Bloom

59. diary with tears

No hate or racism please.

Zephaniah

My mind was exploding with information that people had, somehow, stuffed inside my head today. The boat trip through the canals had been peaceful, in some ways, but the much information about the history of Amsterdam had been too much for me to save.

It didn't really matter, though. I got lost in stare moments many times, enjoying the soft breeze and the sunny weather. Haven had been quiet the whole time, she had intensely listened to the story that fascinated her. So now and then, she had pointed out several things to me. Overall, the morning had been okay, and after lunch in the Vondelpark, we were off to the House of Anne Frank.

There would be many stairs, they had said, it would be packed and tight. Clearly, I was looking forward to that. It was a joke, in case you hadn't noticed.

"I think I'm going to cry. Her story is so incredibly sad." Haven blew out some breath, her cheeks chubby now they were full of air. It looked funny, it made me chuckle a bit. "I read her diary, have you?"

Shaking my head, I looked into her eyes for a brief moment. "I think Mum has it, though." I answered quietly, rapidly fiddling with my fingers as we were waiting in line. William had, again, bought the tickets online already, but it was so incredibly busy that it still took ages to enter. I was lucky to have slept well, I could handle the stimulus today, although I knew it could get to the edge of overstimulation.

"You should read it. It really gives you an insight of how the war would've been, even if I still cannot fully imagine it." Haven said, readjusting the beret that was placed on top of her wavy hair.

I hummed a little, my eyes lingering on Haven for some reasons. I stepped a little closer, feeling comfortable in her presence. Haven was sweet, she really was a good friend. I wouldn't know if I would've survived the trip if she hadn't been here.

She looked up and smiled at me. I smiled back, turning my eyes to Anne Frank's house.

It was a strange thought to know that the young girl had truly lived here years ago, when the war had kept this country in captivity. I didn't want to think about it too much, it made me shiver and overthink about things I did not want to happen.

I wore my numbing headphones- the city was loud and the waiting took ages. I didn't want to be too distracted already, so I calmed myself before finally entering the House of Anne Frank. Stuffing my headphones in my backpack, I focused on the guide who started to explain practical things first. When he questioned about who knew Anne's story, Haven had raised her hand and talked enthusiastically about the things she already knew.

I admired her, she had so much knowledge.

The man with the blue and white keychain around his neck cleared his throat, eyeing some of our peers. Luckily, his eyes hadn't met mine. "We'll start at the beginning.. Let me take you into the story of Anne Frank, and how this young girl had died while being on the verge of surviving the war. Anne, which is short for Annelies Marie, Frank was born on the twelfth of June, nineteen- twenty nine in the German city Frankfurt am Main. The Franks were a typical upper middle-class, German-Jewish family living in a quiet, religiously diverse neighborhood near the outskirts of Frankfurt. But she was born on the eve of dramatic changes in German society that would soon disrupt her family's happy, tranquil life as well as the lives of all other German Jews."

The house smelled old and like dust, I didn't know if that made any sense, but at least it did to me.

"Due in large part to the harsh sanctions imposed on Germany by the Treaty of Versailles, that ended the first World War, the German economy struggled terribly in nineteen- twenty. During the late nineteen- twenties and early nineteen- thirties, the virulently anti-Semitic National German Socialist Workers Party, Nazi Party, led by Adolf Hitler became Germany's leading political force, winning control of the government in nineteen- thirty three. Otto Frank had recalled later that he could remember groups of Storm Troopers coming by marching, singing when Jewish blood splatters from the knife."