“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.
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.