From First to Last: A Teacher’s Tale
Last Period: Who’s Your Inside Self?
For Fifth Period of A Teacher’s Tale, please see:
Iused my free block during 6th period to sit in the teacher’s lounge and grade homework. If I used my time well, I could be home by 4 o’clock with my work behind me rather than ahead. I would still have preparations for tomorrow’s lessons but that usually amounted to reading a chapter ahead of my students. I did not consider reading to be work. And my lesson ideas often formed the moment I made contact with my students. This creative aspect I did not consider to be work either. The only aspect of teaching I considered work was grading homework. So finally, during 6th period, I worked.
I had a stack of papers in front of me and gradually took one sheet off the top to build a second pile. I did so before a view of day laborers who were busy piecing together a residential complex in Kabaty. I had graded papers while they laid the foundation in the winter and again in the spring when they were framing the windows. Now they were insulating the walls and laying down plaster. The ongoing construction made for a great reflection. Everyone should be able to look out their windows and see the naked underbelly of labor rather than the finished embroidery of the suburbs.
Warsaw, in this light, made for a most beautiful city.
I sank into my papers. Quietly, for an hour, reading the best and worst of 15 year old intellects.
The bell rang. 7th period, the last of the day, and the 8th grade again.
We were reading Anne Frank. I had assigned two tasks: the first, to write a sentence in response to each diary entry. Additionally, they had to create their own diaries. I had instructed them to buy a version of “Kitty”, to name him or her appropriately and begin the diary as they were cut off from the world. I asked them to consider their bedroom the annex and to write their entries when they felt alone. The goal was to reach 25 entries. This proved too ambitious and it whittled down to 10.
Sometimes I gave them structured prompts, for example describe last night’s dinner. Other times I just let them go. I had skimmed the diaries over the last two weeks and noted a lack of inspiration. Each day I came prepared to discuss another section of the diary only to discover they hadn’t read it. I was routinely forced to use class time to read the diary aloud.
“Hel-looo Mr — “
“Stop.”
They sensed my fatigue. Students were savage: always testing their teachers’ limits. Pushing from serious to silly, from silence to noise. They had animal sensors too. If a teacher was giddy they could exploit the mood for an hour of digressions. But if the teacher was ready to pounce they backed off…unless they did not respect the teacher. Then they would sing his or her name with coded mutiny and hold onto their victory throughout the semester. I knew these teachers. I remembered them from my own time as a student and often wondered how they stomached the obvious derision. Perhaps it wasn’t easy to accept the truth that an 11 year old has judged your character negatively.
“Let’s hear your response sentences. Let’s go. Open up your notebooks. Look like students.”
The good students troupe, Christina, Divya, Lily, did not have to act. They were upright as pillars. But much like good news, their voices were overwhelmed by the more scandalous.
“We didn’t have enough time to write them,” Gosia replied.
“One sentence? You had four days to read three entries.”
She smiled with fading force.
“Well Mr. Krasner,” Artur B spoke, “you’re right. We had plenty of time. The truth is we just like to hear your silken voice.”
“You want me to read again.”
“Yeeessss.”
“You realize that when I read the assigned work in class, that’s the equivalent of a free lesson.”
“Exactly,” Marta said.
“And if I continue to fall into this trap, you have an excuse not to do tonight’s homework… with the exception of Christina, Divya, and Lily.”
“It’s like democracy sir,” Artur B went on. “If the majority doesn’t do the homework, we can force the teacher to repeat the assignment in class.”
“And you achieve two goals, actually,” I replied. “Never having to do homework and never having any lessons! It’s a neat trick. But I wonder why you should be so satisfied. I mean being so lazy.”
“We’re not satisfied. It’s just the way we are.”
“Speak for yourself,” Divya said.
“Tell him Divya. Represent democracy!”
She blushed.
“You don’t want me to read the diary aloud do you Divya? You realize that it’s a waste of our time.”
“Well….”
The truth was, I enjoyed reading Anne Frank. This was not a piece of contrived literature intended for deconstruction. This was human testimony. This was even a peer, another 8th grade girl transforming to woman just like Gosia, Marta and all the rest. When I read the diary aloud, she was with us. Her words became my own and I realized how it was possible for the soul to be eternal.
I held the book in my hand and searched for an appropriate passage to begin.
“But remember,” I said, “after each entry I want you to write the first sentence that comes to your mind. It can be a stimulated response, a poetic response. So long as it comes from you. Not the student, but the person. Does that make sense?”
“None whatsoever,” Artur B responded.
“Good. You’re ready.”
The class sat back, relaxed, and for the last period of the day we listened to Anne Frank. The atmosphere softened. The inside voice took over.
