Annexed (14 page)

"There's not enough food," said Mutti. "Not for anyone. They don't want to feed them, that's why they shot them!"

"It's not always about food, Auguste!" said Mrs. Frank.

They begin to argue. Mrs. Frank stabs at our clothes with her needle. In, out, in, out, in time with her words. Mutti goes red. I go to my room. I can still hear their voices, arguing.

"Sorry," I whisper to the dead airmen. Bep didn't say that they're dead, but I suppose they are. If I knew I would die tomorrow, would I ask Anne for a kiss? For more than a kiss? If she knew this was our last day ever, would she say yes? Would it matter that we only kissed because we knew we might be dead tomorrow?

Is that the only reason we want to?

I don't know.

How do you ever know, anyway?

***

Anne comes into my room quietly.

She twists her hands in front of her, nervous. I know I've been mean to her, trying to stay away from her. It makes my heart twist. It's horrible pushing her away when she's trying so hard; like kicking a wingless bird.

"Can we go to the attic?" she asks. I nod. I go up first, open the trap door and then help her through. When we first came to the Annex we inched our way up the steps slowly, they're so steep. Now we can almost run up them. We sit on the cushions.

"Are you angry with me, Peter?" she asks. I don't know what to say, or how to say it. I am angry, but not with Anne. I'm angry we're stuck in the Annex, angry we're having to do this with everyone watching us, angry it's so obvious her mother doesn't approve of me and that her father's frightened for Margot.

"It's lots of things!" I blurt out.

"Is Mummy right? Am I pestering you?" she asks, and her voice is sharp, not with anger, but with needing to know. That's the way it is with Anne, always needing to know, whatever the truth is. I smile.

"It's not funny!" she says.

"Listen," I say, "just listen." She waits. I wait. I wait to know what to say. It takes a long time. I blush. The birds sing. A noisy truck goes past far below. I get up and shut the trap door, even though we'd hear anyone trying to come up.

"It's everything, Anne. Being stuck here, not knowing, wondering..." I stop. She waits. "I mean, what if this is it? What if this is the rest of our life? Or if we're found, what happens next? Why don't we have an escape route ... and what if this is our only chance to...?" She's quiet, so quiet it makes it difficult to go on. "To fall in love or to know each other..." I run out of words. I've said too much. I stop. I'm blushing. Anne's staring at me seriously, waiting.

"What do you think?" I ask.

"I'm not sure what you're saying," she says, but she's shaking.

"Anne! What if we never get out of here?"

"Don't!" The word comes out of her, short and desperate. "Please, Peter, don't!" She begins to shake uncontrollably. I reach for her.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Anne." What have I done?

"It's just that..." She tries to speak but her voice is too shaky. "It's just that I've got so many things inside me. So much I need to do—and I've got to survive, Peter.
We've
got to!"

"We will, we will," I whisper, horrified. "Don't worry, Anne, your father will get us there. If anyone can, he can."

I hold her as tight as I can. I hold her as though I could stop this feeling, this fear from spilling out and drowning us. After a while the shakes become shudders.

"Sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be sorry," I whisper back. She takes a deep breath.

"I'm scared," she says. "Scared that all the things inside me will never see daylight."

"I know." I rock her. "Me too."

"What"—she hiccups—"what frightens you most? I mean the things you might not get to do," she whispers, looking up at me.

I look away from her. I can't say it—or can I? Can we really tell each other all the things inside us? Is it possible?

I don't know how.

"No, you tell me what you want to do," I whisper.

She doesn't hesitate, not for a second. The words tumble from her lips as though she already feels there's no time left to speak them.

"It's the stories," she says. "There are so many of them, Peter. Do you ever think how many there are? How many of us there might be, each with a story—and the ideas. Sometimes I think even a whole lifetime would never be enough to tell them..." She grasps my arm. Her grip's passionate and strong. "But I asked about you," she laughs.

I swallow.

"Peter?"

I take a deep breath.

