whispering is intimate.

  "It's not forever," I say. "Hopefully."

  "No?" she asks, and she looks sad. Sad and thin and tired and young. And the dark circles under her eyes look darker. I ruffle her hair. I don't know why, it just feels like she needs comforting. She smiles at me.

  I look at the exercise book and she closes it quickly. Ah, it must be the diary! I look away.

  "Sometimes," I say, "I look at something I've made and wonder if it'll still be here when I've gone."

  I don't know if that's what she means, but it's the best I can do.

  "That's different," she whispers.

  "Different from what?"

  "From words and stories and ideas." I notice our heads are nearly touching. I reach out for the diary, stroke it. She doesn't stop me.

  "But this is still a thing, isn't it?" I ask. "I mean, these words, they'll still be here, won't they, even if we ... if we aren't?" I manage to say.

  She stares at me, and it feels good. It feels like I've surprised her.

  "They burned books," she whispers. "They burned them, in piles. Loads of them."

  I nod. "I know, Anne, but it's like your father says, they can't burn ideas. Not all of them." She nods again. And then she lifts her head and stares at me.

  "Why don't you talk more, Peter?" she says. I smile. Will there ever be a time when there's not a question inside Anne Frank?

  "Well, look what happens when I do. I just get tongue-tied and blush, or it comes out angry. Anyway, most of the time I just wish I was still two years old and could punch someone instead of talking!"

  "Like Dr. Pfeffer?" she asks.

  I nod. He irritates me.
<
br />   "I talk too much!" she says. And because there's nothing much else to do, and because it feels like she wants me to, I try to talk. I talk like I stroke Mouschi, to soothe him. I talk about nothing. I talk because Anne's eyes remind me of how I felt when I first got here, alone and scared and unable to think about any of it. She curls up on the sofa and gazes at me, and somehow that makes it easier, because it doesn't really matter what I say, does it? Anne will probably just turn it into something else anyway. Something that suits her better!

  FEBRUARY 3, 1944—PETER CAN'T FIND THE WORDS

  I wish I had words like Anne and Margot. I wish I could write instead of draw. I wish I could describe how it feels to be stuck in here. A teacher once told us about torture. She said it isn't just the pain that hurts; it's the knowing. Knowing that the pain will happen. It's like that in here. We all know, but we have to pretend we don't, otherwise, why bother? Why go on if you're just going to die anyway?

  Will we make it?

  The question gnaws at us. It eats us up from the inside out. It's like a scratching behind the walls at night. You want to jump out of bed and find it. You want to kill the mouse or rat that's doing it. But you want to stay asleep, too, warm and cozy in your bed.

  Pretending it's not there.

  But our parents can't stop worrying at the rat, picking it up and shaking it between their teeth. When will the invasion come? Why aren't the British faster? Will it be the British, or the Americans? Do we care? No! What if the food runs out? How strong are the Germans? How long will the Dutch resist? How much for eight Jews? It goes on day after day, the same questions, the same arguments.

  Endlessly.

  It really looks like it might be ending. Everyone thinks it will come soon. Everyone is excited. Everyone is scared.

  I think it will be a relief for all the office staff when we're gone.

  And a relief for me not to have to watch Pfeffer fiddling about anymore. He gets up. Sits down. Gets up. Sits down. He picks his nose and he rubs his chin. I wish I could cut his fingers off when I see it. I leave the table, even though I'm hungry. I'm always hungry. Only Pfeffer could make me walk away from food.

  "Peter! Sit down!"

  "Excuse me, I'm not hungry."

  "Don't be rude!"

  I sit down. It's not me who's rude. It's not me with my finger up my nose at the table. I look down so I can't see him.

  "I can't bear it when children sulk," he says. I sigh. Margot sends me a glance of pure pity. Anne just looks relieved that it's not her in trouble for a change.

  I think of my friend Hans. I haven't thought about him for ages. I wish he was here. Why did the Franks have to have just girls? If Margot was a boy we could play catch in the attic. Hans would know what I mean about Pfeffer. I wish it was him sitting opposite me, not Margot. I wonder where he is now. No I don't. No I don't. We used to joke that we both looked so German we could join the Hitler Youth. Perhaps he's a spy? If I got out of here could I be a spy?

  I could do it.

  The thought fills me with excitement.

  I could stand up right now and walk down the stairs and into the street.

  What would happen? Maybe nothing.

  "Please may I leave the table?"

  "Yes," Mutti says quickly, before anyone else can say anything. Mrs. Frank gives a sharp snort of disapproval. I go into my room. I can still hear them all, of course. They're right next door. I lie on the bed and pretend I'm a spy. I infiltrate the Nazi intelligence and blow up the labor exchange.

  It feels good.

  Until I have to get up and start French and English homework.

  In French they don't say I love you; they say, Je t'adore.

  Italian: Te amo.

  German: Ich liebe dich.

  Dutch: Ik hou van jou.

  Anne and Margot could probably tell you how to say it in Latin and Greek, and write it in shorthand too! Well, good luck to them. How often do you fall in love with an ancient Roman or a Greek god?

  If I ever get out of here I'm going to make love in so many languages—to a girl from every nation (except Germany). Or if I find Liese, I'll make love to just one girl in every language.

  I have a list of things to do if I ever get out of here.

  I'll make money.

  I'll eat whatever I want.

  Wear different clothes every day.

