Act I Scene Analysis of 'The Diary of Anne Frank'

Act I Scene 1 [The scene remains the same throughout the play. It is the top floor of a warehouse and office building in Amsterdam, Holland. The sharply peaked roof of the building is outlined against a sea of other rooftops, stretching away into the distance. Nearby is the belfry of a church tower, the Westertoren, whose carillon1 rings out the hours. Occasionally faint sounds float up from below: the voices of children playing in the street, the tramp of marching feet, a boat whistle from the canal. The three rooms of the top floor and a small attic space above are exposed to our view. The largest of the rooms is in the center, with two small rooms, slightly raised, on either side. On the right is a bathroom, out of sight. A narrow steep flight of stairs at the back leads up to the attic. The rooms are sparsely furnished with a few chairs, cots, a table or two. The windows are painted over, or covered with makeshift blackout curtains.2 In the main room there is a sink, a gas ring for cooking and a woodburning stove for warmth. The room on the left is hardly more than a closet. There is a skylight in the sloping ceiling. Directly under this room is a small steep stairwell, with steps leading down to a door. This is the only entrance from the building below. When the door is opened we see that it has been concealed on the outer side by a bookcase attached to it. The curtain rises on an empty stage. It is late afternoon, November 1945. The rooms are dusty, the curtains in rags. Chairs and tables are overturned. The door at the foot of the small stairwell swings open. Mr. Frank comes up the steps into view. He is a gentle, cultured European in his middle years. There is still a trace of a German accent in his speech. He stands looking slowly around, making a supreme effort at self-control. He is weak, ill. His clothes are threadbare. After a second he drops his rucksack on the couch and moves slowly about. He opens the door to one of the smaller rooms, and then abruptly closes it again, turning away. He goes to the window at the back, looking off at the Westertoren as its carillon strikes the hour of six, then he moves restlessly on. From the street below we hear the sound of a barrel organ3 and children’s voices at play. There is a many-colored scarf hanging from a nail. Mr. Frank takes it, putting it around his neck. As he starts back for his rucksack, his eye is caught by something lying on the floor. It is a woman’s white glove. He holds it in his hand and suddenly all of his self-control is gone. He breaks down, crying. 1

1. carillon (KAR uh lon) n. set of bells, each producing one note of the scale. 2
2. blackout curtains dark curtains that conceal all lights that might be visible to bombers from the air. 3 4 5 6 7 8
3. barrel organ mechanical 9 musical instrument often played by street musicians in past decades. NOTES CLOSE READ ANNOTATE: Mark details in paragraphs 1–5 that describe the dimensions, or sizes, of the various rooms. QUESTION: Why do the playwrights note these details of the setting? CONCLUDE: What is the effect of these details? 102 UNIT 2 • The Holocaust

Copyright © SAVVAS Learning Company LLC. All Rights Reserved. NOTES We hear footsteps on the stairs. Miep Gies comes up, looking for Mr. Frank. Miep is a Dutch girl of about twenty-two. She wears a coat and hat, ready to go home. She is pregnant. Her attitude toward Mr. Frank is protective, compassionate.] Miep. Are you all right, Mr. Frank? Mr. Frank. [Quickly controlling himself] Yes, Miep, yes. Miep. Everyone in the office has gone home . . . It’s after six. [Then pleading] Don’t stay up here, Mr. Frank. What’s the use of torturing yourself like this? Mr. Frank. I’ve come to say good-bye . . . I’m leaving here, Miep. Miep. What do you mean? Where are you going? Where? Mr. Frank. I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. Miep. Mr. Frank, you can’t leave here! This is your home! Amsterdam is your home. Your business is here, waiting for you . . . You’re needed here . . . Now that the war is over, there are things that . . .