The Diary of Frank Anne

June 12, 1942

I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, Dear Diary, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, with the exception of Hans, Horst, Franz, Gerhardt, Ludwig, Rolf, and Johan.

June 20, 1942

Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on, neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a 28-year-old chorus boy.

July 5, 1942

As we were taking a stroll around the neighborhood square, Father began to talk about my going into hiding. I asked him why on earth I would want to.

“Well, Frank,” he replied, “for more than a year, we’ve been bringing your clothes, food and furniture to the Nudelklangs. Gott in Himmel you should get hauled off to one of those camps and have to sleep ten men to a wooden bed in a barrack holding 900 others and be made to line up naked in front of one another for body cavity inspections of all kinds.”

“Why, Father, why should I go into hiding—we’re not Jewish,” I cried.

My father sighed. “Some Jews can pass for Aryans,” he said. “But my Son the Actor, you’re no Van Johnson. Don’t worry—the Nudelklangs have a walk-in closet where you’ll feel right at home.”

I was stunned. How did my parents discover Ich bin ein schwuler? Father does seem pretty sympathetic, though. It’s Muti who wants me out of their house. If the Nazis find me, Mother won’t be able to have a cleaning lady. But the picture Father painted of the internment camp—it gives me chills. Who could believe such a place actually exists?

July 9, 1942

So there we were, Father, Muti and I, walking in the pouring rain, holding shopping bags filled to the brim with the most varied assortment of items. Mother complained how heavy her tote bag was. The hiding place is located in the apartment of Father’s friends, the Nudelklangs. Father always said they were kind but dimwitted people. I guess this act of benevolence proves them so. If they’re protecting me, for all I know the Nudelklangs could be hiding Jews, too.

Emmy and Karl Nudelklang welcomed us into their home. Schmutzi, my wet cat, squirmed out of the drenched sack I was carrying him in and immediately began scratching and licking himself. Karl looked at Father and said, “You never mentioned anything about a cat.”

“Ach, he won’t be a problem,” interjected Mother. “Frank won’t be so homesick with his little Schmutzi here. Besides, the cat’s fixed and a good mouser.” Both lies.

“We don’t have any mice,” snapped Emmy. “And I won’t be using our ration card to feed a cat.”

The Nudelklangs didn’t seem so dumb, after all. It was decided I could keep the cat but under no circumstances would Schmutzi be allowed to leave the closet.

We went up to my new room with its bare walls. Thanks to Father, who brought my entire postcard and movie star collection here beforehand—and to a brush and pot of glue—I plastered the walls with pictures of Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich, Betty Grable and Carmen Miranda. It looks so festive. I think I’m going to like it here, after all.

August 14, 1942

I’ve deserted you for an entire month, Dear Diary. My life stinks and so does this closet, thanks to Schmutzi. The war, it seems, has brought about a shortage of newspapers for kitty litter.

I don’t fit in with the Nudelklangs, any of them, especially their son, Fritz. He’s 19 and looks like a poster boy for Hitler Youth. I don’t know why he hasn’t been called up for military—Fritz certainly seems able-bodied. Sometimes he tries to engage me in conversation but he hasn’t an ounce of culture. How I long for my old friends, especially Peter.

September 2, 1942

Mr. and Mrs. Nudelklang had a terrible row. I’ve never seen anything like it. Muti and Father are often too drunk to care about such trivia. This argument was based on one accusing the other of having eaten the last piece of apple strudel. It’s very difficult for Fritz, who gets caught in the middle, but no one takes him seriously anymore. He’s so petulant these days. He doesn’t know how lucky he is to be able to go outdoors, to breath fresh air and ride his bike without fear that some big SS brute attired in a long, black leather trench coat cinched at the waist and shod in shiny black riding boots will come out of nowhere and carry him off to one of those camps, where he’ll be forced to wear a pink triangle and sleep ten shivering men to a bed. No, I bet this fantasy—I mean, this horrible thought—has never once entered Fritz’s small mind.

September 3, 1942

I have a confession to make, Dear Diary. I ate that last piece of apple strudel.

October 17, 1942

What good is sitting alone in one’s room when I can’t hear the music play? Life was a cabaret, Dear Diary—life was a cabaret. Ach, how I missed the times we had in the theater. Everything’s changed now. Brecht, Weill, Lotte Lenya, Max Reinhardt—all gone. Even that vilde, Billy Wilder, managed to emigrate. As far as I’m concerned, Germany has lost its culture. Leni Riefenstahl? Pffehh!

November 14, 1942

I’m furious at everyone, especially Muti. She doesn’t love me. Not once has she ever inquired about my bowel movements since living in this closet. Father has turned out to be my greatest ally, bringing me prunes and copies of Cinema and Theatre magazine. The Nudelklangs refer to this small indulgence as a waste of money and yet, they never fail to be surprised at how accurately I can list the actors in any given movie.

Fritz has become a fan of these magazines. I can tell when he’s read them, as the pages are stuck together.

November 27, 1942

A lot has changed for me since Saturday. On Sunday morning, I noticed to my great confusion and, quite honestly, joy, that Fritz kept looking at me while I did my calisthenics in the nude. He glanced at meine vorhaut and remarked, “Obviously you’re not Jewish—why are you hiding?”

For a moment, I was frightened. Then I made my confession to Fritz and told him that not unlike the Jews, I too, have to watch my tuchus because the Third Reich doesn’t take too kindly to faygelehs, either.

Fritz turned even paler than normal and rapidly blinked his baby blues. He jumped to his feet and I awaited the betrayal.

“Homosexuals are considered enemies of the state because we don’t breed and stimulate Motherhood in the Fatherland,” he whispered.

“No Fritz, the real reason we’re being trotted off to camps is because we can out almost all of Hitler’s highest ranking officials.”

It’s well known that Goering likes to parade around in uniforms, but you should see him in the French maid’s. Streicher and Rosenberg—what a couple. And Himmler, that poultry farmer? You can bet he did more than pluck his chickens. The picture of husbandly perfection, Joseph Goebbels, has a well-worn casting couch for his propaganda films.

Yah, der Schwule definitely is a threat to the Third Reich. And what Hitler does behind closed doors, you don’t want to know—but I’ll tell you anyway. Oops—got to go. Someone’s knocking on the door.

December 28, 1942

The monotony is killing me. I’m alive, but what for? The fumes from Schmutzi’s cat box are asphyxiating. Zyklon B would be a breath of fresh air compared to this. Fritz is oblivious since he’s fallen for me. I’m afraid the Nudelklangs will put me out on the street if they learn of our romance. It’s difficult in times like these. Ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed. I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at living in a Fool’s Paradise. Like Fritz, whom I adore. But Dear Diary, I must confess, he’s no Peter van Daan, the love of my life. God only knows where he may be.

(The Diary ends here.)