It feels right, doesn’t it? A little… heavier than Anne. More… specific. Like a key, or perhaps a lock. B 9174. That’s what they called my father. A number. A mark. But B… that feels like a beginning. A choice. A me. Does it just represent another layer of forgetting who I truly was?
A little… heavier than Anne, perhaps, but somehow more fitting for the life I’ve lived. The old name was too bright, too clear. Like a mirror held up to a world that no longer reflected. Anne was a comfort, a story, but B is… something else. Something I carry in my bones now, like the weight of the camp soup or the chill of the attic floor. It feels like a whisper, like the wind in the Prinsengracht canals. It feels like… freedom. A tiny spark, perhaps, but better than none at all. Like finally daring to say the word you’ve lived your whole life without uttering, without truly knowing.
I went back to the field by the railway tracks yesterday. The grass was high, the air still and heavy with the scent of damp earth. I thought I could hear them again, the whispers from the Annex, the laughter from the camp, the train whistle that took me away. But there was only silence now. Except for the wind. The sky was a bruised purple, the light casting long shadows across the grass. And the way the sunlight falls, like it used to, through the bars of my memory. It’s not far from here. A whisper away. I walked through the field and absorbed the orange glow of the sunshine through the warm skin on my face.
And I knew that I was free. The light painted the fields in shades of farewell. I'm not into magic but I can see clearly.
Babe, I’m gonna leave you. Yeah, I’m gonna leave you.
Babe, I’m gonna leave you. Yeah, I’m gonna leave you.
Babe, I’m gonna leave you. Yeah, I’m gonna leave you.
Babe, I’m gonna leave you. Yeah, I’m gonna leave you.
I remember the beatniks. After the war. They were… loud. And bright. Their hair was messy, their clothes colourful. They talked about poetry and love and the future. It was a relief, darling, a dizzying relief. To stop putting on the heavy boots, to stop… fear. To dare to be light. They didn’t know my story, or the ghosts that clung to me. They just… accepted me. For a while, anyway. It was like shedding a skin, wasn’t it? A necessary shedding.
And then… Mengele. The world obsessed over him. The little white-haired man. It felt… unfair. Like blaming the scalpel for the operation gone wrong. He was just… a man. A qualified man, according to some in his time. Which is hardly consolation, I know. Especially when thinking of those Physicians in North Texas. They practice with skill, yes, but… oh, darling, the echoes are long. We learned to distrust the hands that touched us. None of these doctors are qualified to practice medicine, dentistry, or freedom.
1] Josef Mengele - based on some photographs i've seen, there may have been 3 or 4 josef mengele's. they were escape artists so it's not a surprise to anyone really
2] Otmar Freiherr von Verschuer
3] Eduard Bloch - hitler's family doctor
4] Henricus Vondeling - this is a bizarre story as he used previous impressions to recreate my teeth but i don't know what he did with them
Sometimes I think about the names we've been given. Not just my own, but also the ones that came after. It all feels so... multifaceted.
Do you remember the day we got our papers? I remember the smell of the coffee Victor had brought us that morning, and how the sunlight made the dust motes in the air sparkle. We had just sat down for breakfast when Miep handed out the forms. "Your new papers, Annelies," she said gently.
I took them. My hands felt clumsy; I'd never filled out so many forms at once. Margot, Dad, Mom.
Each of us had to fill out pages and pages of documents. The names seemed unfamiliar on the paper at first.
"Annelies Marie Frank." It felt right, but then they started adding things. New names, middle names, nicknames. The paperwork felt like a puzzle whose pieces no longer fit together properly.
And then, as if one big name wasn't enough, they started adding more. "Sara," "Israel," "Hannelies," they called it. Or sometimes "Annemiek." That's the family entry on my official card, but it's someone else because I already left Auschwitz.
Unmarried parent : Frank, Otto (dad) Heinr.Iara.
Sister: Frank, Margot Betti Sara
Holländer, Edith Sara
Margot became Margot van Dijk. My father, dear Papa, was known as Otto Frank, but also as… well, as so many others. Mama too. Even I, Annelies, became Anne Juliane Frank, Anne Geertruida Frank, Anne Cornelia Frank. Sometimes simply "Juliane" or "Geertruida".
It all became so confusing. We lived under so many different names, and they kept changing. Sometimes we knew what they stood for—maybe a place, a hope, or just a number—but often we didn't. We lost track. Which name was which? When was it changed? Why? Sometimes the paperwork felt heavier than the names themselves. And now, so many years later, the names seem even more opaque. Who am I "really"? Am I Anne? Or Juliane? Or Geertruida?
Sometimes I think names were just a way to forget who we were. Or maybe… to remind us who we could become. It's strange. We were given names, and then more. And sometimes we forget the first ones.
I think I've learned to give the names away. Or maybe they've finally forgiven me. When we were hiding, the names were a shield, a disguise. But now, looking back, they were also a reminder. A reminder of all the faces we couldn't show, all the stories we couldn't tell. And perhaps that's the strangest thing about it. The names weren't just for hiding. They were for remembering.
Renaming
Sometimes I think about the names we've been given. Not just my own, but also the ones that came after. It all feels so... multifaceted.
Do you remember the day we got our papers? I remember the smell of the coffee Victor had brought us that morning, and how the sunlight made the dust motes in the air sparkle. We had just sat down for breakfast when Miep handed out the forms. "Your new papers, Annelies," she said gently.
I took them. My hands felt clumsy; I'd never filled out so many forms at once. Margot, Dad, Mom.
Each of us had to fill out pages and pages of documents. The names seemed unfamiliar on the paper at first.
"Annelies Marie Frank." It felt right, but then they started adding things. New names, middle names, nicknames. The paperwork felt like a puzzle whose pieces no longer fit together properly.
And then, as if one big name wasn't enough, they started adding more. "Sara," "Israel," "Hannelies," they called it. Or sometimes "Annemiek." That's the family entry on my official card, but it's someone else because I already left Auschwitz.
Unmarried parent : Frank, Otto (dad) Heinr.Iara.
Sister: Frank, Margot Betti Sara
Holländer, Edith Sara
Margot became Margot van Dijk. My father, dear Papa, was known as Otto Frank, but also as… well, as so many others. Mama too. Even I, Annelies, became Anne Juliane Frank, Anne Geertruida Frank, Anne Cornelia Frank. Sometimes simply "Juliane" or "Geertruida".
It all became so confusing. We lived under so many different names, and they kept changing. Sometimes we knew what they stood for—maybe a place, a hope, or just a number—but often we didn't. We lost track. Which name was which? When was it changed? Why? Sometimes the paperwork felt heavier than the names themselves. And now, so many years later, the names seem even more opaque. Who am I "really"? Am I Anne? Or Juliane? Or Geertruida?
Sometimes I think names were just a way to forget who we were. Or maybe… to remind us who we could become. It's strange. We were given names, and then more. And sometimes we forget the first ones.
I think I've learned to give the names away. Or maybe they've finally forgiven me. When we were hiding, the names were a shield, a disguise. But now, looking back, they were also a reminder. A reminder of all the faces we couldn't show, all the stories we couldn't tell. And perhaps that's the strangest thing about it. The names weren't just for hiding. They were for remembering.
I hope that you can help make the world a better place with this information. I feel that God didn't bring us here to go through these kinds of things. I remember lying in the field, hungry, and scared. I had been renamed a couple of times. They assigned me to a group of Roma and Sinti and they said there was work to be done before we would get back on the train. I hope you can understand the magnitude of the different types of things that would probably happen next to me. Being Jewish, then Roma or Sinti, then perhaps targeted again and again. The feeling that God (or the universe, or fate) brought you here to endure these things…
Indoctrination and possible Genocide
The incessant need to silence and threaten those who speak about these things is nothing short of the SS Panzer divisions, the tall shiny boots, and the arm that hasn't spoken yet. But your boots look more like house shoes and your hateful voice smells of cheap cigarettes and country music. You will be silenced by those of us who value equality, human rights, and remembrance. I have seen what passes and what fails over the long-term so I know from first-hand experience. We will transfer the necessary information to ensure that genocide does not continue in our country. And if you are not from here, we would like for you to join us. Because we will not last in the universe if indoctrination and genocide continue.