  Buy a trilby.

  I won't be a Jew, or a Christian or anything; I'll just be a man.

  I'll make furniture. I'll swim in the sea. I'll have cats. I'll live. I'll never see Pfeffer or the Franks again. But right at this very moment I have to study commercial English. It is so boring. Shipments. Trainloads. Here's my letter.

  Dear Sir/Madam,

  I am pleased to inform you that we have your requirement of one shipload of prophylactics, as requested. These are for your newly freed Jews.

  As you are aware, they are captive for years many now. And the need is quite high up, I believe. Please dispatch, forthwith, the said sum. Yours faithfully,

  Peter van Pels

  I have to underline the relevant business phrases. I didn't give this letter to Mr. Frank to mark, even though it's quite good for me! Maybe I'll show it to Margot; maybe not.

  I like to see her blush sometimes.

  FEBRUARY 13, 1944—PETER STRUGGLES WITH DR. PFEFFER

  Pfeffer is driving me mad. He can't sit still. We should have made it clear: Please do not come and live in such a small space if you are incapable of not moving. We're trying to listen to the radio, he's up and down and fiddling with the reception, pretending to make it better until I can't bear it.

  "Please, can't you just stop?" I mutter.

  "I'll be the judge of when I stop!" he says.

  "A poor judge!" The words come out before I know it. I blush.

  "Yes, Fritz, sit down and allow us all to listen in peace!" says Father. Mutti sends him a glance of approval. I look at the floor.

  FEBRUARY 14, 1944—ANNE AND PETER ARE IN THE ATTIC TOGETHER

  I'm lying in a patch of sunlight in the attic. It's cold; cold and dusty all around me. On my left the clothes are drying. Sometimes I swap them around, just for fun. I put Mutti's big knickers next to Mr. Frank's underwear. It makes me smile. It makes Mutti so cross when the washing gets mixed up.

  I concentrate on the sun on my face. I try to forget that it's not really summer. I pretend we still live on Zuider-Amstellaan near Merwedeplein and that I'm on a day trip to the beach. I can hear the waves beside me; feel the sand beneath me. The open sky and air are all around me. Soon, I'll sit up and we'll have a picnic, and when I get back we'll all go to Oasis, the ice cream parlor where all us kids used to go. Anne was always there; she could have been bought ice creams every day for a year! Everybody loved her. Other times I'm on the beach at Zaandvoort and sometimes I'm just floating in the sea.

  Weightless.

  Anne and Margot sometimes pretend they're on the flat roof at Merwedeplein. Anne says she's with her grandmother. Margot, as usual, says nothing, but thinks a lot. I look at them both sometimes, with their heads so close together that their hair tangles. But today it's just me.

  "Peter?"

  I didn't notice Anne in the corner, searching through a box of books.

  She's so quiet I didn't hear a thing. Anne isn't so clumsy these days. There was a time when she couldn't make it through a room without banging into something or knocking it over.

  "Mmm?" I say.

  I open my eyes. Just a bit. Above me the chestnut tree is golden in the light. The sun's a halo around its brown branches. In autumn the leaves are as gold as coins. Or brown—and sometimes, but not often—there's a red leaf. They fall off the tree in shoals.

  "I wish I could do that," I whisper.

  "What?" Anne says.

  "Float away, like leaves."

  I feel her head arrive on the floor next to mine. She has to put it there. The patch of sunlight's only small.

  "But then they all die, silly!" she
says. I close my eyes. I don't answer. The sunlight's so glorious after winter. Wonderful. We just lie there—it's nice. I wish we could float away like this in the sun. Like leaves. But we can't—and it's only February, and so even with each other's body warmth it's too cold to lie still for long. We sit up.

  "I hate Pfeffer sometimes," I hear myself say. She smiles at me.

  "He's not that bad, just irritating." She smiles.

  "I didn't mean to be so rude yesterday, I just ... Sometimes the wrong words come out and I just..."

  "I know."

  "You don't, you're never at a loss for what to say."

  "Which is why I sometimes say too much."

  "Sometimes I wish I could punch him! Why don't you tell him, Anne, at least he might listen then?" But Anne just laughs.

  "Peter," she begins, "do you really think..." But I don't want any more questions. I'm sick of them. I just want a moment without them. I just want the sky and the tree and the feel of the sunlight on my face. So I raise my hand to her lips, and touch her mouth with the tip of my finger. Her eyes widen. Her lips feel soft, but dry—flaky beneath my fingers. Her eyes go very still. I take my finger away and she smiles.

  And for once she doesn't say a word.

  We watch the patch of sunlight crawl up the wall and disappear. She puts her head on my shoulder. And I put my arm around her. She is thin, like cat bones. We sit together for a while.

  And it's nice.

  It's not good to remember such things here in the camp. We're sometimes five in a bunk. But there's no warmth. We are alone. Each alone. Each in a fight against chance to last one more hour. One more day. One more night. One more life. We do it by standing on others. We do it by standing together. But in the end, each man does it alone.

  What else is possible when death waits?

  FEBRUARY 16, 1944—MARGOTS BIRTHDAY

  In the morning I go and give Margot her present. It's a doorstop. It's meant to be a joke. I mean, we never need to keep doors open, we need more time with them closed. She closes her eyes and smiles.

  "Thanks, Peter!"

  "That's all right, I hope ... well, I mean..."