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This Is What Anne Frank's Arrest Looked Like

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Rex Features

The summer of 1944 was full of raised hopes and broken hearts all across Europe. By August, the Americans and Russians were trudging toward Germany. Warsaw was in the throes of its bloody uprising. And in the heart of Amsterdam, within arm's reach of a busy canal street, Anne Frank hid with her parents, Otto and Edith, her sister Margot, the Van Pels family (Hermann, Auguste, and son Peter), and Fritz Pfeffer, waiting for the war to end. The Jews in hiding had withstood bombs, near-starvation, two break-in attempts, and the many privations of their helpers during over two years in hiding, and the suspense had begun to take its toll. They were pale and malnourished from life without sun, but they were alive.

Anne, 15 years old and the diarist of the house, had long since grown out of the schoolgirl clothes she took with her into what she called Het Achterhuis (the house behind). In hiding, she studied, argued with her mother, experienced her first kiss, and watched the huge chestnut tree in the back of the house bloom and die and bloom again.

Via TravelPod

At first, she was terrified the hiding place, in the back of her father's office, would be discovered. "Not being able to go outside upsets me more than I can say, and I'm terrified our hiding place will be discovered and that we'll be shot," she wrote in her diary in September 1942. "That, of course, is a fairly dismal prospect." But by August 1944, she had other worries. She was revising her old diary and reflecting on the new person she'd become. In her most recent diary entry, she wrote about her fear of vulnerability, that people would discover that beneath her cheeky exterior was a deeply serious, deeply emotional young woman. "...I can't keep that up," she wrote. "...Finally I twist my heart around again, so that the bad is on the outside and the good is on the inside and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be and what I could be, if ... there weren't any other people living in the world."

And then, on August 4, 1944, everything changed.

via Biography.com

August 4, 1944

[all times are approximate]

8am: Miep Gies goes upstairs to get the shopping list. Anne greets her cheerfully and asks if there's any news.

Before 11am: Somebody places an anonymous phone call to the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) office in Amsterdam, claiming there are Jews hiding at 263 Prinsengracht.

11am: A man in civilian clothing enters the office and points a revolver at Miep, Bep Voskuijl, and Johannes Kleiman, who are working in the front office. Plain-clothes Dutch policemen and a German officer in uniform arrive around the same time and force Victor Kugler to give them a tour of the building.

11:15am: Miep's husband, Jan, arrives to get his lunch. Miep gives him the lunch, some money, and several illegal ration cards and tells him something is wrong. He leaves quickly.


Via The Examiner

11:30am: Kleiman gives a distraught Bep his wallet and tells her to go to a pharmacist's office one street over, call his wife with the news, and disappear.

1:00pm: Kleiman is told to give the office keys to Miep. He tells her to keep out of it and she refuses, but follows his instructions to save what can be saved.

1:15pm: A Dutch policeman enters Miep's office and asks that a car be sent. The German officer, Karl Silberbauer, comes into the office and Miep realizes he has a Viennese accent (she is originally from Vienna). He confronts her and she remains calm until he threatens her husband, whom she defends.


Via The Holocaust Research Project

1:30pm: Miep hears the sound of the Franks, Van Pelses, and Pfeffer tramping down the stairs. "I could tell from their footsteps that they were coming down like beaten dogs," she writes. At the same time, Jan stands across the canal from the office with Kleiman's brother. Together, they watch their friends walking from the office door into a green truck. Each is carrying a small parcel. Though the truck drives within feet of them, Jan doesn't get a glimpse of their faces. The Franks are taken to SD headquarters along with their male protectors.

5:00pm: Bep and Jan return to the office. Together with Miep, they go into the hiding place, which has been looted and is in chaos. Miep notices Anne's diary strewn across the floor of her parents' bedroom. She picks it up, along with a shawl of Anne's and a compact of Mrs. Frank's.

Via Richard Ehrlich Photography

Though Kleiman and Kugler were released or escaped from prison, the Franks, Van Pelses, and Mr. Pfeffer were not so lucky. Though Miep and Jan begged and bargained for their freedom, they eventually went on to Westerbork, and from there to Auschwitz on the last transport to leave the Netherlands during the war. Starving, Anne died in March 1945 in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in Germany. Her father, Otto, was the family's only survivor.

Via The Anne Frank Trust UK

Thousands of Dutch citizens performed tiny acts of resistance during the war, from hiding Jewish friends to taking thousands of clandestine photographs to document the terror they saw outside their windows. Anne's arrest could have looked like this, or this (though there was only one armed officer on the scene).

Via Geheugen van Plan Zuid / The Memory of the Netherlands

That no photos of that terrifying August day exist could be a matter of fate as much as fear. Maybe a neighbor documented the event, but the evidence was lost to bombs or forgotten in a book. Maybe a photo of the Franks after the Secret Annex will emerge like this extraordinary video of a living, breathing Anne.

Or maybe Anne Frank's arrest was just another razzia (roundup) to the citizens of Amsterdam.

This post originally appeared in 2014.

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History
The Day Notre Dame Students Pummeled the Ku Klux Klan
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General Photographic Agency/Getty Images

At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the men who stepped off the train in South Bend, Indiana on the morning of May 17, 1924. Dapper and mannered, they drifted from the station to the downtown area. Some headed for a nearby office that sported a red cross made out of light bulbs stationed in the window. Others roamed around looking for Island Park, the site of a planned social gathering.

A closer look at these visitors revealed one common trait: Many were carrying a folded white robe under their arm. Those who had arrived earlier were fully clothed in their uniform and hood, directing automobile traffic to the park.

The Ku Klux Klan had arrived in town.

Fresh off a controversial leadership election in Indianapolis, Indiana, there was no reason for Klansmen to have any apprehension about holding a morale booster in South Bend. Indiana was Klan territory, with an estimated one in three native born white men sworn members within state lines. Just a few months later, Klansman Ed Jackson would be elected governor.

It was only when Klansmen found themselves guided into alleys and surrounded by an irate gang of Catholic students from nearby Notre Dame University that they realized mobilizing in South Bend may have been a very bad idea.

The Klan wanted a rally. What they got was a full-scale riot.

Photo of KKK Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
By IndyStar, Decemeber 12, 1922 issue, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Politically-endorsed prejudice was the order of the day in the early part of the 20th century, when the Klan—first created in 1866 to oppose Republican Reconstruction with violent racial enmity and then revived in 1915—expanded its tentacles to reach law enforcement and civil service. No longer targeting people of color exclusively, the KKK took issue with Catholics, the Jewish faith, and immigrants. An estimated 4 million Americans belonged to the Klan in the 1920s, all echoing the group’s philosophy that only white, God-fearing citizens were worthy of respect.

Under the guidance of Indiana's Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson, the group had attempted to shift public perception from the lynch mobs of the past to an orderly and articulate assembly. Rallies were held in KKK-friendly areas; propaganda material was becoming an effective weapon for their cause. Acceptance of the Klan’s ideology seeped into political office; Stephenson was a prominent Indiana politician.

To help continue that indoctrination, the Klan made plans for a parade in South Bend to be held on May 17, 1924. That it would be in close proximity to the Notre Dame campus was no mistake: At the time, 75 percent of the school's nearly 2000 students were Catholic, a religion the Klan found abhorrent. By pledging allegiance to the Vatican, their reasoning went, Catholics were acknowledging a foreign power. In the fall of 1923, they had persisted in setting crosses on fire near the University of Dayton in Dayton, Ohio, a predominantly Catholic college, and were frequently chased off by angered football players. That December, the Klan set off firebombs in Dayton during Christmas break. While no one was seriously injured, the intent was to send a message—one they wanted to spread to Indiana.

In the weeks and months leading up to the parade, both students and faculty began to get a taste of that perspective. Copies of the Fiery Cross, the official Klan newspaper, circulated on campus; one Klansman showed up at an auditorium to broadcast that Catholics were not good Americans. He exited the stage when attendees began throwing potatoes at him.

If that public response was foreshadowing, the Klan either ignored or failed to heed the warning. Members began arriving the Friday evening prior to the rally and were met at the train station by irritated students, who scuffled with the early arrivals by ripping their robes. By Saturday morning, when more Klansmen arrived, hundreds of students were in town, a loosely organized anti-Klan task force.

Keystone Features/Getty Images

Klan members were used to breezing into towns without incident. Here, they were immediately confronted by young, ornery college kids proud of their Catholicism. Klansmen were led into alleys and tossed into walls; students who played for the school’s legendary football squad formed wedges, the offensive line-ups found on the field, and plowed into groups of Klan members like they were challenging for a state title.

