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FICTION | PALESTINE
The Night Anne Frank Almost Destroyed Her Diary
A Fictional Meditation
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She sat there, mired in despair, darkness seeping in like the mist outside these shaded windows. Here in this room, she has learned to count backwards. The remaining are few. One day it will be her turn, no doubt. She clutches her treasure and looks at the fire once again. To whom shall she leave this diary? To a world that has forsaken her? One that has left her no place?
Why did she write? Why write when it makes no difference? When no one is listening? Why be so generous in sharing the wisdom she has gained in her short life, under the duress of impending annihilation? Is the world worthy?
She still feels the anguish of last night’s dream: a long line of people, of all ages, nationalities, and faiths, entering a museum. She follows them inside to the main exhibit. Locked in a display case, under a museum spotlight, she finds her diary. The visitors then exit, where they silently watch children being marched to the death chambers.
Why write if her death is certain? For whom? For the museums that will garner millions of visitors? Or the publishers who will capitalize on the bestseller?
