History of Sorts

I always like ‘What if?’ scenarios. Sometimes, I wonder what would have become of Anne Frank if she had survived. The following are diary entries in Kitty that I envisage Anne may have written after the war.

Diary Entry – September 13, 1948

Dear Kitty,

I have not written to you in so long. Sometimes, it feels strange to hold a pen again, to write my thoughts on paper. Life has changed so much, Kitty, and yet, in many ways, it feels like nothing has changed at all. I still have my thoughts, my dreams, and my hopes, though now they are tempered with the weight of all I have seen and endured.

We survived, Kitty. Margot and I survived the camps. When the Allies liberated us, I barely recognized myself—thin, weak, and hollow. But we were free. Free to return to the world, though it was not the world we had left behind. Papa and Mama are gone, along with so many others. It still feels unreal, as though they will walk through the door any moment, smiling like they used to. But the silence remains.

Margot is much quieter now. She works in a hospital, helping to care for people who need her kindness, but I can see the sadness in her eyes. I think she tries to be strong for me, as she always has. But the truth is, we are both still healing. Sometimes, late at night, I wake up from dreams of the Annex or the camps, unsure where I am. And then I remember, with a deep ache in my chest.

I often think about what I wrote to you, Kitty, during those years in hiding. I was so full of hope back then, so sure that would become a famous writer and that the world would hear my voice. But now, after everything, I wonder if anyone really wants to hear what I have to say. There are so many stories like mine—so many voices silenced forever. What could my little voice possibly add?

But then I remember, Kitty, how writing always gave me comfort. It was my way of making sense of the world, of understanding myself. Maybe it still can be. I want to write again—not just about the war and the darkness, but about life, about what comes after. I want to write about love, and family, and all the small, beautiful things that make life worth living.

We are rebuilding now, all of us. Amsterdam is no longer the city I knew, but it is still home. I see people laughing in the streets again, children playing, shops opening. It gives me hope that even after the worst darkness, there can be light again.

I have begun helping at a small newspaper, writing columns about daily life, about how we must never forget what happened but also how we must keep moving forward. It is strange being back in the world, trying to find a place in it. Sometimes, it feels like I am a different person now, like the Anne who wrote to you in the Annex is someone I once knew but no longer am. But maybe that is what survival is—becoming someone new while still carrying all the parts of who you were.

I miss Papa and Mama so much. I think of them every day. I know they would want me to live fully, to chase the dreams I spoke of so often. I will, Kitty. I will try.

With love,
Anne

P.S. I keep your pages close to me, always. You remind me of who I was and who I still want to be.

Diary Entry – January 27, 1950

Dear Kitty,

It’s a cold winter evening, and as I sit by the window, I can hear the wind howling outside. Sometimes, on nights like these, I can’t help but think of the past, of the winters spent in hiding, or worse, in the camps. But tonight, I don’t want to dwell on those memories. Tonight, I want to talk about the future.

Margot and I have settled into a new rhythm of life. We’ve rented a small apartment near the canal in Amsterdam. It’s modest, but it’s ours, and after all that’s happened, it feels like a miracle to have a home again. Margot, as ever, is diligent and focused. She has taken up studying medicine in the evenings, and she is still working at the hospital during the day. I’m so proud of her, Kitty. She is more than what we endured—she has chosen to rebuild herself, bit by bit, into someone stronger. Sometimes, I wonder where she finds the strength.

As for me, well, I’m still writing. I couldn’t give that up, no matter what. My columns at the newspaper have gained a little attention, and I even got an offer from a publisher to write a book—something based on my experiences during the war. I hesitated at first, unsure if I wanted to relive all of that pain in such a public way. But I think I owe it to the others, to those who didn’t make it out. Their stories need to be told, and maybe mine can help people understand what we went through and why we can never allow it to happen again.

Writing about the camps is difficult, though. Sometimes, the memories come rushing back, too vivid, too real, and I have to stop and remind myself that I’m here now, safe. I think about Papa and Mama so often—what they would have said, how proud they would have been to see Margot and me now. I wish they could have survived with us. It’s a wound that never truly heals.

But even in the midst of all this, there is still so much beauty. I find myself laughing again, Kitty—really laughing, not just the hollow sound I made for so long. I have made new friends, and they remind me that life is meant to be lived, not just survived. There’s a young man I’ve met through the newspaper—his name is David. He’s kind, with a quick wit that makes me smile even when I don’t feel like it. We’ve spent a lot of time together lately, walking through the city, talking about everything from politics to poetry. I don’t know what will come of it, but for the first time in a long time, I feel a warmth I thought had been lost forever.

I still believe in the things I wrote to you about all those years ago, Kitty. That people are good at heart, despite everything. But now I understand that goodness doesn’t always prevail and that it must be nurtured and protected, or else it can be swallowed by cruelty. We’ve all seen what happens when hate goes unchecked. I will never forget that, and I will never stop fighting for a world where compassion is stronger than fear.

I think of Otto Frank, Papa, so often—his gentle voice, his wisdom. I wonder what he would think of the world today and what we have become in the aftermath. I hope he would be proud of me, Kitty. I’m trying to live as he taught us, with kindness and purpose.

There’s still so much I want to do, Kitty. There are so many books I want to write about, places I want to visit, and lives I want to touch. I am not the girl who hid in the Annex anymore. I am someone else now, someone still figuring out who she is in a world that is both familiar and foreign. But I have hope, and I have my words. As long as I have that, I know I can keep going.

Yours always,
Anne

P.S. I found an old copy of Emma by Jane Austen in a secondhand bookshop today. It reminded me of the days in the Annex when we would read whatever we could get our hands on. I bought it, and tonight, I think I’ll begin again. It feels like the right time for a new story.

Sources

https://www.annefrank.org/en/anne-frank/diary/complete-works-anne-frank/

Anne Frank’s Marbles