Melanie Martin Goes Dutch Read online

  But it also makes you feel so much worse because Anne Frank could have written lots of books and lived lots of years—and maybe even become a “mumsie.”

  She was just getting started.

  Dear Diary,

  We just finished Anne Frank's diary.

  We read where she wrote, “We're going to be hungry, but anything is better than being discovered.” And, “In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

  I don't know if Anne was ever an ordinary kid, but I know she was an extraordinary teenager.

  Mom was reading me an entry about how there are two Annes: an inside one and an outside one, a cheerful one and a deeper one, a bad one and a good one. Then Mom stopped reading.

  “That's it?” I said.

  “That's it,” Mom said. The diary ends in the middle because the Gestapo—Nazi police—burst in on them and sent them away to concentration camps, where they all died except the father.

  Even though I already knew that Anne never got to turn sixteen, the end of the book still came as sort of a shock. I just sat there all heavy and numb.

  Dad came in and sat down with us. “You finished the book?”

  “It ends in the middle,” I said. “It should have ended with ‘Hurray! The war is over and now I'm going back to school. Yours, Anne.’”

  “She almost made it,” Dad said. “The Americans and British landed in France on June 6, 1944, and the war was over within the year. But that was the summer the Franks were arrested. Anne died of a disease called typhus in the concentration camp the next spring.”

  “What about the friends, the ones who helped hide them and who found the diary?” I asked. “Did they get in trouble?”

  Dad said that they were punished but not killed.

  “They were heroes too, just like the soldiers,” Mom said. “And like firefighters, and the police, and all the people who risk their lives to protect others.”

  Dad said there's an Anne Frank Center downtown and it teaches children about Anne Frank, tolerance, and “the dangers of discrimination.”

  Well, I will tell you one thing: I can't stop thinking about Anne Frank. Normally I get a song from the radio stuck in my head, but now I have Anne Frank stuck in my head.

  Usually when I finish a book I like, I feel proud of myself but also sort of sad that the book is over. In this case, I feel sad because Anne Frank's life was over. She didn't get to grow up.

  When the Nazis started taking over Germany, Anne's family went to Holland. When the Nazis took over Holland, they went into hiding. And when the Nazis raided their Secret Annex, they went to concentration camps. They couldn't just stay put and feel safe and live their lives!

  And millions of perfectly nice people got treated like this. Anne was just one.

  How could this have happened? How could grown-ups kill each other and let kids die??

  I guess sometimes just feeling safe is a luxury.

  And just being kind or helpful makes a difference.

  Would I risk my life to help my friends if they needed me? I think I would. (But I'd probably whine about it.)

  I hope I can stay aware of what's important and what's not.

  Right now, this very second, I feel like I “get it.” And I'm going to keep trying to see the Big Picture and be a Better Person.

  But don't expect me to have an instant personality transplant or anything. I am still a kid!

  Dear Diary,

  I just wrote a poem for Mom. It's sort of dumb but it's the kind of thing she'll appreciate.

  Better late than never,

  Dear Diary,

  Mom liked my poem and showed me some Rembrandt self-portraits. He looked wise and kind. Mom said “soulful.” Mom also showed me a Vermeer book that shows cool close-ups of his signatures. Sometimes he combined the V and M of Vermeer, like this:

  Yours,

  Dear Diary,

  Matt declared today W.B. Day for Walking Backwards Day. He's been walking around the house backwards for the last two hours. He even walked into my room backwards and said, “Ttam si eman ym.”

  “Is that Dutch?” I said.

  “It's ‘My name is Matt’ backwards. You can call me Ttam.”

  I rolled my eyes and didn't call him anything.

  He started dealing cards.

  “What are you playing?” I asked.

  “Raw,” he said.

  “Raw?”

  “Raw.”

  “War?!”

  He nodded.

  “By yourself?” I asked.

  He nodded again.

  “That's pathetic,” I said.

  “Do you want to play Rj Eulc?”