"Peter?" she asks softly. "There must be something."

"I'm scared I'll never make love to a girl," I say quietly. The words fall between us, softly, lightly. I feel her hand draw back.

"Oh!" she says. And she sits up, away from me. Her eyes grow as big as her face. Her mouth moves but nothing comes out. And then she covers her face with her hands and begins to laugh. Her whole body shakes.

"That's so ... I ..." she chokes the words. "I never imagined ... I had no idea. That you would say that!"

"Neither did I!"

And then we can't speak because we're both laughing. She takes deep breaths and wipes the tears from her eyes.

"Anne?" I ask after a while.

"Yes?" she says.

"Don't put this in your diary."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"All right," she says quickly, "I won't."

We talk. We talk until the light fades and is gone. We talk until our words feel like they have a life of their own, that they stand out separate from us on the attic air.

"Anne," I say, "I know you would never have noticed me, if we weren't stuck in here."

She laughs and reaches for my hand.

"Oh, Peter!" she says. "And I might never have noticed how amazing a single tree is, or a glimpse of the sky. I would be a different person. Probably a worse one! I'm not always proud of who I was, Peter."

"You're incredible!"

"So are you!"

"Anne?"

"Yes."

"There was a girl, on the outside. A girl called Liese."

"Liese Lieberman?"

It's hard hearing her name said out loud by someone else.

"How about you?"

"There was a boy called Peter, Peter Schiff."

We're silent. We sit in the dark and hold each other's hands. We don't know what's happening to Liese or Peter. We don't know whether they're alive or dead. We only know that they're alive inside us—and that it hurts.

When we stand up to go down, I kiss the top of Anne's head. She squeezes my hand tight. We don't say any more. We don't need to, we both know that we're here, and they're not.

She's opened a gate. The feelings flood through. I want to say: "My name is Peter van Pels. I am here. I am real, not just an idea. What would you do if I held you in my arms, Anne Frank, and kissed you?"

But I know I mustn't. I must think of Mr. Frank—and Margot. I take a deep breath and concentrate on what she's saying.

"I'm not going to be a
hausfrau
!" she says. I laugh. Anne could never be a
hausfrau.
She's too clumsy for one. She'd write a story and forget to cook supper. Have an idea. Forget to shop.

"You couldn't be a
hausfrau
if you tried."

"I could," she says haughtily. "I just don't want to be."

"Well," I laugh, "you'd better find a husband who won't mind."

"Perhaps I won't have a husband."

"Really?"

She gives me one of her wicked glances, holds a pretend cigarette in her hand, takes a long slow puff, and pulls it airily out of her mouth, her hand floating to her side.

"Do you really think it's necessary?" she drawls. "I mean in this day and age?"

I smile. There's so much I want to say to her.

"Yes, it is, if you want to have children."

She drops the pose and stares into the distance, then glances at me quickly.

"Perhaps I won't!" she says, defiantly. "I mean it's not obligatory, is it?"

"No," I say.

"I can't imagine children coming out of me," she says suddenly, "only stories."

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.

"Do you think that's dreadful?" she asks.

I shrug. "Why should it be? After this we should be able to do whatever we want to."

"I want to write, Peter!"

"You do write already," I say. She comes and sits beside me. Takes my hands.

"But will I ever write anything great?" she asks. "Something that's first-class, that changes people's lives?"

"Why not?" I say, because when Anne's like this it feels like she can do anything, think anything, be anyone. Sometimes. Sometimes the thought comes that I could be there with her, in the background. Like I am here. I think I might like it. I could check the doors. Keep her safe. I put my arm around her. We lie on the floor and her dreams pour over us. They are always there—over there. Somewhere else. In the future.

She can't see that I'm beginning to
like
it here. Because of her. She's changing everything. I look forward to coming up here and lying in the sun. Listening to her. Hearing the breeze through the tree. Opening my eyes. Seeing the glint of a gull in the sky. Wishing it could stay like this forever.

I like it.

But Anne wants more.

