Anne Frank: Holocaust Survivor
by Arachnophile
Introduction: I acknowledge that it is risky to write the alternative history of a well-known and tragic icon such as Anne. Some readers may be offended. In describing her as a young woman, however, and not a girl, I hoped to honor the flesh and blood person she was and the one she might have become.
July 1945
Francois was running as fast as he could through the displaced persons settlement. He was overjoyed with the news he was bringing Anne. Against all expectation, her father, Otto Frank, was alive! Francois had gone to the information office every day and patiently waited in line for an hour or more each time in order to ask for news about the only one of Anne's family members who might possibly have survived the war. Now, he had confirmation.
Anne had stopped going to the office herself a few weeks earlier. She found it too painful. After all that she had endured, she simply could not take the continual disappointment. She didn?t feel any better not going, but she didn't feel worse. Now Francois would have good news for her, news that would make her happy, he was sure of it. They would go to America, together, the three of them; him, Anne, and her father.
And Anne would be able to love him. She would love him; he was sure of it.
March 1945
The rain had stopped but the roads through the camp were rivers of mud. There was no drainage; water collected until it either froze in winter or evaporated in the hot summer sun. There was very poor sanitation; only a few latrines were available for the more than 60,000 prisoners crammed into a space designed for less than 10,000.
It was here that the German Jewish girl from the Netherlands, 15 year old Anneliess (Anne) Frank, and her sister were housed. They had been separated from their parents after their hiding place in Amsterdam had been discovered by German and Dutch authorities. From July 1942 through August 1944, Anne's older sister, Margot, their mother and father, the Van Pels, and Fritz Pfeffer lived in a hidden apartment above and behind Otto Frank's business. An anonymous tip sent the police to the hideout.
The people from the hiding space, the Secret Annex, Anne called it, were taken to the infamous Westerbork transit camp. From there, they were sent to the combination industrial/extermination camp complex of Auschwitz in Poland. Edith Frank, Anne's mother, perished there in January 1945. For all Anne knew, her father had died there also. It seemed impossible that he was still alive. It was just Anne and her sister left.
Because of their youth, and hence, their potential as laborers, Anne and Margot were together sent to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp near Celle, Germany. At that point in World War II, Germany was desperately short of labor having drafted even skilled workers into the armed forces to fill the gaps left by the horrendous rate of casualties, especially on the Soviet front. The Nazis first recruited and then dragooned workers from occupied countries to make up for the labor shortfall. As the Reich contracted, however, organization broke down and people, laborers, just simply piled up in various places as they seemed to have done in Bergen-Belsen.
It was late March 1945 and Anne was worried about Margot. She had taken ill with typhus in the crowded and unsanitary camp and there was no doctor available. Anne had been trying to trade some of their meager rations for any kind of medicine that might help her ailing sister. Anne at that time was always almost naked, wrapped in a blanket, hair shorn and with sores around her mouth and on her extremities from malnutrition. Exhausted, hungry, and dirty, Anne was motivated by the need to help Margot though she herself was not in very much better condition.
Margot was still shivering when Anne returned to her. The girl had been running a fever as high as 105� and was dehydrating from the initial vomiting and the diarrhea that persisted. Anne had to walk a circuitous route of almost a mile to fetch water. In Amsterdam, Anne and Margot delighted in walking for miles along the canals. To see the boats and the people, the hustle and bustle along the sidewalks, the city bursting with life never failed to delight the young girls. Now, even a short walk was painfully difficult for Anne. Despite her own weakness, despite the harsh conditions, she had to save Margot; no matter what, she must.
"Margot," Anne said, "you must try to drink. Please, Margot, drink this water."
Margot looked at Anne blankly. She was slipping in and out of consciousness; her fever making her delirious. Besides procuring food and water for them both, Anne had to fight off other people as desperate as they but with less scruple. Anne was beside herself. Margot was slipping away and nothing she did helped.
In early April, Anne returned from scrounging food to find Margot had died. Someone had already stolen her shoes and the couple of crusts of bread she had on her person. Adding indignity to her grief, Anne had to give up Margot to burial in a mass grave. Weak herself with disease, crushed by the destruction of her family, and with no desire to live, Anne looked very much like a "Mussulman," camp argot for "goners," inmates on their last legs.
As Anne lay shivering in her thin blanket and too weak even to cry, she became aware of someone sitting down next to her. Believing it to be another of the camp thieves and looters, she made a desperate gesture of defense, shifting herself sideways. This person, however, held out a small piece of bread and a cup of watery turnip soup. She looked at the bread and snatched it away. Cramming it into her mouth, she recoiled from the expected beating. But the person's response was to dip a spoon into the cup and place it near her mouth.
She slurped the soup before raising her eyes to the person's face. When she looked up, she saw a man; a boy, really, though everyone was so emaciated that it was difficult sometimes to tell. He smiled at her and spoke to her in French. Seeing her struggle to understand, he switched to German.
"Aren't you cold with just that blanket?"
Anne regarded him before speaking. She dimly wondered what he wanted. Killing her would be of no use to him as he had more food than she. She hardly looked like a girl anymore and besides she was sick; no "romantic" (i.e., sex) possibilities with her. She wanted more of the soup so she answered,"Diarrhea ... soils my clothes." She looked at the soup as her reward for speaking. Well, she thought, come on ...
He gave her more soup. She downed it and wrapped the blanket around herself more tightly and pulled it down a bit in the interest of modesty.
As he fed her the soup, he asked,"What is your name?"
She looked at him, trying to understand why he wanted to know. Unable to think of a reason not to answer, she replied,
"Anneliese ... Anne; my name is Anne." He gave her the last of the soup. He smiled again at her. Suddenly remembering her manners, and as if they suddenly mattered in that place, she said,"Thank you for the soup."
And followed quickly with,"What do you want? I have nothing."
Speaking gently he said,"I don't want anything. I've seen you around this part of the camp and thought you might need some help."
She scowled at him.
"So does everyone! Why me? Why notice me? Why help me?"
"Does it matter?" he replied, smiling at her.
Anne's eyes filled with tears as she said in a choked voice,"No ... no ..."
She began to cry. All the cruelty of the guards and the threats from the other inmates hadn't evoked a single tear. This one act of kindness, however, left her sobbing.
From under his arm he took a blanket bigger than hers and covered her with it. He reached underneath and took her shabby threadbare wrap and with it fashioned a pillow for her head. He helped her to lie down. She stared at him through her tears. He touched her face and said,"My name is Francois; I have a job here unloading the supplies. Even though they threaten to kill anyone stealing food, I've managed to hide some from each truck we've unloaded."
He looked around and, assessing their situation, whispered to her furtively,"I think they do not really care anymore. One of the truck drivers said that British are nearby. He expects the guards to just up and vanish soon."
He smoothed her spiky hair and stroked her forehead.
"It's important to hang on just a while longer. Then we'll be rescued." He smiled again.
Shivering again and struggling not to void her bowels, she hissed,"They'll kill all of us first!"
Francois just smiled again and shrugged his shoulders.
"Maybe; but then, maybe not. I don't think they'll bother. We have to keep hoping for the best ... and preparing for it."
Anne just looked at him not knowing what to think. She wiped her eyes and hoped he would leave; she really couldn't hold her waste in much longer. She would be embarrassed and ashamed. But the boy not only wouldn't go away, he addressed that very issue.
He put his hand under her shoulder and with surprising strength, lifted her into a seated position.
"Come, I'll help you to get outside and I'll hold the blanket around you."
Anne gave herself over to his care. No one had cared for her for what seemed a long time. Feeble but determined, she stood with his help and walked outside the barrack building. He held the large blanket up and looked away to afford her the little privacy that he could. Anne moaned as she painfully relieved herself. She was grateful for his kindness but ashamed to do her business with him there. A thought suddenly occurred to her that this was the first time she'd cared about that in a while; or had any concern about modesty or privacy.
And for the first time since Margot's death, Anne felt a purpose. 'This boy is kind and I must prove myself worthy of his kindness,' she told herself. 'His food should not be wasted!' It was then that Anne Frank, having believed she was alone in the world and hoping to die, had a reason to live.
The British liberated Bergen-Belsen on April 15 of that year. Among the survivors were Francois Lieberman and Anne Frank. Given medical care by a British doctor and a team of nurses, Anne's youth and her friend Francois's attention and inspiration allowed her to recover. Many other inmates did not.
Francois came to visit her three times a day. They ate together and he would bring her things he'd scrounged from around the camp. He already had a job working with the British unloading supply trucks. He'd always loved trucks. At seventeen, turning 18 on May 16, he was fully two years older than Anne. On June 12, she would be sixteen.
Anne's hair was growing out and she had started to gain weight. She would be able to leave the hospital soon. She became concerned about what she would wear.
"I'll get you some clothes," Francois volunteered.
"Oh, Francois," she said, "you don't know what I like!" Given the situation they were in, they both burst out laughing at what she'd just said.
"That's all right," he said to her jovially, "we won't have too much choice anyway!"
She laughed with him and Francois's heart was made glad. It was the first time he heard her laugh and he loved it! He thought Anne was beautiful. He tried to hide the fact that he was in love with her but it was to no avail. Anne recognized it and if she hadn't, the nurses and the other patients did and would even tease her about it when Francois was not around. Anne would blush and deny it, but was secretly pleased.
Francois Lieberman had been rounded up by Vichy authorities in late 1943. Before that, he had spent over a year in hiding. He had lived in the countryside with a Christian farmer who hated the Nazis more than he disliked the Jews. The man gave him a job working the farm with him. He was finally betrayed by another farmer to whom the gendarmes paid a bounty for each Jew uncovered. He had been sent to the Gurs transit camp in the Pyrenees where he managed to survive until he was sent to Germany as a slave laborer. As the Allies converged on the Reich from west and east, many concentration and death camp prisoners were shipped to Bergen-Belsen. A camp designed to hold very few detainees saw its inmate population swell to over sixty thousand at the time of its liberation.
Francois had been young and unusually resourceful. A city boy, his experience working and living with the bachelor farmer taught him the skills he needed to survive. With the liberation the former camp inmates, now classified as "displaced persons," were placed in former German army barracks. Francois hoped that the vibrant social and intellectual life that was growing among the former prisoners would help Anne to recover her joie de vivre. She was sad most of the time, which concerned him greatly.
Anne looked around the room from the doorway. Though clean and bright, it certainly wasn't luxurious. It had a desk, three chairs, a table and two army cots. It was very small. It had a closet. The bathroom was at the end of the hallway.
"What do you think, Anne?" Francois asked.
Anne looked at him and asked, "What do you mean?"
"I mean, would you like to live here with me?"
She raised her eyebrows. This would afford her some privacy, of course, which she desired. Being around so many people in the makeshift hostel drained her of energy. Thinking of her lost family depressed her. There were times during each day that she wanted to fall on the floor and weep but she never did.
Part of the reason that Francois wanted her to stay there with him was to give her the opportunity she needed to grieve. Jakob Feinman, a rabbi who had survived with them said to Francois,
"She needs time to deal with her loss. If you love her, give her that time."
Francois, always in a hurry, had inquired of the rabbi what he needed to do to marry Anne. Jakob had laughed and sat the boy down to explain things to him. Francois listened very carefully and used the rabbi's advice to formulate his plan.
"Anne," he said to her, "you can stay here all day if you want to. I won't bother you. I'll sleep in a cot on the other side of the room from you. It will be fine; you'll be fine."
Anne stared at the floor.
"Yes," she said. "Yes."
Francois took her hand and kissed it.
"It'll be fine, Anne; you'll see. It'll be fine."
The first night, Anne made Francois wait outside the room while she changed into a night dress. Only when she was safely, and modestly, under the blankets on her cot did she summon him in.
Around three A.M. the first night, Francois was awakened by Anne's crying out,
"Close the door! Close the door!"
He sat up momentarily confused. In the moonlight filtering through the window, he could see the door to the room was closed.
"Close the door!" she said insistently.
Puzzled, Francois knelt by her cot and gently shook the arm of the sleeping girl. It was clear now that she was having a nightmare.
Anne started awake and drew back from him, pressing herself against the wall next to the cot. Her eyes wide in terror and breathing hard, she finally realized where she was and calmed. Covering herself with the blanket, she asked him warily, "What are you doing?"
"Anne," he said softly, reaching for her hand, "you were having a nightmare. You cried out. It woke me."
Still staring, breathing hard, she said slowly,"I'm ... sorry ... I woke you."
"Anne," he replied, "Are you all right now?"
She quickly nodded her head.
"Yes; I'm sorry I woke you."
Francois took her hand and she let him. He kissed it.
"Please try to go back to sleep. Don't be afraid; I'm here. You don't have to be afraid anymore."
Still breathing hard, she nodded her head and slowly lay down again to sleep. Francois pulled the blanket up over her shoulder. As he smoothed her hair, she did not pull away but only stared at him in the moonlight.
"Oh, Anne," he said, sadly.
Over the next four weeks Anne and Francois settled into the community built up by the survivors of Bergen-Belsen. Only three days after liberation, a camp committee was formed. All around them, the two young people witnessed an astonishing rebirth of family life. There was, for example, an average of 20 weddings a day! In only a few months after liberation, there would be over 2,000 children born to the survivors. There were plans to open a formal school in a few months. For some people this was heartening, an assertion of life over death. But for a few, it was something else entirely.
Anne was a person out of time, out of synch with this world. In this, of course, she was not alone but her situation, and that of other boys and girls her age, was special. On the threshold of adulthood, they were not only orphaned but physically dislocated and ultimately exiled from their homes. So many of them no longer knew where they belonged. Anne, for example, did not want to go back to Amsterdam, at least not right away and maybe never.
Their nutritional deficiencies, the lack of clean accommodations, the threat of death, all these things conspired to make even more difficult that most difficult of life's stages. For most of the young girls, what they had experienced had caused a cessation in their menstrual cycle, a further challenge to their fragile psyches. The evidence of family life all around Anne should have held out possibilities for the future. Francois felt it. He hoped Anne could feel it, too. But the happiness surrounding her only served to sharpen her sense of loss. Her mother was dead. Her sister died almost in her arms. Her father was likely dead; in her mind it needed only to be confirmed. And if he was alive, how could she face her father after letting Margot die?
"Yes, that's it, Shlomo, no, no ... lift from the bottom! Lift from the bottom! ... that's it. Now tip it to me!"
Francois, ever the master scrounger, had "liberated" an iron bedstead and mattress from the warehouse at the other end of their camp. He and a co-worker were moving it into the room he shared with Anne. It was to be hers; at least that was the way he would put it. He secretly hoped to share it with her and soon. He thought if Anne could literally feel his love for her, it might shake her from her funk. He would blush red whenever he thought that as he didn?t know how he could speak to her about how he felt. Anne was proper, she was educated. Francois was, by contrast, a scruffy, lower-class kid from a hard scrabble existence.
Orphaned at an early age, Francois was always escaping from one institution or another; always restless, always running perhaps in the belief that further woe would not hit a moving target. Anne would change him, though. He knew it. He would settle down with her. She would guide him. He, in turn, would love her, be devoted to her. He believed in his heart that his love and devotion could save her and she, in turn, would save him.
"Well, what do you think?"
Francois had just lowered his hands from Anne's eyes. He had intercepted her before she reached the door of their shared room and told her to close her eyes as he had a surprise for her.
Anne looked at the bed and blinked her eyes. She didn't know what to think. It was big enough for them both, she thought. She glanced sideways at Francois and was about to say something when he said,"It's yours. I got it for you. I think you'll be more comfortable."
He bit his lip and kept turning his cap in his hand. Anne thought it was sweet that he was so nervous, so shy, when in other things he was so assured, so confident. He was clearly taking nothing for granted.
She smiled and turned to Francois. Kissing his cheek she said, softly,"Thank you, Francois. It's lovely!"
He relaxed and smiled back at her.
"Go ahead, Anne; try it out!" he said to her.
Anne grinned as she gingerly approached the bed. She sat carefully down. She bounced gently on it a couple of times, giggling as she did. Smiling, she flopped down hard on the soft mattress, closed her eyes, and threw out her arms. Then she quickly sat up.
"It's heaven!" she said to him. She jumped up and embraced him.
Francois was relieved and very happy that Anne was happy. He thought as he held her close, that he loved her so much that he would do almost anything to please her.
Anne worked with a group of small children, German Jewish orphans, teaching them to read and write. Working under the supervision of a man who had been a teacher before being sent to Bergen-Belsen, she learned how to structure lessons and to know what each child was capable of at what age. She began to think she might like to be a teacher now, instead of a journalist. She could still write, she told herself.
The children began to be adopted by people in the camp and some were taken away by relatives. Although she was glad for them, it hurt Anne to see them so happy with their new families.
She still suffered from nightmares. She would awaken Francois with her cries. It was usually "Close the door! Close the door!" Not knowing whether or not to discuss it with her, Francois kept silent. He comforted her when the nightmares were especially bad.
At breakfast one morning, Francois got up the nerve to tell her that she cried out in her sleep almost every night.
"I do?" she said.
"Yes, Anne," he said.
"What do I say?"
"You most often say, 'Close the door!'"
At this, Anne went pale. Her voice became quiet and strained as she told Francois the reason why she said that.
"When we came to the camp, Margot and I got the place next to the door. As it was winter and very cold, we kept saying 'Close the door! Close the door!' whenever people went in and out. The draft was terrible for Margot. She caught a chill and that led to ..."
Anne could not finish her sentence. She bowed her head and was silent. Looking at her sitting motionless, Francois saw a single teardrop fall to her plate. He stood and went around to her. Kneeling at her side and taking her hands in his he murmured,"Oh, Anne; I'm so sorry ... I'm so sorry."
Francois kissed her hands and laid his head in her lap. Anne stroked his hair. He put his arms around her slim waist and pressed himself to her. Anne then clutched him to her. She stood up and he stood up. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to his. Startled, he momentarily froze; then he responded to her desire. His penis hardened as she ground her pubic bone against him.
Anne was 16 now, having passed her birthday a scant week before. She had gained a little weight in the two months since they had been liberated. Her breasts formed and her hips began to swell noticeably. Her menstrual period had returned the week before. She was a woman now.
As Francois took off his shirt, Anne dropped to her knees and undid his belt. She quickly, almost frantically, pulled down his pants as though if she didn't do this in the next moment, she would lose her nerve. His erection sprang up before her and she paused a moment to marvel at it. She put her hand on it and kissed it.
She stood and removed her sweater. She pulled her blouse over her head with two hands. Stepping out of her shoes, she unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor.
Francois watched her undress was transfixed by her loveliness. He took in her slimness, a shape that perfectly complemented her graceful movements. When she removed her bra, her nipples stood out erect from her firm, young breasts. Her belly was flat. When she hooked her thumbs in the sides of her underpants and bending over slid them down to her ankles, Anne stood for a moment. Francois saw the dark triangle between her legs set off against her pale, unblemished skin.
