Tales From the Secret Annex Part 13

Priscilla, who was twenty, was neither engaged nor married, which didn't disturb me in the least. I was im- mensely proud of my friend, the movie star.

So pa.s.sed the winter. In late spring a letter came from the Lanes, in which Priscilla asked me if I would like to fly to the United States and spend two of the summer months as their guest. I jumped for joy, but I hadn't reck- oned with the objections of my parents. I couldn't accept the invitation; it was impossible for me to travel alone to America; I didn't have enough clothes; I couldn't stay away that long, and all the other worried notions that oc- cur to loving fathers and mothers on such occasions. But I had made up my mind to go to America, and go I must.

I reported all of the parental objections to Priscilla, and she answered each one to my satisfaction. First of all, I wouldn't have to travel alone. Priscilla's companion, who was visiting relatives of hers in The Hague, would take me with her to the States. As for my return trip to Holland, Priscilla would think of a chaperone when the time came.

My parents still objected: Neither I nor they really knew the Lane family, they said, and it was more than likely that I would feel entirely out of place in their home.

They made me cross; it almost seemed as though they begrudged me this unusual opportunity. I pleaded that it would be almost an insult to decline such a cordial invitation. After they had received a charming and rea.s.suring letter from Mrs. Lane, they finally decided the matter in my favor. I worked hard in the months of May and June, and when Priscilla wrote that her companion would arrive in Amsterdam on July 18, preparations for my voyage were completed.

On the eighteenth, Father and I went to the station to meet the lady. Priscilla had sent me her photograph, and I recognized her at once among the many detraining pas- sengers. Miss Halwood was a small woman with graying blond hair, who talked much and rapidly. She looked like a sweet person.

Father, who had once been in America and spoke good English, conversed with Miss Halwood, and I ventured a remark now and then. It had been arranged that she would stay with us for a week. That week fairly flew by, and scarcely a day had pa.s.sed before Miss Halwood and I were friends.

On July 25, I was so excited that I couldn't swallow a single bite of my breakfast. But Miss Halwood, an expe- rienced traveler, gave no sign of agitation. The entire family saw us off at Schiphol Airport, and finally, finally, my trip to America had begun.

We arrived in the neighborhood of Hollywood on the evening of the fifth day. Priscilla and her sister Rosemary, her senior by one year, met us. As I was somewhat tired from the trip, we drove to a hotel near the airport. After breakfast the next morning, we stepped again into the car, which was driven by Rosemary.

In slightly more than three hours, we reached the Lane house, where I was cordially received.

Mrs. Lane showed me to my room, which was really a charming small apartment with a balcony. This, then, was to be my home for the next two months.

It was not difficult to feel at ease in the hospitable Lane home. Much work and much fun were the daily routine; the three famous young stars, by the way, helped their mother more than I, an ordinary teen-ager, ever did. I soon got used to speaking English. Priscilla was free dur- ing the first two weeks of my stay and showed me much of the beautiful surroundings. Nearly every day we went to the beach, and I gradually became acquainted with people of whom I had heard or read. One of Priscilla's intimate friends was Madge Bellamy, who often went along with us on our sight-seeing jaunts.

n.o.body would have judged Priscilla to be older than myself; she treated me as a girl of her own age. When her free fortnight was up, she had to go back to the Warner Brothers studio and-oh, joy! I was allowed to go with her. I visited her in her dressing room and saw Priscilla making tests.

She finished early that first day and showed me around the studio. "Anne," she said after a while, "I just got a wonderful idea. Tomorrow morning you go to the office where pretty girls apply for jobs and ask the man in charge if there is anything you could do. Just in fun, of course."

"Yes, I'd like that," I said. Next day, I really did go to that office. It was a terribly busy place; the girls stood queued up in the hall. I joined the line and in half an hour I was inside the office. But that didn't mean that it was my turn; there were still many girls ahead of me. Again I waited, this time about two hours. A bell rang-this was for me!-and bravely I stepped into the inner office, where a middle-aged man was seated behind a desk. He greeted me in a standoffish manner. Asking my name and address, he seemed surprised that I was a guest of the Lanes. Finished with those questions, he took another good look at me and asked, "I suppose that you want to be a film star?"

"Yes, Sir, if I have the talent."

He pushed a b.u.t.ton, and in walked a smartly dressed girl, who asked me, with a gesture rather than in words, to follow her. She opened a door, and the sharp light in the room made me blink my eyes. A young man behind 'I; an intricate apparatus gave me a friendlier greeting than the one I'd had before and told me to sit on a high stool.

He took several pictures, then rang for the girl, and I was led back to the older man. He promised to send me word whether or not I should return to the studio.

Encouraged, I found my way back to the Lane house.

A week later I received a note from Mr. Harwick (Priscilla had told me his name). He wrote that the photos had come out very well, and asked me to come to his office at three o'clock the next afternoon.

Now, armed with an invitation, I was admitted at once. Mr. Harwick asked me if I would pose for a manu- facturer of tennis rackets. The job was for just one week, but after I had been told what I would be paid, I gladly consented. Mr. Harwick called the tennis man, whom I met that same afternoon.

Next day I made my appearance at a photo studio, where I was to go every day for a week. I had to change clothes in minutes; I had to stand, sit, and smile contin- uously; walk up and down, change clothes again, look pretty, and put on fresh make-up. At night I was so ex- hausted that I had to drag myself to bed. On the third day it hurt me to smile, but I felt that I must keep faith with my manufacturer.

When I came home on the evening of the fourth day, I must have looked so ill that Mrs. Lane forbade me to re- turn to the job. She herself called the man, and got him to excuse me.

I was deeply grateful. Undisturbed, I hugely enjoyed the rest of my unforgettable vacation. As for dreams of movie stardom, I was cured. I had had a close look at the way celebrities live.

Sunday

Sunday, February 20, 1.944

What happens during the week in other people's houses happens on Sunday here in the Secret Annex. While other people put on their fine clothes and go walking in the sunshine, we here are scrubbing, sweeping, and washing clothes.

8 o'clock: With no consideration for the late sleepers, Dus- sel gets up at 8. He goes to the bathroom, then down- stairs, then up again, and then in the bathroom he does a big washing that takes a whole hour.

9: 30: The stoves are lit. The blackout curtains are taken down and the Van Daans go into the bathroom. One of my Sunday morning tortures is that lying in bed I have to look straight at Dussel's back when he's praying. You'll all laugh when I tell you how awful it is to watch Dussel pray. It's not that he cries or gets sentimental, not at all, but he has this way of seesawing from his heels to his toes and back again for a quarter of an hour, ah yes, a quarter of an hour. Back and forth, back and forth, on and on. If :

I don't shut my eyes, it makes my head spin.

10:15: The Van Daans whistle, the bathroom is free. On our floor the first sleepy faces rise from their pillows.

Then everything goes fast, fast, fast. Margot and I take turns helping with the washing. Seeing it's bitter cold down below, we're glad to be wearing long trousers and head scarves. Meanwhile, Father is busy in the bathroom; at 11 Margot (or I) goes into the bathroom, and then we're all clean again.

11:30: Breakfast. I won't say any more about that, because there's enough talk about food without my contribution.

12:15: Everybody does something different. Father in overalls gets down on his knees and brushes the carpet so hard that the room is cloaked in a big cloud of dust. Dus- sel makes the beds (all wrong, naturally!), meanwhile whistling the same old Beethoven violin concerto. Mother can be heard shuffling across the floor while she hangs up the washing.

Mr. Van Daan puts on his hat and disappears into the nether regions, usually followed by Peter and Mouschi.

Mrs. Van Daan puts on a long ap.r.o.n, a black woolen vest ! and overshoes, ties a thick red woolen shawl around her ' head, takes a bundle of filthy washing under her arm and, i after a well-rehea.r.s.ed washerwoman's curtsy, also goes j down to the washtubs.

Margot and I do the dishes and straighten the bedroom a little.

At a quarter to 1: When everything is dry and only the : pots and pans are left, I go downstairs to dust and if I've done washing in the morning to clean the washtub.

1 o'clock: News.

Quarter past 1: One of us has his hair washed or cut.

Then we all get busy peeling potatoes, hanging up washing, waxing the stairs, scrubbing the bathroom, etc., etc.

2 o'clock: After the Wehrmacht communique we wait for the music program and coffee and all is calm again. Who can tell why the grown-ups here have to sleep all the time?

By 11 o'clock in the morning you see some of them yawn- ing and often enough you hear them sighing: "Oh, if only

I could stretch out for half an hour!"

It's really no joke between 2 and 4 in the afternoon to see nothing but sleepy faces wherever you go. In our room

Dussel, in the living room Father and Mother and upstairs the Van Daans, who exchange sleeping places in the af- ternoon. Oh well, it can't be helped, maybe I'll under- stand when I'm as old as they are.

Anyway, they sleep even longer on Sunday. No point in going upstairs before 4:30 or 5, because until then they're all in dreamland.

The late afternoon is the same as on weekdays, except for the concert from 6 to 7 o'clock.

Once we've eaten and washed up, I'm happy because another Sunday is gone.