feels way too bourgeois to Ezra Rosenstein. 08
Shelby waves a hand in the air. “But a girl like Penny. She’d 09
be impressed by the fancy house. Heck, I’d be impressed by 10
the fancy house.” 11
“You’d be impressed by anything.” I can’t stifle my 12
annoyance. 13
“I’m just saying,” she says. “The cat’s away, and the mice will 14
play.” 15
“That’s such a stupid expression,” I say. “It doesn’t even 16
make sense.” 17
She laughs. “Come on, Margie. It’s the weekend. Let’s get 18
out of here and get a drink.” 19
I shake my head, because even with all of Shelby’s talk 20
about Penny and Joshua, I am still thinking about what 21
Joshua said to me at lunch. That greatness is in bravery. Have 22
I forgotten how to be brave, even in the smallest way? Is that 23
why I hold so tightly to my sweater, my new name? Is that why 24
I have not written the letter to my father that I have com 25
posed in my head a thousand times? Why I have not tried to 26
find Peter, for so very long? Why I have tucked the woman’s 27
voice away, in the back of my head these past few days, denied S28
it, excused it? Am I a coward now? N29
01 “No,” I tell Shelby. “I can’t. I have something else I need
02 to do.”
03 “It’ll keep till Monday,” she says.
04 “No,” I say. “It won’t.”
05
06
07 I leave Shelby on Market Street and then walk in the opposite
08 direction from my apartment toward the bus stop at the cor
09 ners of Market and Seventeenth. After I turn the corner, out
10 of Shelby’s line of sight, I pull the tiniest of squares from my
11 satchel. I unfold it, read the address again, though I have
12 already committed it to memory: P. Pelt, 2217 Olney Avenue,
13 Apartment 4A.
14 Once I am sitting on the bus, I still clutch tightly to the
15 fading scrap of paper. My fingers ache and tremble, and I do
16 not feel brave in the slightest.
17 When I first came to Philadelphia in 1953, I tried desper
18 ately to look for Peter. I called the operator every day from
19 Ilsa’s telephone and asked her for Peter Pelt. “No listings
20 under that name,” she always told me.
21 “Try van Pels,” I’d say, just in case he’d decided not to
22 change his name after all.
23 “No. No listing for that either.”
24 But then, nearly a year into my American life, I saw it for
25 the first time. My sister’s diary, in the window of Robin’s
26 Books. It caught my eye as I walked by, the echo of her face.
27 I walked past it, then slowed down, then stopped, then
28S walked back, though I am not certain how my legs moved.
29N
They were numb, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I gasped 01
at the air and reminded myself to inhale, exhale. My heart 02
pounded so hard in my chest I thought it might explode. 03
I stopped at the window, and pressed my nose against the 04
glass. And there she was, preserved the way she’d been ten 05
years earlier, maybe more, before she’d been stripped and 06
shaved, tattooed, and broken. 07
I walked inside the store, like walking inside a dream. The 08
air was fog and silt and clung to my sweater. It was spring 09
time, but I was shivering. Somewhere a bell clanged on the 10
door. A man asked if he could help me. I pointed to the book, 11
my sister’s face. Or I picked it up. I don’t remember paying for 12
it, though I’m sure I did. 13
The next thing I remember is being back in Levittown, at 14
Ilsa’s house. 15
I sat down in her front room, on a hard-backed chair, and 16
I opened the book. It was nothing like the orange-checked 17
book I’d seen my sister write in, so often, in the annex. It was 18
a brighter orange, almost a red, and my sister’s name was 19
written in big letters on the front. Such big letters. Her 20
name—it was shouting at me. 21
Dear Kitty. The words swam across my eyes, as if I’d imag 22
ined them there. 23
“I’m calling my diary Kitty,” my sister told
Shelby waves a hand in the air. “But a girl like Penny. She’d 09
be impressed by the fancy house. Heck, I’d be impressed by 10
the fancy house.” 11
“You’d be impressed by anything.” I can’t stifle my 12
annoyance. 13
“I’m just saying,” she says. “The cat’s away, and the mice will 14
play.” 15
“That’s such a stupid expression,” I say. “It doesn’t even 16
make sense.” 17
She laughs. “Come on, Margie. It’s the weekend. Let’s get 18
out of here and get a drink.” 19
I shake my head, because even with all of Shelby’s talk 20
about Penny and Joshua, I am still thinking about what 21
Joshua said to me at lunch. That greatness is in bravery. Have 22
I forgotten how to be brave, even in the smallest way? Is that 23
why I hold so tightly to my sweater, my new name? Is that why 24
I have not written the letter to my father that I have com 25
posed in my head a thousand times? Why I have not tried to 26
find Peter, for so very long? Why I have tucked the woman’s 27
voice away, in the back of my head these past few days, denied S28
it, excused it? Am I a coward now? N29
01 “No,” I tell Shelby. “I can’t. I have something else I need
02 to do.”
03 “It’ll keep till Monday,” she says.
04 “No,” I say. “It won’t.”
05
06
07 I leave Shelby on Market Street and then walk in the opposite
08 direction from my apartment toward the bus stop at the cor
09 ners of Market and Seventeenth. After I turn the corner, out
10 of Shelby’s line of sight, I pull the tiniest of squares from my
11 satchel. I unfold it, read the address again, though I have
12 already committed it to memory: P. Pelt, 2217 Olney Avenue,
13 Apartment 4A.
14 Once I am sitting on the bus, I still clutch tightly to the
15 fading scrap of paper. My fingers ache and tremble, and I do
16 not feel brave in the slightest.
17 When I first came to Philadelphia in 1953, I tried desper
18 ately to look for Peter. I called the operator every day from
19 Ilsa’s telephone and asked her for Peter Pelt. “No listings
20 under that name,” she always told me.
21 “Try van Pels,” I’d say, just in case he’d decided not to
22 change his name after all.
23 “No. No listing for that either.”
24 But then, nearly a year into my American life, I saw it for
25 the first time. My sister’s diary, in the window of Robin’s
26 Books. It caught my eye as I walked by, the echo of her face.
27 I walked past it, then slowed down, then stopped, then
28S walked back, though I am not certain how my legs moved.
29N
They were numb, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I gasped 01
at the air and reminded myself to inhale, exhale. My heart 02
pounded so hard in my chest I thought it might explode. 03
I stopped at the window, and pressed my nose against the 04
glass. And there she was, preserved the way she’d been ten 05
years earlier, maybe more, before she’d been stripped and 06
shaved, tattooed, and broken. 07
I walked inside the store, like walking inside a dream. The 08
air was fog and silt and clung to my sweater. It was spring 09
time, but I was shivering. Somewhere a bell clanged on the 10
door. A man asked if he could help me. I pointed to the book, 11
my sister’s face. Or I picked it up. I don’t remember paying for 12
it, though I’m sure I did. 13
The next thing I remember is being back in Levittown, at 14
Ilsa’s house. 15
I sat down in her front room, on a hard-backed chair, and 16
I opened the book. It was nothing like the orange-checked 17
book I’d seen my sister write in, so often, in the annex. It was 18
a brighter orange, almost a red, and my sister’s name was 19
written in big letters on the front. Such big letters. Her 20
name—it was shouting at me. 21
Dear Kitty. The words swam across my eyes, as if I’d imag 22
ined them there. 23
“I’m calling my diary Kitty,” my sister told
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