Glen Of Purity, In Wood Of Dying Light (Anne Frank Diary Entries) 6 August, 1944 Dear Kitty, My intuition is strong that the worst is about to come. My nervous apprehension tells me that we will not spend our last days of the War here. In the last few days that I have neglected to pen any entries, we have been spending our time in a place called Westerbork. We have been able to run in the sunshine (something we have all been deprived since that July morning we snuck into the secret building with bundles of clothing attached to our bodies) and feel the heat of the summer day on our skin. The Grüne Poliziei took us from the annex, ordering that we only take a small amount of clothing and food. The loud banging of their fists on the annex door (the one Pim made us stay very far from at all times) still stung in my ear as we were taken in a green military car. The cars I had seen so many times before, with its illusive orange sirens and Nazi symbol plastered to the car door. I was afraid of this car as almost as the strict man who drove it. His cheekbones were very high, his hair blonde and smoothed by some sort of grease. His eyes were what hurt me the most. The way they stared and the way they lit like the blue flame of a gas stove (like the one we had in our home in Amsterdam before we went into hiding), the fire igniting deep and sapphire. They were blue like ice, unlike Peter’s soft sea colored eyes. We were to be questioned about our hideaway and our helpers. A young man took us to a large building. He was dressed in greenish clothing and prodded us with his gun. I could tell by his thick accent that he was Austrian. The people in the building demanded answers to their questions about our secret annex, our nationality, and our religion. Mother and Pim stuttered over their answers, responding in our native language to the green police. Their answers were rather inarticulate. The Nazis make German sound ugly. That is why I write you in Dutch. After that, they sent us to this place. The people here make us do strange exercises, but at least we are staying active. Mother calls this place the Judendurchgangslager. At least I am still able to see Peter. I am grateful for that. I am also very thankful that I still have my family and the Van Daans. What is to become of Mr. Kraler and Miep? I am going to pretend that they are safe at their homes and have not suffered the same course as we have. I have deep gratitude that I am still alive and I will pray that my family will remain with me and that the people that have helped us those last two years are in protected arms. For now I am going to go and try to sleep for I believe tomorrow’s exercises will be more strenuous. Yours, Anne 4 September 1944 Dear Kitty, I have not written you, because I have been afraid to be caught with my diary. The train that would take us to the next camp came. The screeching noise of the hard wheels against the track when it came to a halt made my head hurt. It sounded like Mouschi when Mr. Van Daan had once stepped on his tail, wailing as though it had broken a bone or something. It was made of stiff wood and it lacked windows. It was a cattle car; one someone would put cows in that were going to be sent to the slaughterhouse. They marched us in, cramming us against the walls of the train until it seemed that the train car would explode. I have heard gossiping whispers from older women than I, saying that the camp was located in Poland. But, that is so far from here. How much longer are we to be cramped up next to one another? How much longer are we to be forced to stand until we can sit again, in the leisure of the fresh air? At least the bodies pressing against me are of my loved ones and I still have the warmth of them next to me. Steam seems to be rising from our flesh. A baby keeps crying and screaming, I guess from hunger. The woman holding it keeps rocking it and her face is completely wet (from sweat or tears, I’m not quite sure) and she’s humming something to quiet it. Mother cried earlier for almost an hour, and then Mrs. Van Daan joined her, putting her arms around her. Mrs. Van Daan was trying to comfort my mother, though it wasn’t working very well. Pim looks very uneasy and his eyes are all watery. I couldn’t envision a man as brave as him crying. I have not cried yet. I won’t. A woman is lying on the floor (I can’t believe there’s enough room for her) and I hope she’s sleeping. I could use a rest as well, but I am too nervous to close my eyes and lean against Pim. Peter keeps looking at me and I wish he wouldn’t. It hurts to see his eyes pleading with me, but I will be strong for him. Once this is over, we will be reunited and will be married. Some day I hope. Yours, Anne 7 September 1944 Dear Kitty, We arrived here at Auschwitz yesterday. We were ordered off of the train and we were to do it quickly, as the officer demanded. The officers armed themselves with small pistols and dogs that stretched their leashes’ distance. The dogs were black and sleek, the sun gleaming off their perfectly shined backs. Their legs were muscular and the only brown fur on their body was that that covered their long snouts. They snarled at us, forcing to break the massive grip on their leash and sink their teeth into our legs. They probably have names like Killer or Assassin. And, when their lips curled up and show the humungous canine teeth, I almost shrieked. This is one thing I