Annelies полностью

“I mean, I have no documents to offer as proof,” Bep admits. “No letters of confession. Nelli was very roughly handled at the end of the war. They shaved her hair off in the middle of the street and painted her head orange. Even so, she has never owned up to anything. She still blames others for her troubles. Regardless, I know it to be true. I know it to be true in my heart that it was she who denounced you.”

What she feels first surprises Anne. Not anger, not shock, not even relief, but a pinch of regret. It’s true that many theories have been offered, but inwardly, Anne has assigned this crime to Raaf. Raaf, that straw-haired boy with his hands stuffed in his pockets. And now if this is true? All these years blaming Raaf in her heart to discover now that she’s been wrong? It hurts her.

“I’m sorry, Anne,” Bep says. “I’m so very sorry. I should have told you long ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I just couldn’t.”

Anne blinks at her and stares. “Why? Why would she do it? What had we ever done to her?”

Bep looks down. Shakes her head. “I have no good explanation. She was angry. Papa was so sick, and it was terrible. The cancer was taking him slowly and with great pain. She was angry and grieving and wanted to lash out. At me, at anyone she felt had judged her. That is my only explanation as to why. That and maybe because we were young and child-foolish in the middle of an ugly time. I don’t know. All I can say for certain is that a kind of cruelty simply consumed her.”

A kind of cruelty, Anne thinks. Can it finally make sense? Why Pim always resisted investigation. Why he always refused to pursue the subject of their betrayal, clinging obstinately to the parody of forgiveness he had constructed. How could he do otherwise? Bep’s sister? He could never be party to dragging Bep through such public disgrace. Not after the dangers she risked in caring for his family and friends. “My father knew, didn’t he?”

A swallow. Bep brushes away the forelock of hair that’s escaped her scarf. “I never told him directly. I’ve never told anyone directly until now. But I always believed he knew, yes.” A shrug. “I know you won’t credit this, Anne, but I do believe that in a sense Nelli didn’t really understand what she was doing. That she didn’t really know about those terrible places where the Nazis sent the Jews.”

“No. No, of course not. Nobody knew, after all. Nobody had the slightest clue, did they? Whole populations were nothing but innocent dupes, even though the BBC was broadcasting across the continent that Jews were being gassed. It was just English propaganda, wasn’t it?”

Bep shrivels into a slump, her shoulders disappearing. “I knew you would be angry. Of course. You have every right to be angry. You have every right to hate me.”

A sharp sob strikes Anne in the chest. She grabs her forehead, eyes squeezed tightly shut. She can feel the thump of her heart dictating her reaction, but she resists it. Shaking her head, she blinks open her eyes and wipes them roughly with the palms of her hands. “No,” she answers, though her voice shivers. “No, Bep. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. You risked your life to keep us safe. And what your sister did?” A heavy breath stops her. “What your sister did or didn’t do,” she says. “You bear no responsibility for that.”

Bep gazes back at her. Her eyes are dark with suffering, wounded, begging forgiveness. When she breaks down in tears, Anne hesitates but then steps forward. She gathers the woman into her arms, her own tears wetting her cheeks, and stares past Bep at Margot’s thin shadow, her Belsen death rags hanging from her body as she gazes back at them with blighted sympathy. Clouds move. The envelope of light drains of color. Drains of anger. Empties itself of regret and reprisal. What can Anne possibly do but embrace an exhausted forgiveness, along with her lost friend?

Bep breathes in and out as they separate. Opens her purse for a handkerchief and mops her eyes. “I have something for you, Anne,” she manages to say. Replacing the handkerchief, she draws out a small, flat package, wrapped in brown paper and closed with Scotch tape. “Something that was yours many years ago. I took it because . . .” says Bep, but then it’s hard for her to explain why she took it. She shakes her head. “I wanted a memento of you. It was an impulse, but once I had it, I was too embarrassed to give it back.”

Anne gazes at Bep, who nods at her to accept it. Her gaze drops to the package as she takes it into her hands. The package is soft. Pliable. Carefully, she tugs open the tape that binds it and stares at its contents. “My combing shawl.”

“I found it on the floor that awful day. And I took it. I thought I would keep it for you until you came back. But I suppose it’s taken me a long time to return it.”