Annexed Page 9

  "That I'll need it one day?" she says gently.

  "Yes!" I say with relief. Margot always seems to know what I mean.

  Anne is in and out of my room all day, needing to go up to the attic. First it's for coffee and then it's for potatoes.

  "I'm spoiling Margot!" she says. "What else have I to give her but my labor?" I get up quickly and move my papers from the attic steps. Hide the drawings. It's taken me a while to get it, but now I'm sure. Anne's decided to fall in love with me. It was Margot who gave me the clue.

  "Anne keeps coming into my room," I told her.

  "Oh!" said Margot. "She's probably being Deanna Durbin in a sports car desperately hoping yet another man won't fall in love with her!" And she held her hand over her mouth. "That was unkind," she said. "Sorry."

  "No," I tell her. "That explains it." And it does. Poor Anne, sitting in a cramped room with Peter van Pels wishing she was a film star!

  I have no illusions. If we weren't stuck in the Annex, Anne Frank wouldn't look twice at me. I remember her eleventh birthday. I was thirteen. I gave her some chocolate, and even as she said thank you she was looking over my shoulder to see who was coming through the door. I don't know what to do about it.

  It was nice that time in the attic, holding each other ... and it's nice to have someone to chat to. But ... there's only one problem. Me. I'm not sure I want to be Anne's substitute lover!

  "Shall I close the trap door?" she asks on her way up the steps.

  I shake my head. "I'll do it. Just knock when you want to come down."

  I think she's hoping I might offer to go up there with her, but I can't.

  I don't know what to do.

  She spends a good ten minutes up in the attic. She must be freezing.

  Is she hoping I'll go up there?

  I don't know.

  I sit and wait for her to come down.

  "Oh," she says airily, "it took me ages. I couldn't find any small ones." I take the pan off her and look. The potatoes are all the size of eggs. They're tiny! I smile at her. She's shivering. I don't know what to say.

  "They all look fine to me," I manage, but for the look of hope in her eyes I don't have any words at all.

  I wish I could say, "It's all right. Don't worry. I know how it feels to want someone to love. I know what it's like to long for it." But I don't say anything. I just look at her, and then she's gone.

  When she comes back again I can't bear it. I try to stop her. I offer to go up to the attic and get the potatoes for her. We argue. She wins. I let her go. I sit down at my desk and put my head in my hands. I look at the steep steps, knowing she's up there waiting.

  I won't go up. I can't. I don't want to.

  "Can I look at your work?" she asks when she finally comes down. She flicks her hair back, tilts her head on one side and gives me a film-star smile. I smile back. She sits on the bed. I stay by the desk.

  I talk. I talk to her about nothing at all: about the way things were at home, the garden, Mutti's meals. It's strange. She draws the words out of me. They grow. I talk about the war. I even tell her how I think Russia and England will end up enemies one day—they have to, they're so different.

  "And us Jews, everyone thinks we're different, and we are," she says.

  The words come out before I think: "But we don't have to be."

  "But, what do you mean?" She sounds so horrified I blush again. I talk about how hopeless I am, how useless with words—and then somehow I try again.

  "But we could be anything, couldn't we? I mean I could have been born a Christian," I say.

  "Would you want to be?" she asks.

  "No! It's not that. I don't mean that. It's more that, well, why be anything?"

  She looks horrified. "Then where would you belong?" she asks. "What are we fighting for if we're all the same?"

  "We wouldn't all be the same! We're both Jews and we're not the same, are we? Anyway, I don't see that it's important that anyone knows whether I'm Jewish or not, at least not after the war."

  "But why would you lie?" she cries.

  "It's not lying it's..." But it's not like thinking out things for myself, or talking to Mouschi. I can't explain. I run out of words.

  "Oh, the Jews will always be the chosen people," I say, angry.

  "Well, it would be nice if for once we were chosen for something good!"

  She laughs, and the moment is over. She goes on talking and it's nice, listening to her voice. Like listening to the sea, whispering over the sand at Zaandvoort.

  "Are you afraid, Peter?" she asks suddenly. I think about it. Am I? Am I afraid? Sometimes I am. I was afraid at the break-in. But mostly I'm not afraid. Not of that. I'm more afraid I won't ever understand how this happened—or why. Mostly I'm afraid of me. Of the thoughts I have and not knowing what to do with them. And so that's what I say.

  But what do I know?

  I was right to be afraid. I was right. We should all fear knowing ourselves.

  Lovers know; they learn it the easy way. We learned it the hard way—the knowledge that our bodies are stronger than our minds. That our bodies will fight to the death for the life within them, whatever we like to think of ourselves.

  FEBRUARY 17, 1944—ANNE IS IN THE VAN PELSES' ROOM, AND MAKES HER FEELINGS CLEAR

  Anne is always up in our rooms now. I can hear her next door, reading to Mutti. I can hear the hum of her voice, but not the words. I like the sound of her voice when she reads.

  "Amazing!" says Mutti when she's finished. "And you really thought all that up yourself? Or was it a real dream you had?"

  "Well," says Anne, "you see, it's what's called a personification. In Greek tales they make trees and rivers and all things into gods, but I've just made them into ideas! So in 'Eve's Dream' the rose is arrogance and the bluebell is modesty!"

  "And what have you done with us, Miss Minx?" asks Mutti. Anne starts to read again. This time Mutti laughs out loud and Anne stops too and giggles. I wonder what it's about. "So in this story we van Pelses are the stomachs and you Franks are brains!" says Mutti.

  "Oh!" says Anne. "I didn't mean..." I go into the room.

  "I like hearing you read," I say.

  This time it's her blushing. "Hang on!" she says and runs downstairs. Mutti raises her eyebrows at me. Anne's up again in a second. We go into my room.

  "Listen to this!" She begins to read. She reads the words so gently and clearly that somehow I can tell they're her words. That it's her making the story happen. I rest my head on the desk and listen. She's talking of a girl, a girl like her, who is sitting on a bench in a garden. A boy comes past. Slowly I feel my face redden beneath my arms. I'm glad my head is hidden. The boy is seventeen. The boy and the girl begin to talk. The words ring in my head:

  "Do I look as though people would be afraid to talk to me?" says the girl.

  "Well, not now that I see you better!" says the boy.

  She's writing about us. The boy in the story is me—or at least I think he is. She goes on reading. Actions, words, things I've said—things she's said, things we've done. They're all jumbled, mixed up together and turned into the words she's reading. I don't know what to do, or what to say. I keep my head down. I go on listening. The boy and girl are talking about God. The questions, the doubts, they're mine. The answers and the conviction, they're Anne's. It's all there written down. Thank God I didn't tell her my real doubts. About God himself.

  "Peter?" she asks, and I realize she's stopped reading, that she's waiting for me to say something. I raise my head. What can I say? Can I tell her the truth—that I feel stolen?

  "Perhaps God is a personification, too," I suggest, but she isn't listening. Her eyes are wide and shining, waiting for something more. We stare at each other. There's nowhere else to look. I don't know what she wants or what to say, except: "I wish you hadn't done that. I wish you hadn't put me in a story and made me feel like nothing I say is safe with you anymore." I can't say that, not when she's looking at me with such hope in
her eyes, waiting to hear how good it is.

  Mutti appears in the doorway. "So many ideas!" she says. "I'm surprised your hair doesn't all fall out! No wonder it's so curly!" I look at her, grateful, and she winks at me.

  "I just wanted you to see," says Anne, her eyes never leaving mine, "that I don't just write to be funny. I can be serious too!"

  I nod. But I don't like how it's made me feel, like anyone could flick a page and pull me out. Anyone could know what she thinks about me without ever guessing what I really think at all. I can't say anything. Anne doesn't notice, or does she? I'm not sure. All I know is that she smiles and leaves.

  Which is a relief.

  FEBRUARY 23, 1944—ANNE AND PETER SPEND TIME TOGETHER

  The sun's shining. Every morning I go up the stairs to the attic and sit in it. Most mornings Anne comes too. We sit in a patch of sunshine. I like it like this best. Quiet. Silent. Just enjoying what's here. Perhaps if I hadn't been stuck in the Annex I would never have noticed how wonderful a tree, just one tree, can be. Or a patch of sunshine. Or the glitter of raindrops on a branch. But that doesn't change the fact that when I get out of here I'm going to paint whole landscapes, wide seas, horizons that go on forever!

  I stretch, get up, and start chopping wood for the stove. Anne follows. I think, Oh no! She'll start talking again. But she doesn't. She stays quiet and watches as I chop—so quiet that I forget she's there after a while.

  I love chopping wood. I love the concentration. I like taking in the grain, working out where to strike, measuring it with my eyes and hitting it just right. Full on, or at an angle, whatever will break the log the right way. I like the swing of the ax. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I imagine I'm hacking our enemies into little tiny pieces. It feels good. I sigh. When I'm finished I look up and smile, remembering she's there.

  "Sometimes," I say, "I imagine I'm in a forest, outside a hut, chopping."

  She smiles and we both look out the window, all the way over the city to the sea. The air is clear and cold. I imagine it on my face. I sigh and close my eyes for just a moment.

  "Wonderful!" I say quietly. Anne nods. I'm surprised. Surprised that she can speak without words.

  And be content.

  FEBRUARY 26, 1944—MR. FRANK IS CONCERNED

  "Oh, but the weather's so beautiful. Please, Daddy!" says Anne.

  "No, Anne." His voice is gentle, but if I were Anne I wouldn't bother to argue. He means it. She pouts and narrows her eyes.

  "Please?" she asks again.

  He smiles. "No," he says back.

  "Why not?" she hisses.

  "Because even though the sun shines, even though we don't feel like it, the work must be done."

  "But I do it every day. Even here, even though there's probably no point!" she says.

  "Anne!" hisses her mother, but Mr. Frank just carries on, quietly.

  "Especially then. Especially when there is no point, because that is when we need something to hold on to," he says. "So go on now. Sit down and do your work."

  Anne gives a big sigh, turns away, and stomps downstairs to her own room. She doesn't see her parents smile at each other.

  "I must see if I can make our clothes hang together for just a little longer," says Mrs. Frank. Mr. Frank pats her on the shoulder. "What would we do without you, Edith?" he whispers. And she smiles. I can see how much his praise means to her. I think it must be nice to have someone feel like that about you. That your thoughts matter.

  I go into my room. I want to draw Mr. Frank. I've wanted to for a long time, but somehow I don't have the courage. I'm not sure I can get him right. I think that maybe if I lie down on the bed for a while and picture him, then it might come to me—the right way to do his face.

  "Peter?"

  I open my eyes and he's there. I sit up quickly. I can see he doesn't think much of me dozing the day away.

  "Yes," I say, "I was just..."

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, do you mind if we talk?" I shake my head. I notice he has closed the door. I notice it's quiet outside. I notice that no one can hear us. I wonder what it is about.

  No I don't.

  I know what it is about.

  "Anne," he says. I nod. His face is kind. His eyes are dark and curious like Anne's.

  "We find ourselves in a difficult situation, wouldn't you say, Peter?" he begins, and then he waits. I don't say anything. I don't know what to say.

  "Anne's very young," he says after a while, "and very determined!" That makes me smile. He smiles back.

  "I would never..." I begin, but he holds up his hand.

  "I'm not here to accuse either of you," he says gently. "I'm here to talk, to think." I nod again. "I suppose," he goes on, "that the problem is that within these walls you young people have so few choices." I nod again. There's not much more I can do.

  "But it's not only Anne that's here, Peter. You see there's Margot too, and she..." He sighs, "she would never, well, make quite as much of an effort to be noticed, shall we say, as Anne does."

  I nod again.

  "Two girls, but only one of you."

  I smile and blush.

  "So what will you do?"

  I'm not sure if he's really asking me the question, or whether he's talking to himself.

  "I don't know," I say.

  "Well, perhaps we should think about it?"

  "I ... sir ... Mr. Frank ... I think Margot thinks of me more as a brother."

  "Mmm, if you know what Margot is thinking, Peter, then you know far more than any of the rest of us do."

  We don't say anything for a while. I wonder whether I should mention how desperate Anne is to know more about men's bodies, or how wonderful it is to sit in the attic together in a patch of sunlight. I wonder if Mr. Frank ever felt worried that he might never make love to a girl. I wonder how they all find it so easy to put these things into words. Just the thought of trying makes me start to blush and stammer. So I don't say anything at all.

  "And Anne?" he asks.

  "Anne wants to be adored!" I blurt out. "And I'm the only one here."

  He laughs.

  "Oh, I know Anne wouldn't even notice me out of here," I say.

  "Peter, you have no vanity at all; a wonderful trait in a person!"

  "Thank you!" Now I really am blushing.

  "Mr. Frank?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you for hiding us." The words come out very formally. "I would never do anything to ... to make you sorry."

  He pats my shoulder. "I know that you wouldn't intend to, Peter, but I also know that our bodies can be stronger than our intentions at your age. Anne is only fourteen, even though she has always believed herself to be older than she is. And, Peter, she isn't always kind."

  "I ... don't..."

  "Well, I'm afraid she might be unable to resist crowing over her conquest, to Margot. And they have missed out on so much, both of them. For Margot to have to manage that too ... well..."

  "It's complicated," I say, and it is; my head's spinning.

  "Yes," he agrees.

  "I think it's best if all three of you are friends," he says finally. I nod.

  "I'm trying to think of you too, Peter."

  I nod again. "Mr. Frank?"

  "Yes?"

  "Will you still be a Jew after the war?" He stops and looks at me.

  "Well," he says after a while, "it would certainly be nice to think that we might have that choice!" And he disappears down the stairs.

  It's a long time before I realize that he hasn't answered my question.

  FEBRUARY 27, 1944—PETER AND ANNE ARE IN THE ATTIC CHATTING

  Mr. Frank is probably right. We should see less of each other, but it's not that easy. The problem is the words. They're addictive. Perhaps if Mutti knew how it feels she'd warn me like she warns Papi about his cigarettes. Speaking, gossiping, it's infectious. Last night we spent forever talking about Pfeffer— again—and why we hate him so much.

  "He fiddles!"

  "I know."r />
  "The way he's always touching things before moving them. Ugh!"

  "The way he's always right!"

  "That dimple in his chin—I'd like to stick a pin in it."

  "When he's talking it makes me want to scratch, like a flea. I have to get out!"

  "Do you remember when Mouschi had fleas?"

  "He spends fifteen whole minutes praying! Sometimes I even have to look at his naked back. Ugh!"

  The thought makes me sick. Anne giggles and imitates the noises he makes in the night. Snuffles, like an animal, soft puffs of air. Intimate. I stand up.

  "Peter?" she asks, tucking her head to one side.

  "It's disgusting," I say, "that you have to share a room with him."

  Her arms are wrapped around her legs and she shrugs her shoulders. "Why?" she asks. I smile at her. She's like Mouschi waiting to be stroked. Waiting for the right touch, the right words.

  "You're not a child!" I say.

  "Aren't I?" she asks back. She tosses her hair over her shoulder. But she is a child, I hear Mr. Frank say in my head. I realize she's done her hair again, pinned it up to look like the film stars on her wall. She's waiting. Looking up at me. Gleaming. I sit down beside her. I look at her and I say, "No. No, you aren't a child." She tips her head back and looks at me through lowered lashes.

  I have to look away.

  For a moment I can't meet her eyes.

  Something inside me lurches.

  When I look back again she's stopped posing, she's just Anne again.

  "Peter?" she asks.

  "It's nothing," I say, but that's not true. It's everything ... It's Liese. It's the sound of her voice saying my name, the memory of her dancing in my dreams. The weight of her shaven head in my hands. The sound of clicking train wheels. It's all the things that can't be said, all the things that stop my eyes meeting Anne's.

  She smiles. Perhaps she thinks that I'm overcome by her flirting. Her beauty. Her wit. Perhaps I am. I don't know. I only know that the sight of her hurts. And that I'd like to be alone. Or with Mouschi. Or anywhere except here and now—with Anne.

  Anne and her eyes that are full of searching, full of longing, full of the hope that I can give them something back. That's what I can't bear. Her hope. It's like seeing someone naked. I don't think I can take the weight of it.