am most terrified of. We said our goodbyes to Pim, Peter, and Mr. Van Daan quickly, because the women were to be separated from the men. It hurts so much now that they are gone, but I will remain strong and not allow my emotions to weaken me. A guard slapped my mother because she clung to Pim for so long. These guards have no feelings; they are completely apathetic to the love that had blossomed between families for so many years. Marched to a building, we were told to sit as still as possible and if we flinched, they would kill us. Our hair was shaven off (to protect us from the schoolyard infection that I used to be so afraid of catching from the other children back when I went to a real Dutch school). My beautiful movie star hair is gone, although I cannot be worried with the slightest concern of how I look. Then, we were given numbers. Our skin was marked with thick ink. I refuse to repeat this number. The bunks here are wood and when you awake in the morning, it makes your neck awfully sore and your back becomes almost unbearably achy after all those hours of digging ditches. I will still do the work anyway. I would rather be alive and in pain and with my family when we all get out of here than dead and wishing that I hadn’t complained. I am with Margot and Mother, though. Mrs. Van Daan was assigned to a different room. I fear for her. She has no one. Not even us, and if she were here, I would reassure her that her son and husband are well too. For, I am hoping the same. These uniforms they gave us are itchy and I think they’re made from burlap material that potatoes come in. We are put in stripped jail uniforms. They are mocking us. But at least we have clothing. The star that Peter had burned back in the annex is still on the uniform. I will write later, but for now my arm throbs. They put the tattoo on my right arm, the hand I write with. Yours, Anne 20 September 1944 Dear Kitty, I am so afraid. I keep trying to stand strong, but I am still in a state of confusion. Why us? We had been good Dutch citizens and all around good people up until our deportation to Auschwitz from Westerbork. No matter what the case, I still hope that we will all survive through this and be together again, in a place that will allow us to be a family again. I believe that we will reunite, hold hands, and run through the streets of Amsterdam again. I am in good spirits in hoping that we will all be able to let our feet hit the cobblestones, we will be able to stay out all night, we will be able to wear our sweaters when the Dutch air gets crisp (yellow star free), and that we will once be able to live in a real apartment again. As much of a dream this is, it is still worth having. It is something to wake up for, something to allow me some sort of peace in a place as morbid as the black smoke that arises from the crematory every day. Earlier this month I had found some compassion in a guard. A man had come into check on our barrack and he saw me writing to you. He yelled at me at first, but then I think he saw how young I was. He allowed me to keep you. He told me that if any of the other guards saw me writing to you, that they’d kill me. And, then I would have to write in blood. Of course, I am afraid of getting caught with this, but it makes me feel free for just a few minutes that I have for my pen to move across the paper as freely as it had in the annex. I was walking past the crematory today when a girl about a year younger than I asked a guard where her mother was. He laughed at her and pointed to the smoke rising from the chimney. “She is there and there she will remain until that smoke reaches Hell. Then she will be gone. Run along before you face the same fate as she,” he said as he turned abruptly from the girl, gun in hand. I am afraid of what will happen to her. I had been so careless in the annex but now I think I have seen it all. People being electrocuted by the fences as the tried to escape. I have heard women shrieking in the night, crying for their husbands and children. I have seen skin sagging on peeking bones. But, yet I have survived it all. I am still walking, I am still well in health, I am still penning this entry. With the hopes I have had the whole way through my journey, I will embrace my days with each new starving dream that had been infused into my brain. Yours, Anne 10 October 1944 Dear Kitty, Margot, Mrs. Van Daan, and I have been transferred from Auschwitz-Birkeanu to Bergen-Belsen. This is another camp in Germany, the land I was born in. Though through barbwire fences and gray walls, it does not hold the same sweetness as a home would. Mother did not come with us this time. At least she is still in the same camp as Pim. If I could and if it would change everything, I would take back all the things I have said about her. I would say that she tried her hardest to understand me and to treat me like the adult that I had yearned to be accepted as. I could also say that she had never given up hope in Margot and I, even as she saw her own children rapidly breaking down and their uniforms growing baggier day by day. But, all I can say that I have shed my tears and I will become as close as I can to her when I get out of here. I shall latch onto her and never stop hugging her. Yet again we took another insufferable journey on the train. It only took two days this time and it wasn’t nearly as hot as it had been. The people that I am with now