Annelies полностью

Anne says nothing. But in her silence, Kugler’s expression darkens, even in the sunlight from the kitchen’s window. He stands when the teakettle’s whistle stings the air, and he shuts off the burner flame. “You know, Anne, there’s something I have noticed about you,” he informs her. “I’m sorry, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to say this. I’ve noticed that you often use your brutalization at the hands of the Nazis as if it’s a weapon to wield. As if the pain and the awful sorrow you have borne have imbued you with a kind of unassailable righteousness,” he says. “Of course, the stories your father told us upon his return . . . well, they were horrific. And I don’t pretend to understand your anguish. But I must say that it wasn’t easy for any of us. The SS sent Kleiman and me to one prison after another. First Amstelveenseweg. Then Weteringschans, where they held us for days in a cell with men condemned to death. Then finally to that godforsaken spot in the Leusderheide,” he says despondently, as if he has stepped back behind the barbed wire in his mind. “Hard labor. Barely any food. Roll calls in the freezing rain. Kleiman would have died there, I’m sure of it, if it hadn’t been for the Red Cross.” He frowns, suddenly self-conscious, and shoots Anne a sliver of a glance. “Now, I know what you must be thinking,” he says with a kind of miserable tension. “‘Poor Kugler. He believes he’s such a victim, yet he knows nothing about true suffering.’ And maybe you’re right. Maybe I cannot begin to conceive of the barbarities to which your people were subjected. Maybe Amersfoort and its ilk were not the same hell as those places to which Jews were deported. But I can testify, Anne, that neither were they holiday spas. I watched men die in Amersfoort. Good men, who should have been home with their wives and children, and I simply watched them drop over dead with shovels still stuck in their hands. Or worse. Clubbed to death in front of my eyes. Yet to hear you talk, it’s as if you have utterly cornered the market on pain. It’s the reason Bep left.”

Anne stares at him in wordless response. And then, “No. No, you’re wrong.”

“Oh, there’s her father’s illness, yes, if that’s what you mean. But she has four other sisters, Anne. So if you want the real reason for Bep’s departure, the truth,” he says, “I’ll tell you.” He takes a breath and looks at her with blunt, deeply agitated eyes. “She could not face you any longer.”

“That’s not true,” Anne insists.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“No. No. I know the real reason Bep left—it’s because the police suspected her of betraying us.”

Kugler looks confused. Repulsed. “Bep?” And then he nearly laughs. “Don’t be silly, Anne.”

“I’m not. I know why those men were in the private office that day. I know that my father wants to keep me in the dark. He continues to tell me that it’s nothing. A private business matter, but how can I believe that?”

Kugler is incredulous. “The greater question is, Anne, how can you believe that Bep could possibly be a traitor? How could you even think such a thing of a loyal friend?”

A loyal friend? Anne blinks at the question, feeling a cold pulse in her blood. For all his squawking on the subject, one might have imagined that Amersfoort would have taught Mr. Kugler something, but obviously he has refused to learn it. He has refused to recognize the insidious patience of betrayal. How it can infect the human heart without the knowledge of its host, until suddenly, one impulse . . . one moment’s anger . . .

“It’s not what I think, Mr. Kugler. It’s what Bep thought,” she insists. “It’s the reason she left.”

“No, Anne.” Kugler shakes his head heavily. “No, Bep’s leavetaking had nothing to do with any such thing. She left, quite simply, because she wanted a new life. She couldn’t stand to confront the terrible past on a daily basis. She couldn’t stand to face you.”

Anne absorbs his words and feels a cold, weeping hole open in her chest.

“I’m sorry, Anne,” Kugler says. “I am. I wish it weren’t the truth. But it is.”

Miep walks into the kitchen. “Mr. Kugler, there’s a gentleman on the telephone for you,” she says, and mentions the name of the gentleman. A Mr. So-and-So spice distributor from Antwerp.

“Ah,” Kugler breathes, relieved. “I’ve been waiting for this call.” Then he frowns. “Excuse me, Anne,” he says, and quickly frees himself from the kitchen.

Miep waits for a moment, quietly examining Anne. “Is something wrong?”

But Anne has no words to speak.

•   •   •

In the attic of the Achterhuis, she sobs without hope, until quite suddenly the tears dry up as if the spigot has been twisted shut. She breathes until her chest quits heaving. Rubs her face, smearing away the tears. Dries her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater and ignites a cigarette, inhaling the acrid smoke. The branches of the chestnut tree nudge the window glass, touched by a whisper of wind.