Melanie Martin Goes Dutch Read online

  Oops.

  I forgot about not complaining.

  Anne Frank once got a bottle of yogurt as a holiday present and considered it a big deal.

  I am trying to be a better person. But it doesn't happen overnight (or overmorning).

  P.S. If I do have a little badness inside me, I wonder if there's a way to get rid of it so it doesn't grow back.

  Dear Diary,

  At the Anne Frank house we were waiting on a line that crossed the street. Since I was reading her diary, I sort of had my nose in a book. Suddenly, Mom pushed me toward the curb because a car was zooming in my direction. As the car was driving away from us, Mom pounded on the back of it with her fist.

  Guess what?

  The car stopped! The driver got out! He marched over to Mom and shouted in English, “What were you doing?”

  “What were you doing?” Mom said.

  “You hit my car!” the man said.

  “You almost hit my daughter!” Mom said. “You need to slow down.”

  “Don't hit my car again or you'll be swimming in the canal!” the man said.

  I thought Mom should leave it at that. But she said, “Don't you drive into a line of people as though they were bowling pins!”

  The man cursed in Dutch (I think it was cursing and I think it was Dutch), then got back in his car and sped away.

  He obviously has big chunks of badness in him.

  Mom hardly ever gets that mad. I wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or proud. I mean, her nostrils were practically flaring! You could tell that people in line were talking about us, but at least it wasn't in English.

  “What a jerk,” Dad said. “Maybe he's a young Nazi.”

  Matt said, “What's a Not See? Someone who can't see?”

  “Nazi, not Not See,” Mom said. “But actually, Matt, the Nazis were big bullies—thugs—who thought they were better than everybody else. They could not see that what they were doing was appalling—horrible. Nazis were bad guys who were killing millions of innocent people, mostly Jews, during World War II until finally America, Russia, Great Britain, and other countries beat them and won the war.” Mom said we'd study this later in school. She also reminded me that Anne Frank called them “the cruelest brutes that walk the earth.”

  Cecily said that she and her dad recently went to the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington. “There was a whole wall of drawings by kids,” she said. “Some were cute and made you smile, and some were of scary things and made you sad; but it was all just kid art, like the stuff we do.” She looked at Matt and me. “Only all those sketches were probably the last ones those kids ever got to do because they were Jewish and they got killed.”

  “I don't get it,” Matt said. “What's wrong with being Jewish?”

  “Nothing!” Cecily said. “It was Hitler who was wrong. He was a high school dropout who became a dictator. And he was worse than any bad guy on TV or in comics or video games or computer games or anything. He was maybe the meanest person who ever lived! He was the opposite of tolerant. He wanted everyone to be the same. But a lot of people listened to him—maybe some were afraid not to—and so millions of people got killed. Jews and gays and gypsies and disabled people—he picked on all kinds of people. And by ‘picked on,’” Cecily said, “what I really mean is mass murdered.”

  Matt didn't say a word. Me neither.

  I had no idea that Cecily knew all that stuff. But maybe some people are like some paintings—the more you look, the more you see.

  I'm beginning to realize that friends don't have to be peas in a pod anyway. Friends can be a bunch of different vegetables mixed up in a hutspot!

  Well, the line kept moving forward and we finally got inside, and we climbed lots of stairs and reached the famous hinged bookcase that blocked the doorway. Behind it, more stairs lead to the “Secret Annex” where Anne and the others lived. Anne had written, “No one would ever guess that there would be so many rooms hidden behind that plain gray door.” (For a long time, no one did.)

  We got to see all four rooms, the bathroom, and the attic where all eight people (the two families and the grumpy man) were squeezed in and where they had to stay totally quiet even when they were fighting or cooking or taking sponge baths.

  I could almost picture Anne writing in her diary in the different rooms, trying to keep her spirits up even though she was desperate to, as she put it, have “some rollicking fun.”

