Annelies полностью

“His heart? No.” The doctor considers. “I wouldn’t say it was his heart. I would say it was nerves. An attack of angst, it might be called. I’ve given him a sedative so he’ll sleep. Is your name Margot or Anne?”

Anne tenses. “Why?”

Because those were the names he was calling for. I just assumed,” says the doctor.

She swallows. “My name is Anne.”

A nod. “You should go in and see him, then. The sedative will not take long to do its work.”

She finds that her father has been transferred to the tiny room off the parlor and is tucked under a blanket, his stocking feet sticking out at the end of the bed.

“Anne,” he says drowsily, his mouth forming a smile but his eyes drooping. He raises his hand to her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, kneeling beside him and taking his bony hand.

“Sorry? For what? It is I who should be sorry for spoiling your welcome.”

“You didn’t, Pim.”

“Tumbling over like an old tree . . .”

“The doctor said you’re going to be fine.”

But Pim doesn’t seem to be listening to this. Instead he is gazing at her face with a kind of broken gratitude. “What a miracle you are to me. The Red Cross . . .” he says, and he must pause and swallow painfully before he can finish his sentence, “the Red Cross listed you and Margot as among the dead. The both of you—” He stops, and his mouth flattens. “Carried off with thousands of others to mass graves.” His face crumples as if he can see it all happening. The bodies of his daughters hauled away from him forever. He hisses air from between his teeth. “I lived with that as a fact for months, and I was only half a human being.” But then, he tells her, came her postcard to Miep. To find that her Anneke was alive? He shakes his head. “I was so shocked and yet transported by joy. To have you back. Dare I believe in such a miracle after death had claimed you? I’ve never been a particularly religious person, Annelein, you know this. But to me it seemed that this was nothing short of the hand of God at work.”

Something angry nips at Anne’s heart. God’s hand? But before she speaks another word, she sees that the doctor’s sedative is at work here, and that Pim is softening into sleep. She watches as his breathing lengthens.

The electricity signals its return to the district as a floor lamp blinks to life. In the dining room, Miep has a plate with some rye bread and komijnekaas. Anne devours it all, stuffing it thoughtlessly into her mouth, until she spots the mix of sympathy and horror on Miep’s face.

“That’s the end of the cheese, I’m sorry to say,” Miep apologizes. “There are many things that are still scarce even after the Germans have gone. But I have some soup I could warm up. I could give you a bowl.”

Anne chews a mouthful of cheese and bread self-consciously, nodding, averting her eyes to the plate. When she’s sure Miep is busy in the kitchen, she crams a bite of bread into her mouth and then stuffs the final crust into the pocket of her sweater.

“No meat,” Miep informs her as she returns with a steaming soup bowl. “But. We maintain.” Her version of the Dutch national motto: Je maintiendrai.

Anne picks up the spoon and starts to eat, trying to slow herself, but it’s hard. She can hear how loudly she’s slurping, but she can’t help it. It’s a lesson of the camps. When you have food, wolf it down. When the bowl is empty, she gathers in a breath and stares blankly. By the window is her mother’s French secretaire that once stood in the corner of the bedroom Anne shared with Margot in the Merry. It presents itself just as it was. Its mahogany finish glows with urbane charm in a crease of lamplight, untouched by war and occupation, snatched out of time and placed here on Miep’s carpet. It breaks her heart.

“Do you have a cigarette, Miep?” she asks.

Miep obviously must absorb this for a moment. Anne Frank smoking? But then she says, “I think Jan keeps some in a drawer, hold on.” In a moment she returns with a box of sulfur-tipped matches, a black enamel ashtray, and a packet of Queen’s Day cigarettes.

“Do you remember these?” she asks.

“The English dropped them,” says Anne.

“So maybe they’re a little stale.”

No matter. Anne lights up, inhaling quickly. She feels a chomp of bitterness at the rear of her throat and sighs. “Thank you, Miep. I know cigarettes are valuable.”

Miep shrugs. Valuable compared to what?

“Everyone else is dead,” Anne says. “Everyone in hiding, except for Pim and myself. That’s the story, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Miep replies quietly, but without varnish. “That is the story.”

Anne nods. She asks about Bep. About Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman.