Day 76: SPECIAL EDITION - ADVENTURES IN AMSTERDAM

Listening to: "First They Came..." poem/quote by Martin Niemöller

Adventures in Amsterdam

Day 2 (Easter Sunday, April 5th): Dear Kit

I've been holding off on this post because it was such an emotionally-charged visit to the Anne Frank House.

There are not a lot of photos, but there is much to say.

It was a lovely morning. I woke up early because I did not want to miss my appointment. And the bonus of waking up at 7 am on Easter Sunday in Amsterdam is that the streets are wonderfully silent. There was a cold breeze, but it was a pleasant, refreshing cold, like the autumn mornings running around Roger's Orchard with the cross country team, or hiking in the mountains in Vermont. It really brings an excellent color to your cheeks.

So yeah. I took way too many pictures of the canals. But I can't help it. The sight is so incredible to me. To see how old this city is, and to know that they manipulated the waters to form this city--it couldn't exist naturally--is so cool. And it felt refreshing to feel alone, away from all the admittedly nice people, just so I cold think and enjoy when the rays of sun fell just right into my path.

Honestly, I've traveled a decent amount in my life (and hope to travel a lot more!), but Amsterdam is the the most beautiful. I know, it sounds ridiculous. "What about the Great Wall of China? The view from high up in Florence? Up in a tower at Warwick Castle?" I've enjoyed all of those--and far, far more. I'm very easy to appease. But Amsterdam was so beautiful in a quaint way. You know, like Sturbridge Village or Colonial Williamsburg--without the stench and overwhelming heat. Amsterdam is a great combination of old and new.

You know what my one complaint is, though? The stigma. Anytime I've said, "Oh, I went to Amsterdam," there has been someone who responds, "Oh, I'm sure you enjoyed Amsterdam very much," with an exaggerated wink.

Does anyone know me? I am the most boring young adult alive. I'm even worse than Hazel in TFiOS when she uses the phrase "take pot" and her father has to correct her. Hahaha.

OH. Speaking of TFiOS, I got a surprise text from my wonderful Fall Roommate: she was watching the movie, and she told me that Hazel, Gus, and her mom go to Amsterdam--on April 4th! The same day I arrived and ate at Bloesem! SO AWESOME.

I'll stop with the book references, I promise, but I like to imagine that this is Peter Van Houten's house. John Green admittedly has a real house in mind, but I was too lazy to watch the video and comb through the streets for the exact one he was referring to.

I was able to make my way to Anne Frank's without any getting-lost-in-Amsterdam disasters. I was even more thankful to have my ticket when I arrived: even before 9 am, there was still a decent-sized line snaking around the building. And when you're not walking around snapping photos like a madman, it gets chilly really fast. Especially right next to the water.

As I was waiting outside, some tourists pulled up on their bikes. One was wearing a frog hat, much like this:

Go, Andrew Rannells!

Even the other tourists are kind in Amsterdam. I gave them some museum suggestions, courtesy of my Katie Willard Guide to Amsterdam map.

At 8:45 am, a man from inside opened the door. Although some of us had 8:55 am tickets, he still let us in out of the chill. How nice. It gave us time to get ourselves prepared: the Anne Frank House is very strict. No cameras. No phones. Backpacks worn on your front chest. No large bags that can't be worn as backpacks. 

But like I've said before, I don't mind all the rules when the situation makes sense. The sign explained very concisely that the Anne Frank House can be a very emotional, personal experience for most visitors, and the cameras can feel invasive. Very simple. I can understand that.

Now, this house isn't like the Mark Twain House or how the Victor Hugo House should be: it's very empty. Not completely empty. The walls are blank except for quotes that help the visitors make their way through the house. It tells a complete narrative quite beautifully.

So, the background: Anne Frank and her sister Margot were originally born in Germany to their parents, Otto and Edith Frank. Sadly, they moved to the Netherlands not just because or for a change, but because Antisemitism was already taking hold in Germany. So though North Holland is where Anne Frank grew up, it was clear that the family--especially Edith--missed Germany, or what Germany was. 

Head's up: this is going to be very informational and sappy (well, at least for me), and there will be no pictures of mine. But though I ask a lot of you guys all the time, I think it's really worth reading. And if you don't read this, look it up online: everyone has an opinion, and everyone is moved. 