He stepped to her and embraced her, felt her warmth. He lifted her in his arms. She leaned her head against her shoulder. He carried her almost weightless body to the bed and gently laid her there. Anne looked at him unsmiling as he crawled onto the bed. It was an awkward moment for the young man who otherwise was so sure of himself but then Anne had that effect on him.
Anne reached out for him and he lay down on top of her. She opened her legs to give him access to her sex. She was wet, now, she could feel it. So, now it will happen, she thought; I will feel; I will! She was almost impassive as he guided his erect penis between the lips of her vulva. She felt the head of it slip in, felt the pressure of the thing against her maidenhead. Francois hesitated, afraid to hurt her. Acting decisively, Anne reached around behind his lower back with both hands and pulled him into her.
She arched her back, lifted her chin, and closed her eyes as the penis shattered her hymen.
"Oh!" she cried. Feeling him pause she whispered, "Go on, go on; don't stop!"
Francois began again to move inside her, building rapidly to his climax. Overwhelmed with the tenderness and the lust he felt for her, he came quickly.
"Arghh ... arghh ..." he grunted as he took his pleasure in the girl that he loved so much. He collapsed on top of her murmuring, "I love you, Anne ... so much ... I love you." He was face was down into the pillow above her shoulder, clutching her.
Anne kept him inside her as she stared at the ceiling. She stroked his head with her right hand and wrapped her left around his back. Well, she thought; that is it, then. A tear ran from her left eye down the side of her face to the pillow. 'Margot, oh, Margot; this should have been you! You should have been loved, not me! Not me ...'
Anne turned her head away from Francois's and closed her eyes that were still squeezing out their tears.
Although Anne and Francois made love often, Anne's sadness deepened rather than dissipated.
The life they saw around them had the potential to lift her spirits as Francois hoped it would. For most of the survivors of Bergen-Belsen this was so. For Anne, however, the joy of others was a constant reminder of what she had irretrievably lost.
She wanted very much to love Francois and tried hard to do that. Her heart, she feared, was too heavy. Was it love she felt for him or mere gratitude for having saved her? And saved her for what? To suffer as she now was?
Adolescence is a time of great change. For young people there is a need, even an urgency, to establish their place in the world. So wide a place called for a guide or a companion. Anne was without her family's support and also without that of her peers. Her family were dead. Where were her friends? Scattered, dead, even, in the horror that had befallen them all. Upon whom could she rely in this turbulent time? Upon whom could she depend to dispel the gathering gloom? Francois is sweet, she thought, but even he cannot help me.
In the beginning, Anne went to the information office each day and each day returning with no news. Without realizing it, she was expending her last feelings of hope and optimism in the pursuit of news about her father. Each day that she was turned away with no news caused her heart to sink just a little further and for despair to envelope her just a little bit more.
It seemed to Anne that her world had ended; it just hadn't gone away.
Ignoring his burning lungs and his fatigued legs, Francois was overjoyed to be able to tell Anne of the news she dared not hope was true.
He burst in the door crying, "Anne! Anne! It's your father! He's alive!"
His first thought was that she must be in the toilet. Surely she would never go out and leave the door unlocked. Then his eye saw the note on the table. Oh, she's gone out ...?
He picked it up and read it.
Francois let the note fall from his hands. He knew now where she was.
Of course, she was hanging in the closet. Clever girl, she had fashioned a noose out of an old piece of rope. Her head was tilted to the right, her arms at her sides, her shoes barely an inch off the floor. Anne's face was blue; she had been there some time.
Francois dropped to his knees and hugged her legs. He was still howling twenty minutes later when the ambulance came.
Good-bye, Francois
I simply cannot go on.
Forgive me for not being able to love you as you deserve and forgive me for the pain I've caused you. I'm sorry to have done this to you. I seem to have failed everyone I've loved.
I once wrote in my diary that despite everything, I believed people were really good at heart. That, of course, was before Westerbork and Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. Together, they have conspired to kill the girl that wrote those words.
