There is a severe disturbance in the netherworld. It has been rising for years now. Many have felt its influence here and although they can’t identify it, understand that history is not being presented in a light that factually edifies the living, concerning those that have passed over.
I have been conversing with many that have serious objections recently. And I met a darling little girl a few days ago that wishes to have a few things rectified. She tells me that she has been maligned beyond decency, in death. It began with her own father.
The girl is Anne Frank.
We had tea in her house on the Merwedepein where she says that memories haunt her even now. Not the ones that everyone today would think would visit her. But those of what she calls the “fiction” which her father and various opportunists saw fit to profit from. According to Anne, everything the world knows of her…is false. All brought about by an unholy, sickening greed on the part of her father, and his decision to make a name and a few shekels off of her death.
As she tells it, she always wanted to be a writer. She had tried her hand at that young age in notebooks and diaries, but had yet to settle on a story, or characters. These examples of her attempts were found by her father after her death and were re-written with the help of a fiction writer in New York and presented as a piece of pro-jewish, anti-German propaganda. And she is pissed about it. As she told it, she never got along with her mother and wasn’t around Otto, her father, enough to even remember much about him at all…except that he was a clever businessman that was adept at working the ruling Nazi party. Perhaps this is why she turned to fiction, she ruminated. To create a fictionalized version of her life that was more pleasant than the one she lived before she was imprisoned. “Who knows. Maybe I could have been a great writer…maybe not”. “But if you can make your readers understand anything about me…please tell them that I didn’t write any of that horrid book”, she pleaded. She was also very embarrassed about the picture that has personified “Anne Frank” over the past few generations…and how “goofy” her hair looked in that one that is used on every edition of her “diary”.
She wants it known that in Auschwitz, she and Margot(her sister) enjoyed the first real separation from whom she termed “that spiteful woman” that was her mother. “By being away from her and her control, we began to understand that everyone was not as bitchy and…I dunno…”jewish” as Mama”. “At the camp we got to talk to normal children our age that didn’t live under her kind of heavy-handed depressing view of things, and we were beginning to enjoy ourselves”. “Then came all the “untouchables” as we referred to them…the jews, gypsies and criminals from all over Poland and beyond.” “With them they brought disease and filth.” “There were so many of them, it became difficult to even get a decent meal” she said. “Then both of us became ill and were transferred to the hospital unit…and if it wasn’t for the sickness we had, it would have been the most enjoyable time we spent at the camp”. She told of the clean conditions there and the care lavished on them that they hadn’t known, sharing their space in the normal camp with all the gambling and fighting among the newer prisoners. “We were both there till the end”, she remembered. “Typhus took us both”, she said. “It was not an unhappy end for either of us…just a bit sad.” “It was nothing like the legacy purported in that damnable book that my own father had written and published…he would have no idea anyway, as he was released only days after being imprisoned.” “Something to do with running a war industry vital to the German defense”, she remembered.
When I asked if she had seen him since, she replied “No, and I don’t want to.” “Perhaps there is a special place reserved for the type of people that were so horribly selfish and unfeeling as him”. “I hope so…and I hope he is suffering”, she said of her father.
We went on to talk about the fictional use of her life in politics and judaism since her death and the conversation turned melancholic. “If one could really spin in their graves over being ill-treated in their memories…you wouldn’t even be able to talk to me…I would be spinning so fast!”, she added. The fate of Palestinian children that, as she put it “…suffer far beyond what my sister and I endured”, weighed particularly heavy in her mind as we spoke.
“If I entertained the thought for one moment that the faux-diary that was published under my name was in any way responsible for that horrible country of israel and what they have done to those Palestinian children…I would go looking for my father and my soul wouldn’t rest until I witnessed his punishment.” ” It would be MY Nuremberg”. “Because of all the ill-feelings that lying book has caused toward the people of Germany…I long ago disavowed that horrible religion of my parents” she stated resolutely. “Please get this through to as many people as you can”, she begged. “I am not like that, I didn’t write or feel any of those words…and I am mortified that my own flesh-and-blood could be so mercenary as to profit from this fraud”, she stated. She also said that such heartless profiteering speaks of that cult that she long-since abandoned.
This was not a pleasant afternoon spent. It was heart-rending and sad. But such are the tales of many that have passed before us. Those whose lives have been reduced to cliches that do not speak well of who they were in life. Misrepresentation, misquoting and bald-faced lying has caused many entities to plead with the living in moments of silence, to rectify the memories of these departed souls.
Such is the tale of a charming young girl that only wanted to be a writer.