Annelies полностью

She’s breathy and sweet with sweat when she arrives at the warehouse doors. One is cracked open, and a teasing whiff of spicy aroma wafts out into the street as she climbs from the bike’s seat and adjusts her skirt, but then she stops. She freezes like the mouse that’s just spied the cat—or exactly the opposite. It’s him. The boy with the straw-blond hair, standing across the street at the edge of the canal. He stands with a watchful posture, back straight, shoulders tilted slightly forward, hands stuffed in the pockets of his patched-up trousers in a manner that almost makes him appear armless. His appearance adds urgency to her heartbeat, and she must swallow the impulse to call out his name or dump her bike against the side of the building and run to him. She feels herself take a step, but then a lorry rumbles between them, and when it passes, the boy is gone. The Westertoren chimes the half hour.

Taking the steep stairs to the office, she feels a disorienting itch. She glances over her shoulder halfway up, feeling as if the boy might be there behind her, but there’s nothing, and she finds that her breezy physical elation has been depressed by something else. By the time she opens the door at the top of the stairs, she feels restless and unsatisfied. But when she stops again, it’s because there’s no one in the office. The place has a certain ransacked quality to it. The middle drawer of the filing cabinet stands empty, desktops are disheveled, and the drawers of Miep’s desk are ajar. She feels a sharp pinch of panic, but then, with a noise of her shoe heels, Mrs. Zuckert enters the room. She faces Anne, and as if she is a mind reader, she says, “Nothing to worry about. Just a misunderstanding. Everyone’s fine.”

“But”—Anne stares—“what’s happened?”

Mrs. Zuckert draws a breath and surveys the room. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Men from one of the state bureaus arrived. Your father said we were to be cooperative.”

“Where is he?”

“With them at their offices.”

“He’s under arrest?”

Mrs. Zuckert frowns. “Arrest? No, of course not. Don’t jump to conclusions, Anne. They came to collect records, that’s all. Your father accompanied them, along with Mr. Kugler. Quite voluntarily, I should add. I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, though her tone seems slightly unsure if that’s so. “Simply part of the process. Come,” she instructs, “sit down. Let me fix you a cup of tea. You look stricken.”

And she is stricken. The thought of men from the state bureaus, rifling through the building, undoes her underpinnings. She feels suddenly fragile as she sits at her desk, glaring at the pale cup of tea that Mrs. Zuckert has delivered. “Do you know what they’re looking for?” she asks, still staring blindly at the teacup.

“Do I?” The woman has pulled up a chair to the side of the desk. “No.”

“You mean my father hasn’t let you in on all the doings behind closed doors? I thought he would have.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Anne. But I can assure you, your father has told me nothing about any ‘doings,’ as you put it. Why would he? I’m just a secretary.”

“Ha,” Anne replies quietly, then turns to the tea, blowing ripples on its steamy surface. “You know you’re more than that. We all know you’re more than that.”

And now Mrs. Zuckert expels a breath, her eyebrows arched. She stands and walks over to her handbag, usually stored in a drawer but now sitting out beside the Herr Typewriter. Anne watches her from behind, lighting up a cigarette. Highly unorthodox for the women to smoke in the office. “Would you care for one?” she asks, still with her back to Anne.

Anne pauses. “Yes,” she says, and Mrs. Zuckert nods. Repeats the process and ferries a lit cigarette back to Anne along with Mr. Kleiman’s red enamel ashtray. Anne takes the cigarette and draws in deeply. She watches Mrs. Zuckert return to the chair and adjust her skirt. Anne can see the machinery of the woman’s mind churning before she releases smoke and fixes Anne with her eyes.

“All right. You’re correct. I was being slightly disingenuous with you when I said I was just an office secretary to your father. You’ll have to forgive me for that,” she instructs Anne. “I wasn’t sure what he has said to you and what he hasn’t.”

“He doesn’t say much,” Anne answers. “He’s bent on treating me like a child. It’s maddening.”

Surprisingly, Mrs. Zuckert nods her agreement with this. “Yes, I can understand how it would be. Clearly you are no longer a child, Anne. Clearly,” she repeats. “You’ve become a young woman. That’s a very difficult time, I think, for any parent, and especially for a father. He’s feeling lost. So he prevaricates. He avoids the issues or becomes suddenly authoritarian. But the truth is, he is completely out of his depth with you. Add the fact that you yourself are so implacably furious with the world, and, well . . . There’s nowhere for him to turn.”