Wednesday, 13th January, 1943
Dear Kitty,
Everything has upset me again this morning, so I wasn’t able to finish a single thing properly.
It is terrible outside. Day and night more of those poor miserable people are being dragged off, with nothing but a rucksack and a little money. On the way they are deprived of even these possessions. Families are torn apart, the men, women, and children all being separated. Children coming home from school find that their parents have disappeared. Women return from shopping to find their homes shut up and their families gone.
The Dutch people are anxious too, their sons being sent to Germany. Everyone is afraid.
And every night hundreds of planes fly over Holland and go to German towns, where the earth is ploughed up by their bombs, and every hour hundreds and thousands of people are killed in Russia and Africa. No one is able to keep out of it, the whole globe is waging war and although it is going better for the Allies, the end is not yet in sight.
And as for us, we are fortunate. Yes, we are luckier than millions of people. It is quiet and safe here, and we are, so to speak, living on capital. We are even so selfish as to talk about ‘after the war,’ brighten up at the thought of having new clothes and new shoes, whereas we really ought to save every penny, to help other people, and save what is left from the wreckage after the war.
The children here run about in just a thin blouse and clogs; no coat, no hat, no stockings, and no one helps them. Their tummies are empty, they chew on an old carrot to stay the pangs, go from their cold homes out into the cold street and, when they get to school, find themselves in an even colder classroom. Yes, it has even got so bad in Holland that countless children stop the passers-by and beg for a piece of bread. I could go on for hours about all the suffering the war has brought, but then I would only make myself more dejected. There is nothing we can do but wait as calmly as we can till the misery comes to an end. Jews and Christians wait, the whole earth waits; and there are many who wait for death.
I picked up my head and waited. The students held their pens in suspense.
“Don’t think, just write. It’s not a test.”
Reluctantly, they wrote. Here’s what they said:
“Hungry children”
“Waiting for death”
“She’s got it good”
“Sad”
“I’m hungry!”
“War”
“War,” I repeated. “Yea, that’s what it is. But I want you to get smaller. Listen closely. I mean, you could write war after every entry, right? That doesn’t require much attention. She’s writing with careful detail. Each entry captures something essential about this experience, a young girl hanging in suspense between war and peace, life and death, girlhood and womanhood. Outside, Europe is in chaos. Inside there’s another kind of chaos, something you guys might be familiar with.”
“What’s that?” Artur B asked.
“Being 14 years old! First kisses, first love. Puberty, parents, adults crowding your space, sibling rivalries, everyone incubated together without any real privacy. Except for the diary. That’s where she has total privacy and paradoxically, where the whole world has been invited in to hear.”
Friday, 2nd April, 1943
Dear Kitty,
Oh, dear: I’ve got another terrible black mark against my name. I was lying in bed yesterday evening waiting for Daddy to come and say my prayers with me, and wish me goodnight, when Mummy came into my room, sat on my bed and asked very nicely, “Anne, Daddy can’t come yet, shall I say your prayers with you tonight?”
“No, Mummy,” I answered.
Mummy got up, paused by my bed for a moment and walked slowly towards the door. Suddenly she turned round, and with a distorted look on her face said, “I don’t want to be cross, love cannot be forced.” There were tears in her eyes as she left the room.
I lay still in bed, feeling at once that I had been horrible to push her away so rudely. But I knew too that I couldn’t have answered differently. It simply wouldn’t work. I felt sorry for Mummy: very, very sorry, because I had seen for the first time in my life that she minds my coldness. I saw the look of sorrow on her face when she spoke of love not being forced. It is hard to speak the truth, and yet it is the truth. She herself pushed me away, her tactless remarks and her crude jokes which I don’t find at all funny, have now made me insensitive to any love from her side. Just as I shrink at her hard words, so did her heart when she realized that the love between us was gone. She cried half the night and hardly slept at all. Daddy doesn’t look at me and if he does for a second, then I read in his eyes the words: “How can you be so unkind, how can you bring yourself to cause your Mother such sorrow?”
They expect me to apologize: but this is something I can’t apologize for because I spoke the truth and Mummy will have to know it sooner or later anyway. I seem, and indeed am, indifferent to Mummy’s tears and Daddy’s looks, because for the first time they are both aware of something which I have always felt. I can only feel sorry for Mummy, who has now had to discover that I have adopted her own attitude. For myself, I remain silent and aloof; and I shall not shrink from the truth any longer, because the longer it is put off, the more difficult it will be for them when they do hear it.
“Wow,” Gosia responded. “So cruel.”
“Sh. Write it down.”
She shrugged and turned to her notebook, mouthing as she wrote: so cruel.