By the way, all this information was gleaned from what I remember at the museum, but supplemented by the guidebook and a book I bought titled Who Was Who In and Around the Secret Annexe? Just to cite things like the English major in me needs to do. 

Otto Frank run two companies: Opekta and Pectacon. To make it super simple, Opekta was involved in jam production and Pectacon helped make meat spices. However, as Antisemitism became more prevalent, he couldn't on as the head of the company if they wished to all stay in business. So his coworkers and friends Johannes Kleiman and Victor Kugler became owners and executives on paper. But they weren't in the business of taking advantage of the less fortunate, clearly, as Kleiman suggested that the Franks hide out in the factory. So yeah, the Anne Frank House was actually the factory for jams and spices.

Kleiman and Kugler, as well as two women named Miep Gies-Santrouschitz and Bep Voskuijl, were The Helpers. No other workers knew about the people upstairs, which is why even with these four trustworthy individuals looking out below, the inhabitants upstairs had to be extremely quiet.

The Franks were the first to hide out in the Annex, but then four others joined them. One was another family called the van Pels, with the father Hermann van Pels, mother Auguste van Pels-Röttgen, and son Peter van Pels. The eighth person upstairs was a single man named Fritz Pfeffer. 

Their lives were dark but not completely black. Peter received a game of Monopoly for his sixteenth birthday. Anne's first kiss came from Peter. She gazed up at the church steeple through the window--a church steeple I photographed many times the day before. Her sister wrote a poem for her father on his birthday. 

Anne brought photos from magazines and postcards and pasted them on the walls with glue. She noted how they made the room much more cheerful, and I'm amazed she was able to use that word given her situation. A lot are faded and some were stripped away by the Gestapo, but several remained. Two really stood out to me: one was of Greta Garbo, who I admittedly only know from the line in Cole Porter's song: "You're the National Gallery / You're Garbo's salary / You're cellophane." The words echoed in my head as I continued around the room. The second photo I was struck by was of Ginger Rogers, mostly because I just heard a story involving a friend of mine kind of knowing Fred Astaire through Six Degrees of Separation. 

Of course, I need and want to mention the seriousness and fright that governed everything they did. Anne wrote about how she longed to just yell out, to cry loudly, because all her frustrations had to be contained. She wanted to walk outside and stand in the sun. Both mothers found it wearying to stay in the Annex all day. Entertainment was scarce; even laughter had to be kept to a minimum--not because they didn't want to laugh, but because of the noise. And living in such close proximity with so many others led to inevitable arguments and frustrations. 

I talked to my mom after the Museum, and I mentioned how when I first started reading The Diary of Anne Frank, I was really struck by how normal it was. She starts off talking about her new boyfriend. She writes about school. She complains. Really, that's why I couldn't finish it. I was 13 at the time--the same age Anne was when she first started writing. It was all too close to me: I was experiencing the same things she was. I am ashamed that I have not finished it now, but it felt too real now that I knew Anne was just another 13-year-old like I was. It is sacrilegious to compare myself to Anne Frank, of course, but her story captivates us because of the personal perspective it brings to learning about events that happened almost a hundred years ago.

Now, the good thing about telling Anne Frank's story is that it's not all bad or all good: it's complicated, like all situations are. We naturally feel sympathy for those hiding out--they couldn't go outside, use the bathroom during the day, or walk without worrying how loud they were--but I got to see The Helpers in a new light. Now, I didn't know much about them before my visit, and I wish it was a story that was more prevalent. 

We think, "Well, what kind of person wouldn't help their friends?" And I'd like to think that most of us would--I mean, I think I would. But we all think these things: we don't actually have to test our conviction most of the time. And that's a really good thing. But here it really became real. The two men were incredibly stressed and anxious. They had to buy food on the Black Market, they couldn't talk to anybody--I mean, one of them couldn't even talk to his wife. It was a life of hiding for them too. 

At the end of the journey through the house, after all the steep steps and creaky floors, we were led into a bright, large room. And on the walls it described their lives after the war: they all survived. One quote really struck me. Either Kleiman or Kugler said it: upon receiving a medal commending him for his resistance, he simply said (and I'm paraphrasing), "Thank you, but I don't deserve it. I couldn't leave my friends to the Nazis."

