The first time I read “The Diary of Anne Frank,” I was in 7th grade. I don’t remember why I read it; we didn’t talk about it in school, and no one ever read it to me. I didn’t recall many details about it except that a Jewish girl, who was about my age then, had written it. I knew the Germans eventually found her and took her to a concentration camp during World War II, so it seemed important to read what she’d written.

A few months ago, I reread Anne Frank’s diary. This time, I found it a gripping and significant record of her experiences. Since the first time I read it, I’ve learned much about that part of history, including the Holocaust, the Dutch, their resistance efforts, and the Hungry Winter. I’ve also fallen in love with history since then, so I enjoy reading old diaries and documents.

This time, as I read Anne’s diary, I paid attention to every word. I wrote notes in the margins and marked important passages she’d written. I grew tense each time someone robbed the office below their hiding place, even though I knew they would not find her and her family when this happened. I was frightened along with Anne as air raids and bombings shook her hiding place in the Annex, and I was unnerved when her night sky glowed with explosions. 

I was intrigued by Anne’s love of learning, reading, and writing at such a young age. I was also surprised that she was the only one who kept a diary in the Annex where they hid. I assumed that others would have followed her example.

I was amazed at how perceptive and contemplative Anne was about her feelings and how she tried to figure out what motivated those living with her in the Annex. She also often thought about relationships and why people treated each other the way they did.

Anne wrote about how she would love to go outside and be with people again. She longed to be back in school someday. She missed her friends. She missed fresh air and seeing clouds. And she missed feeling the wind and the rain. She didn’t know when their hiding would end, but as she kept up with the news, it seemed like it would happen soon. She looked forward to being able to enjoy all of the things she’d missed so much.

As I neared the end of Anne’s diary, I had difficulty finishing it. I knew her writing didn’t have a beginning, middle, or end. It would just abruptly stop one day. There would be no last words or summary, just a day when she couldn’t write anymore because the Nazis would find her hiding place, march her away, and force her to leave her diary and beloved fountain pen behind. I felt somehow that as long as I had pages of Anne’s diary to read, she would still be alive- somewhere, safely hiding. It felt like a betrayal to read her final entry because once I’d read that last page, German troops would have found her in the hiding place.

Since Anne couldn’t write about what happened to her in the end, it seems to me, in my mind, that her life never ended. But, instead, she is lingering somewhere between places. I’m unsure where that place is, but I will keep her safely there for now, full of her hopes and dreams for a beautiful life, which she had so carefully planned on the pages of her diary.