Anne Frank

Thursday - May 26

When I was twelve years old, my mother had directed the stage play, "The Diary of Anne Frank." It had a profound effect on me and helped define not only my Jewish heritage, but I belive my sense of right and wrong, my indignity at injustice, and my distaste for those with power but no humanity. I have rallied against tyrany in many forms, and like Quixote, I too, have tilted at windmills.

So, it is here, in this land of windmills that I am aprehensive about visiting the former hiding place of Anne Frank. It is a quite unassuming building along the canal, a mere three blocks from my friend's home. Yet even as I approach it, I can feal the tears begining to well. The photo above shows visitors lining up to enter.

As I take my place in line, I prepare myself for an onslaught of emotions. I can see the images from both that original play I had seen, and the movie, which was so powerful.

Waiting in line, there are five young males behind me joking and using vulgar language. I try to ignore them. Just as we arrive at the entrance, once again, one of them is boorish and vulgar. This time, without hesitation, I turn and face him square in the eye. "Excuse me, but I would prefer if you did not use that type of language in public. Especially in this particular place." He turns silent. I was determined that he would not sully my experience, or this place, that stands as a symbol to so many more than just me.

In the museum downstairs, a short film tells of the war, and the chronology of the eight people who go into hiding for two years. I ascend the stairs. The higher up you go, the stairs get narrower and steeper. My heart is heavy as I stand in front of the bookcase that hid the entrance to the secret annex. The stairs are now barely wide enough for one person and are very steep to accommodate the smaller space.

The rooms where Anne Frank and her family lived seemed not as small as I had imagined, yet for eight people together for two years, they were both sanctuary and prison. Unable to venture outside; unable to walk around during the day, for fear a worker in the warehouse below would hear them and suspect something, they sat and read, and Anne and her sister did their lessons.

I move slowly through the museum and the house, lingering at each section so I can retain the memories. There are more films: Otto Frank, the only survivor of the eight; and Meip Gies, who tirelessly brought food and supplies to them. The original diary is on display, and though its gingham-like cover may look similar to other diaries of other young girls, it holds a history that is singular in its depth.

In the far reaches of my soul, I am somehow connected to this young girl, who suffered through a monumental tyranny, but like many others, did not survive it. Perhaps this experience will prompt me to create a new story. I do not know. At minimum, it will remain with me forever, as it is now, even more a part of me.