“No. No, I believe you, Anne.”
“Though, I might note that you automatically assumed that I was the criminal.”
“I didn’t,” says Anne’s mother. “I didn’t. It’s just that . . .” But her mother doesn’t seem to be able to finish this sentence, so Anne finishes it for her. Helpfully.
“It’s just that you can’t imagine Margot ever doing anything against the rules, and it’s just that you always assume that Anne is at fault.”
Her mother blinks. Then her face sharpens. “So you took a cigarette from a boy on the street?”
Anne huffs lightly. “It was only a puff, Mummy.” Frowning at the strands of hair she is twirling around one of her fingers.
“A puff from a strange boy’s cigarette?” Her mother’s voice is rising. “First of all, think of the diseases he may have transferred to you.”
“Oh, diseases,” Anne repeats, emphasizing the ridiculousness of the word.
“Not to mention,” her mother adds, “the appalling lack of good judgment on your part to be consorting with a strange boy.”
“I wasn’t ‘consorting.’”
“With a strange boy, on the street.”
“Oh, that’s what’s really worrying you, isn’t it? Not the diseases.”
“You were endangering your reputation.”
“Mine or yours, Mother? You’re not worried about me. Not really. You’re just worried about what gossip that busybody Mrs. Lipschitz is going to spread about Mrs. Frank’s little troublemaker.”
“You don’t understand, Anne. You’re still so young.”
“I’m old enough to know that things are changing, Mummy.” She slants forward to emphasize her point. “Girls my age simply aren’t accepting the old rules that our mothers bowed to. We intend to make our own decisions.”
“And that will include acting like . . . like a strumpet?”
Anne recoils as if she has just been slapped. She can feel her eyes heat with tears. Snatching her book satchel, she darts from the room. She can hear her mother calling after her. “Anne! Anne—please! That was too harsh. I’m sorry, I just lost my temper. Please come back.” These are the last words Anne hears before she slams shut the door to her room.
• • •
Bedtime. Anne is dressed in her silky blue pajamas. She had begged for these pajamas after seeing a magazine picture of Hedy Lamarr in a pair, but now her legs are too long for them. Her mother complains that she won’t stop growing.
In the lamplight the room’s wallpaper is warmed to a pale honey color. Beds were too difficult and expensive to transport from Frankfurt and were a scarce and pricey commodity in Amsterdam, a city flooded by waves of immigrants fleeing the Reich. So they don’t have regular beds, Margot and she, not really. Anne sleeps on a davenport with an upholstered back and Margot sleeps on a bed that folds up into the wall! Still, Anne appreciates the room for its coziness. Her prized swimming medals, her schoolroom paintings, and the pictures of royal families and film stars that she’s pinned onto the wall give her a sense of proprietorship over her space. Mummy’s mahogany-veneered secretaire, where they do their homework, stands in the corner like a friendly sentry. And thanks to their lovely tall window, she can look out at the trees. She stares for a moment at the dark branches rustling under the clouded night.
Margot is still busy with her ablutions in the washroom, but Anne has hurried through hers and has wrapped two curlers in her hair in the continued hope of obtaining wavy bangs. Now, though, lying in bed, she feels a heavy silence resting on her chest. She barely glances up when Pim knocks on the doorframe.
“Do you want to hear my prayers, Pim?” she assumes.
“Yes. But in a moment.” He enters and sits on the corner of her bed. “We need to talk first.”
Anne moans dully and stares blankly at the ceiling. “Fine.” She sighs.
“Your mother is very upset,” Pim tells her quietly.
“Well, she should be,” Anne insists self-righteously.
“She’s very distraught,” says Pim.
“Did she tell you what she called me? Did she tell you the word she used?”
“Yes, she did. And she regrets it deeply.”
“So she sent you in to tell me that?”
“Well. Quite honestly, Anne, I think she is ashamed to tell you herself.”
“She would never have called Margot a name like that. Never.”
“Your mother’s relationship with Margot has nothing to do with this. Mummy made a mistake. A dreadful mistake. She hurt your feelings, and she is very, very sorry for it.”
Anne says nothing.
“But it is also true, Annelies, that you have a talent for provoking your mother in unnecessary ways.”
A gleam of tears appears. “So it’s my fault as usual.”
“I’m saying it takes two to argue. Mummy lost her temper and said something she didn’t mean. But she was also looking out for you. Trying to teach you about certain behavior that, as a child—”
“Of course! I’m such a child.”
“That as a child,” her father repeats, “you are still quite uninformed about.”
“Don’t be so sure, Pim. I may be a child, Pim, but children are quite well informed these days.”
“In that case you should have known better.”
“I accepted a puff, Pim.” She frowns, pushing herself up on her elbow and glaring into her father’s face. “A single puff from a boy’s cigarette. That’s all. I didn’t even like it. And yet in her eyes that was enough to make her daughter a strumpet.”
Pim breathes in and exhales slowly. “You must understand that your mother’s nerves are stretched. You must remember what she was forced to leave behind when we came to Holland. She had a life in Frankfurt. A lovely house. Lovely things.”
“I know all about it, Pim. We’ve all heard it a hundred times. The big house, the maid, everything. But may I point out that you left a life behind in Germany as well, and yet you don’t hate me.”
“Your mother doesn’t hate you,” Pim corrects her firmly. “She loves you. She loves you and Margot more than anything.”
Anne drops back down onto her pillows, wiping her eyes on her pajama sleeve. “Well. Margot maybe.”
“Anneke.” Pim sighs forlornly, shaking his head. “You can be so hard on her. And she can be hard on you, too, I know this,” he concedes. “But she is sorry. Sincerely sorry. And when a person’s regret is sincere, then the only decent thing to do is to forgive them.”
Anne frowns at the air. “All right,” she agrees thinly. “All right. For your sake I’ll forgive her. I’ll pretend it never happened. But you’re wrong about one thing,” she tells him. “Mummy will never love me. Not like you do. You’re the one who truly loves me.” She pushes herself up and embraces him, arms around his neck and her ear pressed to his chest so she can hear the tick of his heart.
“Your mother loves you,” he insists quietly, patting her back. “We both love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it, young lady. Now, let’s forget all about tears and angry words. It’s your birthday coming. Sleep tight and dream about what a marvelous day it’s going to be.”