There is, though, no shortage of names to call a Jew. Yid, kike, sheeny, assassin of Christ—Anne’s heard them all by now. There may be shortages of coal, meat, milk, and fresh produce, but there’s no shortage of insults in that department. It hurts her because she so loves the Dutch. She loves being Dutch. She would rather take heart at the heroic story of the Dutch transport workers who risked their lives by striking in protest of SS razzias—the brutal roundups in the Jewish Quarter. But then her friend Lucia, whom she’s known since Montessori school, appears dressed on the playground in the getup of the National Youth Storm and tells her that she’s going to miss Anne’s birthday party because her mother won’t allow her to be friends with a Jewess any longer. Anne glares at Lucia’s face after this announcement. The girl looks trapped. In pain. Lucia has always been dominated by her mother, but Anne has no sympathy to spare her. If she despises the Germans, she despises even more the Dutch collaborators and traitors to the queen who’ve joined the Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging. That gang of filthy-hearted fascists whose cohorts parade in the street with their shiny boots and newly adopted swastika banners, as if they are the conquerors instead of the moffen. She glares at the black-and-orange cap atop Lucia’s head, adorned with a seagull badge. Anne adores seagulls, adores watching them reel above the canals, and suddenly she hates Lucia. Despises her for stealing the seagull for her dirty fascist insignia. Anne would enjoy spitting in the girl’s round piglet face, but instead she replies in a lofty manner, “I’m sorry to hear that. You’re going to miss simply the best party that has ever been thrown.”
Anne continues to laugh and crack jokes as the day passes. Whispering to her friends in class and passing notes. Showing off her hopping skills on the playground in games of hinkelen. Playing Monopoly at Hanneli’s flat. At supper she discusses the newest developments: that her favorite flower is now the rose instead of the daisy and that her friend Jacqueline has invited her to sleep over. She pleads with her parents to allow her to go, and, as usual, Margot is of no help. She wouldn’t dream of leaving home overnight, says Margot, not with thousands of German troops billeted in Dutch houses.
Dutch houses but not Jewish houses, Anne corrects.
Still. Margot shivers at the thought of it.
Anne makes light. She says the moffen are too busy swilling all the good Dutch beer to cause any trouble after supper. Finally her parents concede, at which point she gushes with affection, hugging them both so tightly, even Mummy.
But at night Anne lies awake, tossing about until her covers are hanging all askew. “Margot?”
A drowsy reply. “Yes?”
“Are you awake?” Anne whispers.
“No,” Margot whispers back.
“I can’t go to sleep.”
“Try harder. Think of the subjects that bore you in school. Think of algebra.”
“That won’t help.”
“Did you take your valerian drops like Mummy told you?”
“Yes, I took them,” Anne answers with a pinch of frustration.
“Then call Mummy and ask for a cup of chamomile tea.”
“Margot, will you stop offering silly remedies, please?”
“Keep your voice down, Anne.”
“This isn’t something that chamomile tea or valerian drops can cure.”
“Then you’ll have to come out and tell me what’s actually bothering you, because I obviously can’t read your mind.” She has adopted her favorite tone of sisterly impatience, but perhaps she actually sounds a bit interested to know, too.
“My friend Lucia joined the Youth Storm.”
“Ah,” says Margot.
“At least she used to be my friend. Now she’s been infected by this Nazi disease.”
“Did she say something nasty?”
“Her mother did, and she repeated it. It just made me realize what can happen now that the Germans have taken over.”
“I thought you said they drank too much beer to be of any trouble.”
“Oh, that was only so I could get what I wanted,” she says. “The truth is, they could kick in our door right now if it suited them.”
“And why would it suit them?”
“Because they’re Germans,” Anne answers with exasperation.
Margot props herself up on one elbow. Moonlight has sneaked in through the window, casting bars across the rug from the window lattice. “Well, we were Germans once,” she points out rather distantly.
“Maybe you were, but not me.”
“You were born in Frankfurt, Anne.”
“That means nothing. That was the past, before the whole country became populated by the enemy.”
“So you think of all of them as the enemy?”
“We’re just Jews to them now,” Anne says, her voice oddly matter-of-fact about it. “Dirty yids, no better than rats.”
Margot takes a breath and then exhales it lightly as she lies down. “I can’t believe all Germans think that.”
“No? I can believe it. I agree with Mummy.”
“Well, that’s a miracle in itself.”
“They’re criminals. Just look at the faces of the soldiers when they see the star on our clothes.”
“I think you’re being unreasonable, Anne,” Margot decides. “And quite honestly, you’re too young to know what you’re talking about. An entire nation of people can’t simply become criminals. Besides, there are plenty of Dutch who look at us that way, too.”
Anne sees Lucia’s round face under the black cap and relives the furious sting she felt. It makes her mad at Margot. “Is there some reason,” she wants to know, sitting up straight, “is there some reason that you will never agree with me? Is there some reason that you must always argue for the opposite view?”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You even defend the Nazis.”
“I do not defend the Nazis, Anne,” and suddenly Margot’s whisper is indignant, and she has shoved herself up firmly. “Take that back.”
“It certainly sounded like you were defending them.”
“I said take it back.”
Anne feels a hard pinch of regret. Margot sounds suddenly so angry. Margot, whose temper is so famously under control at all times. Yes, it was just one of Anne’s stupid, silly accusations, born out of her own fear, but the ferocity of her sister’s reaction has shaken her. Though she tries to hide this, of course. Blowing a sigh of surrender toward the ceiling, she drops down on the davenport. “All right, all right. I take it back.”
But Margot is not yet satisfied. “Say it,” she demands.
Anne swallows. “I don’t think you are defending the Nazis,” she admits. “Margot Frank does not, under any circumstances, defend Nazis.”
“Words have power, Anne,” Margot instructs her sharply. “You should be more careful how you use them.” And with that she flounces back down under the covers, socking her pillow into shape.
A certain quiet descends as the hushed burble of conversation from the next room settles between them. Anne concentrates on calming the beating of her heart. Once she found the sound of their parents’ conversation at the end of the day comforting, but now it’s not helping at all. She can tell that their words are purposely muted, though it’s still easy enough to make out what they’re talking about. The scale of the razzias is increasing. Massive raids in the Jodenbuurt. Hundreds of Jews hauled away by the SS and black-clad Dutch bullies of the Schalkhaar police. Pim says it’s all a matter of making the right decisions. All a matter of staying together as a family, come what may.