We’d read the diary you wrote and visited the Secret Annex hidden behind the bookcase in the tall building on Prinsengracht. Everything is sepia in these narrow rooms, brightened only by the few color photographs you collected, movie stars, princes, pictures of your family and oddly DaVinci. There’s an old man gazing at the marks on the wall of your changing height. A tear runs down his wrinkled cheek, caught for a moment by a shaft of light and briefly a rainbow, smile shaped, curves across his face.
Perhaps there is hope for us after all.