To him--and to the rest--it was a responsibility. No, that's the wrong word; it was a promise. It's hard to explain, but as a writer, I'm bound to try. Anyone could easily turn Jewish workers or friends away, not because they were malicious people in everyday life but because most people were afraid. That poem I have at the beginning of this post? I think it captures that mentality perfectly. But also, with its poignant ending, it reminds us that with one group being persecuted, the rest of us aren't safe.

Nevertheless, people didn't have to help. It seems crazy, but they didn't, and strangely, some Jewish people could empathize in a weird, detached way. I can too if I try imagining complexly enough. And the four people who did help the Franks, the van Pels, and Pfeffer didn't make it seem like a chore, even though it truly was a laborious task that one cannot take on lightly. Even with the stress, they still knew it was right, and that moral compass won out over any fear or anxiety they felt. Because that's what friends do.

I thought that's what all friends did. I've learned later in life that not everyone feels the same way. I'm lucky now to be surrounded by people who share the same sentiments as me, but I remember growing up how hard it was to realize that some people just couldn't reciprocate--maybe due to immaturity, lack of empathy, or just lack equal interest. Now I value people who will say something like "I couldn't leave my friends to the Nazis" as if it's an inconceivable action. It's not sanctimonious or emotionally manipulative: it's just the simplicity of being a good friend.

Wow. This is not about me. 

Then again, this isn't about Anne Frank either. At least not solely about her.

How many of us even knew about the other family or the other man in the Annex? How many of us knew her sister's name? How many of us knew about The Helpers? 

It's really powerful to see Anne's journey through such a personal lens. It allows us to focus and gives us more freedom and less work to imagine her complexly. There's a reason why her diary is read worldwide: it's a human story, relevant to all.

However, even the Museum makes it clear that there are other victims. Not just other Jews, not just other Hollanders, but just so many others who suffered injustice. Sorry to return to John Green again (I've discovered some of you are not a fan), but he puts it well in his book, and his quote is actually part of a video at the end of the tour. This video was incredible. They really should put it online because it goes beyond the Museum: it's something everyone needs to see. 

The video features a montage of speakers and quotations. Some were present in Anne's life, such as her first boyfriend, and others are famous, like Nelson Mandela, and others are just celebrities, like Natalie Portman or Steven Spielberg. There are even some randomly chosen speakers who just happened to visit the Anne Frank House for the experience. They all have wonderful things to say, and though a lot of what's said focuses specifically on Anne and how strong she was, other speakers dare to venture where John Green goes:

“The book was turned to the page with Anne Frank's name, but what got me about it was the fact that right beneath her name there were four Aron Franks. Four. Four Aron Franks without museums, without historical markers, without anyone to mourn them. I silently resolved to remember and pray for the four Aron Franks as long as I was around.”

It seems blasphemous not to focus solely on Anne. And while I can't speak for her--and no one should, as she does quite well for herself--the quotes I saw by her indicated that she cared for everyone. She wanted everyone to understand her--even if it wasn't her original intention, she did consider the possibility of her diary being published when she was 16--but she also seemed to want all the others without diaries and Secret Annexes to be understood. 

We can't remember everyone. It would be exhausting and emotionally draining. Caring too much can really stress you out; that's why it's far easier to be carefree (although not as fulfilling). But just because we can't memorize that book full of all the names of victims of the Holocaust--and this is just in Holland--doesn't mean we can't acknowledge this failing. 

It's a lot to think about, and it's not something all of us want to think about, as it involves seeing ourselves in a bad light. But it has to be done to avoid these terrible things.

Otto Frank wanted the house empty to serve as a reminder that those who inhabited the space--those who saw the Secret Annex as home, even temporarily--were all gone. He was the only one to survive in his family as well as in the Annex in general. He was very cooperative and helped the Museum make reconstructions of the rooms to be photographed as well as dioramas to give visitors an idea of what it did look like. But the blank space was the best choice in the end. It's a space meant for thinking, not just for seeing.

We don't know how they were discovered. All the surviving Helpers in the videos look so, well, helpless when they describe the day the Gestapo came by. It must have been betrayal was the big motif. Luckily, it wasn't a story the Museum dedicated much time to--that would take away from the spirit of the Museum.

There is one photo of Otto Frank at the end of the tour. I bought a postcard of it because it moves me like only the flag-raising at Iwo Jima could. Otto Frank stands in the attic of the Secret Annex, looking off sadly. 

