Return to Amsterdam
by Alissa Weiss
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Jenn’s friends thought I was crazy. There we were in Amsterdam, home of sin, and I was crying? Definite loser. As we walked to the Heineken Brewery—an obvious college-student destination—I trailed behind. “You don’t understand what this place means to me,” I wanted to explain. Unlike the majority of tourists my age, whose predominant memory of the ‘Venice of the North’ is that they can’t remember much of anything, I left deeply affected by my return to the Anne Frank House where, in the summer of 1997, I was secretly Bat Mitzvahed.
Ever the non-traditionalists, my parents decided that their children—who didn’t attend Hebrew school or synagogue—would not celebrate their Jewish coming-of-age in a stuffy temple at home. Most Jewish American kids anguish over their Torah portions for months. After performing for their synagogue congregation, they proceed to a restaurant or country-club to dance awkwardly and receive kisses from distant relatives. My parents, however, encouraged us to stretch our minds and notions of spirituality, allowing us to think creatively about connecting to our heritage. And we did: Josh led us to Jerusalem, Lindsay traveled through Gorbachev’s Soviet Union to reach a synagogue once used as a Nazi warehouse, and my family followed me to the Anne Frank House.
As the years have passed, the details of how we ended up at the hideaway of the Holocaust martyr are hazy. My mother claims that while reading The Diary of Anne Frank, I remarked, “It would be cool to be Bat Mitzvahed there!” I have little recollection of that, but I recall my horrified fascination with the Diary and how avidly I absorbed its words. Reading the book in 5th grade, when I was a prolific writer and an idealistic pre-adolescent, I felt connected to the dynamic Anne, whose red-gingham diary revealed dreams for the future and aspirations of becoming a writer.
For over a year we struggled for permission to perform my Bat Mitzvah in the Secret Annex. Striving to encourage people of all religions to view the House as a bastion against hate, the Anne Frank Foundation was hesitant to have it become a mecca of Jewish observance. Correspondence flew between Philadelphia and Amsterdam, yet it seemed that the Foundation was not going to change its mind. And then my grandfather wrote one last letter. I have never seen it, but I imagine it contained the potently passionate words that broke the Foundation’s resistance. Alissa Weiss, the 13-year-old American, would be Bat Mitzvahed at the Anne Frank House.
By the time we flew across the Atlantic Ocean in July of 1997, I could read Hebrew and sing my Haftorah portion. My grandfather—a rabbi’s son who cast off religious observance for the freedom of secular life—had been practicing his Hebrew as well; he was ordained to lead the intimate service. Grandpa was the hero of the trip; not only had he convinced the Foundation to change its mind, but his rabbinical training legitimized my unorthodox service.
Despite their initial reservations, the Foundation treated us like royalty. On the evening of July 2nd we arrived at Prinsengracht 267, greeted by friendly faces and welcoming tour guides. We explored the bottom of the building, once filled with workers employed by Otto, Anne’s father. Inundated with Holocaust information, we climbed the steep stairs to the Secret Annex, wandering through rooms that once contained eight Jewish captives. We watched a video composed of heartbreaking interviews with Anne’s friends and shots of the camp where Anne died of typhus, days before liberation. Tears rolled down my cheeks; I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the Holocaust and the significance of celebrating my Bat Mitzvah here.
Finally, our guide showed us into Otto’s personal office, usually kept off limits. In the small, yellowing room, I calmed my nerves and proudly recited prophet Isaiah’s writings. God is not only found in Temple, he claimed. In English, I questioned, “Didn’t God disappear during the Holocaust?” The Jewish answer is no, for even if He does not always seem present, He can reside in anything, at any time: in the Secret Annex, in me, in Anne Frank herself.
After that summer, the first thing I forgot was Hebrew. I could barely recite the Four Questions at our Passover Seder the next spring. Other certainties were vanishing as well. Why exactly had I picked the Anne Frank House? I felt absurd claiming any kinship with Anne. Just because we were both adolescent Jewish girls didn’t mean that we shared anything. How dare I draw parallels between myself and a girl whose death symbolizes the destruction of potential? Most of the time I forgot about the trip; when I remembered, I felt oddly distant from the girl who had been lucky enough to have that experience.
When I went abroad during my junior year of college, it seemed natural to return to Amsterdam. I arranged a November trip with Jenn, my best friend from Penn, and some of her friends from London. Although we anticipated a fun weekend, I knew it would be colored by my past experience there. What would it be like to return to the museum after seven-and-a-half years?
On my walk from the train station to my grungy hostel in the Red Light District, I was shocked that I had been oblivious to Amsterdam’s illicit nature on my previous trip. How had I not known that Amsterdam was a city of drugs? The smell of marijuana seeped out from under the doors of coffee houses and wafted through the streets. I couldn’t walk a foot without seeing mention of weed, magic mushrooms, or space candy. After a squeal-filled reunion with Jenn, we spent the day wandering between coffee houses in a dazed, giggly state.
On Saturday, we ventured to the ‘proper’ side of Amsterdam, meandering through the beautifully watery city en route to the Anne Frank House. Jenn and her friends chatted, but I was jittery and silent, trying to untangle my thoughts. When we arrived, my companions waited in line while I attempted to locate the Foundation office. I wanted to speak with Hans Westra, the man who had finally agreed to the Bat Mitzvah. My hazy memory failed to guide me there.
Breathing shakily, I hunched over suddenly, tears seeping out of me. I missed my grandparents. On July 2nd, 1997, Grandpa proudly led me into adulthood with Grandma beaming up at us. I fiercely wished they could reappear so I could tell them everything I had done in the past few years. I yearned to be the Alissa of seven years ago: eternally optimistic, wildly imaginative, and always bouncing through life. I wanted to be the girl who passionately connected to the vivacious Anne Frank. Wiping away my tears, I rejoined Jenn.
Once inside the museum, the experience was familiar. I remembered the inescapably claustrophobic feeling of the house and the way the ghosts of Anne and her seven fellow captives trailed modern-day visitors. I remembered the fake bookcase concealing a narrow staircase, leading into the cramped Secret Annex. I remembered Anne’s empty room, its walls decorated with pictures of 1940s celebrities. Most importantly, the torrent of memories that had accompanied me since my arrival restored my previously-felt connection to Anne. These days, I am less outgoing and confident, and more cynical and mature, but I am the same girl who enthusiastically explored Amsterdam seven-and-a-half years ago. Like Anne, who was able to write, “I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart,” I have a nearly unshakable faith in humanity and the possibility of change. I possess a zest for life that Anne, with her large dreams and empty future, couldn’t stop writing about, even when caged inside.
I walked outside, joining Jenn and her friends who had been waiting impatiently. As we walked towards the Heineken Brewery, I dwelled on my emotional reaction to the House. I felt the urge to call my parents and thank them, both for arranging such an extraordinary Bat Mitzvah and for allowing me to return to Europe and Amsterdam to relive it. I wanted to thank them for being parents who encouraged us to explore ourselves and the world with open arms and minds. Following my friends into the beer factory, I knew that when I left Amsterdam, I would be filled with wild memories of the city of vice, but I would also possess a deeper appreciation for my family, the girl I had been, and the person I was becoming.
Alissa Weiss is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She is a History major and an English minor.