In any case, that’s just how things are, and unfortunately they’re not liable to change.
This is why I’ve started the diary. To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination,
I don’t want to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do,
but I want the diary to be my friend, and I’m going to call this friend Kitty.
Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right in,
I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike doing so.
My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen, didn’t marry my mother until he was thirty-six and she was twenty-five.
My sister Margot was born in Frankfurt am Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12, 1929. I lived in Frankfurt until I was four.
Because we’re Jewish, my father immigrated to Holland in 1933, when he became the Managing Director of the Dutch Opekta Company,
which manufactures products used in making jam.
My mother, Edith Hollander Frank, went with him to Holland in September, while Margot and I were sent to Aachen to stay with our grandmother.
Margot went to Holland in December, and I followed in February, when I was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot.
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