It breaks my heart. Even looking at it now, I feel like my chest has sunken in. You can see all the sadness he's experienced--things most people don't have to and everyone never should--and you wonder how he's not collapsed on the floor. I wouldn't blame him. But his life after the War was dedicated to sending Anne Frank's message into the world as well as sharing his own experiences. 

It's especially sad in the video when he talks about how most parents don't actually know their children. Reading Anne's diary showed a side of her--a side we can only see as herself wholly--that her father never saw. That's something to really think about, how we hide so much from the world, even thoughts that are deep and interesting and should be shared.

The wonderful video of the visitors of the Museum at the end finished with Emma Thompson giving a speech. What she says is even quoted in the guide: "All her would-haves are our opportunities." Which was a wonderful thing to end my tour with.

These are my favorite shots of her, mostly because of how they're all placed together. They're different enough from the typical pictures we see on the book cover to seem novel. Once again, it reminds me that she saw herself as a regular child.

After I bought the two postcards of the pictures above, I went into the cafe to have a sandwich and a tea. The side of the wall I was seated against was a gigantic open window. It must've been tinted, as I could look out and see the canals and the flat house facades. And I could see the people in line, but I knew they couldn't see me: I had looked up at this area myself and not known the cafe was up there. This added to my sense of feeling like an onlooker.

Outside the cafe, there is an Academy Award statuette. What? Yeah, exactly. But the story is really touching: while filming the 1959 movie The Diary of Anne Frank, Otto Frank visited the set and spoke to actress Shelley Winters, who played Auguste van Pels. She told Otto that if she went on to be nominated for an Oscar and won, she would give the award to the Anne Frank House. He smiled and thanked her, but said that that would be difficult and she wasn't obligated to. She said something along the lines of, "Oh, I'll keep it for a few years. But then I'll give it back." And she did: it was right in front of me. It seems like a superficial story compared to all the other ones I've told, but I think it demonstrates how everyone shows they care in different ways. Winters knew she couldn't heal Otto's wounds, but she knew she still wanted to make a gesture. 

Now, these aren't in the Anne Frank House: they're pictures from the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., and they're not mine. (I don't actually think you're allowed to take pictures inside; I can't think of any other explanation as to why I have no photos.) These quotes stayed with me from sixth grade to today. We used them on projects dedicated to remembering those who were affected by the Holocaust.

We read Night in eighth grade, if I recall correctly. (I keep thinking seventh for some reason.) I think Elie Wiesel is a honorary faculty member of Boston University, given that he's rather aged by now. 

Here's the written form of the link I posted at the top. It wasn't originally a poem and Martin Niemöller originally wasn't very sympathetic to the Jewish persecution. But he spoke out against the Nazis and appeared to regret his initial prejudices. These words were lifted from a speech he gave.

This quote is written across the entrance to the museum, and I admittedly can't find a photo for it. Yehuda Bauer is an academic whose family was also affected by the Holocaust, although they fared well, as they managed to escape.

Lastly, this is one of my favorite quotes of all time, and it comes from President Dwight D. Eisenhower, though I admittedly think I only know it because we were obligated to write it down during my People to People visit. (Eisenhower started the People to People program; a lot of our activities centered around stuff he did.) It's very different from the others, mostly because Eisenhower was not a victim but a liberator. But what the soldiers have to say is also really powerful.

As a tangent, a soldier's message is also included in the Exhibition Video at the Anne Frank Museum, and it simply says: "Now I know why I fought..." I can't find the exact quote and I'm kicking myself for not remembering it.

Strangely, this man did not leave his name: he signed only "American WWII Veteran." And that's actually true for lots of people who helped, even in small ways. One of The Helpers of the Annex, actually, refused to talk about his resistance work after the war. Maybe it was too painful? It baffles me as well as others, as those are the stories we crave to hear, stories that give us hope for humanity. But sometimes you don't care if you're brave or if everyone loves you: sometimes you just wish your friends were still around.

I hope you stuck with me. If you ever go to Amsterdam--even to do the things that I am too boring to do--please please please stop by the Anne Frank Museum. It is well worth the time and money (9 euros, people, for a life-changing experience).

(P.S. My title refers to the fact that Anne Frank called her diary "Kit." I thought that was clever. I was so over "Dear Diary," plus then the diary becomes a sentient personality if it has a name.)