stand in silence. There was no gossip, no sharing of news of the allies, no feelings showing on our faces. I merely clung to Margot’s arm for most of the trip, missing the weight of Pim and Mother pressing against me from the last train trip. Her arm was so bony. I have to protect her. Bergen-Belsen is not as bad as Auschwitz. The light shines much better here and the food isn’t as bad. The other day a woman in my group found a dead mouse in her soup, the rodent was grotesquely hiding beneath the potato and barley soup. She ate her soup anyway because she needed the strength. My stomach didn’t take that very well, but I quickly adjusted. Today we got some kind of sour sausage. But, at least it was something to give me strength. The bread tastes like someone made it with cedar chips. Margot and I were assigned to the Tent Camp. Her and I share a tent with three other people. The cold can come in during the night, but at least the ground is much more comfortable than wood. What shall we do when the frost comes? I shouldn’t be worrying about such nonsense now. It’s senseless to talk about the bad things here, if they give me now strength to survive tomorrow. I wish I were more like Margot. She handles this all so well. I should have listened when Mother said that I should be more like Margot. She remains beautiful without her hair, she makes the uniform look like an evening gown, and she has a quiet but strong spirit to keep the next day within her reach. I am still beyond the reach of yesterday. I will not let myself become a fatalist while all this confusion arouses me. I do not believe this was our fate to end up here. It was the careless mistakes we made that brought us here, but hopefully those errors can be overridden by something. I remain faithful to my dream, yet my heart writhes. I awoke last night in the minutes before the Apell in a cold sweat. I had seen those eyes again. Peter’s eyes, hovering above me, sea blue and filled with tears. I think of him too often now and as I sit here writing about him, I can almost see his eyes again. They haunt me every time I blink. The Apell was called last night. I am exhausted. We stood for three hours, while the called all our numbers. Their thick accents exaggerated the numbers made it seem much longer. The cold was almost unbearable to stand in for that long without doing anything. For now I need my sleep, so I think I’ll stop writing. Yours, Anne 4 March 1945 Dear Kitty, Hanukkah has past and swept by quickly like the winter wind. This year there would hardly be anything close to Hanukkah except the potato soup we received that day. I miss Mother’s potato pancakes and the singing and the beautiful candles illuminating Pim’s face as he lit the other candles with the prominent center candle. It’s finally 1945. It feels like its been years since we’d been put in camp. I miss Mother, Pim, and the rest of them. The whole family is divided, though I often see Mrs. Van Daan while we are doing labor. Margot is the only close one I have left to talk with. We don’t usually get into deep conversations now, but she did share some things with me in January before bed. She asked me how I could remain calm because she cries every night. I told her I may seem calm, but I’m not. I’m only pushing myself on. “This is a firefly compared to the sun. How can you stand it?” she asked me. I just replied that I’m praying for her and that I was hoping that everything would be better. She rolled over onto her side and fell asleep without another word, but I knew she was crying. I have been seeing much of my friend Lies Goosens from Jewish Secondary. She’s in the Star Camp, which is divided from us by a short fence. We talk occasionally about things that happened in school some time ago. Lies told me she had come home to find her parents gone and was eventually taken to Westerbork also. Lies had always been a good friend to me and I had even gone to her house to play Ping-Pong once. I miss those days. Once Lies had tried to throw me a package of food from over the fence, but a woman stole it from me. People here are desperate. Wheelbarrows have been carrying many bodies from the barracks in the Star Camp lately, I’ve been watching them. I can only guess that they had fallen ill with the same thing as Margot and I have. Margot now is in the infirmary for she has gotten much worse. Before she had been allowed to go to the infirmary, she had complained very much about the same muscle pain that I feel. I was sure she had a fever when I touched my hand to her forehead. I keep having these sharp pains in my stomach. I feel that Margot will be gone soon and that she will not return to the tent. I am alone now. The dream will not die. I will not allow it to starve like I have and even though Margot will be away, I will still have Pim and Mother and the Van Daans when we are liberated. I went to Lies the other night, to talk through the fence like we usually did. I told her I didn’t know if I could survive much longer, but she only told me that I was strong and that I couldn’t quit now. Maybe I’m not so sure of that myself. If I am able to get out of here, I will light up the screens where Jewish children are allowed to watch me. I will become a movie star and publish this diary to conserve the memories of my family. As I look upon the sky now I must compliment that it is very lovely. Yours, Anne
Copyright © 2002 Vianne-Marie Fortier |