This is not the most emotional Holocaust book I ever read. I was touched, very deeply, but not necessarily as a result of Holocaust (Unless, of course, after the ending, when the deaths are reported. I'm not a heartless bitch.)
Maybe because Anne Frank didn't experiment the worst in Holocaust or, I correct, she didn't experiment the worst while writing her diary
. Living with 7 more people in a Secret Annex must not be easy, but it was better than being in a freaky concentration camp anyway...
Not that I am minimizing Anne's suffering. I never believed in the logic that says "you can't complain if someone else is in worse conditions". Not quite a bit. Her "issues" thrilled me in so many levels, some of them existencial
. She was conscious of her vivid nature, and how that nature affected others. Every single day she was called inappropriate, noisy, irritating... If you lived in a house with seven people criticizing all the time, how would you feel? Deep down, she was borderline depressed, and she dealt with it by developing a public persona, an artifice I resorted to myself when I was a pre-teen.
And just because you are stranded in a single space in extreme hardship, it doesn't mean that everyone will magically turn into generous and loving people. On the contrary. They used to fight about the most ridiculous things. Anne probably was the one that saw how petty and selfish those adults were, in one of her rebellious adolescent rants. (Beware, there are a quite lot of them.)
And to the ones saying "Oh, it's a fake she died of typhos". Yes, she died of typhos... in a concentration camp. Please, get over yourselves.