Tears in Amsterdam

We knew where we were going, we weren’t sure how to get there. Joanne had seen a map, knew the general direction we should be going, and remembered the names of a few landmarks we would pass, other than that we were navigating on instinct. Time was not really on our side. We had a couple of hours at the most before we would make our way back to the train station. Taking off down a street we were pretty sure was the right direction we walked by a few cops, recognized the palace, turned right, buzzed by the Apple Store and suddenly we were confronted with a small que of people.
“This has to be it.” I turned to my wife. We took our place at the end of the line. Before we could ask if we were in the right place another group of obviously American visitors approached the line. One of the ladies was not very ambulatory. She managed to move with the help of a cane in each hand.
“Is this the Anne Frank House?” The American cane handler asked no one in particular.
“Yes”
The line moved very quickly. We were told the tour would last about an hour. A short video at the beginning of the tour nailed me; it was the beginning of my personal tour. If you’ve read her diary you are familiar with the people Anne Frank lived with, fought with, and relied on during her two years of hiding. Seeing Miep on video telling the story of Otto calling her into his office, confiding in her, asking her to put her own life at stake, while I was standing in that very office. My god!
We stood in Anne’s bedroom, the pictures of Ray Milland, and Jean Harlow still where she glued them up. We stood in the bathroom, the cause of so much distress for Anne and the others; we went upstairs and stood by the stove. I could see them making sausage, boiling lettuce, fighting about how many potatoes they should fry. Then, all alone, in a glass case, the diary. Anne Frank’s diary. Not an imitation, a copy, a facsimile. The diary.
I share a hometown with a Pulitzer Prize winning author. In high school I had some pretty powerful experiences reading the works of Willa Cather. Standing in her house, walking the streets she walked, but never had I been as affected, as touched, as moved as I was in the Anne Frank House. On that warm day in Amsterdam literature came to life, history came to life. Standing in front of that diary with tears filling my eyes, and a full hollow ache in my throat I knew, I just knew.