Margot: A Novel

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“This beautifully told sister narrative is more than an intriguing
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what-if. It’s a meditation on the nature of survivor guilt and the
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legacy of invisible wounds.
Margot
takes on big questions in an
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intimate story, and carefully considers whether it is possible to
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survive—and thrive—after unspeakable horror. A moving,
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affecting novel.”
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—Diana Abu-Jaber,
author of
Crescent
and
Birds of Paradise
₁₀

a
nd
love.”
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—Jenna Blum,
New York Times
bestselling author
¹⁷
of
Those Who Save Us
and
The Stormchasers
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“Cantor brilliantly channels Anne Frank’s sister Margot, who
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survives the Holocaust horrors to hide yet again, in America,
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trying to forget the terrible secret that brought her here. A
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haunting meditation on who we really are versus who we wish
₂₃
we had been, regret, loss, and how we love in the face of sorrow.
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Glowing as a rare jewel,
Margot
is about discovering the truths
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of our lives, no matter what the cost.”
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—Caroline Leavitt,
New York Times
bestselling author
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of
Pictures of You
and
Is This Tomorrow
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“This is a haunting book—emotionally raw, beautifully written,
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and so close to the bone that it’s jarring to remember, when you
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come to the end, that Margot Frank isn’t really alive and well
₀₄
and waiting somewhere in Philadelphia to answer all your ques-
₀₅
tions. Even knowing this was a work of fiction, I was still moved
₀₆
to tears at seeing Margot finally get the happy ending we all
₀₇
wish she’d had.”
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—Gwen Cooper,
New York Times
bestselling author
₀₉
of
Homer’s Odyssey
and
Love Saves the Day

¹²
ing. Cantor has created a stunning reimagining of Anne Frank’s
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sister, her journey to America and the complex terrain that
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became her womanhood. Part love story, part family mystery,
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this singular, bold, and elegantly paced story is rich with his-
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torical imagery, but the ingenious plot is all Cantor’s.
Margot
is
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the sort of book that remains with you long after the final page.”
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—Ilie Ruby, author of
The Salt God’s Daughter
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and
The Language of Trees

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Riverhead Books
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New York
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^{16
Copyright © 2013 by Jillian Cantor}
19p
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted
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materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
20p
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First Riverhead trade paperback edition: September 2013
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printed in the united states of america
21p
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For my parents
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“And let us not forget Margot, who kept her own
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diary, which was never found.”
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—Miep Gies
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“I want to go on living even after my death.”
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—Anne Frank
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I should begin with the simplest of truths: I am alive.
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You might wonder how this is possibly the simplest of truths,
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when you have thought me dead—when the entire world has
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thought me dead—for so very long. But this, I promise you, is
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really quite simple in light of all the rest of it. I breathe, and
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sometimes I eat and sometimes I sleep. But every morning,
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again, when I wake up, I find myself still breathing. Simple.
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Really, it is nothing more than science.
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I can already picture you shaking your head. It is not simple
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at all, you are saying to yourself. Maybe your face is turning an
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angry red, and you are yelling that the Red Cross lists said I was
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dead. Maybe you are wondering where I have been, why I
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haven’t found you yet. I’ve come this far. Why not just stay hid-
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den forever?
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But a person cannot really stay hidden forever. We both
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know that now, don’t we?
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The truth is, I have wanted to find you for a long time, but I
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have been afraid. Afraid of what you might think if I told you
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everything. Afraid of what you’ve become since I’ve seen you last.
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Afraid, even, of what you might think of what—and who—I’ve
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become. I am not a girl anymore. Neither am I a Jew. And I have
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done things that I can’t understand or explain, even to myself.
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But I promise you this, I am alive. There are simple truths
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about me. I live in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States of
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America, where I am a legal secretary by the name of Margie
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Franklin . . .
N29

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Chapter One
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The third day of April 1959 seems, at first, just like
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any other Friday of my American life. I sit at my secretary’s
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desk in the law office of Rosenstein, Greenberg and Moscow
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itz, typing out Joshua’s schedule for the following week, gnaw
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ing carefully on an apple.
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The office is quiet this afternoon, except for the sounds of
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the girls’ fingers tapping against the typewriter keys and the
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hum of Shelby’s radio coming from the desk across from me.
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Nearly all the lawyers have already left for the weekend,
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including my boss, Joshua Rosenstein, who has gone to Margate
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with his father, Ezra, who is Shelby’s boss. Ezra Rosenstein is
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one of the partners in the law firm, so perhaps it is no surprise
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that he owns both a boat and a house by the ocean in New
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Jersey, which he and Joshua visit nearly every weekend, espe
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cially in the spring and summer.
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By this particular Friday, I—Margie Franklin—have been
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a resident of Philadelphia for nearly six years. I have been
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Joshua’s secretary for three of those years, which means I
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have spent somewhere around 150 Friday afternoons like this
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one, typing at my desk, eating my apple, listening to Shelby’s
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music.
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This Friday, the Platters—Shelby’s favorite—pour softly
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from her radio, crooning about how the smoke gets in their
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eyes, which is a song that always makes me think of Peter,
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even from the very first time I heard it, when I was with
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Shelby at Sullivan’s Bar last month.
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“We’re leaving early today,” Shelby announces to me just
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after she has devoured a ham sandwich she bought from the
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cart downstairs. “You’re too thin,” she had proclaimed in
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between bites. “Have half of my ham.” She’d tried to force it
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across the desk.
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“No thanks,” I’d told her, pulling the apple from my satchel
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and then saying, “I don’t really like ham.”
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“You’re an odd duck, Margie.” She’d shaken her head, but
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she’d smiled as she’d said it, so I knew she was saying it all in
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fun, that she had no idea why I would never bring myself to
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eat pork. And besides, that conversation, we’d already had it
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thousands of times. Or at least 150. Shelby often eats ham
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sandwiches, tries to offer me half, and insists I leave early
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with her when the Rosensteins are away.
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Now Shelby switches off her radio and taps an unlit ciga
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rette on the side of her metal desk. “You are going to leave
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early with me, aren’t you, Margie?”
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I shrug, though I know that she will pester me until I
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agree to do it. It’s almost too warm today for my thin navy
sweater, which I wear wrapped around my plaid dress, and I
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already feel the sweat building in pools under my arms, even
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in the office, but I resist the urge to fan myself with a file
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folder or even push up the sleeves.
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“Good girl.” Shelby laughs. “And one of these days, I may
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even get you to try one of these.” She tosses the unlit cigarette
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in my direction, and then pulls a fresh one from her pack,
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teasing it between her lips.
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“No thanks,” I say, pushing it gently back across the desk.
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We have played this game many times before, and I know
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Shelby does not honestly expect me to smoke it. Many girls
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in the office smoke, but I do not. I still cannot stand what it
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reminds me of: another time, another place, one in which I
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never wish to go back to in my mind. But these are things I’d
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never even dream of telling Shelby.
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Just past three, Shelby hangs on to my arm as we walk out of
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the office building and onto the sidewalk. The street is still
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fairly empty, as most people in the offices around us are still
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working, and the midafternoon sun glints off the low glass
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windows of the buildings on Market Street.
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Shelby wears a short-sleeved white cotton blouse and full
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green skirt today, because it is April and the sun is warm enough
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to be without a sweater. But I still have my navy sweater on. I
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wear a sweater always, no matter what the temperature, so the
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dark ink on my forearm remains hidden, unseen.
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“Any plans this weekend?” Shelby asks me, as if she doesn’t
S28
know the answer, the same answer I give her every weekend.
N29
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“Studying,” I tell her.
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“Oh, good grief, Margie. All work and no play.”
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“Joshua thinks I’ll make an excellent paralegal,” I tell her.
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Joshua is tall, with an oval face and curly hair the color of
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warm chestnuts. Sometimes I have the urge to reach up and
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run my finger around a curl, and I have to hold my hands
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together, to stop them from moving.
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“Oh,
Joshua
does, does he?” She laughs. Shelby’s laugh is
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like water. Sometimes it’s good, cleansing, even refreshing.
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Other times, I feel it might drown me. “Come on.” She yanks
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my arm, turning me in the direction opposite my studio apart
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ment. “I want to see a movie this afternoon. And I don’t like
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to see a movie alone.”
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“What about Ron?” I ask her, referring to her beau, who I
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have no doubt she’ll marry at a moment’s notice if he ever
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asks, though some doubt he ever will. They have been dating
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for as long as I’ve known Shelby, which, as Shelby herself
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admits, is a long time for a girl to date a boy without any kind
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of promise.
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“Ron is still working. Everyone else is still working. Come
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on,” she wheedles.
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Shelby is always wanting me to go somewhere with her
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after work. Mostly, it is to Sullivan’s Bar to have a drink, and
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sometimes I do go with her even though I don’t drink alcohol,
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but just because she is my friend and her laugh can be so
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much like water that I want to swim in it, to close my eyes
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and float away. But at least once a month or so, there is a
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movie she wants to see. And nearly always it is one that Ron
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is not able or willing to see with her.
Last month Shelby dragged me to see
Some Like It Hot
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and then went on and on about Marilyn’s curves and her but
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terscotch voice. I thought the movie was fine, but I did not
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laugh at the places Shelby did, at Tony Curtis and Jack Lem
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mon’s antics dressed as women. I still do not fully understand
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the American sense of humor. Hiding is hiding is hiding.
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What’s so funny about that?
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“Come on,” Shelby is still urging. “I’ve read the book and
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seen the play. The movie will complete the trifecta, and I
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don’t want to see it alone.
The Diary of Anne Frank
is much
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too sad for that.” She pulls her tiny pink lips in a pout, and all
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I can do is stare at her, not saying anything. I feel a tugging
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in my chest.
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I saw a bit in the
Inquirer
a while back about the possibil
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ity of a movie being made, and something about non-Jewish
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actors being cast, but then I put it out of my mind. Perhaps if
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I didn’t read the article or pay attention, it would simply go
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away? “I can’t believe they’ve made a movie,” I finally whisper.
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“Oh, Margie, seriously, I swear it. Sometimes I really do
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think that apartment of yours is located under a rock.” She
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shakes her head. “You’ve at least read Anne Frank’s diary by
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now, Margie, haven’t you? Oh, tell me you have!” All I can
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think is that she’s saying it wrong—not “Frank,” like the
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American version of hot dog with beans, a dish that Shelby
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seems rather fond of, but “Frank,” rhymes with “conk,” which
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is what I’d like to do right about now, conk Shelby over the
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head with my satchel if she doesn’t stop talking. And she is
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still
talking.
S28
“I’m not feeling well,” I interrupt her, and that is a gross
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understatement. I am sweating, and my hands shake. Black
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spots float in front of my eyes, and I close them, then open
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them again, which only makes the spots turn white. “I think
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I better go home,” I whisper.
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I disentangle my arm and take off briskly, hoping she
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won’t follow me. “Margie,” she calls after me. “Margie. It’s the
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sweater. Take off the sweater. It’s too darn hot outside.”
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But I don’t stop running until I put the key in the lock,
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turn, and step inside my apartment.
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Chapter Two
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In 1959, my studio apartment is in a five-story brick
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building with evenly spaced square windows on Ludlow
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Street, in Center City, Philadelphia. The building is much
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wider than the buildings on the Prinsengracht, but not any
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higher. Philadelphia, like the canal district of Amsterdam, is
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a city of lower buildings, surrounded by water. Shelby told me
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that because of a law in the city of Philadelphia, no building
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can rise higher than the statue of its founder, William Penn,
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which sits atop City Hall. He is like a beacon, this bronze
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man, watching over all the smaller buildings, and in a certain
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way that makes me feel protected here. It is a false kind of
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protection, but still, I feel it nonetheless.
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My apartment is on the first floor, not far from the main
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entrance to the building, which is just the way I like it. It is a
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small studio, containing only a blue couch, a wooden table
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with two chairs, a single bed, and the tiniest of kitchens. But
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it is my own small studio, and in the three years I’ve lived in
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this apartment, it has come to feel like home.
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Friday, after I have left Shelby calling for me on Market