could’ve found him all this time. And if not
09 for my sister’s diary, I know I would’ve. Or at least, I would’ve
10 been trying. Now I am ashamed that I have not. That I have
11 been such a coward, for so very long. Greatness is in bravery,
12 Joshua told me. Doing something that terrifies you.
13 I walk up the cement steps to 4A, slowly. There are six
14 steps, and I count them in my head, the numbers making an
15 easy rhythm, calming my quickly beating heart.
16 By the front door, there is a square green mailbox with one
17 word painted on it: Pelt .
18 I am in the right place.
19 I take a deep breath and press my finger to the doorbell. I
20 ring it once, and I wait. Then I ring it again, and I wait some
21 more.
22 I rap softly on the green door, and notice the paint is peel
23 ing, in ripples.
24 I do not hear footsteps or even see shadows moving against
25 the curtains. Then I notice the drive is empty of cars.
26 No one is home.
27
28S
29N
01
02
03
Chapter Seventeen 04
05
06
07
08
09
10
11
12
13
Back in my studio apartment, it is nearly dusk, but I do 14
not move yet to get my candle from under the kitchen sink. 15
Instead I sit at my tiny table, holding the thin yellow piece of 16
paper in my hands, thinking about the word “Pelt” on the 17
green square mailbox. The letters were black and thick, and 18
just a little crooked. “Pelt . ” It is real. He is real. 19
Sitting there, I think about the last time I saw Peter, the 20
morning the Green Police came for us. August 1944. Two 21
years we had been in the annex by then. But the war would 22
be over soon, we knew it. We crouched around the radio at 23
night after dinner, and there was a burgeoning sense that 24
things were beginning to go our way. Only two weeks earlier 25
there’d been an attempt on Hitler’s life, and by a German 26
count. We were not the only ones fed up with the war. “The 27
tide is turning,” Father had said, smiling gently at Mother. S28
Peter and I whispered about it at night in his room after N29
01 everyone else was asleep. Each night, I waited in my parents’
02 room until I heard the soft sound of Pim’s snore and Mother’s
03 breath rattling in her chest, and then I would tiptoe, ever so
04 carefully, up the stairs, to Peter’s.
05 Once, all our talk about after the war had felt almost like
06 talking about a story, something that could never happen to
07 us. But by this point, it had begun to feel real, like the idea of
08 the sun on our faces, the feel of August rain against my cheek.
09 I would feel these things again. We both would.
10 Peter and I had spent many nights whispering furtively in
11 the dark about the future and what it might hold. But that
12 night, what would be our last night in the annex, Peter lay
13 waiting for me on the divan. I sat down next to him, and he
14 pulled me close and put his finger to my lips before I could
15 speak. “Let’s not talk tonight,” he whispered.
16 I watched the turn of his face, his blue, blue eyes reflect
17 ing in the sheerness of the moonlight as he traced his finger
18 from my lips, slowly, across my cheek. And then he leaned in
19 even closer and kissed me.
20 I kissed him back, my lips moving against his as if they
21 belonged there, as if we belonged like that, together. We held
22 on tightly to each other as we kissed, and my hands trembled
23 a little against the warmth of his back.
24 “Tell me again,” I whispered. I could hear the sound of his
25 breath moving against his chest, so close, it was almost as if
26 it were my own. “Tell me what we’ll do when we leave here.”
27 “We’ll move to America,” he whispered, tracing the outline
28S of my cheekbone with his thumb. “Philadelphia. City of Broth
29N erly Love. We’ll be married, and we will no longer be Jews.”
“You won’t forget about me,” I whispered. 01
“Never,” he whispered back. 02
And then, for the first
09 for my sister’s diary, I know I would’ve. Or at least, I would’ve
10 been trying. Now I am ashamed that I have not. That I have
11 been such a coward, for so very long. Greatness is in bravery,
12 Joshua told me. Doing something that terrifies you.
13 I walk up the cement steps to 4A, slowly. There are six
14 steps, and I count them in my head, the numbers making an
15 easy rhythm, calming my quickly beating heart.
16 By the front door, there is a square green mailbox with one
17 word painted on it: Pelt .
18 I am in the right place.
19 I take a deep breath and press my finger to the doorbell. I
20 ring it once, and I wait. Then I ring it again, and I wait some
21 more.
22 I rap softly on the green door, and notice the paint is peel
23 ing, in ripples.
24 I do not hear footsteps or even see shadows moving against
25 the curtains. Then I notice the drive is empty of cars.
26 No one is home.
27
28S
29N
01
02
03
Chapter Seventeen 04
05
06
07
08
09
10
11
12
13
Back in my studio apartment, it is nearly dusk, but I do 14
not move yet to get my candle from under the kitchen sink. 15
Instead I sit at my tiny table, holding the thin yellow piece of 16
paper in my hands, thinking about the word “Pelt” on the 17
green square mailbox. The letters were black and thick, and 18
just a little crooked. “Pelt . ” It is real. He is real. 19
Sitting there, I think about the last time I saw Peter, the 20
morning the Green Police came for us. August 1944. Two 21
years we had been in the annex by then. But the war would 22
be over soon, we knew it. We crouched around the radio at 23
night after dinner, and there was a burgeoning sense that 24
things were beginning to go our way. Only two weeks earlier 25
there’d been an attempt on Hitler’s life, and by a German 26
count. We were not the only ones fed up with the war. “The 27
tide is turning,” Father had said, smiling gently at Mother. S28
Peter and I whispered about it at night in his room after N29
01 everyone else was asleep. Each night, I waited in my parents’
02 room until I heard the soft sound of Pim’s snore and Mother’s
03 breath rattling in her chest, and then I would tiptoe, ever so
04 carefully, up the stairs, to Peter’s.
05 Once, all our talk about after the war had felt almost like
06 talking about a story, something that could never happen to
07 us. But by this point, it had begun to feel real, like the idea of
08 the sun on our faces, the feel of August rain against my cheek.
09 I would feel these things again. We both would.
10 Peter and I had spent many nights whispering furtively in
11 the dark about the future and what it might hold. But that
12 night, what would be our last night in the annex, Peter lay
13 waiting for me on the divan. I sat down next to him, and he
14 pulled me close and put his finger to my lips before I could
15 speak. “Let’s not talk tonight,” he whispered.
16 I watched the turn of his face, his blue, blue eyes reflect
17 ing in the sheerness of the moonlight as he traced his finger
18 from my lips, slowly, across my cheek. And then he leaned in
19 even closer and kissed me.
20 I kissed him back, my lips moving against his as if they
21 belonged there, as if we belonged like that, together. We held
22 on tightly to each other as we kissed, and my hands trembled
23 a little against the warmth of his back.
24 “Tell me again,” I whispered. I could hear the sound of his
25 breath moving against his chest, so close, it was almost as if
26 it were my own. “Tell me what we’ll do when we leave here.”
27 “We’ll move to America,” he whispered, tracing the outline
28S of my cheekbone with his thumb. “Philadelphia. City of Broth
29N erly Love. We’ll be married, and we will no longer be Jews.”
“You won’t forget about me,” I whispered. 01
“Never,” he whispered back. 02
And then, for the first
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