The others were busy with their own reactions:
“Mother-daughter at war”
“Where’s the compassion?”
“Truth serum”
“Cold winds inside the annex”
“They’re still reciting prayers?”
“Mummy dearest”
Marta voiced this last one, with cool eyes and cooler lips.
“Mummy dearest? Are you referring to the movie?”
“The book.”
“What book?” Artur B asked.
“Mummy Dearest!”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a pretty good reference,” I said. “Why did you choose this?”
“Uhg…it’s obvious. Yes mummy. Yes mummy. Yes mummy dearest.”
“Uh-huh, sure. Obvious.”
“Her mom’s a tyrant, ok?” Marta said with animation. “Actually, all moms are. It’s genetic.”
“Really?”
“You wouldn’t know. You’re not a girl.”
“Oh, I don’t know then.”
“Well I’m a girl,” Christina said demurely. “And I don’t understand it.”
“You have to disobey to understand it.”
Christina shied away from the fight.
“Why do you think Anne is being so disobedient?” I asked.
“She’s not,” Marta replied. “She’s just not being fake. She’s not doing something to please her mother.”
“I think this is a little harsh Mr. Krasner,” Divya spoke up, smiling nervously. “I mean, all her mother wants to do is recite prayers with her. She’s her mother. What’s so terrible about reciting prayers with your mother?”
“Marta?”
“Do I have to?”
“It would help.”
“First of all, she normally recites prayers with her father. She loves her father. She doesn’t love her mother.”
“Well, that’s just wrong,” Divya returned. “How can you not love your mother?”
Marta’s expression showed total impatience.
“What, because she gives birth to you it’s automatic? Isn’t love earned?”
“I thought respect was earned,” I mediated. “Love…that’s more unconditional, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” she said forcefully. “Love acts. If the mother was cold and loveless to Anne, that’s exactly the kind of love she’ll get in return, when Anne grows up enough to understand what’s going on. And that’s what’s happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“She’s growing up.”
“By disobeying her mother?”
“By speaking what she feels.”
“Wowww,” Artur B droned sarcastically. “It’s so hard to be a mom. Not only do you have to give birth and raise the kid and everything, but you have to be perfect too.”
“I didn’t say that,” Marta shot back. “I never said she had to be perfect. I said she gets back what she gives.”
“Girls?”
I was addressing Gosia and Ola. They remained suspiciously quiet.
“What?” Gosia asked reflexively. “Why me?”
“You’re here. And you said Anne was being cruel, right? Marta is saying she’s just being honest.”
“Yea, so?”
“Do you agree?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Come on, really?”
“No, wait,” Ola jumped in. “Why does it have to be one or the other? She is being cruel and honest. That’s the way it is most the time. I mean, if you want to be totally honest, you probably have to be cruel.”
“Divya?”
“Well…” she started in her typical fashion, sliding down in her chair. “I just think she’s being too harsh. I can’t imagine telling my mom to go away when she wants to say prayers with me. And for nothing really. There was no fight or anything. She, um, rejected her. And then her mom was crying all night. To make your mom cry like that…I don’t understand it.”
Marta seemed to be losing interest.
“Marta?”
“What?”
“She doesn’t understand it.”
“And she never will.”
“What do you mean?” Divya turned sharply to her.
“I mean,” Marta said slowly, “that you would never consider disobeying your mother. That’s all. Even if you’re angry with her, even if she’s a tyrant, you will never kick her out of your room. You will never speak back to her. You will always be a good girl, as you’re expected to be. Mummy dearest.”
Divya was stretching her neck, smiling as a means to seal an unclear emotion.
I was thinking about her mother. I met her at a parent-teacher meeting when Divya was 11, her first year in the school. Divya’s English was not great then and her shyness was acute. Her mother was the opposite: outspoken and articulate. She did not come to the meeting to listen to what I had to say. She came to tell me what she wanted. More speaking activities. More pronunciation exercises. She wanted her daughter to be a public speaker.
“I think children should respect their parents,” Christina picked up for her. “They do everything for us. I think that’s the least we can give back to them. And given the circumstances, I think Anne’s being a little too self-centered. She should be happy she has a mother!”
There were some sighs.
“Really!” she continued. “All those kids in the street, their families split apart. And she’s complaining that her mother wants to recite prayers with her?”
“She’s 14,” Marta said. “You’re supposed to be self-centered.”
“You’re supposed to love your mother,” Divya shot back.
“You’re supposed to love your child.”
“You don’t think she does?” I asked.
Marta bent her arms upward in the universal expression of “got me”.
“I could never tell my mom that I don’t love her,” Stefan entered the fray.
“She didn’t tell her mom that,” Ola replied. “She told her diary.”
