“What are you thinking?” David asked softly.
“About the clock,” Anne said. “Sometimes I wish for it to speed up, and at other times I beg it to slow down. But it never hears me. It is always the same.”
David jumped as whistles and loud, angry voices blasted the silence of the street four floors below them. Anne did not move but continued gazing at the clock. “What is going on?” David asked.
“It is a razia,” Anne answered with no emotion. “They are rounding up Jews. It makes me wonder about my friends. I don’t know what has happened to any of them.” For several moments she was quiet, thoughtful. David said nothing. Then she looked directly at him and said, “Everyone is being taken away to camps. Did you know? The Germans say that the Jews are working and living comfortably, but it is not true.”
David was careful with his words. “How do you know that?”
Anne shrugged. “We all know,” she said. “Letters are censored, of course, but occasionally, the truth is made known. Miep received a postcard from a friend that said the food was good and conditions were superb, but at the end of the message, he wrote: ‘Give my regards to Ellen de Groot.’” She paused. “The words were Dutch, of course. The German censors did not know that ellende means ‘misery.’ Groot is ‘terrible.’ His intent was to convey a message of terrible misery.”
Without warning, the Westerkerk clock tower began to chime. Six times the clapper hammered out its message of time on the lip of the massive bell. Less than seventy feet away, Anne merely placed her hands over her ears and smiled at David, who had nearly jumped out of his skin when the chiming began.
“It is only a bit too loud,” Anne said, giggling at her understatement.
David smiled. “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he said. “I thought my head was about to come off! How do you sleep with that thing ringing day and night?”
“Actually,” Anne said, “we don’t even notice it much anymore. Mrs. Petronella is the only one of us who even makes comment. Papa says the clock is a good thing for her because it provides something to complain about every hour on the hour!”
David laughed. “What about you?” he asked. “What do you complain about?”
“I do not complain,” Anne said. “Papa says complaining is an activity just as jumping rope or listening to the radio is an activity. One may choose to turn on the radio, and one may choose not to turn on the radio. One may choose to complain, and one may choose not to complain. I choose not to complain.”
David stared at the sincere little girl for a moment, then said, “I don’t mean any offense to what your father has taught you, but have you taken a look around here? These are pretty rough conditions for anyone, never mind a girl your age. How can you not complain?”
Anne tilted her head to the side as if she were having difficulty understanding. Sweeping a lock of hair from her eyes, she said patiently, “Our very lives are fashioned by choice, Mr. Ponder. First we make choices. Then our choices make us.
“Rough conditions? Yes, an ungrateful person might see this place as too small for eight people, a diet that is limited and portions that are too meager, or only three dresses for two girls to share. But gratefulness is also a choice. I see an annex that hides eight people while others are being herded onto railway cars. I see food that is generously provided by Miep, whose family uses their ration cards for us. I see an extra dress for my sister and me while there are surely others who have nothing. I choose to be grateful. I choose not to complain.”
David was amazed at the self-control that Anne seemed to possess. He tucked one leg under the other, sitting cross-legged, and shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “Are you honestly telling me that you are always in a good mood?”
Anne had folded her legs to mimic the way David was sitting. As she draped her dress over her knees, she laughed. “Of course not, silly! But if I ever find myself in a bad mood, I immediately make a choice to be happy. In fact, it is the first choice I make every day. I say out loud to my mirror, ‘Today, I will choose to be happy!’ I smile into the mirror and laugh even if I am sad. I just say, ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’ And soon, I am happy, exactly as I have chosen to be.”
David was now shaking his head in wonder. “You are a very special young lady, Miss Frank.”
“Thank you,” Anne said. “That is also a choice.”
David leaned forward. “Really,” he said with his eyebrows raised. “You’ve got me now. Explain.”
“My life—my personality, my habits, even my speech— is a combination of the books I choose to read, the people I choose to listen to, and the thoughts I choose to tolerate in my mind. Before the war, when I was a little girl, my papa took me to Het Vondel Park on a Saturday afternoon to hear the orchestra play. At the end of the concert, from behind the musicians, a hundred helium balloons of red and blue and yellow and green floated up into the sky. It was so exciting!
“I tugged on Papa’s arm and asked, ‘Papa, which color balloon will go the highest?’ And he said to me, ‘Anne, it’s not the color of the balloon that is important. It’s what’s inside that makes all the difference.’ ”
For a moment, Anne was quiet and the attic still. She seemed so deep in thought that David barely breathed. Then she looked David directly in the eye, lifted her chin, and said, “Mr. Ponder, I don’t believe that being Jewish or Aryan or African has any bearing on what one can become. Greatness does not care if one is a girl or a boy. If, in fact, it is what’s inside us that makes all the difference, then the difference is made when we choose what goes inside.”
Anne turned and looked toward the clock again. David had not noticed the darkness that had filled the attic, but now realized that only the glow of the light from the Westerkerk tower enabled him to see Anne’s face. “I must get ready for dinner soon,” she said. “Come with me to my room. I have written something for you.”
