Annelies полностью

The next afternoon, when Anne arrives at the office, she finds that Mrs. Zuckert is yet again sequestered in Pim’s private office with her steno pad.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” she must ask Miep.

“Doesn’t what bother me?”

“That she’s taking over.”

Miep shakes her head. “No one is ‘taking over,’ Anne.”

At four o’clock Mr. Kugler goes into the kitchen, as he does at this hour every day for his afternoon cup of tea. Anne slips from her desk. “I’m getting a drink of water,” she tells Miep, but doesn’t wait for a response. In the corridor she can hear the laughter from the private office and then the chatty tone of their talk. What’s worse, they’re speaking German. German! The language of the executioners.

She catches Kugler in the kitchen gazing forlornly at the kettle on the hot plate as it builds steam. The air of talented modesty he once cultivated has been wrecked. Instead his expressions are often haunted or blank. She’s noted that he’s given to long, pointless stares while seated at his desk. He may rally then, he may rouse himself and become good old Mr. Kugler again, the man with all the answers. But she can tell that in his heart he has no answers any longer.

Slipping into the kitchen, she retrieves a water glass from the dish drain. Kugler looks up, but it’s as if he doesn’t quite see her for a moment. Then he takes a breath. “So,” he says without much conviction, “how is Anne today?”

“How am I?” she asks with a tone that asks, Isn’t that obvious?

“School, I mean. How is school this year?”

But Anne does not answer his question. She walks to the sink and unscrews the tap, letting water rush into her glass. “She seems highly skilled,” Anne points out.

“I’m sorry?”

“Mrs. Zuckert.”

“Ah. Yes,” he agrees. “Highly.”

“I suppose she must have plenty of experience.”

“She does,” Mr. Kugler confirms, maintaining his mildly distracted tone. “Ten years as an assistant bookkeeper in an accounting firm. Before the war she helped out Mr. Kleiman from time to time.”

“And what,” Anne presses forward, “has become of her husband?”

Blankness. “Become of him?”

“Yes. What has become of Mr. Zuckert? Is he alive? Is he dead?”

Kugler looks suddenly alarmed. “That’s really none of our business, Anne,” he tries to convince her.

“No? You think not, Mr. Kugler? Well, I think it is.” She takes a swallow of water and sets the glass down on the counter.

“Anne,” Kugler breathes, “if you have questions, you must ask your father.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me, but my father says nothing. Listen to them in there laughing, the two of them. Laughing,” she repeats, as if naming a crime.

Kugler hesitates. His expression looks crushed. Finally he clears his throat and speaks grayly to the wall. “From what I understand,” he begins, “her husband had been working in Germany before the Nazis. He was a Jew, but a Dutch-born Jew. So when they came to Amsterdam after Hitler, she sat for the test and became a Dutch citizen. The marriage didn’t work out.” A shrug. “I don’t know why. But they were divorced, and he left for Canada. Or maybe it was Cuba, I don’t recall.”