I am sharing it on my site as an act of remembrance, a way of bearing witness to those who were imprisoned and murdered here. Some faces are visible, but I have intentionally limited the level of detail out of respect. I also analyzed the image through multiple enhancement models to ensure no artificial features were introduced. No one has been anonymized or altered.
You may have questions about the date, the guards, the architecture, or the context. Those questions are valid.
My name is B. It feels right, doesn't it? A little… heavier, perhaps, but somehow more fitting for the life I've lived.
Sometimes I think about the names we were given. Not just my own, but the ones that came after. It all feels so… layered now.
The Papers
Do you remember the day we got our papers? I remember the smell of the coffee Victor brought us that morning, the way the sunlight caught the dust motes floating in the air. We were just settling down to breakfast when Miep handed out the forms. "Your new papers, Annelies," she said gently.
I took them. My hands felt clumsy, you know? I'd never filled out so many forms at once. Margot, Papa, Mama.
Each of us had pages and pages of documents to complete. The names felt strange on the paper at first.
The Names
"Annelies Marie Frank." It felt right, but then they started adding… things. New names, middle names, nicknames. The paperwork felt like a puzzle, but the pieces didn't quite fit together anymore.
And then, as if one big name wasn't enough, they started appending. "Sara", "Israel", "Hannelies," they called it. Or sometimes "Annemiek." Margot became Margot Frank Sara at first, but also Margot van Dijk. My father, dear Papa, was known as Otto Frank, but also as… well, so many others. Mama, too. Even I, Annelies, became Anne Juliane Frank, Anne Geertruida Frank, Anne Cornelia Frank. Sometimes just "Juliane" or "Geertruida."
It all got so confusing. We were living under so many different names, and the names kept changing. Sometimes we knew what they stood for, maybe a place, or a hope, or just a number, but often we didn't. We started losing track. Which name was which? When was it changed? Why? Sometimes the paperwork felt heavier than the names themselves. And now, looking back from here, so many years later, the names feel even more slippery. Which is "really" me? Is it Anne? Or Juliane? Or Geertruida?
Sometimes I think the names were just a way to forget who we were. Or maybe… to remember who we might become. It's strange. We were given names, and then we were given more names. And sometimes, we forget the first ones.
Forgiveness
I think I've learned to forgive the names. Or perhaps they've finally learned to forgive me. When we were in 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 maybe that's the strangest part. The names weren't just for hiding. They were for remembering.
The Work
I was involved in some fascinating work, you know, the super collider, pushing the boundaries of what we thought was possible near Geneva and under the fields of Waxahachie, Texas.
The Mountain
And the headphones… they block the world, but the world is still there. Waiting. Just below the surface. Like the memories you can't shake. Like the ghosts that follow you up the mountain. They don't speak, but they are there. Always there.
Your puffed ankles ache. It's a physical reminder. A reminder of the distance you've traveled. The steps you've taken. The ground you've covered. But the mountain… it doesn't care. It just waits. Patiently. Like a silent judge. Or a witness. To your journey. To your struggle. To your… survival.
Quiet Days
It's quiet here now, sometimes. Too quiet. I miss the energy of the labs, the focused 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 they had an insatiable nervous energy. Harvesting gold teeth, they called it. I don't know if that's a thing, but it felt invasive in a way I wasn't entirely comfortable with. I need a new den, figuratively speaking. A good, solid one. One that speaks shalom and doesn't work for the university.
Speaking of which, sometimes I fall asleep listening to 'Babe'. That song… it's got a strange hold over me. I find myself drifting off, wondering about leaving, just for a little while. But the war… the surgery… it's a part of me now, something I carry, and I keep it mostly to myself. People don't always understand, and sometimes, it's easier just to… disappear into the silence.
Connections
There's another thing weighing on me. Everyone's so obsessed with Mengele, isn't everyone? He wasn't even a qualified physician in the way that truly counts. And then there are the Iranian physicians in North Texas. One of my sisters was on a zeppelin with one of them years ago, a long, beautiful trip across the sky… and I haven't heard from her. It makes you wonder, doesn't it? About qualifications, about journeys, about just… staying connected.
And then there's Margot. I bought a couple of pairs of glasses, the frames, that is. Hers are just fire, you know, the way they look? I thought I'd be wearing them, but… well, they're here. Backup. You never know.