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“What?” her mother demands, her expression tensing. “What’s funny?”

“Oh, Mummy, those are Papa’s. He gave them to Margot as a souvenir.”

Her mother’s eyebrows knit together when she frowns, causing her eyes to look beady and too close-set. “Margot?”

“Yes, the good daughter,” says Anne. “Don’t you know that she’s collecting cigarette cards of the royal family?”

“No. I didn’t know that.”

“Well, she is. Mr. Kugler is always saving them for her,” Anne says, the relief of her laughter losing steam. “Ask her if you don’t believe me. Ask Pim.”

“No. No, I believe you, Anne.”

“Though, I might note that you automatically assumed that I was the criminal.”

“I didn’t,” says Anne’s mother. “I didn’t. It’s just that . . .” But her mother doesn’t seem to be able to finish this sentence, so Anne finishes it for her. Helpfully.

“It’s just that you can’t imagine Margot ever doing anything against the rules, and it’s just that you always assume that Anne is at fault.”

Her mother blinks. Then her face sharpens. “So you took a cigarette from a boy on the street?”

Anne huffs lightly. “It was only a puff, Mummy.” Frowning at the strands of hair she is twirling around one of her fingers.

“A puff from a strange boy’s cigarette?” Her mother’s voice is rising. “First of all, think of the diseases he may have transferred to you.”

“Oh, diseases,” Anne repeats, emphasizing the ridiculousness of the word.

“Not to mention,” her mother adds, “the appalling lack of good judgment on your part to be consorting with a strange boy.”

“I wasn’t ‘consorting.’”

“With a strange boy, on the street.”

“Oh, that’s what’s really worrying you, isn’t it? Not the diseases.”

“You were endangering your reputation.”

“Mine or yours, Mother? You’re not worried about me. Not really. You’re just worried about what gossip that busybody Mrs. Lipschitz is going to spread about Mrs. Frank’s little troublemaker.”

“You don’t understand, Anne. You’re still so young.”

“I’m old enough to know that things are changing, Mummy.” She slants forward to emphasize her point. “Girls my age simply aren’t accepting the old rules that our mothers bowed to. We intend to make our own decisions.”

“And that will include acting like . . . like a strumpet?”

Anne recoils as if she has just been slapped. She can feel her eyes heat with tears. Snatching her book satchel, she darts from the room. She can hear her mother calling after her. “Anne! Anne—please! That was too harsh. I’m sorry, I just lost my temper. Please come back.” These are the last words Anne hears before she slams shut the door to her room.

•   •   •

Bedtime. Anne is dressed in her silky blue pajamas. She had begged for these pajamas after seeing a magazine picture of Hedy Lamarr in a pair, but now her legs are too long for them. Her mother complains that she won’t stop growing.

In the lamplight the room’s wallpaper is warmed to a pale honey color. Beds were too difficult and expensive to transport from Frankfurt and were a scarce and pricey commodity in Amsterdam, a city flooded by waves of immigrants fleeing the Reich. So they don’t have regular beds, Margot and she, not really. Anne sleeps on a davenport with an upholstered back and Margot sleeps on a bed that folds up into the wall! Still, Anne appreciates the room for its coziness. Her prized swimming medals, her schoolroom paintings, and the pictures of royal families and film stars that she’s pinned onto the wall give her a sense of proprietorship over her space. Mummy’s mahogany-veneered secretaire, where they do their homework, stands in the corner like a friendly sentry. And thanks to their lovely tall window, she can look out at the trees. She stares for a moment at the dark branches rustling under the clouded night.

Margot is still busy with her ablutions in the washroom, but Anne has hurried through hers and has wrapped two curlers in her hair in the continued hope of obtaining wavy bangs. Now, though, lying in bed, she feels a heavy silence resting on her chest. She barely glances up when Pim knocks on the doorframe.

“Do you want to hear my prayers, Pim?” she assumes.

“Yes. But in a moment.” He enters and sits on the corner of her bed. “We need to talk first.”

Anne moans dully and stares blankly at the ceiling. “Fine.” She sighs.

“Your mother is very upset,” Pim tells her quietly.

“Well, she should be,” Anne insists self-righteously.

“She’s very distraught,” says Pim.

“Did she tell you what she called me? Did she tell you the word she used?”

“Yes, she did. And she regrets it deeply.”

“So she sent you in to tell me that?”

“Well. Quite honestly, Anne, I think she is ashamed to tell you herself.”

“She would never have called Margot a name like that. Never.”

“Your mother’s relationship with Margot has nothing to do with this. Mummy made a mistake. A dreadful mistake. She hurt your feelings, and she is very, very sorry for it.”

Anne says nothing.