Describe the whole lession of Anne frank
Answers
WRITING in a diary is a really strange experience for
someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written
anything before, but also because it seems to me
that later on neither I nor anyone else will be
interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old
schoolgirl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like
writing, and I have an even greater need to get all
kinds of things off my chest.
‘Paper has more patience than people.’ I thought
of this saying on one of those days when I was feeling
a little depressed and was sitting at home with my
chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering
whether to stay in or go out. I finally stayed where I
was, brooding: Yes, paper does have more patience,
and since I’m not planning to let anyone else read
this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a
‘diary’, unless I should ever find a real friend, it
probably won’t make a bit of difference.
Now I’m back to the point that prompted me
to keep a diary in the first place: I don’t have a
friend.
Let me put it more clearly, since no one will
believe that a thirteen-year-old girl is completely
alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents
and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about
thirty people I can call friends. I have a family,
loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I
seem to have everything, except my one true friend.
All I think about when I’m with friends is having a
good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything
but ordinary everyday things. We don’t seem to be
able to get any closer, and that’s the problem. Maybe
it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other. In
any case, that’s just how things are, and
unfortunately they’re not liable to change. This is
why I’ve started the diary.
To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend
in my imagination, I don’t want to jot down the
facts in this diary the way most people would do,
but I want the diary to be my friend, and I’m going
to call this friend ‘Kitty’.
Since no one would understand a word of my
stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right in, I’d better
provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike
doing so.
My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen,
didn’t marry my mother until he was thirty-six and
she was twenty-five. My sister, Margot, was born
in Frankfurt in Germany in 1926. I was born on 12
June 1929. I lived in Frankfurt until I was four. My
father emigrated to Holland in 1933. My mother,
Edith Hollander Frank, went with him to Holland
in September, while Margot and I were sent to
Aachen to stay with our grandmother. Margot went
to Holland in December, and I followed in February,
when I was plunked down on the table as a birthday
present for Margot.
I started right away at the Montessori nursery
school. I stayed there until I was six, at which time
I started in the first form. In the sixth form my
teacher was Mrs Kuperus, the headmistress. At the
end of the year we were both in tears as we said a
heartbreaking farewell.
In the summer of 1941 Grandma fell ill and had
to have an operation, so my birthday passed with
little celebration.
Grandma died in January 1942. No one knows
how often I think of her and still love her. This
birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make
up for the other, and Grandma’s candle was lit along
with the rest.
The four of us are still doing well, and that brings
me to the present date of 20 June 1942, and the
solemn dedication of my diary.
Saturday, 20 June 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Our entire class is quaking in its boots. The
reason, of course, is the forthcoming meeting in
which the teachers decide who’ll move up to the
next form and who’ll be kept back. Half the class is
making bets. G.N. and I laugh ourselves silly at the
two boys behind us, C.N. and Jacques, who have
staked their entire holiday savings on their bet.
From morning to night, it’s “You’re going to pass”,
“No, I’m not”, “Yes, you are”, “No, I’m not”. Even G.’s
pleading glances and my angry outbursts can’t calm
them down. If you ask me, there are so many
dummies that about a quarter of the class should
be kept back, but teachers are the most
unpredictable creatures on earth. I’m not so worried about my girlfriends and myself. We’ll make it. The only subject I’m not sure about is maths. Anyway, all we can do is wait. Until
then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart.