Annexed (7 page)

There's only the lamplight shining on an empty street.

"Slum children!" hisses Anne, but her cheeks have tears on them, two of them glistening like small candle flames. I don't answer and she runs upstairs. I can still feel the sudden shape of her in my arms.

Mouschi twines himself around my legs.

I look out at the sliver of empty street.

All sign of the people has gone.

There's only a memory left.

My memory.

I'm frightened.

Frightened that I'll forget.

***

That night I dream. I dream I'm holding something in my hands. I can't look at it. It's bristly like a pig's back—but also somehow smooth and round. I cradle it to my chest. I hold it close like a baby. I know I must keep it safe. Treasure it. Never drop it. Hold onto it forever. It is very heavy.

I look down.

Liese's eyes stare back at me.

I'm holding her shaven head close in my hands.

These are my memories. I cannot stop them coming.

If I lay them before you, will you believe them?

You, who remain on the outside?

Are you listening?

In the Annex I could wake up from my dreams—but in the camps the dream never ends. I wake up and the nightmare is real.

I can't really believe it is happening myself, so why should you?

Do you?

Will you notice that I'm missing—or that the street looks strangely empty?

Ach! She made the right decision that woman. She didn't need her suitcase where she was going. But then again, she didn't need her child either.

It's dark when we wake up and even darker when we go to bed. We go to bed early. We get up late. Sometimes there's frost on the inside of the glass. We shiver. We wear all our clothes. Anne and Margot even wear their dressing gowns on top of everything. We do anything we can to make the time pass. We're waiting.

Waiting for news.

Waiting for the war to end.

Will we make it?

Will we run down Prinsengracht again one day? It's best not to think about it. I set myself tasks. I've drawn all the streets around here. I've drawn the route from here back to Merwedeplein, near where we used to live, with landmarks along the streets. And the tram route from Merwedeplein to Zaandvoort. I've drawn the streets around Prinsengracht.

When I'm sitting in the attic at night I picture being in a plane. I look down and see all the streets spread out around me. I imagine the chemists and the cafés. Sometimes Anne and Margot and I try to remember all the shops in a particular street—or all the stops on a tram route.

"We haven't really been to many places, have we?" Anne says.

"Well, you spent time in Aachen with Granny!" says Margot.

"Yes, but Germany and Holland, it's hardly the world, is it?"

"Where would you go, Peter?" asks Margot. I curl up on the bed and think.

"I'd like to go somewhere hot: with sand for me and maybe a forest for Mouschi!"

"It's so cold," says Anne.

"Freezing!" we all say together.

Margot sighs: "I'd go to America!"

"Why?" laughs Anne.

Margot shrugs. "I want to go somewhere new," she says. "Somewhere where none of this has happened."

Anne stares at her. "I think you're both mad. I don't ever want to leave!" she says. "I want to stay here in Holland forever!"

"And marry Mr. Ku-gler!" laughs Margot.

"Mar-got!"

"An-ne!" says Margot, exactly like Anne.

"Right!" says Anne.

I get up off the bed and out of the way. Anne and Margot go for each other. They're furious and concentrated and
silent. That's what's so funny. They're lethal with the pillows, but they do it all so silently. I catch Margot's glasses before they hit the floor. Anne stops.

"Are they broken?"

"No."

"Thank goodness. Sorry."

"Quits?" asks Margot.

"Quits!" And they collapse in giggles.

"Mr. Kugler!" laughs Anne. "What an idea! How desperate would you have to be?"

For some reason they both look at me. I give Margot her glasses back and leave the room. Their giggles follow me all the way up the stairs.

"Good to see you smiling!" says Mutti, but Papi signals silently that he wants to talk. I walk into my room and a few minutes later he follows.

"Can you make a menorah, Peter?" he asks.

"The Franks'll have one," I say quickly. I don't want to think of the menorah we had at home; the thick silver candlesticks we lit each Friday evening. It's gone now, and there's nothing I can do about it.

"And what about Mutti?" he asks. "Will the Franks bring it up here each night? Will it be special to her?"

I don't answer.

"Well?" he says.

"Perhaps we could ask Miep to..." I look up. We both know what I was about to say—and that it's stupid.

"Right! So exactly which workshop is Miep going to walk into and ask for a Jewish menorah to be made?" Papi asks.

I breathe out. Papi sits down next to me.

"Sorry," he says. "I would make it myself, Peter, but you know how much it would mean to her if you did it."

"All right. But don't tell anyone I made it."

He stands up. "If anyone asks we'll say I made it; and thank you, Peter."

"I'll do it in the storeroom and the attic, so she doesn't know."

He smiles.

Mutti's head appears around the door: "What are you two cooking up?"

"Nothing as tasty as you are!" says Papi.

"Shh! the Franks will hear!"

"And what's wrong with that?" he replies. "Isn't a man allowed to find his wife tasty?"

"Oh, please!" I say.

"Well I wouldn't make much of a meal these days," Mutti mumbles. "We're all turning to skin and bone."

***

Later, I find a piece of paper and begin to draw. A Hanukkah menorah must have nine candleholders. I make a diagram and begin to plan.

Mr. Voskuijl, Bep's father, finds the wood for me. I would like to make it all out of one piece of wood, but that's not possible, so I do it in pieces and make joins.

I like to carve at night, downstairs in the storeroom or warehouse. I like the smell. I like being alone. I like the way that Boche, the warehouse cat, sometimes comes and sits beside me. It's good to feel my hands working again. I can see the shape in the wood; the shape that will come if I make the right cuts in the right places. I think of the wood, of its grain. I imagine where it wants to give itself to me and where it will resist. The curves grow under my hands. Eight side candles, with a raised ninth one in the center. Nine flames—one for each person in the Annex, and one for the temple.

As I carve each one I make a sign, a notch in the wood, a symbol for each person. Anne is an eye because she sees everything. Father is a smile and Mother a hand. They all come easily. Mr. Frank is a book, also easy. Margot is the hardest. She slips in and out of my mind and I have to wait and see what comes. Mrs. Frank is a needle. She's sharp, but she also mends all our things! Pfeffer's easy—a sour lemon! Margot's a wave. I don't know why. And me? In the end I
make a symbol of the kippah. A Jew. If that's what I am in the eyes of the world, well then, that's what I'll be.

The best one I can be.

I will carve the menorah and burn the candles and say the Kaddish for those who are dead. And I'll make prayers of hope for us that remain. I'm praying for a miracle, just like in the temple. I carve the symbols under each candle. I dedicate one to each person. As I work I remember the prayers; I hear them in my head and whisper the words as I work—the Hanukkah prayers. I never understood why I should learn them by heart, but now I know—it's so they're always with me. My hands move to the rhythm of the words, carving them into the wood with my thoughts. At last I feel like I'm doing something.

You in your abundant mercy rose up for them in the time of their trouble, pled their cause,

Executed judgment, avenged their wrong, and delivered the strong

Into the hands of the weak,

The many into the hands of the few,

The impure into the hands of the pure,

The wicked into the hands of the righteous, and insolent ones into the hands of those living in the Torah ... And unto your people did you achieve a great deliverance and redemption.

I whisper them again.
And unto your people did you achieve a great deliverance and redemption.

Please, God. Deliver us.

Me and Liese, and all Jews everywhere. All the weak and the lame and everyone they hate so much. Please save us.

The menorah takes me a while to make. By the end of it I'm good friends with Boche. He watches me carefully, and when I stop working he comes closer. He reaches out a paw and touches the wood. Gently.

"Do you want it?" I ask him. "How much for it?" Boche stares at me, lifts his head, and stalks away.

"Ah!" I say. "So you think you're too grand to discuss money." But he just carries on walking. I get back to work. Soon Boche is back. Watching.

