Annexed by Sharon Dogar Read Free Book Online

digs his knees in my back ... a second later his own teeth begin to grind ... the dream spreads through the hut ... joins the endless noise of our dreams shouting out, desperate to try and make sense of something, anything ... no, even our dreams are not our own.
    Not here.

OCTOBER 13, 1942— PETER DREAMS OF LIESE
    I'm dreaming of Liese. She's naked. She's so beautiful I can't speak, only ache. There are lines and lines of people. All of them are naked. They hold their hands between their legs. They keep their heads down. They are embarrassed.
    But Liese isn't.
    She's slender and beautiful. She doesn't look down at the ground like all the others. She looks up into the air above her, at the sky. Her hands don't cover herself, they hang loose by her sides. I watch, mesmerized, as slowly she lifts them. Her arms rise above her in a perfect arc. Her breasts lift. They are so beautiful. In my dream I hear music as she begins to dance. The silent people raise their bowed heads to watch as she steps out of the line.
    "Stop!" shouts a guard. But she doesn't stop. She stays in perfect time to the music that only we can hear. Her face is rapt in concentration; her back is straight and tall as she balances. She takes a step forward and lifts one beautiful, naked leg high into the air, and turns. She steps lightly, slowly. Twisting and turning to the invisible music.
    She stops. In front of the guard.
    She lowers her arms. She's sweating. Her breath comes in gasps. She smiles up at him. I realize he's her age. My age. He stares at her breasts.
    All is silence and staring.
    She curtsies. Her knees bent, her arms back, her breasts a present, and then in one swift motion she sweeps her arms forward to hug him. She pulls the gun from his holster and fires. And then she turns the gun to her own head, but before she can fire, her body is already dancing under the impact of fired bullets.
    "Liese! NO!"
    My own scream wakes me.
    I lie in the dark.
    Waiting.
    Breathing.
    Listening for the Westertoren bells to strike the hours till morning.
    Thinking about hate.

OCTOBER 14, 1942— PETER CANT SHAKE OFF HIS DREAM
    I wake up with an ache in my guts, a fear that she's already dead.
    I make myself get out of bed.
    My heart feels so heavy I don't know how to carry it. Simple things seem strange. All day I do my chores and watch myself, amazed at how I go on, just as if nothing at all was happening.
    "Well done, Peter!"
    "Thank you."
    "Why can't you eat, Peter? Eat more! Don't you like it?"
    "It's lovely. I've had enough."
    At night I lie awake, scared of all the dreams that might be waiting for me in the walls. Sometimes, deep in the night, I crawl up the attic steps and stand in the darkness, waiting for the bombs to land, thinking that if I stay up here, watching, I can somehow stop them from landing on us.
    Sometimes Mouschi comes and lies on my chest, purring. We watch the stars through the window.
    Last night Anne left an apple on my bed. I take it up to the attic and eat it. It sounds loud in the darkness. It's crisp
and cold and sweet. It's an apple. I didn't know an apple could feel like a miracle. But it does.
    I eat it slowly, watching the stars move across the small piece of sky. I crawl downstairs in the first light and fall asleep.
    I miss breakfast. Anne wakes me.
    "Sleepyhead! You didn't even say thank you for the apple!"
    I try to open my eyes. She's sitting on the bed, bouncing.
    "Get off!"
    But she goes on. "Get up! Get up! Get up! We have to be weighed."
    I groan. Turn over. Try to block her out. My head hurts. My ears hurt. My whole body hurts with the dream; aches with it.
    But she doesn't stop.
    "Peter Piper picked a peck of Opekta pepper. See how good my English is getting?"
    And then she tries to tickle me through the covers. I get up quickly. I can't bear being touched. She laughs and then she stops. "Peter!" she whispers. "You're still dressed."
    And it's true. I can't be bothered to change. She doesn't mention it to