The razzias continue. According to what Miep tells us, more Jews have been netted with every passing day, many of them family friends from the Merwedeplein. The Kaplans, the Levitskys, the Rosenblits. Eva Rosenblit was in the same class as Anne and always laughed at her jokes. Miep has even heard a rumor that Hanneli’s father was arrested, and maybe Hanneli with him. Anne tries to picture it. Lies being driven through the streets and packed into the rear of a German lorry, helpless. At the mercy of monsters. But it’s too terrible. She can’t allow such a thought to take root. She must believe that God is looking after Hanneli as closely as he is Anne Frank.
Peter has constructed a “moffen sleeve” for the radio. A loop aerial made of wooden slats and doorbell wire that can sift out the Hun’s jamming signals, so that the radio reception remains clear and unimpeded by mof interference. He gabs on and on about medium range and shortwave bands, which Anne finds both impressive and boring. Can that be? Anyway, according to the latest programs, there’s plenty of action on the Eastern Front. The Red Army has retaken Odessa and is ousting the mof from the Crimea, but on the Western Front there is still no invasion. Mr. van Pels is constantly griping about the English “slowpokes” with their tea and crumpets. Pim, on the other hand, points out that even with the Americans in the war, it cannot be an easy task to mass the kind of force necessary to penetrate Hitler’s so-called Atlantic Wall, much less prepare to transport it across the English Channel.
Anne tries not to listen too much. She does not feel brave enough to contemplate an unending occupation by the mof, but neither is she confident enough to live on hope for an Allied liberation anytime soon. Instead she wants to live in the moment, which is why it’s always so nice to have Bep for supper in their stuffy little hideout. She anchors them all, in a way. A real person from the real world outside this building. Mummy loves to cook for Bep, always praising her for her good appetite, no matter what’s dished onto her plate. The van Pelses quit their constant bickering around her and save their criticisms for another time. Bep takes it all in thoughtfully, as if Mr. van Pels may very well be right, even if it’s absolute rubbish he’s spouting. She offers Anne a secret wink as he announces how Bep is quite the intelligent young lady. Bravo, Bep! Even old Pfeffer has compliments for her, usually followed by a list of indispensables that Bep should do her very absolute
After supper, when the dishes are washed, Anne sometimes follows Bep down the steps as far as their side of the door, hidden by the swinging bookcase that is the line of demarcation between freedom and constraint. Between life in the actual world and this strange limited existence in hiding. They often confide in each other on this trip down the stairs, Anne and she, sitting on the lower steps, away from the listening ears. Anne tells her about the romance that has flowered with Peter. Shy but marvelous Peter van Pels, who as it turns out is not a blockhead after all but in fact the focus of her heart’s desire. She tells Bep of kisses she has received from the boy. About the fluttery dreaminess that dazzles her when they touch and the humid, salty feelings she can taste after their nightly kissing sessions have concluded. And as the months pass and the slow undertow of disappointment eventually drains Anne’s feelings for Peter, she tells Bep about that, too.
For her part, Bep confesses her fears for her boyfriend, Maurits, who went into hiding rather than report to the moffen as a labor conscript. It’s been months and months, and their separation is taking a toll on them. They pass letters to each other, but there seems to be less and less to say in them. When she tells Anne this tonight, there are clear tears in Bep’s eyes behind her oval-framed glasses. Anne puts her arms around Bep, who begins to cry harder.
“Bep?
But Bep only shakes her head, wiping at her tears by pushing her fingers under her glasses. “I just worry so much about you. About all of you. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be saying this. But you’ve become so dear to me, and I can’t help but fear for you. Out in the streets, the Germans have turned brutal. Even worse than before. Maybe they’re getting scared that they’re losing the war, I don’t know, but all I need to do is see those awful lorries packed with the soldiers and bristling with guns.” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “I’m terrified for you, for myself, for everyone. Even in the office, every time I hear a car squeak to a halt in the street, my heart practically jumps out the window.”
“Well,