Not from me.

From the world.

"Have you ever kissed someone?" she asks suddenly. We both stare up at the beams of the attic roof.

"No," I say. I remember the feel of Liese's skin, the taste of the back of her hand as I kissed it goodbye. Soft. Warm.

"Me neither," says Anne. She sits up. Runs her tongue across her lips and presses them together. I smile up at her. At her anxious, determined face.

"I don't think that's how it is," I say. "I mean, when it happens it just happens, doesn't it?"

But maybe this
is
how it is. Perhaps for us, there is no time to wait and see. Perhaps for us there's no choice.

There's only here.

There's only now.

There's only Anne—who wants to know what it is to be kissed, and me—who'd like to make love to a girl.

She would prefer a film star, or at least someone clever. I would prefer Liese.

But they're not here.

And we are.

I sit up. I can't do it, not like this.

"We should go down now," I say.

And do I imagine it, or is she relieved?

Or maybe it's disappointment?

I don't know.

Does
she?

If I had my time again? If she sat there like that, full of questions, full of longing? If I knew what I know now? Would I have done anything different? Because we had less time than we imagined.

Far less.

I love making Anne smile. I can do it by winking at her. I can do it by asking how she is or whether she wants to come to the attic. I'm doing it all the time at the moment because I'm trying to draw her and can't get her dimples to come out right. I never really noticed her face. How brown her eyes are, how sharp her face is—like her brain, clever and cutting. She knows and thinks so much, but she doesn't always know about people.

Everyone in the Annex has a new topic of conversation. Us.

"Anne's second home," says Pfeffer as she heads into my room. "Don't forget to come back to us, Anne!"

Anne smiles and winks, and acts like it's all completely normal. She's enjoying it, just like Mr. Frank said she would. As usual, I say nothing—but inside I'm raging. I hate it. What has any of it to do with them? Did they have to explain themselves to
their
parents? Can't they at least pretend that we have some privacy?

Last night government minister Mr. Gerrit Bolkestein announced on the radio that the writings of all those in hiding are to be gathered together after the war as testimony. Suddenly the whole Annex is talking about Anne's diary. Everyone wants to know what's in it. Everyone wants her to write about them. Mr. Frank talks about bearing witness. Mrs. Frank about testament. Papi retells his favorite jokes, just in case she's already forgotten them! Everyone thinks it's wonderful. Everyone except me—and Margot.

Margot says nothing.

"What if I don't want to be in it?" I ask at dinner (stinking kale and potatoes), because I don't.

"Quick, write that down, Anne!" says Papi, and everyone laughs. But I wonder. I wonder if they realize how passionate she is, how much it means to her. I shudder. This could change everything. Already Anne's staring at them as they speak. I try to catch her eye, but she's looking intently at Margot, waiting for a reaction.

"That's wonderful," says Margot, sweetly, but she breathes in deeply as she says it.

"We must give you more time to work on it," says Mrs. Frank. Anne looks amazed.

"Not in
my
room. I can't have Anne using any more time in my room. It's just not right to encourage her too much," says Dr. Pfeffer.

"It's absolutely not a problem, Pfeffer; Anne will have time in
our
room. It won't affect you at all," says Mr. Frank.

Margot closes her eyes. So where will she go, then? Nobody asks her, and she doesn't ask anybody.

Anne smiles. "Thank you, Daddy!" Mrs. Frank nods approval. "And you, Mummy!" But no one thanks Margot.

I can already imagine how Anne might see us. Mutti is a silly, fat flirt; Margot an irritating, perfect daughter; and me—who am I? The thought scares me. Especially when I think of everything I've told her.

I wait in the attic for her, but she doesn't come. I go down to the Franks' room; she's not in the sitting room so I knock on the bedroom door. "Oh, just go in," says Margot. "She never hears anything when she's writing." I open the door. Anne is sitting at the desk, her head is down and her fingers fly across the pages. She doesn't look up—she doesn't even know I'm here.