The Diary of Anne Frank: Act Two

We’ve been plagued by medical problems—someone’s always suffering from something—and although we can’t call a doctor, our favorite dentist is never too far away.

Mrs. van Daan lets out a particularly piercing shriek, flails about wildly.

Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to hold back my tears.

Mr. van Daan passes out the plates with the cake. For moments, they all eat blissfully.

When you’re cheerful it...well...it keeps me from being depressed.

I don’t think you can really...really be intimate with someone if they hold something back, do you?

Lost in a blissful reverie, she is unseen by the others, who are getting ready for supper.

But even they seem transformed by Anne’s happiness, as the simple household activities—setting the table, the worn tablecloth ballooning out as it is put down, bringing in the plates, laying the silverware—all become a kind of ritual.

I’m utterly confused, don’t know what to read, to write, to do.

Mr. Dussel hastily gets up from the table, lurches toward the W.C.

We’re all famished. (Silence, except for their spoons scraping their bowls.)

The piercing sound of the buzzer. They freeze.

And then today, signing some invoices, I looked up and saw him staring at the bookcase.

MRS. FRANK. (Almost inaudible.) My God.

Offer him half. We’ll find out if it’s blackmail or not.

If our descendants are to understand what we as a nation have endured during these years, we need simple, everyday pieces—a diary, letters from a forced laborer in Germany.

I presume I may finally get back into my room.

Frankly, I can’t stand this stupid chatter another minute!

My life before seems so unreal—nothing to do with who I am now. I see myself then as an utterly superficial girl.

Anne gazes at him, enraptured, then tears down the stairs without looking back.

For a moment she stares at all of them, smiles tremulously, then rushes into the W.C., slamming the door behind her.

In the darkness, a figure is faintly illuminated, crouched over, gnawing on something.

If my husband had any obligation to you, it’s paid for.

Mr. van Daan breaks into a convulsive sob.

People of Western Europe, a landing was made this morning on the coast of France by troops of the Allied Expeditionary Force.

MARGOT. I’m afraid to let myself think about it. To have a real meal—(They laugh together.) It doesn’t seem possible. Will anything taste the same? Look the same? (More and more serious.) I don’t know if anything will ever...be the same again. How can we go back...really. (Looking at Anne’s wistful face.)

Mr. van Daan lies on his bed, disconsolate.

When we got back, you had such a ravenous appetite you made that little restaurant open its doors and you ordered almost everything on the menu.

You’re a reminder of what my fate might have been.

Smoke begins to billow out of the chimney.

At the foot of the staircase, a dark figure appears, slowly followed by another, then another. A Nazi Officer and two Dutch Collaborators.

The first two men have their guns extended, the Third Man, the youngest, carries a black ledger.

It’s a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical.

Instantly following “good at heart,” his savage scream reverberates as he breaks in on Anne, Margot and Peter, his gun high.

The Franks, the van Daans and Mr. Dussel scatter to their rooms, hurriedly thrust a few belongings into their rucksacks, put on their coats, as the three men ransack the Annex—opening drawers, overturning objects, strewing books and papers over the floor.

The Franks, the van Daans and Mr. Dussel scatter to their rooms, hurriedly thrust a few belongings into their rucksacks, put on their coats, as the three men ransack the Annex—opening drawers, overturning objects, strewing books and papers over the floor.

Light comes up on Mr. Frank as he appears in Anne’s darkened room in a tattered coat.

Westerbork. A barren heath. Wooden towers where our jailers stand guard. Walls covered with thousands of flies.

Westerbork. A barren heath. Wooden towers where our jailers stand guard. Walls covered with thousands of flies.

Edith worrying about the children, washing underclothing in murky water, numb.