Annelies полностью

I did get into an argument with my brother, though, about your book. (He’s seventeen, and keeps telling our mom that he’s going to join the Army instead of going to college, which makes Mom crazy!) But he says that the Jews should have fought back when the Nazis came for them. He says HE would have fought back, why didn’t the Jews? I told him that they were probably afraid. He said, “You mean they were CHICKEN?” I said no, not like “CHICKEN” afraid. But the Nazis had guns, including machineguns, and the Jews didn’t. I hope I gave him the right answer.

Anyway, I still love your “Diary” and will keep it forever, so that I can give it to MY daughters to read (once I get married.)

Sincerely,

Diane McElroy

11 June 1961

Dear Diane,

I am so very pleased that you have enjoyed my work so much, and you should tell your sister that Anne Frank says her diary is not simply “seventh-grade stuff.” Though “Lord of the Flies” is pretty good, too.

Also, you may tell your brother that many Jews DID fight back. It is very hard to explain to you, though, the reason why many more did not. You’re quite right, that it was not because of cowardice. My father and mother offered no resistance when the Germans arrested us, not because they were afraid for themselves but because they feared for their children. They thought that the best way to protect my sister and me was to obey orders. Who could have conceived what was really in store for us all? That’s a poor answer perhaps, but it’s the best I can do.

Thank you for writing. I hope your children, daughters or sons, will read what I have written someday. And maybe their children, too. One can only hope.

Yours,

Anne F.

She’s late, but when is she not? Standing in a white Vanity Fair rayon slip, she sorts madly through the mess of cosmetics on her dresser top. You can pick up Ideal brand Summer Poppy for fifty cents at Rexall, but she’d splurged for Revlon’s Super Lustrous Fifth Avenue Red at a dollar ten, even though UNICEF assures her that there are still plenty of hungry children in Europe and Asia. At the mirror she uncaps the bullet of lipstick in her hand and inhales the lush, rosy, waxy aroma. But when she puckers her lips, she is captured by her own reflection. It’s definitely Jewish, this mirror, unlike the flattering mirrors in the department stores, paid to please. It refuses to soften her face and shows her every angle. The sharpness of her jaw. The dusky light in her eyes that thickens into shadows. She follows the shape of her mouth, Lustrous Fifth Avenue Red flowing as bright as blood.

A meow. Her Majesty Wilhelmina. Her orange tabby winding around her ankle, begging for attention.

“I’m late,” she says. “I don’t have time for you.” But she’s not actually speaking to Ihre Majestät Mina. She’s speaking to Margot, who has appeared as a face in the background of the mirror, wearing her rotting blue-white Lager stripes and yellow six-pointed star fixed to the pullover.

You don’t need lipstick, her sister tells her.

Bending forward, she pops her lips to smooth the color and then lightly mouths a Kleenex to blot the excess, leaving behind a perfect kiss. “I do. My lips have no color.”

You’re beautiful without cosmetics.

“No. You were the beautiful one,” Anne insists, lacing her lashes with a touch of mascara. “I’m thirty-two. In America thirty-two means cosmetics.” Grabbing up her brush, she attacks the cascade of her hair stridently. The shelves of the medicine cabinet are crowded, and she has to rearrange everything to find the tin of Johnson & Johnson Band-Aid Plastic Strips. Look . . . Feel . . . Flex Like a Second Skin.

What’s that for?

A glance. “You know what it’s for,” she insists, popping the tin open. She tears away the paper sleeve from one of the strips, peels off the backing, and positions it over the blue scrawl of tattoo ink on her forearm. A-25063.

You’re still ashamed of it? Margot wants to know.

“No, I’m not ashamed. How many times do we have to have this discussion?”

It’s just a question.