Annelies полностью

A glance and a half smile. “What would you guess I’m doing?”

“Well, you’re washing dishes, but why?”

“Because they are dirty.”

“You know what I’m asking,” Anne says, and she captures Pim by the arm. “Why is there a mof in your office?”

“I don’t appreciate that term, Anne,” he tells her.

“So why is there a Hun in your office?”

Pim sighs. Shakes a few drops from the cup he has just rinsed. “He’s going over our books.”

“Not with you.”

“No,” Pim admits, “with Mr. Kleiman.”

“But not with you.”

“Mr. Kleiman is our bookkeeper.”

“And you’re the owner of the company.”

There’s a small lesion in her father’s composure, as if he’s trying to swallow a nail.

“You are still the owner, Pim, aren’t you?” Only now does Anne drop her prodding tone and betray a note of the fear she so often tries to conceal. Even from herself.

“It’s business, Anne.” Pim’s voice softens, perhaps in response to the slip of anxiety in Anne’s tone. “We’ve had to make some adjustments to the company’s organization,” he explains.

“Because we’re Jews.”

Pim places a cup on a towel to drain. “Yes,” is all he says.

“But you are still the owner, correct?”

“Of course,” says Pim. “Nothing has really changed, Anne. It’s only paperwork. Speaking of which, don’t you have a job to finish for Miep? Filing invoices?”

“Maybe,” Anne mutters, and she allows herself to collapse girlishly against her father. “But it’s absolutely boring me to pieces.”

“Well, life cannot always be electrifying, can it? We’d be worn to a frazzle.” Pim hugs her shoulder. “You must go and see to your responsibilities, yes? What is our motto?”

“I don’t remember,” Anne lies.

“You do. ‘Work, love, courage, and hope.’ You know this, I’m sure. Now go. Miep needs all the help she can get with the paperwork. You and Margot are essential to the operation here.”

“Ha,” says Anne glumly. “Essential as well-trained monkeys.”

“Would you like to come down to the warehouse with me instead? You can say hello to Mr. van Pels.”

“No. I’ll return to the salt mines.” She sighs, surrendering to her fate. She likes to watch the grinder at work, milling spices, even though it’s loud, but today she can comfortably skip an opportunity to visit with Hermann van Pels, who’s often as loud as any grinder while expressing his opinions. Also, he tells the worst jokes in the world and thinks they’re hilarious. Better that she returns to the front office. The business has only recently moved from the Singel to this roomy canal house in the Prinsengracht, and the room still smells of newly applied floor wax. Mr. Kugler’s desk is vacant, but she and Margot are squished into sharing Mr. Kleiman’s desk across from where Miep and Bep toil as secretaries—though, where is Bep anyway? Her chair is empty. “Where’s Bep?” she asks curiously.

Miep is on the telephone, but when she covers the mouthpiece for a moment, all she says is, “She’ll be here, Anne.”

Margot is matching up invoice copies with numbers in a large ledger. “And where have you been?” she wants to know.

“To the moon,” answers Anne.

“I believe it. That’s where you live most of the time.” Margot is dressed in a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt she has sewn herself. Another of the Amazing Margot’s talents. Anne gazes at her sister. They’re only three years apart, but since Margot turned sixteen last February, she most definitely takes the adults’ side. Margot’s body has grown so womanly, too, while Anne still feels as shapely as a broomstick.

Margot exits into the corridor with the file, and Anne can hear her descending the steep, break-ankle stairway, but then she hears an exchange of greetings, and a second later, when the office door bumps open, Anne is delighted to see that it’s Bep, the firm’s typist. Thoughtful Bep. Bashful Bep, but cheery when she feels at ease. “I’m here,” she announces. She’s a slim girl, Bep, with an oval face and a high forehead. A barrette inserted in her wavy hair. Not, perhaps, a conventional beauty, but beautiful on the inside, Anne knows. Her papa is the foreman of the work crew, a trusted friend of Pim’s and well known as the handiest man in the warehouse. Bep has his shy, gentle eyes.

“Hello, Bep,” Miep replies. “Just in time. Would you mind brewing a pot of coffee for Mr. Kleiman?”

“Of course not,” says Bep. “Happy to do it.”

“I can brew coffee,” Anne chimes in, but gets ignored for her trouble.

“Where is everyone?” Bep wonders, hanging up her hat and scarf on the coat tree.

“Mr. Kugler’s on a sales call,” Miep reports, “and Mr. Kleiman’s in the private office.”

“With a mof,” Anne is compelled to insert.

“Anne,” Miep scolds with a half frown.

“Well, he is a mof.”

“He’s a representative from the Frankfurt office,” Miep explains to Bep.

“And he’s wearing a Nazi stickpin,” Anne adds, putting two fingers to her lip to imitate the infamous Hitlerite mustache and flapping up her hand in a mock salute.