1942, the persecution began, the day their lives changed forever.

The beginning of a new page that will be forever spoken and never forgotten. 

The start to a chapter of good in a book of bad.

The green light in the  Frank's hiding.

Then the page flipped. 

Anne started her diary. 

She wrote like a cheetah running for her prey, fast and beautifully. 

Her life went on as she grew to 14, in argument and optimism,

in giving and receiving.

She finished her first chapter of good in her book of life.

She lived under her skylight as the sun reached out, waiting for the day he could join Anne outside. 

Anne grew tired, but kept writing.

She wrote about the screams and violent arguing from the adults,

about her fathers words which comforted her the same way a blanket would.

 About the warming low glow of the shiny menorah, as it sat there on her wooden kitchen table.

She now finished her second chapter of good in her never ending legacy.

Even with six people, full of themselves and malice, she only thought about the good.

 When she didn’t write her brain wandered off into the clouds. 

She lived with herself and that red plaid diary creased along the spine as she had used it over and over, and it was all she needed. 

Her faded pictures of her favorite movie stars like Greta Garbo and her father helped but wasn’t necessary for her sanity.

 She kept writing however, up until the very end she wrote. 

She now finished her third chapter in her time in the annex.

She eventually gave in, and her feelings allowed one more. 

Peter and the diary were the key to Anne’s introverted heart. 

She talked so much to Peter and wrote way more about him.

Her pen kissed the diary the way Anne kissed Peter.

Her life seemed complete, her book almost over. 

She now finished her fourth chapter in her almost perfect life.

After all her writing she was forced to stop. 

After all her time, it had to end. 

But unlike a fairy tale, the story ended in sorrow.

Seven hundred sixty one days later they came. 

Pim heard it first, the shouting and rustling of soldiers,

they sounded like a thorn bush moving in the wind.

Without the diary Anne left, smiling knowing she would never get to come back.

With that Annele, finished her book of hope, resilience, hate and love, and now it is up to us to tell her story.

It is up to us to learn more.

It is up to us to make sure the holocaust doesn’t happen again.

In the name of Anne we must.