“Goedemiddag, Anne,” he offers with an unusual formality.
“Is something going on, Mr. Kleiman?” she asks him.
But Kleiman only shrugs as if to say, Who could explain it? His expression is pale and bleak. No more sunshine from Mr. Kleiman. Before the war he was a man with a cheery, sympathetic manner, who was known for his love of jokes, riddles, and tongue twisters. Now Mr. Kleiman is known for his sudden silences, as if he has been confronted by a riddle he simply cannot crack. A puzzle that will not be solved. He gazes at Anne through his spectacles; his expression looks bludgeoned and burdened by a deeply routine pain.
“Those men in there,” she says. “Who are they? What do they want?”
His head shakes. “You’ll have to ask your father about that, Anne,” he answers simply. “It’s not my place to say.”
“Can I see him?” She takes a step forward, but Kleiman raises his palm to stop her.
“No. No, not now. Now is not good.”
But Anne feels a rush of dark energy building up inside her. She quickly ducks past Mr. Kleiman and rattles the door handle.
“Anne!” Kleiman squawks. But the door is locked.
“Pim!” she demands, and in a moment the latch turns and the door cracks open, Pim blocking her entrance.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Kleiman is apologizing tensely behind her. “I had no idea that she would try to barge through like this.”
“Anne,” Pim says firmly. “This is no time for antics.”
“What’s going on in there? That’s all I want to know.” She tries to peer past Pim, but her father will not permit it.
“Anne, I’m closing the door.”
“No! You can’t keep any more secrets from me.”
“I’m not. But some matters are private. There’s a difference. Go back to your work and allow the adults to handle things.”
“Oh, as if the adults have handled all matters so perfectly up till now.”
“Anne.”
“All the adults have done is raze half the world to the ground.”
“Anne, do as you are told!” Her father’s voice booms with an unnatural jolt of anger. “Do as you’re told or there will be consequences.”
“Consequences? Ha!” she shouts back. “And what could those consequences possibly be? What can you take away from me that I haven’t already lost?”
Pim simply doesn’t answer her and simply bangs the door closed, relatching the lock. Anne bulls past Kleiman and storms away, but not to fume. Quickly, she dashes around to the landing and up the steps. Unhooking the bookshelf, she pushes it aside and enters the Achterhuis. The room creaks. Gulls squawk outside the windows, but she can hear a muffle of voices drifting upward from the private office beneath her. Once, after they’d gone into hiding, a big wheel from Pomosin-Werke in Frankfurt had traveled to Amsterdam to confer with Kugler and Kleiman over Opekta’s financial health. Pim had been so anxious about missing this meeting that he’d lain down with his ear pressed to the floorboards to listen in. Margot, too, had been conscripted into lending her ear to the effort, trying to take notes in shorthand while prone on the hardwood. This worked for a bit, but when Pim had grown too stiff to continue, Anne had been drafted next. Now, down on her belly, she presses her ear to the floor. She can hear a strange tone enter her father’s voice, stiltedly formal but also weighted by a hard anger and something else: fear.
“Please, allow me to finish my point,” he is saying. “The survival of my family was my only concern. The businesses were secondary.”
“That’s irrelevant,” she can hear one of the unknown men correct. “Regardless of your motives, Mr. Frank, facts are facts.”
Anne, what are they saying? Margot wants to know, suddenly lying beside her, just as if they were still together in hiding, ear pressed to the wood. I can’t hear them, Anne. What are they saying?
“Quiet, will you?” Anne hisses back. But she’s missed what Pim has just said, and now the other man is talking.
“This will do for today, Mr. Frank. We’ll keep you informed as necessary while we continue our investigation.”
By the time Anne makes it back belowstairs in the front of the building, it’s too late. Whoever the people were in Pim’s office, they have made their exit. She can hear Kleiman’s voice warning them to mind the steepness of the steps as they descend to the street. She thinks of trying to follow them, but before she can do so, Pim pokes his head out of the private office. “Anne. I want to speak to you, please,” he announces darkly.
• • •
The private office was always considered very plush. The padded upholstery. The velvet drapes. The warm oak paneling. The well-polished desk and the brass fixtures. This was the spot where they would gather in hiding to listen to the BBC or Radio Oranje after the workers below had gone home. But now there is a forlorn quality to it. The brass has begun to tarnish. The furnishings show their many nicks and scratches. The heavy drapes are dull with dust, and years of plumbing failures have stained the wallpaper.
“I cannot conceive of what made you feel justified in indulging in such an outburst.”
“Who were those men?”
“Anne, I’ve told you. It’s a private matter.”
“There’s nothing private about who betrayed us, Pim.”
“Betrayed us?”
“Why is the BNV investigating Bep?”
“Anne,” says her father patiently as if naming a silly, irrational thing.
“They were interrogating her. She told me. Both her and Miep.”
“Anne,” he says again. “Those gentlemen are not BNV, and they were not interrogating anybody. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. There were simply certain matters that needed to be cleared up. Certain questions that needed to be asked.”
“Asked by whom? If you say those men are not BNV, then who are they?”
“Enough, daughter,” Pim says firmly, his voice going ragged around the edges. “Please, enough. I’ve already told you everything you need to know.”
“You’ve told me nothing,” Anne protests.
“Untrue. I’ve told you it’s none of your concern and that you should leave it be.”
“Bep is very upset,” Anne says.
“She had a difficult interview,” Pim is willing to admit.
“Is she going to be dismissed?”
Pim huffs with an exhausted air. “No one is being dismissed. Bep is still a valued employee and a good friend to whom you and I both owe a great debt.” At this point her father leans forward, hands clasping on his blotter. “So please, meisje,” he says, adopting a sturdy calm, as he used to when he was soothing her agitations during a bombing raid. “Enough. I don’t wish to argue any longer. I understand that you’re confused. I understand that you’re anxious. It’s a very anxious world,” he agrees. “But you must trust me to do what’s best. For all of us.”