In December, two thousand and ninety-three female prisoners perished, from starvation and exhaustion, in the women’s camp; early in January, Edith Frank expired.
But Soviet forces were hurtling toward Auschwitz, and in November the order went out to conceal all evidences of gassing and to blow up the crematoria.
as she called her manuscript, in Dutch—“the house behind,” often translated as “the secret annex”—was hardly intended to be Anne Frank’s last word; it was conceived as the forerunner work of a professional woman of letters.
Yet any projection of Anne Frank as a contemporary figure is an unholy speculation: it tampers with history, with reality, with deadly truth.
Almost every hand that has approached the diary with the well-meaning intention of publicizing it has contributed to the subversion of history.
Anne Frank Response To Literature Essay Shooting Dad Sarah Vowell Thesis
The diary is taken to be a Holocaust document; that is overridingly what it is not.
As an international literary presence, she would be thick rather than thin. She had already intuited what greatness in literature might mean, and she clearly sensed the force of what lay under her hand in the pages of her diary: a conscious literary record of frightened lives in daily peril; an explosive document aimed directly at the future.
In her last months, she was assiduously polishing phrases and editing passages with an eye to postwar publication.
a guard at Auschwitz warned: here there is no “why,” neither question nor answer, only the dark of unreason. For instance: “The year was 1968—etched in my mind. Otis Redding was ‘Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay’ . Whenever an attack of ‘I-can’t-take-this-any-longer’ would hit me, I’d put it all into lengthy diatribes to my distant guru, Otto Frank.”That the designated guru replied, year after year, to embarrassing and shabby effusions like these may open a new pathway into our generally obscure understanding of the character of Otto Frank.
Anne Frank’s story, truthfully told, is unredeemed and unredeemable. At home, he was too tired or too frustrated to unload on. We both had to share with sisters who were prettier and smarter than we felt we were. His responses—from Basel, where he had settled with his second wife—were consistently attentive, formal, kindly.