it out from behind my back. Mutti gives a gasp. She stares at it and slowly reaches out her hands to take it. She runs her hands all over it and looks up at me.
"I ... I..." she stutters, the tears filling her eyes.
"I know it's not beautiful, like Oma's and I..."
"Peter, I ... you made it?" she asks.
I nod.
"I ... I don't know what..."
"Say it, woman!" laughs Papi, and then she starts to cry properly. The tears running down her face and the words coming out like hiccups in between them.
"I never thought I could ever ... I was so ... I didn't think I could ever feel the same about another menorah, and I was so ... and you two ... and oh, oh, Peter ... Thank you ... it's beautiful!"
It's not really, but I'm glad she thinks so.
DECEMBER 12, 1942 âPETER AND HIS PARENTS CELEBRATE THE FESTIVAL OF HANUKKAH
We keep the menorah in the kitchen. Each night, when the Franks have gone down, we light a candle. We don't mention it to them. I say a prayer, silently, each night, for the person whose candle is lit. What else can I do? We pray quickly because candles are precious. I like it being just the three of us. I like the look of Mutti and Papi's faces, serious in the candlelight. I like the way we say the words togetherâand then we have a few seconds of silence, and pray alone. The night I pray for Mr. Frank, the candle won't blow out. Mutti has to try twice!
When it's my turn to pray for me, it's hard. All I can say is keep me alive. Oh Lord, please keep me aliveâand Liese. Help us meet again one day. But I keep hearing the same question: Why? And there's no answer, because why should I survive, when so many are dying? There's no reason.
That's the truth.
By the time it's the last night of Hanukkah the candles are nearly stumps! The Franks light them and we all say the prayer together before we eat. They say it quickly and then it's over. For them, that's Hanukkah. Anne was more excited about celebrating St. Nicholas for the first time. When they leave, Mutti
relights a candle and stares into its flame. I know that she's praying for me, thanking God that I'm alive. And do you know what? She chose the right candle. She leans forward to blow it outâand stops. Her tears glisten in the flickering light.
"I ... I..." she whispers, "I can't!" So I lean forward and blow it out myself. She smiles.
"Do you think if we left it, it would burn for eight days?" she asks. She laughs as though she's being silly. But she isn't. I don't know where the words come from. I'm so bad at words.
"We need a miracle," I say. And she nods.
"Good night, Peter."
"Good night." And Papi hugs us both. I go to my room and Hanukkah is over.
***
When I wake up the next morning my hands feel empty. I've got nothing to do. I go down to the storeroom and search for Boche. I can't find him anywhere. Sometimes he spends whole days out on the streets, scavenging. When he comes home, he smells of air. He smells of streets. I sink my face into his fur and breathe it in. It's lovely. It's full of the damp wood-smoke autumn smell of Amsterdam. Of canals and streetlights.
Of outside.
MARCH 18, 1943â TURKEY'S JOINED THE WAR!
"Now they'll invade. At last, some action!" says Mutti.
"And maybe some cigarettes!" says Papi.
"Honestly!" says Mrs. Frank. "They're not fighting the war for us alone, you know!"
A silence.
"No, they're not," says Mr. Frank. "But perhaps it's hard to remember that, when we're locked up in here, waiting."
"Why do they call it cleansing?" Anne asks suddenly. She doesn't notice the silence, the sadness that lands on us all whenever she mentions things so suddenly, without warning. Mr. Frank sighs.
"Why do you think, Anne?" he asks, but she doesn't answer, just asks abruptly, "Would they really cleanse children?"
"We don't know exactly what's happening, Anne, only that it's bad."
He doesn't want to say it, I'm thinking. He doesn't want to say that yes, of course they would cleanse children. And precious,
"I ... I..." she stutters, the tears filling her eyes.
"I know it's not beautiful, like Oma's and I..."
"Peter, I ... you made it?" she asks.
I nod.
"I ... I don't know what..."
"Say it, woman!" laughs Papi, and then she starts to cry properly. The tears running down her face and the words coming out like hiccups in between them.
"I never thought I could ever ... I was so ... I didn't think I could ever feel the same about another menorah, and I was so ... and you two ... and oh, oh, Peter ... Thank you ... it's beautiful!"
It's not really, but I'm glad she thinks so.
DECEMBER 12, 1942 âPETER AND HIS PARENTS CELEBRATE THE FESTIVAL OF HANUKKAH
We keep the menorah in the kitchen. Each night, when the Franks have gone down, we light a candle. We don't mention it to them. I say a prayer, silently, each night, for the person whose candle is lit. What else can I do? We pray quickly because candles are precious. I like it being just the three of us. I like the look of Mutti and Papi's faces, serious in the candlelight. I like the way we say the words togetherâand then we have a few seconds of silence, and pray alone. The night I pray for Mr. Frank, the candle won't blow out. Mutti has to try twice!
When it's my turn to pray for me, it's hard. All I can say is keep me alive. Oh Lord, please keep me aliveâand Liese. Help us meet again one day. But I keep hearing the same question: Why? And there's no answer, because why should I survive, when so many are dying? There's no reason.
That's the truth.
By the time it's the last night of Hanukkah the candles are nearly stumps! The Franks light them and we all say the prayer together before we eat. They say it quickly and then it's over. For them, that's Hanukkah. Anne was more excited about celebrating St. Nicholas for the first time. When they leave, Mutti
relights a candle and stares into its flame. I know that she's praying for me, thanking God that I'm alive. And do you know what? She chose the right candle. She leans forward to blow it outâand stops. Her tears glisten in the flickering light.
"I ... I..." she whispers, "I can't!" So I lean forward and blow it out myself. She smiles.
"Do you think if we left it, it would burn for eight days?" she asks. She laughs as though she's being silly. But she isn't. I don't know where the words come from. I'm so bad at words.
"We need a miracle," I say. And she nods.
"Good night, Peter."
"Good night." And Papi hugs us both. I go to my room and Hanukkah is over.
***
When I wake up the next morning my hands feel empty. I've got nothing to do. I go down to the storeroom and search for Boche. I can't find him anywhere. Sometimes he spends whole days out on the streets, scavenging. When he comes home, he smells of air. He smells of streets. I sink my face into his fur and breathe it in. It's lovely. It's full of the damp wood-smoke autumn smell of Amsterdam. Of canals and streetlights.
Of outside.
MARCH 18, 1943â TURKEY'S JOINED THE WAR!
"Now they'll invade. At last, some action!" says Mutti.
"And maybe some cigarettes!" says Papi.
"Honestly!" says Mrs. Frank. "They're not fighting the war for us alone, you know!"
A silence.
"No, they're not," says Mr. Frank. "But perhaps it's hard to remember that, when we're locked up in here, waiting."
"Why do they call it cleansing?" Anne asks suddenly. She doesn't notice the silence, the sadness that lands on us all whenever she mentions things so suddenly, without warning. Mr. Frank sighs.
"Why do you think, Anne?" he asks, but she doesn't answer, just asks abruptly, "Would they really cleanse children?"
"We don't know exactly what's happening, Anne, only that it's bad."
He doesn't want to say it, I'm thinking. He doesn't want to say that yes, of course they would cleanse children. And precious,
Similar Books