  “What's Rj Eulc?” I said.

  “Clue Jr.,” he said.

  I was going to say “You need mental help,” but instead, I decided to make his day and said, “Erus.”

  I didn't even add “Tarb eht Ttam.”

  Dear Diary,

  Matt was still walking backwards after dinner and he banged into Dad's reading lamp and knocked it over. It didn't break but Dad got really mad and said, “How can we learn from this?” (Hee hee.)

  By the way, did I ever tell you that thanks to me, four kids in my class now have made-up names for their brothers or sisters? It's true: Will the Pill, Nicky the Picky, Burke the Jerk, and Elaine the Pain. I'm an inspiration!

  Inspiringly yours,

  Mel

  P.S. There's one thing I still have to do before school starts:

  Dear Diary,

  I still haven't given Mrs. Hausner her present.

  I am such a chicken!! Bok bok bok.

  I was thinking maybe I could just write her a note apologizing for hanging up on her. Or scribble something like “Dear Mrs. Hausner, Get well soon. This is for you. Melanie.”

  Deep down, though, I know I should go see her in person. I've known her forever and she went through this terrible thing and I've been acting like I don't even know about it.

  Gotta run. Cecily is coming for a sleepover.

  Dear Diary,

  Breakfast was French toast, which Matt calls French toes, which cracked Cecily up. Mom got the maple syrup from the cupboard instead of the refrigerator (where it belongs). Since she had opened it a few days ago, Matt kept asking, “Are you sure nothing fuzzy is growing on it?” and Mom kept saying, “Enough, Matt! I'm sure.”

  Then Mom announced that school starts next week.

  The weird thing is that I don't think any of us minds that much. Matt is excited about second grade, and Mom is excited about the assemblies she is giving on van Gogh, and Cecily never minds school (maybe because things are usually pretty quiet at her home).

  And me? Just between us, I'm almost looking forward to school starting up again.

  I realize that if I were in hiding, I would miss not just marshmallows and M&M's and pretzel goldfish and slice 'n' bake cookie dough and Chinese food. I would miss school. And my friends. And the whole wide world.

  Anne did.

  We showed Cecily the frame she gave us, which now has a photo of us all in Holland. It's the cheesy picture taken by Hans. I can hardly believe I was practically competing with Cecily over him when obviously best friends matter more than cute tour guides.

  Dear Diary,

  I did it. I talked to Mrs. Hausner.

  Matt and I were playing archeologist with chocolate-chip cookies and toothpicks and paintbrushes. The game is Dig the Dinosaur Eggs out of Their Nests, and the object is to get the chips out whole—without breaking or eating them. I always win because Matt can never resist snacking on his chocolate dino eggs.

  Well, I knew I couldn't just keep playing games and being a bok-bok chicken. So I called Cecily—even though she's at her father's. Part of me was hoping to get her answering machine, but I got her mom.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hausner, this is Melanie,” I said. Then, instead of saying, “May I please speak to Cecily?” I said, “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Mrs
. Hausner said, “But Cecily's at her father's. She won't be home until tomorrow.”

  “I know. I was calling to talk to you.” Mrs. Hausner probably thought she'd heard wrong because she didn't say a word. “Could I drop something off?” I asked.

  “Sure, unless you'd rather give it to Cecily when she gets back.”

  “It's not for Cecily—it's for you.” I started thinking that it might be fun to surprise Cecily with a gift someday too. Maybe a little bag of FAO Schwarz M&M's— regular blue, light blue, and dark blue.

  Next thing you know, the Dutch shoes were in my pocket, and I asked Mom to walk me over to Mrs. Hausner's. Mom was doing a puzzle of her favorite Vermeer painting: Girl with a Pearl Earring. It's in Holland but not in Amsterdam, so we didn't get to see it. It's really really beautiful, and when you look at it, sometimes you see a girl, and other times you see a young woman.

  Well, Mom and I walked outside and I told her everything. Everything! About the manners lessons and messy kitchen and even hanging up on Mrs. Hausner. (I said I did it “a couple times,” not three times.) Then I asked Mom if she'd ever done anything like that. She said, “Mellie, it's not something I'm proud of, but yes, when I was in grade school, my best friend and I made a few phony phone calls. That was before the days of Caller I.D.!” (Ha! Even Mom was not a perfect kid.)

  Mom wished me good luck and said she'd pick me up ten minutes later.

  I rang the Hausners' doorbell. Instead of a ding-dong, it has a melody. Like a carillon.

  In the middle of the melody (middle of the melody—is that a tongue twister?), Mrs. Hausner answered. She looked the exact same as ever. She said, “Come in! Tell me about Holland. And thank you for being such a wonderful friend to Cecily. She had a terrific time.”

  I was taking off my sandals and Cheshire Cat rubbed up against me and started purring like a motor. I petted him, got up my nerve, and stood up.

  “We all had a good time, but I came to say that I'm sorry about when I kept hanging up on you. Also, I really hope you're feeling better.”

  Mrs. Hausner seemed surprised. She looked at me in a proud-mother sort of way, and said, “Melanie, you're a good egg.”

  I didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but I figured being a good egg had to be better than being a bad chicken.

  I handed her the present. “This is for you, Mrs. Hausner.”

  “Oh, how sweet!” she said, then added, “Now that you're getting older, you may call me Priscilla.”

  “I'll try,” I said, which was sort of stupid because how hard can it be to call someone Priscilla? It's not like it's tricky to pronounce. Still, she's always been Mrs. Hausner to me, so I wasn't positive I could just een, twee, drie make the switch.

  Mrs. Priscilla opened the gift. “These are lovely!”

  “I know you don't allow shoes inside your home, but I hope you'll make a special exception.”

  “I know just where to put them!” She thumbtacked them on their bulletin board.

  They looked pretty cute up there if I do say so myself. And having my shoes in her kitchen made me feel like I'm sort of part of Cecily's family—just as Cecily is sort of part of mine.

  “Thank you,” she said, and hugged me. Her chest felt the same as always (not that I was paying attention).

  “You're welcome.” I would have added “Priscilla,” but I'm going to have to practice saying “Priscilla Priscilla Priscilla” by myself before I can say it out loud in public. I don't think it's going to come popping out on its own.

  Dear Diary,

  Cecily got home, and we went bowling, and I got my first strike ever!

  We each paid our own way. That's called going Dutch.

  Dad said the Dutch have a reputation for being careful with their money. If two people go out for dinner, a Dutch person might say “Let's split the bill,” or “Let's go half and half,” rather than “It's on me,” or “My treat.”

  Then again, a Dutch person might not say any of those things. When you're sensitive, you realize you can never just assume stuff about other people.

  Personally, I think going Dutch is good because everyone does their part.

  Double Dutch is good too. That's the jump-rope game when two girls turn two ropes at a time, and if you're the jumper, you have to jump like crazy and really pay attention to what everyone else is doing.

  Mom finished her Vermeer puzzle, then sighed this big loud sigh. I think she knows summer is about to be over.

  I'm excited about school and seeing friends. But I'm a little nervous too. In fifth grade, I doubt we'll have D.E.A.R. time (Drop Everything and Read). And I doubt we'll get to wear slippers on Winter Wednesdays (I love coming in from the frozen playground and putting on my slippers). And I don't even know if we'll get to bring cupcakes to school. I hope so!

  I do know that we'll start learning a foreign language. I picked Spanish.

  August 31

  afternoon

  Dear Diary,

  Cecily and I came up with the best idea! We were baking a double batch of chocolate-chip cookies in my kitchen (fairly neatly, if I do say so myself) and we decided to have a bake sale. But instead of keeping the money, we decided to give it to the place Dad said teaches kids about tolerance.

  We made a sign that said, “Cookies 25 Cents! All Money Goes to the Anne Frank Center USA.”

  At first it was embarrassing sitting with Cecily and our sign and our cookie tray on a blanket on the sidewalk next to my doorman Benny. But then my neighbors started stopping by—including some I hardly ever see except on Halloween. Almost everybody was really friendly. Some asked where we got the idea, and some handed us a dollar for just one or two cookies and wouldn't take any change back. Even a few strangers stopped by.

  One old lady with short gray hair and a sweet face gave us TEN DOLLARS FOR ONE COOKIE! She said she escaped from Germany during World War II when she was a young teenager, and that we were “wonderful wonderful girls.” She even shook our hands, mine and Cecily's. Her hand was small and soft and ghosty, and I shook it very gently.

  After she walked away, Cecily whispered, “Anne Frank would have been around her age!”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes, she was born in 1929, remember?”

  I didn't remember but I did do the math in my head. Cecily was right: if Anne Frank had lived and become a “mumsie,” she might have become a grandmother too. Maybe a nice one with a nice laugh—and nice grandkids.

  Well, we were down to the last cookie, so we offered it to Benny for free, but he gave us a dollar and told us to donate the change. (He is sooo nice.) Then we started sorting out coins, smoothing out bills, and counting it all up.

  Guess how much we raised?? Seventy-eight dollars!!!

  We did feel like wonderful wonderful girls!

  We might even do another sale someday. Maybe for breast cancer research or Children's Aid or the Red Cross. Or maybe just for our own selves, though to tell you the truth, it felt good to make money for an important cause.

  Dear Diary,

  I gave Dad the pile of money, and instead of grumbling about the nickels, dimes, quarters, and crinkly bills, he said, “Good for you, cupcake,” and wrote out a check. I mailed it with a note from Cecily and me.

  After dinner, the phone rang, and Mom got on, talked for a while, then handed it over saying, “It's for you. It's Priscilla.”

  For some reason, my heart started pounding. Why would Mrs. Hausner call me? What did I do wrong now? I looked at Mom for a clue, but she just shrugged.

  “Hi, Priscilla,” I said. The “Priscilla” part came out a little forced.

  “Hi, Melanie. I'm so proud of you and Cecily!” she said. “If you want to have another bake sale, I hope you'll come bake over here.” I didn't know what to say. I wished she could have seen that I was nodding at least.

  I said, “Okay, Priscilla, it's a deal,” and then she put Cecily on the phone.

  Love,

  P.S. Just in case I ever forget it
, I'm taping in my recipe for Ten-Dollar Cookies:

  Dear Diary,

  I almost forgot about the labor (get it?) I'm supposed to do: the what-I-read-and-what-I-learned book report. I was about to when I remembered it has to be only a hundred words.

  I think the teachers just want to be sure we don't forget how to read. It would be bad if we all started fifth grade sounding out words.

  Over spring break, I had to write a thirty-line poem for school, and I practically had a heart attack over it. But I got it done. Now since I am more mature, I realize I can write and I can count so I can do this.

  I've decided to do my report on the diary of Anne Frank.

  P.S. When I finish, I'll copy it in here.

  Dear Diary,

  Dad once said that the most important part of writing is rewriting. He told me Isaac Bashevis Singer, who won the Nobel Prize for writers (which is like the Academy Award for actors) said, “The wastepaper basket is a writer's best friend.”

  Well, my wastepaper basket is full of crumpled-up sentences. Perfectly good ones, too. I admit that I spent a long time on a short report, but this is the first assignment of the year, and I wanted to make a good impression.

  This summer I read The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. Anne was an excellent person who lived in a terrible time. Anyone who reads her diary will be different afterward. It makes you ask: How could someone be so evil that he would stop a kid from growing up? How could other people let him?

  Of course, not everybody sat back. Some people did try to stop Hitler and to help. They were heroes. They really really understood that being a good person cannot just mean doing nothing wrong. It also has to mean doing something right.

  Sincerely,

  P.S. I probably shouldn't have written “really really” but I really really needed two more words.