David followed Anne through the hatch in the attic, down the stairs, and back into the living area. “Dinner is almost on the table, dear,” her mother said as the two walked by. “Five minutes. No longer.”
Anne led David to a door that was situated to the right of the staircase. As they walked inside and closed the door behind them, David could see that the room was no larger than a closet. A small mattress lay on the floor with two stacks of books beside the only pillow. “Margot and I share this room,” Anne said. “It is very close, but we respect each other’s privacy.”
David didn’t see how anyone could hope to have any privacy in this tiny room. On the wall at the foot of the bed hung a simple white dress. The hem, sleeves, and neckline were stitched in small red flowers. Above the head of the bed were pictures cut from magazines and newspapers that had been glued to the wall. Pointing to the array, David asked, “Are these yours, or do they belong to your sister?”
“They are mine.” Anne smiled. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
David looked more closely. There was a picture of Greta Garbo and one of Ginger Rogers. A picture of the head of the statue of David by Michelangelo was positioned over a picture of a house in the country. To the left was a black-and-white photo of a rose that someone had colored pink and a large picture of chimpanzees having a tea party. Spread all over the wall were pictures of cute, cuddly babies. “Yes, they are beautiful,” David said. “What do they represent?”
“My future,” Anne whispered softly as she reached out to touch the picture of the rose. “These are the people I want to meet, the places I want to see, and the things I want in my life. Laughter and love and a home with a husband, maybe Peter, and lots of babies.” Suddenly, tears came to her eyes.
David reached out, his hand cupping her head and drawing her to him. Anne put her arms around David’s neck as he sank to his knees. As Anne sniffled and sobbed, tears also ran down David’s cheeks. He felt such deep admiration for this child. Her courage and wisdom were those of a person who had already lived a lifetime. And in a way, he knew, she had.
Anne eased
away to dry her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I wasn’t uncomfortable, Anne,” David said as he dried his own eyes. “You remind me of my daughter. Her name is Jennifer. We call her Jenny. She is about your age, and I think you and she are the two prettiest girls I have ever seen.”
Anne blushed. “Thank you for saying so.” She looked back at the wall and reached out to touch the rose picture again. “May I ask you a question?” she said.
“Certainly,” David replied.
“If your Jenny were here instead of me, would she be afraid?”
David could feel the pulse pounding in his head. “I think that she probably would be afraid, Anne. Are you?”
Anne pulled her hand down from the rose and clasped both hands in front of her. Momentarily, she cut her eyes toward David, then back to the pictures. “Sometimes,” she said. “But most often, I choose not to be. Papa says, ‘Fear is a poor chisel with which to carve out tomorrow.’ ”
Anne turned and faced David. “I will have a tomorrow, Mr. Ponder. Margot and Mrs. Petronella, they make fun of me. They call me a Pollyanna. They say that I live in a dream world, that I do not face reality. This is not true. I know that the war is horrible. I understand that we are in terrible danger here. I do not deny the reality of our situation. I deny the finality of it. This, too, shall pass.”
Anne knelt down and reached under the mattress. She pulled out a red-orange checkered clothbound book. “This is my diary,” she said. “Papa gave it to me for my birthday, June twelfth.” She thumbed through the pages quickly until she found what she was looking for. “These are yours,” she said and carefully tore several pages from the small journal.
David took the pages from her hand and watched as she placed what he knew to be her life’s work back under the dirty mattress. “Thank you, Anne.”
She stood awkwardly in front of him for a long moment. “Will you tell your daughter Jenny that I said hello?”
David smiled. “Yes, I will.”
Anne paused again. “I must go eat,” she said. “You will be gone when I return?”
“Yes.”
“Then remember me,” Anne said, smiling. “I will remember you. But most of all, both of us must remember that life itself is a privilege, but to live life to its fullest— well, that is a choice!”
With those words, Anne hugged David and quickly left the room, softly closing the door behind her. David sat down on the mattress and looked up at the pictures on the wall. For several minutes he listened to the quiet murmuring of the Franks and their friends eating dinner. Then he put the pages Anne had given him in his lap. These were words he fully expected to change his life. Four small pages, written with a pencil, in the handwriting of a little girl.
THE FIFTH DECISION FOR SUCCESS
Today I will choose to be happy.
Beginning this very moment, I am a happy person, for I now truly understand the concept of happiness. Few others before me have been able to grasp the truth of the physical law that enables one to live happily every day. I know now that happiness is not an emotional phantom floating in and out of my life. Happiness is a choice. Happiness is the end result of certain thoughts and activities, which actually bring about a chemical reaction in my body. This reaction results in a euphoria that, while elusive to some, is totally under my control.
Today I will choose to be happy. I will greet each day with laughter.
Within moments of awakening, I will laugh for seven seconds. Even after such a small period of time, excitement has begun to flow through my bloodstream. I feel different. I am different! I am enthusiastic about the day. I am alert to its possibilities. I am happy!
Laughter is an outward expression of enthusiasm, and I know that enthusiasm is the fuel that moves the world. I laugh throughout the day. I laugh while I am alone, and I laugh in conversation with others. People are drawn to me because I have laughter in my heart. The world belongs to the enthusiastic, for people will follow them anywhere!
