On this day

             On this day, June 12, 1929, a baby girl was born in Frankfurt am Main, Germany, to parents Otto Frank and Edith Frank-Hollander. She grew up to move to Amsterdam, Netherlands, where she lived on the third floor of a house on the Merwedeplein. And then, on July 6, 1942, this girl, now 13, and her two parents left their house in the beginning of the morning and walked to Otto's office building, 263 Prinsengracht. Her older sister, Margot, had arrived earlier that morning.
               This family was joined a few days later by the Van Pels family: sixteen-year-old Peter and his parents. And in November, a dentist named Fritz Pfeffer joined them in the Secret Annex, in the back of 263 Prinsengracht.
               This girl kept a diary from June 12, 1942, to August 1, 1944. On August 4, 1944, at 10 in the morning, these eight people were captured and arrested. They all perished in the clutches of the Nazis except Mr. Otto Frank. After the war, Otto returned to the Prinsengracht and collected his youngest daughter's diary.  First published in 1947, two years after the author had died, this diary has gone on to sell more than 20 million copies in 55 languages. The girl's name was Anne Frank.

               From the beginning: 
                                                                      June 12, 1942

                  I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support. 
         
               To the end:

                                                                       Tuesday, August 1, 1944

Dearest Kitty, 

 "A bundle of contradictions" was the end of my previous letter and is the beginning of this one. Can you please tell me exactly what "a bundle of contradictions" is? What does "contradiction" mean? Like so many words, it can be interpreted in two ways: a contradiction imposed from without and one imposed from within. The former means not accepting other people's opinions, always knowing best, having the last word; in short, all those unpleasant traits for which I'm known. The latter, for which I'm not known, is my own secret.

      As I've told you many times, I'm split in two. One side contains my exuberant cheerfulness, my flippancy, my joy in life and, above all, my ability to appreciate the lighter side of things. By that I mean not finding anything wrong with flirtations, a kiss, an embrace, an off-color joke. This side of me is usually lying in wait to ambush the other one, which is much purer, deeper and finer. No one knows Anne's better side, and that's why most people can't stand me. Oh, I can be an amusing clown for an afternoon, but after that everyone's had enough of me to last a month. Actually, I'm what a romantic movie is to a profound thinker--a mere diversion, a comic interlude, something that is soon forgotten: not bad, but not particularly good either. I hate having to tell you this, but why shouldn't I admit it when it's true? My lighter, more superficial side will always steal a march on the deeper side and therefor always win. You can't imagine how often I've tried to push away this Anne, which is only half of what is known as Anne--to beat her down, hide her. But it doesn't work, and I know why.

         I'm afraid that people who know me as I usually am will discover I have another side, a better and finer side. I'm afraid they'll mock me, think I'm ridiculous and sentimental and not take me seriously. I'm used to not being taken seriously, but only the "lighthearted" Anne is used to it and can put up with it; the "deeper" Anne is too weak. If I force the good Anne into the spotlight for even fifteen minutes, she shuts up like a clam the moment she's called upon to speak, and lets Anne number one do the talking. Before I realize it, she's disappeared.

        So the nice Anne is never seen in company. She's never made a single appearance, though she almost always takes the stage when I'm alone. I know exactly how I'd like to be, how I am... on the inside. But unfortunately I'm only like that with myself. And perhaps that's why--no, I'm sure that's the reason why--I think of myself as happy on the inside and other people think I'm happy on the outside. I'm guided by the pure Anne within, but on the outside I'm nothing but a frolicsome little goat tugging at its tether.

        As I've told you, what I say is not what I feel, which is why I have a reputation for being boy-crazy as well as a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of romances. The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs her shoulders and pretends she doesn't give a darn. The quiet Anne reacts in just the opposite way. If I'm being completely honest, I'll have to admit that it does matter to me, that I'm always trying very hard to change myself, but that I'm always up against a more powerful enemy.

       A voice within me is sobbing, "You see, that's what's become of you. You're surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people who dislike you, and all because you don't listen to the advice of your own better half." Believe me, I'd like to listen, but it doesn't work, because if I'm quiet and serious, everyone thinks I'm putting on a new act and I have to save myself with a joke, and then I'm not even talking about my own family, who assume I must be sick, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can't keep up anymore, because when everyone starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and kept trying to find a way to become what I'd like to be and what I could be if...if only there were no other people in the world.

                                                                          Yours, Anne M. Frank