The first book I purchased with babysitting money was Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl.
I began to re-read this book about a month ago while working on a lifelong writing project the foundation of which are my own diaries and journals. Tucked inside my worn copy were postcards I purchased at the Anne Frank House when I visited it in the summer of 1977.
Reading it as an adult after decades of celebrating life’s joys and surviving life’s heartaches, has been illuminating and convicting. Anne was extraordinarily candid about the difficulties of living with her family — sister Margot, her father Otto, and particularly her mother, Edith. Anne was also poignantly open about her attraction to 18-year-old Peter, the son of Hermann and Auguste Van Pels who were also in hiding with Anne’s family. She had gone into hiding when she was thirteen and two years later, had grown into an impressionable teenager, grappling with thoughts and feelings she didn’t quite understand.
What she did understand, however, was how much she liked to write. Furthermore, she knew she was good at it. I read the following excerpt yesterday morning and copied it into my journal. This diary entry is dated April 4, 1944 and is wise as well as the inspiration for this post:
Whether I have real talent remains to be seen. I am the best and sharpest critic of my own work. I know myself what is and what is not well written. Anyone who doesn’t write doesn’t know how wonderful it is. I used to bemoan the fact that I couldn’t draw at all, but now I am more than happy that I can at least write. And if I haven’t any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then, I can always write for myself . . . I must have something besides a husband and children, something I can devote myself to!
I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me.
I can shake off everything if I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn. But, and that is the great question, will I ever be able to write anything great? Will I ever become a journalist or writer? I hope so, oh, I hope so very much.
Five months later after writing this, the Frank hiding place was raided. In February 1945, two months before the liberation of Holland by British soldiers, Anne and her sister, Margot, succumbed to spotted typhus in the concentration camp at Bergen-Belsen.
“I want to go on living even after my death!”
Anne Frank, of course, has gone on living in the hearts of millions around the world.
I haven’t published a post since last early September. I plan to try and post a couple of times a week. Thank you for your patient and continued interest in what goes on in my eclectic, wacky and wonderful world.
Love to all.
Anne was NOT oblivious to the horror around her. Good Samaritans who were sneaking in food coupons to the Secret Annex kept its occupants apprised of the war and Germany’s unrelenting persecution of Jews (among other minority groups, including gypsies and LGBTQ citizens). These Samaritans also died in concentration camps. Anne’s father — Otto — was the only member of the Frank family to survive and it was he who discovered her diary.
Many people — me included — obfuscate the terror of the Secret Annex occupants by focusing on Anne’s more positive quotes, i.e., “Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart” or “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.” But she also wrote this:
“Not being able to go outside upsets me more than I can say, and I’m terrified our hiding place will be discovered and that we’ll be shot. That, of course, is a fairly dismal prospect.”
And this:
“The world’s been turned upside down. The most decent people are being sent to concentration camps, prisons and lonely cells, while the lowest of the low rule over young and old, rich and poor. One gets caught for black marketeering, another for hiding Jews or other unfortunate souls. Unless you’re a Nazi, you don’t know what’s going to happen to you from one day to the next.”
And this completely, still prescient, understatement:
“I live in a crazy time.”
To learn more about Anne — and other Holocaust diaries by young writers — click on the hyperlink in the first sentence of this post which will take you to the website of the Anne Frank House.
Also, stream “Anne Frank Remembered,” an Academy Award winning documentary (1995) narrated by Kenneth Branaugh with Glenn Close reading the diary excerpts. It uses previously unreleased archival material in addition to contemporary interviews. I own it and it is wonderful because it presents a fully-rounded Anne. She was free-spirited, brash and sometimes “a real brat.” Love that.
I believe the documentary can be streamed for free on Netflix (I am not a subscriber). If you can, watch it.
Following are two diary excerpts dated March 12. The first is from Anne Frank’s diary in 1943, and the second, from mine in 1967. We were both 14 years old.
ANNE: “We have eaten so many kidney beans and haricot beans that I can’t stand the sight of them anymore. The mere thought of them makes me feel quite sick. Bread is no longer served in the evenings now. Daddy has just said that he doesn’t feel in a good mood. His eyes look so sad again — poor soul! Horrible raids on Germany.”
SHARON: “Debbie wasn’t here [in school] again today. Brenda had a stiff neck. Today we took the Spanish-French test and boy! Was the French HARD!!!”
Welcome back. At least one attribute that you and Anne Frank have in common is your love of writing. And yes, we both live in crazy times–though she may win the award for the most crazy. It still takes courage to show up fully. This post is you showing up and I am grateful.
Thank you, Charlotte. I’m grateful, too. xoxo
Yes, welcome back!
I am reading a small book by Joy Harjo, titled “Catching the Light.” She writes:
“I do not know when the first poem was, where it came from, or exactly how. I just know how much I needed it: the scrawl, the questioning, the words lining up in a musical sound sense to make something from the everything of nothing. I was in the dark and decided to investigate the dark to find the light.”
Reading this, I’ve reflected that this is what you do, too, Sharon, with your words and your sunrise photos. But its shines not just for you. Your light, like Anne’s, is a beacon for others as well.
Shine on, my friend!
Gosh, thanks, Beth — a comment I shall copy into my journal. So affirming and completely “always.”
The quote you included from Joy Harjo (from a book I definitely want to read), reminded me of this quote from the latest book by the poet Victoria Chang entitled, “Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence and Grief”:
“I now think words are light. How they illuminate the small beak of a lark isn’t up to the writer. It’s up to the lark and the light. A writer is just a guest, the birder.” [p.85]
This book is wonderful. Here is the Amazon link (though I know you prefer to support independent bookstores, thank you):
https://www.amazon.com/Dear-Memory-Letters-Writing-Silence/dp/1571313923/ref=sr_1_1?crid=KLBFPLLUXDAP&keywords=victoria+chang+dear+memory&qid=1674061237&sprefix=victoria+ch%2Caps%2C116&sr=8-1
Happy to see this in my inbox this morning, and happier still when I read this lovely post. So You! To begin, not many young girls would spend their first baby-sitting money on a book like this. That is So You! Not many of us take the time to journal so thoroughly as Anne did, and as you do. Again, So You! “I must have something…I can devote myself to!” Again, So You! We are all the beneficiaries of your devotion, of your You-ness, in your writing and in your photography, so carry on, dear Friend. Our worlds are so much richer because you are So You!
OH, NO! NOT ANOTHER COMMENT I HAVE TO COPY INTO MY JOURNAL!
Just kidding, of course, Carol. Thank you for reading this post so carefully and responding so generously. What can I say? IT’S SO YOU! xoxo
What a lovely synchronicity. A friend just gifted me a Victoria Chang poetry book, “The Trees Witness Everything,” and the poem I read yesterday made me think of you. Here is a link to the book, followed by the short poem:
https://www.amazon.com/Trees-Witness-Everything-Victoria-Chang/dp/1556596324/ref=pd_bxgy_vft_none_img_sccl_2/143-3090762-1489858?pd_rd_w=drp5s&content-id=amzn1.sym.7f0cf323-50c6-49e3-b3f9-63546bb79c92&pf_rd_p=7f0cf323-50c6-49e3-b3f9-63546bb79c92&pf_rd_r=X0493E1XTZYW37E9HK5W&pd_rd_wg=JPJbI&pd_rd_r=4bdcc566-131f-4e65-a56c-3c44a10fd5d0&pd_rd_i=1556596324&psc=1
LARK
I have a lark in
my pocket with a broken
wing that can’t fly, but
instead tries to get me to
live inside with it.
I try to turn inside out,
to bring the dead back.
But the dead are like the lark,
they won’t fly or fully die.
Beth, I read a review of this book when it first came out and now must add it to my Amazon wish list.
Chang is the current poetry editor for the New York Times magazine which publishes a new poem in every issue. Editors of this column write an introduction to each poem which helps because sometimes I just plain don’t understand it!
Bummer. The platform completely reformatted the poem. Sorry. I’ll send it to you via email.
Thank you, dear Beth. Got your email, too. Yes, a wonderful synchronicity💕🙏