Amsterdam and Images of the Past

It was exciting to be going back to Ireland, but when we found tickets with a lay-over in Amsterdam we were ecstatic! As we landed at the airport and boarded the train to the Amsterdam Central Station it all sank in. Not just the trip but the fact that we would be walking through the house of Anne Frank. I was not prepared.

The movies cannot portray the living space adequately. Nor can the human imagination hold at any length what it was like having to hide there, up a set of small stairs, and behind a bookcase. I walked through the small house reaching out to touch the walls and objects. I read the wall writings, gazed through the windows and shed my own set of tears. How can you not when you see what prejudices push people to do?

I am numb. Numb from the thought of human history ever possessing the ability to be so cruel and soulless. When I looked around at others I saw similar frowns and expressions of sorrow. I actually am having a hard time processing the wide array of feelings suffice it to say it has altered my sight a bit.

We walked around the streets of Amsterdam for about an hour after that, spoke with a very friendly lady who shared her opinion on architecture and people tossing cigarette butts on the sidewalk, and finally made our way back to the train station. We sat on the train, riding back to the airport, occasionally discussing Anne Frank but mainly in silence watching the various buildings go by. Their ever-changing shapes reach up into the sky like fingers stretching from a group of hands, hands reaching for a fence or maybe, or for a thread of hope.