Today I will choose to be happy. I will smile at every person I meet.
My smile has become my calling card. It is, after all, the most potent weapon I possess. My smile has the strength to forge bonds, break ice, and calm storms. I will use my smile constantly. Because of my smile, the people with whom I come in contact on a daily basis will choose to further my causes and follow my leadership. I will always smile first. That particular display of a good attitude will tell others what I expect in return.
My smile is the key to my emotional makeup. A wise man once said, “I do not sing because I am happy; I am happy because I sing!” When I choose to smile, I become the master of my emotions. Discouragement, despair, frustration, and fear will always wither when confronted by my smile. The power of who I am is displayed when I smile.
Today I will choose to be happy. I am the possessor of a grateful spirit.
In the past, I have found discouragement in particular situations until I compared the condition of my life to others less fortunate. Just as a fresh breeze cleans smoke from the air, so a grateful spirit removes the cloud of despair. It is impossible for the seeds of depression to take root in a thankful heart.
My God has bestowed upon me many gifts, and for these I will remember to be grateful. Too many times I have offered up the prayers of a beggar, always asking for more and forgetting to give thanks. I do not wish to be seen as a greedy child, unappreciative and disrespectful. I am grateful for sight and sound and breath. If ever in my life there is a pouring out of blessings beyond that, then I will be grateful for the miracle of abundance.
I will greet each day with laughter. I will smile at every person I meet. I am the possessor of a grateful spirit.
Today I will choose to be happy.
EIGHT
DAVID FINISHED READING THE WORDS ANNE HAD prepared and wiped at a tear clinging to his chin. Blinking his eyes, he folded the pages, placed them in the tobacco pouch, shoved the pouch into his pocket, and stood up. He reached out to touch the picture of the rose Anne had glued to the wall. With his finger, David traced the stem from the bottom of the photograph to its center. Touching the bloom, he smiled at the waxy feeling of the pink crayon that had been used to color the black-and-white picture.
Slowly, the rose began to distort. The edges appeared fuzzy and the shape of the bloom pulsed. David pulled his hand back and wiped his eyes. With his left elbow and forearm, he steadied himself against the wall. There, for a moment, he was mildly dizzy, but the feeling quickly passed.
Opening his eyes, David examined the picture again. It was still blurry but seemed to be clearing. He squinted and moved his face only inches from the flower. There! Now it was in focus. He saw the petals of the rose so sharply, so distinctly, that it seemed to have depth. Tentatively, without moving his face, David reached out with his right hand and, using just one finger, touched the rose. Startled, David’s breath caught in his throat. The rose was real.
For a moment, he froze. Shifting his eyes, David saw that his left arm was now braced against an old desk. Easing himself away from the rose, he noticed that it stood in a simple crystal vase on the edge of the desk. Next to the rose sat a pitcher of water and four glasses. David stood erect and looked around. He was in a room of some sort . . . no, a tent. It was a rather large tent, he noted, made of white canvas, enclosing an area of approximately fifteen by twenty feet. The floor was dead grass, and except for the desk and three plain wooden chairs, the tent was empty.
Hearing activity of some sort, David moved to the closed flap of the tent’s entrance. Carefully, he eased the loose canvas door aside several inches. About seventy-five feet away on a raised platform or makeshift stage, a man stood alone behind a podium. He was facing away from the tent, speaking to thousands of people. David saw saddled horses and carriages and wagons interspersed among the throng. Many had parasols to ward off the sun, and they had spread quilts on the ground or sat atop their
wagons.
David saw that the tent and the stage were on top of a hill surrounded by large trees. Since most of their leaves had dropped and the temperature was comfortable even in the tent, David supposed he had arrived in this place during October or maybe even November. In any case, it was autumn, he decided, and judging by the sun, it was somewhere close to noon.
Beyond the crowd, David saw fields and broken forest land that stretched as far as he could see from his limited vantage point. The hills and pastures within his view gave David a strange feeling. The area seemed eerily familiar, though he couldn’t quite place how or why.
Perhaps, David thought, the speaker holds the key to why I am here. Turning his attention once again toward the stage, David observed that the gentleman, from behind, appeared to be elegantly dressed. He wore gray pants over polished black boots, and a high white collar rose from the back of a black coat complete with tails. His flowing gray hair completed a look of distinction.
In addition, the man appeared to be quite the orator. David noted how he paced the stage and gestured dramatically with his hands. His audience certainly seemed enthralled. They had laughed as a group twice during the short time David watched from the doorway of the tent. David couldn’t quite hear the speaker’s presentation, for there was no microphone or sound system of any kind, and because the man faced away from him, David could catch only a word here and there.
Suddenly, the crowd thundered a loud and sustained applause. David looked closely as the speaker returned to the podium, which was on the speaker’s right and slightly behind him at that moment. As the man waited for the ovation to die away, David got a clear view of his features. His hairline receded from a clean-shaven face. The man’s eyebrows were bushy; his nose and ears were a bit large for his head. David didn’t recognize him at all.