Annelies полностью

Perhaps she should be cross with him for taking his own life. Perhaps she should shed tears of anger as well as loss. But really she feels so drained of tears that all she can do is say good-bye. Good-bye to Mr. Nussbaum. Good-bye to her stalwart ally. Good-bye to the man who understood her as a writer, who wanted to promote her work. Good-bye to all that. Good-bye to the man who said that he depended on her future for hope but could not find hope in his own.

Another mourner has appeared. Margot stands with the minyan, her head shaven, flaunting the dirty yellow star on her pullover. All eyes are on the casket as it descends, except hers, which are fixed on Anne.

Leased Flat

The Herengracht

Amsterdam-Centrum

The Canal Ring

At the flat, Anne dips her hands into the basin of water on the sideboard by the door, just as if she really could be cleansed of the dead. Dassah has prepared food and set it out on the table with the snow-white linen. The Meal of Condolence. But Anne has no appetite. She sits smoking on the chesterfield. She hears the crush of leather as someone sits beside her. It is the rabbi. Souza is his name. He wears a dark serge suit and reveals a plain black satin yarmulke when he removes a roll-brimmed fedora. He’s young, maybe in his middle thirties, gaunt, with a clean-shaven face. He looks calm, a man who is comfortable inside his own skin. Anne catches a glance from Dassah as her stepmother dishes out a plate of holishkes for one of the pallbearers.

“I’m sorry, Rabbi,” Anne tells him firmly.

The rabbi lifts his eyebrows. “Pardon me? Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re about to waste your time with me.”

A small shrug. “Well. Kind of you to say so, Anne, if I may call you by your given name. But I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know that my stepmother is used to getting her way. I’m sure you think you’re doing her a favor.”

“You’re sure?”

“I don’t need to be tended to.”

He pauses for an instant and sets his plate on the mahogany coffee table. “Perhaps your stepmother is worried about you?”

A short breath escapes her. “That’s a laugh.”

“You resent her concern?”

“You could say that,” Anne replies, staring at the ember of her cigarette.

“I take it that you were close to Mr. Nussbaum, may his name be a blessing.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“No?”

“Maybe you’re not aware, Rabbi. Didn’t anyone tell you the truth about what happened? He jumped into a canal. He committed suicide. Isn’t that a sin?”

“It is, but who can really know what happened?”

“He was going to be deported back to Germany. You don’t need to guess what was going through his head.”

The rabbi shrugs lightly. “One might consider all possibilities, I suppose. You’re feeling hurt, Anne?” he wonders. “Hurt by him?”

She swallows. “‘Hurt’ is not the word.”

“Abandoned?”

She breathes in deeply. “Please. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Even though it was you who started the conversation? It might help to talk, don’t you think? I think at heart he was a very good man.”

But this sets Anne’s teeth on edge. “I thought so, too, Rabbi. He encouraged me to write. He said he wanted to see my work published. And yet he decided to drown himself instead.” She says this and feels a terrible swell of guilt. “I’m sorry, I must sound very selfish. I am very selfish. If you don’t believe me, just ask anyone. Ask my stepmother. Ask my father. Ask them. They’ll tell you.”

But the rabbi does not seem to be interested in asking anyone such a question. He removes a packet of cheap Dutch cigarettes from his jacket and lights one from the brass table lighter. “We knew each other, Werner and I,” he says. “In Auschwitz.”

Anne raises her eyes at the mention of the name.

The rabbi shrugs. “Four months I spent in that place.” The smoke he expels merges with Anne’s and hangs heavily above them. “We were on the same labor Kommando once, digging drainage ditches outside the wire. When I fell, it was Werner Nussbaum who stood me back on my feet. Saved me from the lash of the Kapo. Shared his bread with me. So I do know something about the man and the content of his heart.”

“I’m sorry,” Anne says, tasting shame. “I’m sorry, no one told me.”

“No need to apologize. It was a place of cruelty. I don’t have to explain that to you. But it was also a place of deep humanity.” He takes in smoke and then releases it. “May I ask you, Anne? Are you also angry with your father?”

Anne stiffens. Says nothing.

“I think you must be,” the rabbi tells her. “Suffering through such hell. Your father should have protected you, correct? I mean, isn’t that what fathers are for? So you blame him.”

“Not just him,” Anne answers tightly.

“Oh, yes.” He nods. “Yes, yes. Would you be surprised if I told you that I, too, know something about assigning blame?” the rabbi wonders. “I lost my wife and my two brothers, zekher kadosh livrakha. My brothers to Mauthausen. My wife to the gas straight off the train into Birkenau, because she was pregnant.”