Annelies полностью

Anne feels herself smile again as she gazes back down at the book in her arms. Cracking it open, she skims through a paragraph. How joyful she was when she first read these treasures! At first, like all her friends, she wanted to be Joop ter Heul, that sprightly, fearless, madcap girl, always launching herself into the next adventure. It wasn’t till she started her diary that Anne had realized it wasn’t Joop the character but Joop’s author she longed to become: The Jewish Cissy van Marxveldt! “Marxveldt’s only her pen name. I don’t remember what her real name is.”

“It’s Beek-de Haan.”

Anne looks up.

“Did you know she was married to a Jew? A man named Leo Beek.”

“No,” says Anne, holding the book in her lap. She feels a pinch of inner dread. Married to a Jew? She knows what happened to Dutch Jews. Must even her girlhood adoration of Joop’s exploits be tagged with sorrow now?

“I was quite friendly with them both, actually,” Mr. Nussbaum tells her. “Many years before the war. The Netherlands was a large market for German publishers back then, have I said that? I used to visit Amsterdam regularly. But then all that ended.” His eyes flicker at the memory. “Leo was executed by the Gestapo, I’m sorry to report. He was active in the resistance. They took him to the Overveen Dunes, like so many others, and shot him.” He says this and then sees Anne’s face. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’ve upset you.”

“No, it’s nothing,” Anne says, and she sets the books down and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nussbaum, but I should go. I promised I’d help out at my father’s office today.”

“Of course,” Mr. Nussbaum grants. “Just don’t forget your pay,” he says, lifting a smile and nodding to the books. “I’m quite serious.”

“Thank you,” Anne says, but suddenly she feels the desire to evacuate. She’s not sure why, but she feels oddly trapped by Mr. Nussbaum’s generosity, and when the telephone rings loudly, she has her opportunity. Mr. Nussbaum picks it up, and in the matter of a moment his expression has blackened. “Yes, yes, I received your so-called correspondence on this so-called matter. And I can only say that I am both insulted and appalled.”

Anne gathers the books into her arms, but before she makes her exit, Mr. Nussbaum covers the receiver’s mouthpiece with his hand. “Anne,” he says. “You know, we’re still in touch, Cissy and I. I should try to arrange a meeting between you.”

“A meeting?” She feels a shock of surprise. “Really?”

“Two great literary minds.” Mr. Nussbaum grins but then must return to his scowling telephone exchange. Anne loads her “pay” into the basket of her bike and wheels it out the door with a wave that Mr. Nussbaum misses, his back to her now as he continues with his battle. Outside, she breathes the air in deeply. Stares at the stream of bicycle traffic passing her, then swallows lightly as she runs a finger over the cover of the top book.

These novels, Margot says. She has appeared, head shaven, wearing her KZ rags. They were your favorites, weren’t they? Anne only shakes her head. “Do you think it’s possible? Possible that I could actually meet Cissy van Marxveldt in person? That would be so wonderful.” But when she looks up, Margot is gone. Anne climbs onto the worn leather seat and pedals out into the street.

The sun is shining, opening up the sky above the city into a cloudless stretch of blue. Light polishes the surfaces of the canals into pristine mirrors and brightens the dingy paint jobs of the houseboats bumping against their moorings. She navigates the streets of the Grachtengordel, pedaling harder over the bridges, and then breezing along, looping around a corner, racing the gulls. Her legs have gained muscle; her calves have gained shape, no longer matchsticks. She thrills at the breeze that combs through her hair and her clothes, at the speed of her turns and the bumpy terrain of cobbles under her tires. But mostly she covets the thorough clean sweep of her mind that riding her bike provides. No memories, no fears, just bright adrenaline pumping into her brain.