“Well, it’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not! A diary is where you say things you can’t say in real life. That’s what makes it a diary. D-i-a-r-y. It’s not the internet.”
Stefan muffled something to himself.
“And where you can explore what you feel,” I added. “Like Anne is doing. She didn’t say, I hate my mom. She searched for why her mom drove her to these feelings. Don’t you think it’s important to explore your feelings? Especially when they’re dangerous, like the way we sometimes feel about our parents? Divya?”
She smiled in her bewildered way.
“Is a diary permanent?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Divya asked.
“The things you say in the diary, are they permanent and everlasting?”
“No. It’s just how you feel that day.”
“How many of you have things you’d like to say to your parents but can’t.”
I moved back to my desk, letting the silence do its work.
“I think this is the part of the diary that makes it popular to this day. Anne’s so honest. And honesty is dangerous. But it’s really dangerous if we keep it in. If we don’t try to understand the complexities of who we are.”
I searched for my next entry. We were warm now. The book was gaining power. Something was brewing.
Thursday, 2nd March, 1944
Dear Kitty,
Margot and I were both up in the attic today; although we were not able to enjoy it together as I had imagined, still I do know that she shares my feelings over most things.
During washing up Elli began telling Mummy and Mrs. Van Daan that she felt very discouraged at times. And what help do you think they gave her? Do you know what Mummy’s advice was? She should try to think of all the other people who are in trouble! What is the good of thinking of misery when one is already miserable oneself? I said this too and was told, “You keep out of this sort of conversation.”
Aren’t grownups idiotic and stupid? Just as if Peter, Margot, Elli and I don’t all feel the same about things, and only a mother’s love or that of a very, very good friend can help us. These mothers here just don’t understand us at all. Perhaps Mrs. Van Daan does a little more than Mummy. Oh, I would have so liked to say something to poor Elli, something that I know from experience would have helped her. But Daddy came between us and pushed me aside.
Aren’t they all stupid! We aren’t allowed to have any opinions. People can tell you to keep your mouth shut, but it doesn’t stop you having your own opinion. Even if people are very young, they shouldn’t be prevented from saying what they think.
“She’s kind of intolerable,” Artur B started.
“Sh — write it down!”
“Okay, okay.”
He carved his sentence into the page, then flung his pen to one side. Choose one firm thought from the mass — it was akin to asking for an epitaph. Perhaps later I’d have them inscribe their own tombstones. Aha, great idea! Take your life in like an inhale, now exhale. Give it to me in one line! Do it now, before you can think! Before your grandchildren do it for you…
“Mr. Krasner?”
“Huh?”
“We’re ready.”
“Oh yea, okay. So let’s hear your words.”
“Children-grownups at war”
“Why can’t we all just get along?”
“Dear adults — it’s you who start all the wars you know”
“I’ve got an opinion”
“Stay out of it!”
“Anne and all her opinions — God, she’s intolerable”
“That’s better Artur. So you think she should just shut up, like the grownups are saying?”
“She doesn’t have to shut up, but maybe she shouldn’t speak up so much. I mean, all she does is criticize. This is wrong, that is wrong. This person’s stupid and I know better.”
“Sounds like someone we all know.”
“Very funny. I’m just saying she should enjoy herself a little more.”
“Enjoy herself!” I said. “Locked in an attic while bombs are dropping from the sky? Waiting for death camps?”
“Okaaay, maybe not enjoy herself.”
Ola was daydreaming by the window.
“Ola, what did you mean by your response?”
“What do you mean what did I mean? I already said it.”
“Say it again.”
She flipped a page of her notebook.
“Dear adults — it’s you who start all the wars, you know?”
“Nice. You make it sound like Anne’s diary is addressed to grownups directly. Hello, idiots? You know you make all these wars? And we, the children, just suffer through them.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Okay, sorry. What did you mean to say?”
“I don’t know, just that yes, in a way everything is connected. The war, the talking about the war. It’s like politics. Most of it is so stupid.”
“How so?”
“Uggh,” she groaned, having to let go her preoccupation. “There are all these problems, you know? Like there are people who can’t eat or go to school.”
“There’s injustice.”
“There’s injustice. Lots of it. And they create it. And then they argue about how it should be fixed.”
“Who’s they?”
“Grownups!”
“All of them?”
“Noooo…..some of them.”
“Maybe those grownups you’re talking about are really kids. Maybe some kids are really grownups.”
“Maybe…”
“Mr. Krasner, are you’re saying some children never grow up?” Artur B asked incisively.
“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” Marta said.
I felt my vulnerability, like a breeze up the kilt.
“Yea, and guess where they end up,” I setup my own joke.
“Prisons?”
“Schools.”
“Wait a minute,” Stefan asked incredulously, “so we’re being taught by children?”
“I’m kidding Stefan.”
He shook his head and slouched in his seat.
“He’s not kidding Stefan,” Artur B said.
“Well,” I changed course, “it’s not age that makes a man. Or a woman. What do you think it is?”
“They can have kids?” Stefan suggested. He was met by a wave of derisive laughter. He slid lower in his chair.
“You could have a kid Stefan,” I said.
“With who?!” Mateusz joked.
“Hey!”
“Sir, where are you going with this?”
“Nowhere special. What, you’re all not past puberty? You could all have kids, technically, but what really makes you a grownup?”
“Experience?” Artur B said, settling the commotion.
“Or sense?” I clarified. “Anne seems to have plenty of that.”
“So she’s the grownup?” Stefan asked, clearly confused.
“In some ways she is. And in other ways she’s just a kid.”
“And some of our parents are like children?” he continued.
“In some ways, yes Stefan. Some mothers and fathers are children in disguise.”
“And teachers?” Artur B cornered.
“And presidents and generals and priests. Meanwhile, kids, no matter their sense, are always kids. We don’t listen to them.”
“You should listen to us sir,” Mateusz said.
“I do.”
“Maybe that’s what makes you a kid,” Marta said smartly.
“I shouldn’t?”
She twisted her lips and rolled her eyes.
“Actually Mr. Krasner,” Mateusz continued, “if we’re talking about war then we should only listen to children.”
“What do you mean?”
“What does he mean? What does everyone mean!” Gosia mocked from the back row. “That’s your only question.”
“How do you mean Mateusz?”
“How do I mean, I mean..jeez, I’m getting tripped up. I just mean — jeez! What I want to say is that war is much worser for kids than adults.”
“Much worse — ”
“For kids than adults. Adults already had a chance at life, you know? They finished school, maybe they started a business. Or got married. They got to see their children grow up. Or not grow up. But kids aren’t even given that chance. They’re just starting to discover things, and then it’s all taken away.”
“Like love.”
“Yea, I guess so.”
“Like sex!” Ola said, suddenly interested.
“Well, yea. It’s probably closer to that.”
“I mean, if you have loved at least — loved” — Mateusz made the sign for quotation marks with his fingers — “maybe you can die more peacefully. But kids? Most don’t know what love is.”
“Love.”
“Think about it. Dying before you’ve ever had the chance…”
“Right.”
“And some are just beginning to taste it…”
“Oohh,” Artur B rose above the others. “We’re going to talk about Peter now, aren’t we?”
“It’s part of the story isn’t it? As Mateusz said, war doesn’t just take the lives of children — it takes away their dreams.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant to.”
He chuckled.
“Let’s talk about love.”
“Ughh,” Artur replied on cue.
“Or let’s listen. I meant listen. The brilliant-dreaming-child-grownup is speaking. We’re listening, right?”
They nodded along.
Wednesday, 23rd February, 1944
Dear Kitty,
It’s lovely weather outside and I’ve quite perked up since yesterday. Nearly every morning I go to the attic where Peter works to blow the stuffy air out of my lungs. From my favorite spot on the floor I look up at the blue sky and the bare chestnut tree, on whose branches little raindrops glisten like silver, and at seagulls and other birds as they glide on the wind.
He stood with his head against a thick beam, and I sat down. We breathed the fresh air, looked outside and both felt that the spell should not be broken by words. We remained like this for a long time, and when he had to go up to the loft to chop wood, I knew that he was a nice fellow. He climbed the ladder, and I followed; then he chopped wood for about a quarter of an hour, during which time we still remained silent. I watched him, from where he stood, he was obviously doing his best to show off his strength. But I looked out of the open window too, over a large area of Amsterdam, over all the roofs and on to the horizon, which was such a pale blue that it was hard to see the dividing line. “As long as this exists,” I thought, “and I may live to see it, this sunshine, the cloudless skies, while this lasts, I cannot be unhappy.”
The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know then that there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles.
Oh, who knows, perhaps it won’t be long before I can share this overwhelming feeling of bliss with someone who feels the way I do about it….
“They’re going to kiss…” Artur said in a defeated voice.
“No Artur — it’s, they’re going to kiss! Can you write something now? Aren’t you excited?”
“Mr. Krasner, calm down,” Gosia said. “We know what kissing is.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“Can we write our sentences now?”
“Ok, sorry. Take a breath first.”
Here’s what they wrote:
“Alone where no one can find them.”
“A view to peace.”
“Up, up and away.”
“In love with nature.”
“Peter chopping wood.”
“Are they going to kiss?!”
“That’s better Artur. Well? What’s the answer?”
“Of course they are!” Gosia said. “I think they already did.”
“Yea but she doesn’t really say anything about that part. She talks about Peter chopping wood — “
The boys laughed reflexively.
“ — about him appearing to be strong. And just being there with him, up near the heavens. Isn’t that sweet?”
“It’s so romaaaantic,” Artur B intoned.
“Something you could learn Artur. Does Anne talk about love or that other part?”
“What are you trying to say Mr. Krasner?” Gosia asked.
“You know.”
“Sex?”
“She’s talking about love! God,” Ola said with frustration.
“What do we know about love?” Artur continued. “We’re kids.”
“Some of us,” Marta said.
“Do you think she loves Peter?” I asked Ola.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s there, I don’t know, chopping the wood.”
Now the girls laughed furtively.
“Ohh, chopping the wood!” Artur B seized the line. “It’s a metaphor, isn’t it Mr. Krasner? Is that what you meant?”
“8th grade…” I shook my head. “Every year it’s the same.”
The boys pretended to know what they were ashamed of.
“Guys, this isn’t an allegory. It’s a diary. Chopping wood is just chopping wood.”
More laughter, unrestrained now. Even Christina and Divya were holding their sides, even Lily.
“Yea, but if he was really chopping wood Mr. Krasner,” Mateusz couldn’t resist, “you know, I think he’d be alone.”
“That’s enough!”
“This is ridiculous,” Marta said.
I moved to another position in the classroom. Each face was reddened. For sure this beat history class.
“You know,” I thought aloud, “these Peter entries are usually the most alluring part of the book for young readers. Will she kiss him? Will it go further? And Margot is right there. Margot the older sister, and jilted lover. How will she respond every time Anne goes up to the attic?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Is Anne falling in love?” I asked finally.
“She doesn’t know what love is,” Marta said.
“That’s true Mr. Krasner,” Gosia said. “How does she know? How do we know?”
“Ola?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you said a moment ago that she was talking about love. You declared it.”
“Maybe it just seems like love. She feels something, for sure. But I can’t say I know what it is.”
“And you’re her age.”
“Maybe a little older.”
“So it could have been you writing this journal…going through the same emotions — only Anne’s not free to exercise them. She’s got Peter and her journal and four walls. It’s all compacted, and I think on a deep level she is aware that her time is running out. So maybe this amplifies everything, including her feelings for Peter. Maybe it becomes love, because you know, this is her only chance.”
Ola seemed satisfied with the remark.
“She wants to feel love,” Mateusz spoke for the boys. “Just like I was saying. Kids want to feel things they haven’t felt yet. That’s why war is harder on them.”
“So you agree it’s love she’s talking about?”
“Well, maybe she just doesn’t include those other parts in her diary.”
“Some things are too private, even for yourself,” Ola said wisely.
“Divya, Lily?” I turned to them. “Any thoughts?”
They shrunk in their chairs, letting their red complexions answer.
“Let’s reduce this love thing to a simple question. In all the Peter entries, does Anne write about friendship or passion? Christina?”
“Well…..it’s more about the friendship sir,” she answered uncertainly.
“It’s both sir,” Mateusz spoke over her. “The friendship is insufferable from the passion.”
“Insufferable?”
“Insep — ” he looked at me for help.
“Inseparable. But your gut reaction might be more accurate.”
“Sir,” Christina spoke up again, “I think that it’s not the same thing. If you read the passage closely, she talks about having Peter more as like a friend. Look at what she says.”
She pointed her eyes further down the text and read with emphasis, “As long as Peter is here….see? Isn’t that just like having a companion? Someone close to you, someone who you can share your feelings with?”
“That’s great Christina. So maybe love is friendship? Or at least a deep friendship.”
“I think it is.”
“How does anyone know!” Ola cut in.
“Sometimes guessing is as good as knowing. Christina, what did you say in response to this entry?”
“Up, up and away.”
Ola feigned to be impressed.
“Like a balloon?” I helped out.
“Well, I just was thinking of the image of her in the attic with the window wide open. She seemed like she was ready to burst — like a balloon! So full of life and happiness. A balloon ready to fly off into the sky.”
“Free,” I added.
“A balloon?” Marta scoffed. “Really?”
“Can you think of anything more fulfilled?” I asked. “More happy, more innocent and free than a balloon? In contrast to those heavy things crowding the skies, those adult things, those bombers and their bombs..”
She relented.
“Did any of you find it somewhat amazing that by the end of this book, Anne finds happiness?”
They looked ahead blank faced.
“All you have to do is look up,” I cajoled.
“There’s only the ceiling,” Stefan said.
“Right, the window helps.”
“Do you want us to go to the window now?” Gosia asked.
“If it will help you find happiness.”
“It won’t help.”
“Why not?”
“What’s out there?” Ola spoke from her watch-out. “A building site. Dust. Asbestos.”
“But the sky Ola. It’s open. Limitless. Have you ever felt that?”
She turned down to her notebook.
“She feels happy in that moment Mr. Krasner,” Gosia said, “looking at the sky, but I think it’s because Peter is there. She’s not alone.”
“Maybe. But she doesn’t say, as long as you’re not alone. She says, as long as you can look fearlessly up to the skies.”
“Where does she say that?”
“Further down the passage.”
“I found it,” Christina said. She read with her parental voice, “As long as you can look fearlessly up to the skies, as long as you are pure within, then you can find happiness.”
“She’s confused,” Marta said.
“That’s hilarious. She seems perfectly clear!”
“She’s happier than we are,” Artur B said in a lucid moment. “We have everything and she has nothing, and she’s happy.”
“But we all have the same thing Artur. Whether we are born to fields or annexes, she talks about looking up fearlessly to the heavens and being pure within. What do we all have within us, equally?”
“Love?”
“God?”
Ola and Christina spoke over one another.
“Interesting. Is love the same thing as God?”
“It’s like the caged bird,” Artur B continued with his own thought. He was referring to Maya Angelou’s poem. I had them memorize it earlier in the semester. “You know, the bird is caged, so it sings. She’s up there in the attic, by the open window. She’s in the air almost, only she can’t fly anywhere. So she sings.”
“Brilliant point.”
“Thank you.”
“And this makes her happy?”
“She’s just a happy person,” Marta reentered. “I’m sure there were plenty of sad people who had different thoughts during the war.”
“Well that’s true. But we read Anne Frank.”
“We could read other things.”
“Like Mummy Dearest?” Artur B quipped. “Great.”
“It’s a lot more real than this.”
“More real than a diary from a girl a few months away from being sent to the gas chambers? Listen Marta, you said yourself that she expressed the truth when speaking about her mom. Why are her thoughts about the nature of happiness not also true?”
“They are. I didn’t say they weren’t. I just said that looking out the window doesn’t really bring happiness. Freedom would bring her happiness.”
“What’s freedom?”
“Well….”
“And what’s slavery? Is it something outside of you, like bars, prison walls? Or something inside?”
She was listening.
“Are you free?”
“Well…”
“Are you fearless?”
“Who is?”
“Maybe she is.”
She backed off. I turned back to the book, anxious to read one more passage. I checked my phone….we were running out of time.
Thursday, 6th July, 1944
Dear Kitty,
It strikes fear into my heart when Peter talks of later being a criminal, or of gambling; although it’s meant as a joke, of course, it gives me the feeling that he’s afraid of his own weakness. Again and again I hear from both Margot and Peter: “Yes, if I was as strong and plucky as you are, if I always stuck to what I wanted, if I had such persistent energy, yes, then…,!”
I wonder if it’s really a good quality not to let myself be influenced. Is it really good to follow almost entirely my own conscience?
Quite honestly, I can’t imagine how anyone can say: “I’m weak,” and then remain so. After all, if you know it, why not fight against it, why not try to train your character? The answer was: “Because it’s so much easier not to!” This reply rather discouraged me. Easy? Does that mean that a lazy, deceitful life is an easy life? Oh no, that can’t be true, it mustn’t be true, people can so easily be tempted by slackness…and by money.
I thought for a long time about the best answer to give Peter, how to get him to believe in himself and, above all, to try and improve himself; whether my line of thought is right though, or not, I don’t know.
I had to skip ahead….the class was waiting for me to find the right climax. They did not disturb the silence….
We all live, but we don’t know why or the wherefor. We all live with the object of being happy; our lives are all different and yet the same. We three have been brought up in good homes, we have the chance to learn, the possibility of attaining something, we have all reason to hope for much happiness, but…we must earn it for ourselves. And that is never easy. You must work and do good, not be lazy and gamble, if you wish to earn happiness. Laziness may appear attractive, but work gives satisfaction.
“She has every excuse to be cynical and resigned,” I continued in the same breath, “and yet shows more enthusiasm than most of you. Most of us.”
“Maybe that’s what we need,” Artur B said. “To have everything taken away.”
“Do you think being in hiding can bring out your true nature? Anne’s optimism and hope? Peter’s weakness? Mrs. Van Dan’s hysteria?”
“I think that we can’t know what would happen,” Artur continued. “We might not like what we see.”
“What do you see now? In all your comfort, what do you see?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Not really.”
“Open your journals — I mean your diaries.”