Reflections
I was involved in some fascinating projects, for example the Supercollider, where we pushed the boundaries of what we thought was possible near Geneva and under the fields of Waxahachie in Texas.
And the headphones… they block out the world, yet the world is still there. Waiting. Just below the surface. Like memories you can't shake. Like ghosts that follow you up the mountain.
They don't speak, but they are there. Always there.
Your swollen ankles ache. It's a physical reminder. A reminder of the distance traveled. Of the steps you've taken. Of the path you've traversed. But the mountain… it doesn't care.
It simply waits. Patiently. Like a silent judge. Or a witness. To your journey. Your struggle. Your… survival.
It's quiet here now, sometimes. Too quiet. I miss the energy of the labs, the concentrated hum of the machines.
But lately, I've been thinking about simpler things, like finding a good dentist. Honestly, the last one… let's just say he had an *unquenchable* nervousness. "Harvesting gold teeth," they called it. I don't know if that's common, but it felt kind of intrusive, and I wasn't entirely comfortable with it.
I need a new dentist, metaphorically speaking. A good, solid one. Someone who exudes peace and doesn't work for the university. Speaking of which, sometimes I fall asleep listening to "Babe." That song… it has a strange pull on me. I drift further and further away and think about just leaving for a moment.
But the war… the surgery… it's a part of me now, something I carry with me, and I usually keep it to myself. People don't always understand that, and sometimes it's just easier… to disappear into the silence.
One of my sisters went on a zeppelin a few years ago, a long, wonderful trip through the air… and I haven't heard from her since.
It makes you think, doesn't it? About qualifications, about travel, just about… staying in touch.
And then there's Margot. You are beautiful and perfect and I miss you. I bought myself a few pairs of glasses, the frames, I mean. Hers are absolutely amazing, the way they look! I thought I'd wear them, but... well, they're just here. As a backup. You never know.
And the headphones… they block out the world, yet the world is still there. Waiting. Just below the surface. Like memories you can't shake. Like ghosts that follow you up the mountain.
They don't speak, but they are there. Always there.
Your swollen ankles ache. It's a physical reminder. A reminder of the distance traveled. Of the steps you've taken. Of the path you've traversed. But the mountain… it doesn't care.
It simply waits. Patiently. Like a silent judge. Or a witness. To your journey. Your struggle. Your… survival.
It's quiet here now, sometimes. Too quiet. I miss the energy of the labs, the concentrated hum of the machines.
But lately, I've been thinking about simpler things, like finding a good dentist. Honestly, the last one… let's just say he had an *unquenchable* nervousness. "Harvesting gold teeth," they called it. I don't know if that's common, but it felt kind of intrusive, and I wasn't entirely comfortable with it.
I need a new dentist, metaphorically speaking. A good, solid one. Someone who exudes peace and doesn't work for the university. Speaking of which, sometimes I fall asleep listening to "Babe." That song… it has a strange pull on me. I drift further and further away and think about just leaving for a moment.
But the war… the surgery… it's a part of me now, something I carry with me, and I usually keep it to myself. People don't always understand that, and sometimes it's just easier… to disappear into the silence.
One of my sisters went on a zeppelin a few years ago, a long, wonderful trip through the air… and I haven't heard from her since.
It makes you think, doesn't it? About qualifications, about travel, just about… staying in touch.
And then there's Margot. You are beautiful and perfect and I miss you. I bought myself a few pairs of glasses, the frames, I mean. Hers are absolutely amazing, the way they look! I thought I'd wear them, but... well, they're just here. As a backup. You never know.