It was like going to a friend’s house and your knock being answered by a stranger.
"Is Anne about?"
"No. She’s gone away."
The door opens and so you can see that everything moveable has gone. Nothing is left but scraps and dust and echoes.
I found the house -- the museum -- very crowded. We inched along, queuing in silence round the edges of the rooms, everyone minutely examining the walls as if they expected to find, in tiny, un-noticed letters, some note explaining why Anne’s life ended as it did.
The exhibition is stark –- there are a very few artefacts: ration books, identity cards, the odd photo. Traces of the families remain on the walls –- Anne’s pictures, the children’s heights pencilled near the door, a map marking the allies’ progress.
In the last room, there were also about forty editions of the book in all different languages -– I was intrigued by all the different ways Anne Frank is portrayed. Some cover designers use a photo, one made her look like a very little girl clutching a doll, while others have her as a grave young lady.
Seeing the diaries themselves seemed almost an afterthought. The tartan book was rather smaller than I imagined, a bit more faded, but while I looked, it suddenly seemed to me that it would be a long time before I saw anything more precious.
This museum is harrowing, particularly if you are a fan of the books. Don’t try to cram it into an afternoon. Go first thing, take your time, and spend the rest of the day doing something quiet and easy.