Anne
The simple, sturdy suitcase was packed, had been packed since the day before. Francois had set it beside the door. His passage to Montreal would be in two days. He had located a cousin there who had reluctantly agreed to sponsor him. He would live in Canada, far away from Europe and try to make his way in life there.
It was August, a month or more since Anne died. He had trouble remembering the exact date. Those days had been spent in a fog of anguish. Francois had left the displaced persons camp. He could not bear to be there. He took up residence in this one-room apartment in LeHavre, the port from which he would embark.
It was in pursuit of a new life but it was one to which he was resigned, not about which he was enthusiastic. His heart had been broken and it was difficult for him to feel any longer his former perpetual optimism. He had tried hard with Anne but failed. He could not save her and he found it hard to live with that failure.
It was around six o'clock that Francois was startled by an unexpected knock on his door.' Who could that be? he thought. It cannot be for the rent; I'm paid up until Friday.'
He opened the door to see an older man with a mustache. He was tall, slim, and balding. He had a kindly face and warmth in his voice as he said, in French,"Are you Francois Lieberman?"
"Yes," Francois answered.
"My name is Otto Frank. I was told you knew my daughters Anne and Margot in Bergen-Belsen."
Francois's heart almost stopped. He was staggered. He flushed and felt faint and his head spun. He could only mumble,
"Mr. Frank ... I ..."
Seeing his distress told Otto Frank all he needed to know. He sagged a bit and looking at the young man, smiled sadly.
"It's all right, Mr. Lieberman. I wasn't expecting good news anyway but I wanted to be sure. Were you ... with them at the end?"
Though he felt crushed, Francois recovered his composure. He would tell Mr. Frank what he needed to hear; for Anne's sake.
"Yes, I was. It was typhus, you see. I'm so sorry. There was no medical care. Anne ... I knew her best ... struggled to care for Margot. When Margot ... passed ... Anne lost strength. She was very sick. I'm so sorry."
Despite his resolve, Francois burst into tears. Otto stepped forward and hugged him. Francois held onto Otto and wept for what seemed like a long time. Otto kept saying he was grateful to know the truth; Francois kept apologizing. Then calming himself, Francois said, "Please, Mr. Frank, sit down."
Otto sat at the small table on the only chair; Francois sat on his suitcase. Francois told him that he was going to Canada and Otto wished him luck. Otto told him he was going back to Amsterdam to seek out those who had hidden the Franks and had risked their lives to do so.
They parted warmly and Francois saw him to the streetcar. He waved as it pulled away.
Epilogue: 1953
It was eight years later that Francois, now married and working for a shipping company in the port of Montreal, was taking a stroll on Sherbrooke Street with his wife, his son, and his daughter. Andre had just turned three and Anne was five and a half. Anne was a very bright girl. She had taught herself to read and could write whole sentences.
He loved Marie-Claire, his wife. They had married very soon after meeting; each knowing exactly what he and she wanted and each wanted the same things: stability and security. She kept him steady, kept him from brooding. She had the optimistic spirit that he never completely felt again. She understood him, what he had gone through in Europe. She helped him recover.
They passed a bookshop when Anne, looking at the display in the window, cried, "Mama! Papa! Look: a girl with the same name as I wrote a book!"
"Hmm ... my dear, what?" Francois had been lost in thought. There were hoping to buy a house in the new part of town and there was much to think about. He lifted Andre and held him in the crook of one strong arm.
"Oh, yes; and a photo of her, too!" Marie-Claire remarked. She crouched down with her daughter in front of the bookstore window.
"What kind of book is it, Mama?" Anne asked her mother.
"It's her diary," she said to the little girl, hugging her. "The story of her life written by her."
Francois, unsuspecting, turned smiling to his wife and daughter. Not even glancing at the window, he almost absent-mindedly asked,
"A diary, eh? By some girl?"
"Yes," Marie-Claire said, "I read about it in the newspaper." She stood up and read the title and author aloud to her husband.
"The Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank."