Annelies полностью

In the Achterhuis. It’s another birthday celebration, but Mr. Pfeffer is complaining to Miep about the recent decline in the quality of vegetables. “I really don’t mean to find fault. I’m sure it’s very difficult, but really, it’s often barely edible these days,” he declares. The contingent of helpers from down below have been rather quiet throughout the party. Miep, Bep, Mr. Kleiman, and Kugler. It’s as if they are clustered together as a visiting delegation from a foreign land. Miep clears her throat of whatever she would really like to say to old Pfeffer and replies in a well-managed tone, “Yes. It’s barely edible everywhere,” she informs the good dentist. “The Germans are shipping all decent food into the Reich.”

“Everyone, please,” Pim suddenly pipes up with calm authority. “Enough about the unpleasant facts of daily life,” he must insist. “We are all well aware of them. But today is a day for festivities. Our younger daughter has turned fifteen,” he reminds the table, squeezing his wife’s hand. “And,” he announces with a wry smile as he draws a piece of paper from his vest pocket, “I have penned a humble poem in her honor.”

“Yes!” Anne breathes happily. Pleased that she can count on Pim to remind everyone that she, by rights, should be the center of attention this afternoon.

Rising, he unfolds the paper and slips on his reading spectacles. “I must first thank my elder daughter for her work as a translator on this project, since I must still compose in German but prefer to recite in Dutch. Thank you, Mutz,” he says to Margot with a bow of his head. “And now for the poem—and quite the work of art it is, if I do say so myself. Ahem!”

“She does her best to be gracious and kind,

Yet that doesn’t mean she won’t speak her mind.

It is not a habit that’s easy to keep

Without ruffling feathers whenever she speaks.”

General laughter there from all assembled. Anne only bats her eyes comically.

“Yet now that she’s growing to woman from girl,

I know it’s important her truths to unfurl.

And whenever her thoughts may be harsh or be fiery,

She keeps them secret in the pages of her diary.”

A dull moan of agreement at this. “Oh, yes,” Mrs. van Pels half snorts, “Little Miss Scribbler!”

“And even though her days are cramped by small accommodations,

And her actions often judged by grown-up observations,”

“Ha!” Anne tosses out.

“We know that her future will be a beautiful sight,

As her star ascends, burning strong, burning bright!”

The applause is led by Anne, but everyone joins in. It’s so obvious to her that the power of her father’s affection has returned a dependable balance to the room. Even old grumblebelly Pfeffer is nodding with appreciation. Margot blinks at her in a silly way, as if to say, There she is! My sister the star! But when Anne catches her mother’s eyes, there is such a glimpse of emptiness there. Not even sadness. Beyond that. Hopelessness.

Later, after she has set up her bed and changed into her nightclothes, after she has scrubbed her teeth with Margot at the washroom sink and pinned curlers into her hair, she goes to say good night to her parents. She feels the familiar scrub of a day’s stubble on Pim’s cheek as she kisses it. Feels the comfortable wrap of his arms, but when she turns to her mother, she feels suddenly shy. There is an urge to embrace her, but also a barrier. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mother,” she says.

Her mother smiles without joy, not at Anne but at a pillow she is stuffing into a pillowcase. “Oh, it wasn’t so much, really. Mr. Pfeffer is right. The quality of our food is worsening every day.” She fluffs the pillow with a flat spank and drops it at the top of Pim’s bed. “But it’s kind of you to pretend otherwise,” she says, now turning away to plump up the pillow on Margot’s cot with the same little spank. “Happy birthday, Anne,” she says.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” Anne feels the need to blurt, just as her sister enters in her nightdress and slippers.

“Who will be here soon?” Margot asks.

“The English. I’m sure it won’t be much longer, Mummy, before they push the Germans out.”

Their mother shrugs. “We’ll hope so. Good night,” she says.

After the lights go out and Anne lies on her bed, too warm for a cover, listening to the heavy barge motor of Mr. Pfeffer’s snoring, she stares up into the darkness above her. It’s a deep thing, this darkness. Like a hole in the night.

“Anne, will you take the coffee service to the table?”

Anne blinks. Looks at Dassah. “Yes, I will,” is all she says.

Carrying the coffee service on a tray, Anne places it on the table draped in worn linen. “Pim, will you ever retrieve Mummy’s silverware?” she wonders aloud.

“Hmm?” Lighting up a cigarette, his forehead wrinkling.

“Mummy’s silver,” says Anne. “Didn’t you say it went to friends for safekeeping?”

“Yes,” Pim confirms.

“Did they turn out to be the kind of friends who are still keeping it safe, but now from you?”