The violence, swift and sudden, prompted the Klan to retreat to their headquarters in South Bend. The students followed, their blood pumping hot at the sight of the red cross lit in the office window. Below it stood a grocery store with barrels of fresh potatoes. The students lobbed them at the glass, smashing the bulbs inside.

The conflict had been uninterrupted by law enforcement, but not for lack of trying. Deputy Sheriff John Cully, himself a Klansman, tried to enlist the National Guard but was shot down by officials. Notre Dame president Matthew Walsh had already implored students not to go into town, but his words went unheeded.

Unencumbered by authority, the 100 or so students idling near the Klan’s office decided they wanted to seize the hideout. Dozens began running up the stairs but were greeted by a Klan member who produced a gun. Unarmed, the students backed off. Four seniors went back and came to an impromptu truce: The student body would disperse if the Klan agreed to hold their rally without weapons or their robes.

The agreement seemed to placate both sides until Stephenson finally arrived in town before the parade’s scheduled 6:30 p.m. start. Assessing the roughed-up Klansmen and their skittish behavior, he complained to the police, who posted officers on horseback around their assembly at Island Park.

But there would be no rally: A heavy downpour prompted Stephenson to call it off, although the potential for further violence likely weighed on his mind. Lingering students who still hadn’t returned to campus met departing Klansmen as they attempted to drive out of town, smashing windows and even tipping over one car.

By Sunday, things seemed to have settled down. Walsh cringed at newspaper reports of the incidents, fearing it would portray the students as thugs.

Unfortunately, neither side was done protesting. And when they met a second time, the robed men would be backed up by lawman Cully and a squad of 30 deputized Klansmen.

Denver News - The Library of Congress (American Memory Collection), Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Students back on campus Monday had taken to hanging up seized Klan robes and hoods on their walls like trophies. It had been a rout, with the Klan barely putting up a fight.

Now, word was spreading through the halls that the Klan had captured or perhaps had even killed a Notre Dame student. Roughly 500 students jogged the two miles back into South Bend, eager for another confrontation.

When they arrived at the Klan’s headquarters, the light bulb cross had been rebuilt. It was an act of defiance, and the students moved forward. But the Klan was prepared: Many had been deputized, and uniformed officers joined the melee. Axe handles and bottles were brandished, and blood began to stain the street. It was a clash, with parties on both sides laid out.

When he got word of the conflict, Walsh rushed to the site and climbed on top of a cannon that was part of a monument. Shouting to be heard, he implored students to return to campus. His voice cut through the sounds of breaking glass, snapping the students out of their reverie. They returned to the school.

Absent any opposition, the Klan did the same. Stragglers from out of town returned home. With bombastic prose, writers for the Fiery Cross later recapped the event by accusing Notre Dame students of “beating women and children.” Later that summer, they declared they’d be returning to South Bend in greater number.

It never happened. Although the Klan maintained an aura of strength for several more years, the conviction of Stephenson for raping and murdering a woman in November 1925 extinguished one of their most enthusiastic leaders; the Depression dampened the ability of new recruits to pay dues. By 1930, the Klan was down to an estimated 45,000 members.

While Walsh never condoned the vigilante justice exacted that weekend, he never disciplined a single student for it.

Additional Sources:
Notre Dame vs. the Klan, by Todd Tucker (Loyola Press, 2004)
"Hearing the Silence: The University of Dayton, the Ku Klux Klan, and Catholic Universities and Colleges in the 1920s" [PDF], by William Vance Trollinger

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Why the Berlin Wall Rose and Fell
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Hulton Archive/Getty Images

One of history's most notorious barriers broke ground early in the morning on August 13, 1961, when East German construction workers, guarded by soldiers and police, began tearing up the Berlin streets.

As European history professor Konrad H. Jarausch explains in this video from Ted-Ed, the roots of the Berlin Wall can be found in the period of instability that followed World War II. When the Allies couldn't decide how to govern Germany, they decided to split up the country between the Federal Republic of Germany in the West and the German Democratic Republic in the East. Eventually, citizens (especially young professionals) began fleeing the GDR for the greater freedoms—and higher salaries—of the West. The wall helped stem the tide, and stabilized the East German economy, but came at great cost to the East's reputation. In the end, the wall lasted less than three decades, as citizen pressures against it mounted.

You can learn more about exactly why the wall went up, and how it came down, in the video below.

[h/t The Kid Should See This]

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