Annelies полностью

OCCUPIED NETHERLANDS

Two years since the German invasion

Anne gazes out the open window of their third-story flat in the Merwedeplein, her elbows braced against the windowsill. The sun is cradled in a sharp blue sky. The grass of the common is a lush green. It’s a Sunday midday. Down below, a stylishly dressed wedding party is off to the magistrate’s office, and Anne is absorbing the details with excitement because she positively adores fashion. The bride is modeling a well-cut suit with a tapered skirt and a felt hat. A wartime look for a bride, sleek and smart without the frills. She carries a generous bouquet of white roses. People peer from their balconies as the bride and groom process down the steps and pose for a movie camera as if they were film stars.

“Anne, get away from the window, please,” her mother calls out. Unwilling to budge, Anne calls back over her shoulder, “In a minute!” She imagines herself in front of the camera one day, as a famous film star. Like Greta Garbo, or Priscilla Lane. She loves the films and film actresses, and it angers Anne more than almost anything that the Nazis have seen fit to ban Jews from the cinemas. After the war, though, who knows? She could become another Dorothy Lamour, followed everywhere by eager photographers.

Her mother grows adamant, correcting her in her normal singsong reprimand. “You should be setting the table for lunch. And besides, it’s simply too unladylike for you to be there with your head stuck out the window like a nosy giraffe.” Though Mummy herself cannot resist a discreet giraffe’s peek, followed by a shallow sigh. “When I married your father, I wore a beautiful white silk gown with a long, long train,” she reminds herself. “Decorated by the most charming little filigree of Belgian lace, specially imported.”

“I’m never going to marry,” Anne decides to announce at that instant, which leaves her mother blinking, utterly appalled. Really, Anne was just irritated and wanted to strike back at Mummy in some way she knew would sting. But her mother’s expression is positively stricken, as if Anne has just threatened to jump out the window.

“Anne, but you must,” she insists. “Your papa and I must have grandchildren.”

“Oh, Margot can handle that,” Anne assures her casually. “That’s what firstborn daughters are for.”

“Anne,” her sister, Margot, squawks from the chair where she is paging through the book of Rembrandt plates, a gift from their omi in Basel. Her hair is combed back with a single silver clip holding it in place. Lovely as always, which makes Anne even madder. “What a thing to say!”

Anne ignores her. “I’m going to be famous,” she declares. “A famous film star, probably, and travel the world.”

“So famous film stars don’t have children?” her mother asks.

Anne enlightens her, trying not to sound too superior. “They do if they want, I suppose. But it’s not expected. Famous people live a completely different existence from most people, who are happy to live boring lives.”

“Happy lives are not boring, Anne,” her mother instructs her. Anne shrugs. She knows that Mother was sheltered by her upbringing. That the Holländers of Aachen were a religious family who kept a kosher household, were bent on respectability, and that any ambitions beyond marriage and family she might have harbored were eclipsed by the diktats of tradition. So she tries not to condescend too much when she says, “Maybe for some people that’s true, Mummy. But for those who devote themselves to great achievements, it’s different.”

That’s when her papa appears from the bedroom. Anne’s dear Pim. Her dearest Hunny Kungha. Tall and lanky as a reed, with intelligent, deeply pocketed eyes and a pencil-thin mustache. Only a fringe of hair remains of the crop from his youth, but the loss has exposed a noble crown. He’s so diligent that he’s even been out tending to business on a Sunday morning. He still wears his skinny blue necktie but has changed into his around-the-house cardigan. “Hard work and dedication. That’s how lasting fame is achieved,” he informs all assembled.

“And talent,” Anne replies, feeling the need to counter him in some way, but not unpleasantly. Pim, after all, is on her side. That’s the way it’s always been. Margot and Mother can grouse, but Pim and Anne understand. They understand just what kind of fabulous destiny awaits Miss Annelies Marie Frank.

“Yes, of course. And talent.” He smiles. “A quality both my girls possess in great abundance.”

“Thank you, Pim,” Margot says lightly before sticking her nose back into her book.

But Mummy doesn’t look so pleased. Maybe she didn’t appreciate being left out of Pim’s accounting of talented girls. “You’ll spoil them, Otto,” she sighs, a favorite anthem of hers. “Margot has a head on her shoulders at least, but our petite chatterbox?” She frowns, referring to who else but Anne? “It only makes her more insufferable.”

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