Annelies полностью

There is, though, no shortage of names to call a Jew. Yid, kike, sheeny, assassin of Christ—Anne’s heard them all by now. There may be shortages of coal, meat, milk, and fresh produce, but there’s no shortage of insults in that department. It hurts her because she so loves the Dutch. She loves being Dutch. She would rather take heart at the heroic story of the Dutch transport workers who risked their lives by striking in protest of SS razzias—the brutal roundups in the Jewish Quarter. But then her friend Lucia, whom she’s known since Montessori school, appears dressed on the playground in the getup of the National Youth Storm and tells her that she’s going to miss Anne’s birthday party because her mother won’t allow her to be friends with a Jewess any longer. Anne glares at Lucia’s face after this announcement. The girl looks trapped. In pain. Lucia has always been dominated by her mother, but Anne has no sympathy to spare her. If she despises the Germans, she despises even more the Dutch collaborators and traitors to the queen who’ve joined the Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging. That gang of filthy-hearted fascists whose cohorts parade in the street with their shiny boots and newly adopted swastika banners, as if they are the conquerors instead of the moffen. She glares at the black-and-orange cap atop Lucia’s head, adorned with a seagull badge. Anne adores seagulls, adores watching them reel above the canals, and suddenly she hates Lucia. Despises her for stealing the seagull for her dirty fascist insignia. Anne would enjoy spitting in the girl’s round piglet face, but instead she replies in a lofty manner, “I’m sorry to hear that. You’re going to miss simply the best party that has ever been thrown.”

Anne continues to laugh and crack jokes as the day passes. Whispering to her friends in class and passing notes. Showing off her hopping skills on the playground in games of hinkelen. Playing Monopoly at Hanneli’s flat. At supper she discusses the newest developments: that her favorite flower is now the rose instead of the daisy and that her friend Jacqueline has invited her to sleep over. She pleads with her parents to allow her to go, and, as usual, Margot is of no help. She wouldn’t dream of leaving home overnight, says Margot, not with thousands of German troops billeted in Dutch houses.

Dutch houses but not Jewish houses, Anne corrects.

Still. Margot shivers at the thought of it.

Anne makes light. She says the moffen are too busy swilling all the good Dutch beer to cause any trouble after supper. Finally her parents concede, at which point she gushes with affection, hugging them both so tightly, even Mummy.

But at night Anne lies awake, tossing about until her covers are hanging all askew. “Margot?”

A drowsy reply. “Yes?”

“Are you awake?” Anne whispers.

“No,” Margot whispers back.

“I can’t go to sleep.”

“Try harder. Think of the subjects that bore you in school. Think of algebra.”

“That won’t help.”

“Did you take your valerian drops like Mummy told you?”

“Yes, I took them,” Anne answers with a pinch of frustration.

“Then call Mummy and ask for a cup of chamomile tea.”

“Margot, will you stop offering silly remedies, please?”

“Keep your voice down, Anne.”

“This isn’t something that chamomile tea or valerian drops can cure.”

“Then you’ll have to come out and tell me what’s actually bothering you, because I obviously can’t read your mind.” She has adopted her favorite tone of sisterly impatience, but perhaps she actually sounds a bit interested to know, too.

“My friend Lucia joined the Youth Storm.”

“Ah,” says Margot.

“At least she used to be my friend. Now she’s been infected by this Nazi disease.”

“Did she say something nasty?”

“Her mother did, and she repeated it. It just made me realize what can happen now that the Germans have taken over.”

“I thought you said they drank too much beer to be of any trouble.”

“Oh, that was only so I could get what I wanted,” she says. “The truth is, they could kick in our door right now if it suited them.”

“And why would it suit them?”

“Because they’re Germans,” Anne answers with exasperation.

Margot props herself up on one elbow. Moonlight has sneaked in through the window, casting bars across the rug from the window lattice. “Well, we were Germans once,” she points out rather distantly.

“Maybe you were, but not me.”

“You were born in Frankfurt, Anne.”

“That means nothing. That was the past, before the whole country became populated by the enemy.”

“So you think of all of them as the enemy?”

“We’re just Jews to them now,” Anne says, her voice oddly matter-of-fact about it. “Dirty yids, no better than rats.”

Margot takes a breath and then exhales it lightly as she lies down. “I can’t believe all Germans think that.”

“No? I can believe it. I agree with Mummy.”

“Well, that’s a miracle in itself.”

“They’re criminals. Just look at the faces of the soldiers when they see the star on our clothes.”