“Why? The bell’s going to ring,” Gosia said first.
“Because Anne doesn’t want you wasting your life. She wants you to do something.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m Jewish. We talked about it in the meetings.”
“Ha-ha.”
“What is the purpose of this book? Why have we been working on our own diaries while reading hers?”
“Because you asked us to,” Marta took over.
“Why do we keep diaries?”
“To tell our secrets,” Ola said.
“Who are we telling them to?”
“To no one.”
“Why is that better than telling them to someone?”
“Because we can be more honest this way.”
“Can you get to know who you are?”
“I don’t know. Diaries can be full of lies too,” Ola contradicted. “It’s not so easy to tell the truth.”
“All the more reason to try. Do you have an inside self Ola?”
“What?”
“Do you have an inside Ola and an outside Ola?”
“Of course. Everyone does.”
“Everyone has an inside Ola?”
“I hope not! Everyone has an inside person,” she clarified. “But they never show it. They keep it for themselves.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she responded slowly, “so it won’t get hurt.”
“So you keep it all to yourself and never let it live? Sounds like it would suffocate that way.”
She was thinking.
“And then you’ve just got this embryo inside you, maybe even an aborted one, and your outside person can never be happy carrying that thing around.”
“Maybe it can live on the inside,” Marta replied.
“How?”
“By just living.”
“Doesn’t it need air?”
“So diaries are air for inside people? This is weird,” Artur said.
“They’re not like air? How does the soul breathe?”
“Oh, the soul…..if we’re talking about the soul.”
“Do you have an inside person Artur?”
“If I do, I think he’s pretty simple.”
“That’s for sure,” Marta said.
“What about you Marta?”
“Oh, don’t talk to me.”
“Why? You’re a person.”
“On the outside.”
“And on the inside?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Are you acting most the time? For your parents, for your friends? For me?”
“Are you acting?” she turned.
The class honed in.
“It’s a good question, isn’t it? I don’t think I’m acting. To tell you the truth, this feels very real. But when I’m home alone, sometimes, I feel like I’m acting for myself.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her.
“Most of us drift between our two selves, the inner and outer,” I continued. “Anne hit on something. Her diary’s as good a place as any to learn the inside self. Believe me, this is important. This is the person you’ve got to know before you die. I mean, to die more peacefully, Mateusz. She is lucky in that sense that she did. She knew who she was. Not many people figure that out, not even in a full lifetime. They remain kids.”
I took in their thoughtful expressions. Wherever “sense” was, we were sharing in it.
“So in your last diary entry, I want you to imagine you have been in hiding for two years now. You have aged from 14 to 16. What has the experience revealed about you, about your character and passions, about your ideals? Who are you? That’s what I want you to write about.”
“That’s all?” Gosia quipped. “My god, Mr. Krasner. You want too much.”
“He wants your soul,” Artur added.
“Consider me the devil then.”
“That’s not fair. We didn’t sign up for this.”
“No, your parents did that part.”
“All grownups are devils!”
“How do we get out of this damn annex!”
“Seek to get your soul back.”
BRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGGG!!!!
The bell stunned us back to reality, like curtains closing on the theater stage. But no one seemed willing to leave.
“I’d rather live without one,” Gosia said, only half jokingly.
“Without a soul? Interesting. Seems another devil got to you first.”
“Maybe we were born to the devil.”
“We were,” Marta said pushing back her chair.
“Okay, I’ll play at God now. There’s an easy way to get your soul back,” I said. “It’s actually the first commandment — Thou shalt do your homework!”
“We don’t want to!”
“You don’t want your souls?”
“What if I don’t have one,” Artur questioned sincerely.
He remained seated. Everyone did. Only the tables separated us.
“I can assure you that you do.”
“What if I don’t have any ideals?”
“Look for them.”
“And if I don’t find anything I like?”
“Write about that.”
“It’s easier to live without one,” Gosia said.
“A soul?”
“Yea.”
“Just as Anne said.”
“Is she God too?”
I looked up to the ceiling which was now the heavens. There are lots of places to find happiness when — when you’re with those you love.
“You have your final assignment,” I said after a pause to reorient. “For Thursday.”
They were scraping their chair legs along the floor and the noise merged with that in the hallway, snuffing out any magic that was once in the room. I looked to my attendance sheets, my marked-up copy of Anne Frank’s diary, and began tucking everything neatly away.
They approached the door.
“Finish the diary,” I repeated. Get to know your inside self.”
“Yea, yea,” they said feebly.
I remained seated behind my desk while in ones and twos my students trudged themselves towards the doorway, and on through.
For the epilogue, “Enfin: I Want to Write!”, please see:
