The Wedding of Anna F. Read Online Free PDF Page A

windows, of grain silos in the distance, stuck into an otherwise empty sky. In the corner is Mother’s grand piano, covered with gilded frames, her collection of photos. I stroke its side. “My mother used to play, though not often. She felt it was too showy, drew too much attention to her. She was a very modest, proper woman. So this piano became more of a gallery, over time. These were the pictures she liked to keep out. For herself and for company.”
    I pull one frame in particular toward him. “This is me. At sixteen. In the kibbutz.” He pulls away with what looks like shock.
    “I know, I know. A hundred years old I look, don’t I? Older than I do now. This is the one they never, never used in the papers, in the stories about my being found after the sinking of the ship called the Kostas . You can see why, can’t you? They preferred getting a picture of me petting the goats, or pumping water at the well, or doing something…healthy. Probably like what you found in the Times archive. Because just standing there, you see, with my bucket beside me, I look like a phantom. I hardly even recognize myself. I’m sure no one else did.” That used to trouble me so. Why, with my picture in so many papers around the world, did no one recognize me? No one claim me? Help me find my memory? But now I know. Because a father had been told his daughter was dead. Even though the person who’d told him this had said only that Anna Frank had come down with typhus and disappeared from her bunk.
    I allow this young, vigorous man some time to take in my chin hanging like a brick inside my jaw, my legs like pins, the black circles under my eyes.
    “When was this taken?”
    “Nineteen forty-six. Imagine what I must have looked like the year before! I think, you know, we never really looked the way we might have looked, if the war had never happened. I think we girls, especially, were altered beyond recognition. I did like that checked dress, though. For so long I never could believe in the idea of my own clothing.” I sigh and touch my skirt.
    He’s holding the silver frame in his smooth palm, balancing it. Now he looks at me. “When you look at this picture now, what do you see? Who do you see? Do you believe you are looking at one of the most famous girls who has ever lived?”
    “Before we start up again, Mr. Bardawil, do you mind if I make a suggestion?” I pull my scarf off because suddenly it feels too hot in this old, closed room. “What say we move outside for a little while, so we can get some fresh air and keep ourselves comfortable as we go forward? Wouldn’t that be nice? Don’t you think the inside is feeling a bit stuffy? It will be cooler outdoors by now. Oh, and I’ve just realized: I’ve never even offered you anything to drink! What a terrible hostess. Would you like something before we go on?”
    He sets my picture down, carefully. “I’m fine, thank you.”
    “Really?” I smile and shake my head. “But I’m not. Come. This way.” And I lead him into the hall, where I drop my scarf on the padded bench, thankfully. “I’m going to pour myself my first glass of wine for the day. It’s my birthday, after all! Are you sure you won’t join me? In just a little something? No? How about soda with a bit of lime and ice? Good! And while I’m getting that ready,” I say before he can say anything else, “why don’t you carry your things out through those French doors there, and make yourself comfortable in one of the Adirondacks? Move anything around you like. Please. Make yourself right at home,” I say as I leave him, so that he’ll feel, as I do, the release, the momentary pause in things that is necessary when you still have so far to go, so much to cover.
    * * *
    HE’S SETTLED INTO THE stiff incline of one of the chairs and moved the cushion at his back. He’s taking in the view to the east, the red-capped silos jutting like meat thermometers.
    I hand him his drink.
    “So. Are you enjoying