The first German and English translations, published in 19 respectively, retained many of the passages deleted in the Dutch edition, including criticism of Anne’s mother and Anne’s awareness of her emerging sexuality.With the publication of in 1986 (revised 2003), the Netherlands Institute for War Documentation verified the authenticity of the diaries.It speaks of “turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside,” and of “trying to find a way to become what I’d like to be and what I could be if . Her circumscribed world had a population of eleven—the three Dutch protectors who came and went, supplying the necessities of life, and the eight in hiding: the van Daans, their son Peter, Albert Dussel, and the four Franks. Even its report of quieter periods of reading and study express the hush of imprisonment. And because the end is missing, the story of Anne Frank in the fifty years since “The Diary of a Young Girl” was first published has been bowdlerized, distorted, transmuted, traduced, reduced; it has been infantilized, Americanized, homogenized, sentimentalized; falsified, kitschified, and, in fact, blatantly and arrogantly denied.
The first German and English translations, published in 19 respectively, retained many of the passages deleted in the Dutch edition, including criticism of Anne’s mother and Anne’s awareness of her emerging sexuality.
Anne Frank was born in Frankfurt, Germany on June 12, 1929.
After the Nazis appropriated power in 1933, the Frank family moved to Amsterdam and led a quiet life until the German invasion of the Netherlands in 1940.
It is easy to imagine—had she been allowed to live—a long row of novels and essays spilling from her fluent and ripening pen.
We can be certain (as certain as one can be of anything hypothetical) that her mature prose would today be noted for its wit and acuity, and almost as certain that the trajectory of her work would be closer to that of Nadine Gordimer, say, than to that of Francoise Sagan. This was more than an exaggerated adolescent flourish.
She and her sister, Margot, were among three thousand six hundred and fifty-nine women transported by cattle car from Auschwitz to the merciless conditions of Bergen-Belsen, a barren tract of mud. There is, besides, a startlingly precocious comprehension of the progress of the war on all fronts.
In a cold, wet autumn, they suffered through nights on flooded straw in overcrowded tents, without light, surrounded by latrine ditches, until a violent hailstorm tore away what had passed for shelter. The survival of the little group in hiding is crucially linked to the timing of the Allied invasion.Zyklon B, the lethal fumigant poured into the gas chambers, was, pointedly, a roach poison. One month before liberation, not yet sixteen, she died of typhus fever, an acute infectious disease carried by lice. That the diary is miraculous, a self-aware work of youthful genius, is not in question.The precise date of her death has never been determined. Variety of pace and tone, insightful humor, insupportable suspense, adolescent love pangs and disappointments, sexual curiosity, moments of terror, moments of elation, flights of idealism and prayer and psychological acumen—all these elements of mind and feeling and skill brilliantly enliven its pages.The atrocities she endured were ruthlessly and purposefully devised, from indexing by tattoo through systematic starvation to factory-efficient murder.She was designated to be erased from the living, to leave no grave, no sign, no physical trace of any kind.How much longer will this increasingly oppressive, unbearable weight press down on us? A deeply truth-telling work has been turned into an instrument of partial truth, surrogate truth, or anti-truth.” And, several paragraphs on, “What will we do if we’re ever . The pure has been made impure—sometimes in the name of the reverse.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.Her fault—her crime—was having been born a Jew, and as such she was classified among those who had no right to exist: not as a subject people, not as an inferior breed, not even as usable slaves. Let the end come, however cruel.” And on April 11, 1944; “We are Jews in chains.”The diary is not a genial document, despite its author’s often vividly satiric exposure of what she shrewdly saw as “the comical side of life in hiding.” Its reputation for uplift is, to say it plainly, nonsensical.The military and civilian apparatus of an entire society was organized to obliterate her as a contaminant, in the way of a noxious and repellent insect. Anne Frank’s written narrative, moreover, is not the story of Anne Frank, and never has been.