  I say “almost picture” because the truth is, it was hard to really truly feel Anne there. You know how when you tour a famous person's home, a guide points out the frilly canopy bed and antique grandfather clock and dining room table set for tea? Well, there was no guide or fancy furniture. But on the wall, Anne had hung pictures of movie stars cut out from magazines, and it reminded me of Cecily's celebrities. Which felt sort of eerie. And sad.

  We took ourselves up to the attic and looked out the window at the clock tower, the Westertoren (Vester Tour N). I remembered how Anne's family couldn't get used to the clock chiming every quarter hour, but how Anne said she loved the sound, even at night, because it was like “a faithful friend.” She really needed a faithful friend!

  We walked back down and got to see Anne's actual red-and-white-plaid diary (behind glass). That was amazing! I tried again to picture Anne writing and writing, and maybe wondering if her story would have a happy ending.

  We also saw dozens of translations of her diary, each with a different cover. And we watched some short films.

  I think deep down Anne knew she was a good writer and that other people would read her diary someday. But I don't think she knew that her work (like van Gogh's and Vermeer's) would really be appreciated only after her death. She certainly did not know what would happen to her.

  What happened to her is what happened to a lot of people. The German police raided the annex and found her and the others and rounded them up and sent them to concentration camps, where guards were cruel and there wasn't enough food and people got sick and were exterminated as though they were bugs.

  Anne and her mother and sister all died.

  Anne was only fifteen.

  Somehow her father survived, and after the war, he returned to Amsterdam. His friends had found Anne's diary and they handed it to him. He read it (that must have been so sad) and decided to turn it into a book. He wanted the diary to help other children and grown-ups understand what had gone on so it would never happen again.

  I bet he also wanted the diary to help keep Anne alive forever.

  Which it sort of has.

  P.S. I asked if the father was still alive, and Mom said that he died in 1980 at age 91. Matt asked if Hitler got thrown in jail. Dad said he ended up killing himself after he realized he lost the war. “And you know what else, Matt?” Cecily said. “No one names their son Adolf anymore and no one wears that stupid little mustache anymore either. And now when someone acts horrible, the rest of the world usually pays attention sooner and tries to stop him.”

  Dear Diary,

  We were finishing lunch at a café on a tree-lined canal, and Matt said that we were taking too long and if we'd gone to McDonald's, we'd be done by now. Dad said, “We don't want to be done. We're on vacation.” Mom told him to listen to the church tower bells—the carillon—and to appreciate the moment.

  I love how the church bells ring out melodies. I wish bells did that in our neighborhood.

  I also wish it were not our last day in Holland even though I know Cecily is ready to see her parents.

  Well, Dad started going on about some “brilliant” Dutch writer named Erasmus, and all of us kids started dying of boredom. Cecily and I looked at each other. “Not to change the subject,” I said, “but can we take a canal-boat ride?”

  At the exact same time, Mom and Dad said, “Sure.”

  Then Mom smiled at us and shouted, “Jinx!” We all cracked up because Dad didn't even know that you're supposed to say “Jinx!” when you and someone else say the same thing.

 
; Dear Diary,

  Our canal-boat guide's name was Hanneke (pronounced like Hah Nuh Kuh—the Jewish holiday Hanukkah). She spoke lots of different languages and pointed out skinny houses with cool stairstep roofs, old bridges, houseboats, the mayor's home, and all the twinkly lights of the city at twilight. She even pointed out five ducks swimming along beside us.

  It was all so pretty, it felt like a movie!

  Back at the canal house, we got dressed up, and polished each other's nails, then went to a fancy restaurant with chandeliers called Café Américain. The waiter was really nice and he said, “Eet smakelijk” (Ate Smock Ay Lick), which we all know means “Enjoy your food.”

  We talked about what we liked best here in Holland. Mom said the art museums. Dad said the topless beach (but then he said he was kidding—he liked Haarlem). Matt said the wax museum and his chocolate-sprinkle sandwich. I said the buggy ride. Cecily said she liked the whole entire trip.