Sometimes, when my muscles are tight, I stretch out on the floor and lie very still. Boche walks on me. He starts at my feet and balances, one paw after the other all the way up from my feet to my chin. He touches his whiskers to my face, or lifts a paw and taps my eyes.

I like it best when he curls up and lies on my chest. I like the feel of his warmth and the sound of our hearts beating together in the silent dark room.

Peaceful together.

The menorah is finished. Tonight is the start of Hanukkah. Mutti is making latkes. I think of our house, empty now, with no one to light the candles. I think of the fact that there was a time when I didn't know I was a Jew. Well, of course I did, but it was just one of the things I was, among many things.

Not the only thing.

I wonder how many of us are left? How many of us are lighting the candles behind dark curtains and dreaming of freedom?

I smuggle the menorah up to my room. After supper when the Franks have gone down, we stand in my doorway with it behind our backs and wait for Mutti to notice.

"What are you two doing?" she asks. We smile.

"Is there anything to smile about?" she snaps. She's sad. Perhaps we haven't got it right. Perhaps the sadness is too much? I take a step back, but Papi just says, "Yes, there is, come here," and makes her stand in front of us. I'm worried though, what if it's not right? I mean, it's not beautiful or silver. I know it can never replace the one that Oma, her mother, gave her. I mean, how could it?

"Peter," says Papi.

Slowly I bring it out from behind my back. Mutti gives a gasp. She stares at it and slowly reaches out her hands to take it. She runs her hands all over it and looks up at me.

"I ... I..." she stutters, the tears filling her eyes.

"I know it's not beautiful, like Oma's and I..."

"Peter, I ... you made it?" she asks.

I nod.

"I ... I don't know what..."

"Say it, woman!" laughs Papi, and then she starts to cry properly. The tears running down her face and the words coming out like hiccups in between them.

"I never thought I could ever ... I was so ... I didn't think I could ever feel the same about another menorah, and I was so ... and you two ... and oh, oh, Peter ... Thank you ... it's beautiful!"

It's not really, but I'm glad she thinks so.

We keep the menorah in the kitchen. Each night, when the Franks have gone down, we light a candle. We don't mention it to them. I say a prayer, silently, each night, for the person whose candle is lit. What else can I do? We pray quickly because candles are precious. I like it being just the three of us. I like the look of Mutti and Papi's faces, serious in the candlelight. I like the way we say the words together—and then we have a few seconds of silence, and pray alone. The night I pray for Mr. Frank, the candle won't blow out. Mutti has to try twice!

When it's my turn to pray for me, it's hard. All I can say is keep me alive. Oh Lord, please keep me alive—and Liese. Help us meet again one day. But I keep hearing the same question: Why? And there's no answer, because why should I survive, when so many are dying? There's no reason.

That's the truth.

By the time it's the last night of Hanukkah the candles are nearly stumps! The Franks light them and we all say the prayer together before we eat. They say it quickly and then it's over. For them, that's Hanukkah. Anne was more excited about celebrating St. Nicholas for the first time. When they leave, Mutti
relights a candle and stares into its flame. I know that she's praying for me, thanking God that I'm alive. And do you know what? She chose the right candle. She leans forward to blow it out—and stops. Her tears glisten in the flickering light.

"I ... I..." she whispers, "I can't!" So I lean forward and blow it out myself. She smiles.

"Do you think if we left it, it would burn for eight days?" she asks. She laughs as though she's being silly. But she isn't. I don't know where the words come from. I'm so bad at words.

"We need a miracle," I say. And she nods.

"Good night, Peter."

"Good night." And Papi hugs us both. I go to my room and Hanukkah is over.

***

When I wake up the next morning my hands feel empty. I've got nothing to do. I go down to the storeroom and search for Boche. I can't find him anywhere. Sometimes he spends whole days out on the streets, scavenging. When he comes home, he smells of air. He smells of streets. I sink my face into his fur and breathe it in. It's lovely. It's full of the damp wood-smoke autumn smell of Amsterdam. Of canals and streetlights.

Of outside.

"Now they'll invade. At last, some action!" says Mutti.