Annelies полностью

She stops reading. Presses the pages against her breast. Mr. Nussbaum is seated behind the sales desk in his bookshop, observing her with an unreadable expression. For a moment he simply gazes at her, his arms folded at an angle in front of him, a shadow across his face. Then the chair creaks as he shifts forward, and he speaks quietly. “And how old . . .” he begins, “how old were you when you wrote this?”

“Fifteen,” she says. “I was fifteen. It was the last thing I wrote before the Gestapo came.”

A blink and then a shake of his head.

“I know it probably sounds childish,” she tells him.

“No. No, Anne. Not childish. Innocent, perhaps. A certain innocence. But not childish in the least.”

“So,” she breathes, “you think it’s not so bad?”

He surprises her with a laugh, even though the shadow does not leave his face. “Not so bad? Anne, what you’ve read to me here today,” he says, “it’s been a privilege to hear it. You, Miss Frank, like it or not, are a writer.”

Anne swallows. A flash of joyful terror shoots through her. “Well,” she answers with gratitude, “thank you for saying that. But the truth is, I think, that I’m just some Jewish girl who the Germans forgot to gas.”

“Now, you see. This is what I mean. This is why I told your father that he must allow you to go to America. So that you can be free of that awful stigma.”

“You told him that?”

“I did. I told him exactly that. Unfortunately, he has his own ideas on the subject. But even Otto Frank can change his mind.”

“Not very often,” Anne says. She shakes her head. “And what if he’s right? What if America would simply swallow me up?” She feels a rush of sadness. “The real truth is . . .” she starts to say, but her eyes have gone suddenly hot. “The real truth is, I’m weak. I am weak and frightened. And my so-called writing? All these pages? All the words?” She takes a breath. “I’m not sure I can recognize myself in them any longer.” She blinks. Stares down at the floor. “The me I read about in my diary feels like a stranger. She can be frightened sometimes, and full of anxieties, yes, and childishly dramatic. But she’s also sometimes so confident, so strong, so determined. So full of hope. I’m only a pale reflection of her now. A doppelgänger.”

“Anne.” Mr. Nussbaum has left his chair as if to approach her, but she stiffens.

“No, please, let me finish.” She smears at a tear and sniffs. “I want to be a writer, Mr. Nussbaum. I do. That hasn’t changed. And maybe I do have some talent, but I’m frightened that it’s not enough. I think it must be my duty to tell this story, because why else did I live through it all? But what if I’ve become too weak or too cowardly to face what I must face?” She is crying now, struggling through her tears. “There were eight of us in hiding. Only Pim and I came back. It makes it all so tragic, and I don’t want to write a tragic story. I want to tell the story of our lives, not our deaths.”

Now she allows herself the comfort of Mr. Nussbaum’s embrace. It is a flimsy thing. So little left of him but a wrap of bones, yet she leans into it. “That’s a very profound sentiment, Anne,” he says quietly.

Anne only shakes her head. Swallows her sobs. She feels vulnerable, maybe embarrassed, as if she’s given away too much. Separating herself from the embrace as gently as she can, she glares down at the rug, trying to reassemble herself. Returning her pages to their cheap cardboard portfolio. “No. I’m not profound, Mr. Nussbaum,” she insists. “In fact, most of the time I’m very shallow. Pim may be right. Who would really want to publish any of it?”

“Well,” Mr. Nussbaum says. “Actually, Anne . . .”

Anne raises her head. “Actually?”

“Actually, I have someone who is very interested in reading what you’ve written. Someone with much more substantial connections to publishers than I have any longer. And not simply connections here in the Netherlands, but internationally. France, Britain. Even, I believe, America.”

Anne looks back at him tentatively.

“Can you guess who?”

“Can I?”

“Cissy!” he declares.

Anne draws a deep breath. Cissy van Marxveldt. The inspiration for her diary.

“I didn’t want to say anything, of course,” Mr. Nussbaum tells her, “until I was sure it would turn out. I know you were disappointed that she missed your birthday party, but I wrote to her afterward about you and just received an answer this morning. She’s agreed to my sending her some of your work.”

“Is that true?” Anne feels a little light-headed. She feels dizzied by the good news.

“It is true, Anne,” he is happy to inform her. “No promises, of course. But I think she will be interested. As a writer she appreciates the writer’s struggle, you know? An artist’s life can be isolating. Always up in your own head. But you should know that you are not alone on your journey. I am here to help you. And whatever I can do, I will do.”