  We also talked about what we wish we could have seen. Mom said more museums (so we made fun of her). Dad said the Heineken brewery (so we made fun of him). Matt said the zoo. I said Madurodam, which is a mini-city with scale models of Dutch windmills and castles and bridges and boats. Cecily said she liked the trip exactly the way it was.

  I don't think she was just trying to be a family pet, though. I think she has a mostly good attitude.

  I also think Cecily and I both liked the getting-along part of the trip more than the fighting part.

  Dessert was pudding and appeltaart (Ah Pull Tahrt) or apple tart. In the middle, Cecily handed Mom and Dad the present that had been in her lost luggage. It was a beautiful silver frame. Mom oohed and aahed and Dad said they would put a vacation photo of all of us in it.

  It was nice of Cecily to give my parents a thank-you gift.

  Would it be nice of me to give her mom a get-well gift???

  At the end of dinner, a man from the next table came over. I was sure he was going to say we had been loud or bad-mannered, but he said, “Such charming children! And so well-behaved!”

  Mom thanked him and it was as though we agreed by mind reading that we would not tell the man that we are not always thaaaat well-behaved—hee hee.

  Dear Diary,

  We packed up, and while Mom and Dad made sure we had everything, Matt, Cecily, and I played Window Spy. Matt looked out the window and described what he saw down below, and Cecily and I both drew the boats and people and bicycles. It was fun and it did not feel like a competition.

  We're now about to fly to London and then New York, and this time, trust me, I packed Hedgehog in my backpack. I also packed Melanie Martin's diary (you!) for writing and Anne Frank's diary for reading.

  Anne is thinking about her old boyfriends and the older boy, Peter, who is stuck with her in the Secret Annex. She's also thinking about how she's growing inside and outside. She says growing up is “so wonderful.”

  I think I am growing more inside than outside. But who knows? Maybe I'm growing everywhere.

  At the airport, Mom bought matching T-shirts that say AMSTERDAM on them for Cecily and me. Now we can be twins! Then Mom and Dad gave us their leftover for eign coins and said we could buy whatever we wanted. Matt spent his coins—and his tooth-fairy money—on candy. Dad said the tooth-fairy would approve because candy will help make Matt's other teeth fall out. But Dad bought Dutch candy too—black licorice that is way too salty.

  Cecily and I spent our money on postcards and Droste chocolate and Dutch red and white and blue flags.

  I also wanted to buy something for Mrs. Hausner. But what? I looked at tulip coasters and Delft tiles and bulb bags. Then I saw two little Dutch clogs. Matt said, “I wouldn't choose wooden shoes. Try it, Mel! It's a tongue twister!”

  I said, “I wouldn't choose wooden shoes, I wouldn't choose wooden shoes, I wouldn't choose wooden shoes. It's not that hard.”

  But I chose a pair anyway. They were made of china, not wood. They were white with blue windmills on them and they hang on a red string.

  Mom said they were charming. “They look like they could be a Christmas ornament.”

  Dad said that in Holland, Santa comes way early— on December 5, on the night before his birthday. “Instead of coming by reindeer from the North Pole, he comes by ship from Spain, then travels on his white horse. And instead of filling stockings, he and his faithful servant, Pete, fill shoes.” So kids put their shoes by the fireplace and put carrots and straw in them for the horse. Then, when Santa and Pete reach the rooftop, Pete slides down the chimney and replaces the shoe carrots with candy, chocolate letters, and little presents. Dad said that the name Santa Claus comes from the Dutch Sinterklaas (Sin Tear Class), which comes from Saint Nicholas, who was really a Turkish bishop who was nice to poor kids.

  Personally, I feel kind of like Santa Claus myself— like Melanie the Grinch is becoming Melanie the Generous.

  Dear Diary,

  The flight to London was short and smooth, and now we're flying the rest of the way home. The airline people announced, “This is your final boarding opportunity,” which Dad said meant “Get on the plane N-O-W or we'll take off without you.” So we got on and sat down.

  I like how planes can be like flying libraries. I've almost filled up this new diary, and guess what? Dad, who never buys me anything except on birthdays or Christmas, bought me a present. In Heathrow Airport, he bought me another diary. He said that he admires how I'm always writing (especially on trips) and that I can use it for my next adventure.

