“You told him that?”
“I did. I told him exactly that. Unfortunately, he has his own ideas on the subject. But even Otto Frank can change his mind.”
“Not very often,” Anne says. She shakes her head. “And what if he’s right? What if America would simply swallow me up?” She feels a rush of sadness. “The real truth is . . .” she starts to say, but her eyes have gone suddenly hot. “The real truth is, I’m weak. I am weak and frightened. And my so-called writing? All these pages? All the words?” She takes a breath. “I’m not sure I can recognize myself in them any longer.” She blinks. Stares down at the floor. “The me I read about in my diary feels like a stranger. She can be frightened sometimes, and full of anxieties, yes, and childishly dramatic. But she’s also sometimes so confident, so strong, so determined. So full of hope. I’m only a pale reflection of her now. A doppelgänger.”
“Anne.” Mr. Nussbaum has left his chair as if to approach her, but she stiffens.
“No, please, let me finish.” She smears at a tear and sniffs. “I want to be a writer, Mr. Nussbaum. I do. That hasn’t changed. And maybe I do have some talent, but I’m frightened that it’s not enough. I think it must be my duty to tell this story, because why else did I live through it all? But what if I’ve become too weak or too cowardly to face what I must face?” She is crying now, struggling through her tears. “There were eight of us in hiding. Only Pim and I came back. It makes it all so tragic, and I don’t want to write a tragic story. I want to tell the story of our lives, not our deaths.”
Now she allows herself the comfort of Mr. Nussbaum’s embrace. It is a flimsy thing. So little left of him but a wrap of bones, yet she leans into it. “That’s a very profound sentiment, Anne,” he says quietly.
Anne only shakes her head. Swallows her sobs. She feels vulnerable, maybe embarrassed, as if she’s given away too much. Separating herself from the embrace as gently as she can, she glares down at the rug, trying to reassemble herself. Returning her pages to their cheap cardboard portfolio. “No. I’m not profound, Mr. Nussbaum,” she insists. “In fact, most of the time I’m very shallow. Pim may be right. Who would really want to publish any of it?”
“Well,” Mr. Nussbaum says. “Actually, Anne . . .”
Anne raises her head. “Actually?”
“Actually, I have someone who is very interested in reading what you’ve written. Someone with much more substantial connections to publishers than I have any longer. And not simply connections here in the Netherlands, but internationally. France, Britain. Even, I believe, America.”
Anne looks back at him tentatively.
“Can you guess who?”
“Can I?”
“Cissy!” he declares.
Anne draws a deep breath. Cissy van Marxveldt. The inspiration for her diary.
“I didn’t want to say anything, of course,” Mr. Nussbaum tells her, “until I was sure it would turn out. I know you were disappointed that she missed your birthday party, but I wrote to her afterward about you and just received an answer this morning. She’s agreed to my sending her some of your work.”
“Is that true?” Anne feels a little light-headed. She feels dizzied by the good news.
“It is true, Anne,” he is happy to inform her. “No promises, of course. But I think she will be interested. As a writer she appreciates the writer’s struggle, you know? An artist’s life can be isolating. Always up in your own head. But you should know that you are not alone on your journey. I am here to help you. And whatever I can do, I will do.”
A heartrending tenderness stings her, causing her eyes to go damp. “I don’t understand, Mr. Nussbaum,” she whispers. “Why?” Anne wants to know. “Why do you care what happens to me or all my cat scratches on the page?”
Mr. Nussbaum’s smile turns ghostly. “Why? Because, Anne, my dear, you are all the future I have left.”
• • •
On Friday night Dassah has prepared a Shabbat supper.
Wearing a shawl, she circles her hands above the lit candles and covers her eyes before reciting the blessing.
“Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.”
Anne has closed her eyes as well. Can she still pray?
Blessed are you, God, ruler of the universe, who sanctified us with the commandment of lighting Shabbat candles.
When she opens her eyes, she can see Margot in the flickering candle glow, wearing the pullover and the yellow star.
• • •
The next morning there’s a knock on the door early. Anne, still in her pajamas, hears it in her bedroom. She is lying on the bed and staring at the small crack in the ceiling plaster when Pim speaks Mr. Nussbaum’s name.
“I’m so sorry to intrude like this, without any notice,” Mr. Nussbaum is apologizing, his voice tightly stressed. “But when this summons arrived for me in the morning post, honestly, I didn’t know where else to go.”
“What is it?” Anne comes hurrying into the room, throwing on her robe. “Mr. Nussbaum. What’s happened?”
The man blinks in her direction, but his eyes don’t seem to focus properly. Anyway, it’s Pim who answers the question, glaring at the paper in his hands. “Mr. Nussbaum is being deported, Anne,” he replies with muted shock. “Back to Germany.”
An hour passes, and after a few telephone calls, one of Pim’s kameraden is sitting on the chesterfield sofa that Pim had delivered from a furniture maker in Utrecht. It is the lawyer Rosenzweig. He’s a lanky sort of mensch in an ill-fitting suit. Bald head. A straight, narrow face and large, hooded eyes behind round spectacles. The tip of a purpled camp number peeks from the edge of his shirt cuff. He’s holding the coffee cup that Dassah has passed him on his bony knees. Anne has dressed and pinned back her hair with a barrette. She lights a cigarette and watches the smoke trail upward. Mr. Attorney Rosenzweig has come armed with details. According to his story, there is an internment camp in eastern Netherlands outside Nijmegen. A former army barracks now known as Kamp Mariënbosch. There the government has rounded up German refugees, newly branded as enemy nationals, including, as it happens, any number of German-born Jews. Rosenzweig says it’s part of a land grab that the Dutch Committee for Territorial Expansion is advancing under the slogan “Oostland—Ons Land.” East land—Our land. They want to annex their fair portion of German terrain and purge the ethnic Bosch.
“And this,” Pim starts to say, but he must pause to lick the dryness from his lips. “This,” he repeats, “is where Werner is going to be sent? To a camp again?”
Mr. Rosenzweig can only nod. “That would be the current procedure.”
Anne feels a chill on her cheek. Cold tears. “How could this happen?”
But even now Mr. Nussbaum attempts to console her. “Anne. This place. Mariënbosch, if that’s the name. It’s just,” he says, “it’s just a detention camp. It is not a death sentence.”
“No?”
“No,” Dassah agrees more sharply. “So there’s no need to be dramatic.”
Pim turns his head to Mr. Nussbaum, his expression heavy but direct. “When are you due to report, Werner?”
“Report? Uh. In two days.”
“Then, Hadas, you are correct. We still have time to work this matter through. I’m sure that Mr. Rosenzweig knows people he can contact,” Pim says.