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we're sad, too—and ashamed. At least I am, that Miep had to make this choice.
    An old woman, or us.
    The Gestapo left an old Jewish woman outside Miep's house to wait for transport. She banged and banged on the door and when Miep finally opened it, the woman begged Miep to save her, to take her in. But how could she? The police knew the woman was there. If Miep let her in, they might arrest her or search her workplace. And then what would they find? Us.
    And so now Miep sits at the kitchen table. Crying.
    "But that poor woman, what'll become of her?" she says, and the tears flow again. We don't cry. Are we all thinking the same thing—that it could be us next time? Sometime. Anytime. A different knock at the door. We don't want to answer Miep. We can't. We don't want to think about what might
become of the old lady, because it means thinking about what might become of us. Miep notices, like she notices everything.
    "I'm being silly. Honestly! Anyone would think it was me in danger."
    She straightens her back and says to Mutti, "I don't ever want anyone to find you, Auguste, you make the best soup in the whole of Holland!"
    Mutti smiles. "For the best woman in the whole of Holland!" she says, and we all agree. That's exactly what Miep is—and the rest of them in the office—all of them are in danger, risking their lives just for us.
    As she leaves, Mr. Frank puts his hand on her shoulder.
    "It's not you who made this evil, Miep, but it
is
you fighting it. We're grateful."
    She smiles at him. "Thank you!" she says.
    But he shrugs. "No, it's us who should thank you," and he smiles back. I can see she feels better.
    He's like that, Mr. Frank.
Yes. Yes he is. He was.
    If I believed in any of it I'd say he had God in his soul, but I don't believe. Not anymore. I think Mr. Frank had something better than God, something they couldn't touch or fight or gas. Something they couldn't destroy—not in him anyway. He had hope—and a belief.
    That most of us are good.
    I'm glad I helped keep him alive, right up until the end at Auschwitz.
    Until I...

LATER THAT DAY
    After lunch I go and stand in the attic and look at the sky.
    There are still so many questions inside me. Why do they help us—Miep and Bep and Mr. Kleiman and Kugler? I try to ask them, but they shush me—as though I were still a child. They tell me that the Dutch hate the Nazis and that if they have to, they'll fight them until the whole of Holland is empty and silent.
    Amsterdam empty ... I imagine it: just the trees lining the canals—looking down at themselves in the water—drifting leaves, empty boats. The gulls. I get out my pencil and begin to draw. When the picture's finished I feel better.
    I hear footsteps on the stairs and hide my drawing quickly. Mr. Frank appears.
    "All right?" he asks.
    "Why should they go on protecting us?" I blurt out.
    Mr. Frank stares at me for a long time before he answers. "Well, partly because we pay their wages."
    "But how could you say that?"
    "Because it's
one
of the reasons, Peter. A minor one, but important not to forget. Mostly they do it because they feel that what's happening is wrong, and they want no part of it. More than that, they want to stop it."
    "But it doesn't affect them, they're not Jewish, are they?"
    He sighs. "It's not just about Jews, Peter, is it? It's about all the people the Nazis hate. I think the office workers know that it
does
affect them, Peter—that's what makes them so special. What's happening to us is about everyone, although they blame us first, last, and most of all. It's about hate. We can't stand by and do nothing when people are killed for their difference."
    I take a deep breath. "But we
are
doing nothing. Why aren't we fighting?" He steps back, and I realize I hissed it out at him. I blush again. I didn't mean to.
    "We're doing
our
job, Peter. They're doing
theirs.
Does the chick put its head out of the nest while its mother fights the