  Dank u wel, Dad!

  In Anne Frank's diary, I'm up to the part where Anne is in love with Peter. One minute she's all upset and the next she's all happy. It depends on if she and Peter get to talk. “Who would ever think that so much can go on in the soul of a young girl?” Anne asks.

  Answer: I would!

  I mean, I've never had a boyfriend or anything, but even just talking—or not talking—to Cecily can make me feel up or down.

  Speaking of ups and downs, planes have them too, and I'm glad we're going to land soon. But I'm doing a good job of staying calm (yay me!) even though there's nothing under us except wide open ocean.

  Matt just said, “Why do seagulls fly over the sea?”

  I said, “I give up. Why?”

  Matt said, “Because if they flew over the bay, they'd be bay-gulls! Get it?”

  Cecily and I laughed and we all agreed that we miss bagels.

  Dear Diary,

  I like being home.

  Amsterdam the city is over 3,500 miles away.

  Amsterdam Avenue is two blocks away.

  Mom and Dad have been busy unpacking and doing laundry and reading e-mail and snail mail, so they are letting Matt and me watch a ton of TV. And we are. We are making up for lost time. The only problem is that the commercials keep talking about back-to-school sales.

  Isn't that obnoxious? They're rubbing it in!

  Sometimes I wish that along with summer vacation, we also had long long long fall, winter, and spring vacations.

  Then I could get more and more stamps on my passport!

  P.S. Cecily called and thanked my parents again and told us the good news that her mom is feeling much better.

  Dear Diary,

  Because of jet lag, we've been going to bed early and waking up early.

  Well, yesterday, Mom was reading me Anne Frank's diary, and I asked if she ever reads my diary. She said no because that would be an invasion of privacy. Then she told me that a fun thing about art is that it lets you invade people's privacy. For instance, Vermeer (the guy who painted The Milkmaid) painted lots of ladies reading or writing love letters, which obviously was their personal business. But since the ladies are in paintings, not real life, you're allowed to peek all you want.

  “The women think they're alone, but they're not,” Mom said. “They're being watched—by us! Vermeer invites us to snoop!” She even told me that the word “snoop” comes from Dutch.

  Anyway, in Anne Frank's private diary, she is no
w fourteen, almost fifteen, and Peter, the boy in hiding with her, just kissed her! The first time he kissed her, it was sort of half on her ear and half on her cheek and right through her hair. But later, he kisses her on the lips! And she kisses back!

  They have now spent two whole years in hiding. Poor Anne is getting bored and hungry. All they usually have to eat is porridge, stale bread, rotten potatoes, beans, sauerkraut, and spinach. (And I was complaining about fondu!) But she keeps writing and reading and she says, “I love Holland,” and she says she loves the Dutch and it's a glorious spring and the chestnut tree outside is in full bloom. It's really incredible how she stayed calm and cheerful when she had every reason not to be.

  We also read a part where Anne hopes she'll be an author someday. Anne wrote, “I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me.”

  Suddenly Mom's voice got wobbly and her eyes got shiny.

  “What's wrong?” I said.

  “It's just so poignant,” Mom said.

  “What's poignant?”

  “Sad, bittersweet, touching.”

  “What is?” I asked. I wondered if that was a stupid question. Or an insensitive one?

  “Oh sweet pea, it just makes me sad to think of this lonely, hard-working, talented girl. She was just a few years older than you—the age of my students. And she was an optimist, and a self-improver, full of hope and ambition and even gratitude!”

  Mom's voice was still wobbling, so I added, “She should have had her whole life ahead of her.”

  Mom reread the line where Anne wrote that her “greatest wish” is to become a journalist and “a famous writer.” Anne even wrote that she wanted to publish a book about living in the Secret Annex!

  It almost makes you feel a little better about snooping into her diary because she wanted to share her work and because she did become a famous writer. She became the most famous girl writer in the world.