Banned Books Table

Being on the top of the pile gave me some hope. Not a lot, but I did feel more optimistic than I had at the bottom of the pile. What was going to happen to me? I knew my options and had considered them extensively. I could end up in storage, transferred to another store or simply dumped into the garbage. Another scenario, by far the worst, was fueled by whispered rumors that never calmed down completely. The fear of book burning haunted me in the quiet of the night when I was feeling the lowest of low.  

People strolled by my table not noticing the sign or perhaps not caring. Sometimes I got picked up, turned over and then placed back down nonchalantly. On the rarest of occasion, someone opened me for a look inside.

I was in good company, which gave me a sense of validation.

***

She approached the customer service desk and waited for someone to help her. 

“Where can I find ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’?” she inquired politely.

“One moment,” the customer service representative smiled as he talked softly into his headset.

The woman waited, picked up a flyer from the pile on the counter, took a quick glance and placed it back down carefully.

The young man finished his conversation and dropped the wire. “You can check the banned books table,” he finally told her.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“See that table upstairs?” He pointed overhead at the second floor of the massive store.

 “Yes?” she replied, following his gaze upward. 

“You can check that table.”

“What did you call it?” she asked in disbelief.

“The banned books table,” he replied without emotion as if he were saying “The purple table” or “The large table”. 

***

Did I hear correctly? My title floated up in the air and swirled about, giving me hope. Someone had asked about me?? 

***

“Would you like me to show you?” the customer service representative asked the woman who stood unmoving at the desk.

“Yes, please.”

They rode the escalator together in silence. “Why are the books banned?” she finally blurted out.

“They are banned in certain schools around the country.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is,” he agreed, “Mostly in Florida and Texas, but in other states as well.”

Arriving at the second floor, he escorted her to the table. A large sign stood tall in the midst of the piles. “Discover what Banned Books you’ve been missing” it read in bold letters.

She scanned the selection, many of which were classics. Some she had read, while others were on her must-read list. Copies of “The Diary of Anne Frank” were stacked neatly between “The Handmaid’s Tale” and “A Farewell to Arms”. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled as the young man left her side.

***

Yes! I had heard correctly! She did ask about me. Would she take me home and read my pages or leave me there for an unknown future? My story was an important one not to be ignored or forgotten. 

 ***

“This is so sad,” the woman said to no one in particular, and no one in particular acknowledged her.

“This is terrible,” she repeated, louder, her eyes searching the sparse crowd for a reaction. A mother and child stopped to look at her, their faces blank.

“Anne Frank is banned. Isn’t that a disgrace?” A note of desperation crept into her voice.

The mother hurriedly guided her child away as if ushering her to safety.

She picked up the paperback from the pile and flipped through the pages. “Dearest Kitty,” she read, remembering that Anne had named her diary Kitty. In the first few pages, Anne described her classmates, including the schoolgirl crushes they had. Her diary entries were typical of a teenage girl.

Having just bought tickets to the Anne Frank exhibit in New York City, she was eager to purchase the book. She had read it as a child, perhaps at thirteen, the same age Anne was when she received her diary as a birthday gift. She herself had confided in diaries and had related to Anne’s feelings of writing for comfort and support. The haunting story, which started out so innocently, had a profound effect on her. The fear and shock were still raw when flipping through the pages. 

How could such atrocities occur? It was unimaginable, and the most terrifying fact was that history repeats itself. Again. And again.

***

She’s reading me, she’s reading me! I was giddy with excitement.

***

The woman continued to skim through the diary and discovered the pages of black and white photos. She peered closely at the Frank family standing together in the streets of Amsterdam, where they had relocated to after leaving Germany in 1934. Anne’s precociousness was evident in her bright eyes and smile as she posed with her parents and older sister Margot. 

Continuing the photo journey, she studied the views of 263 Prinsengracht, the building which housed The Secret Annex, and read the captions underneath. Anne’s family, along with four additional people, hid in the annex from 1942 to 1944 when the group was discovered and arrested. Anne was sent to a Dutch transmit camp and from there transferred to Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland. From Poland, she and her sister Margot were sent to Germany’s Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in 1945 where they both died. Anne was fifteen years old upon her death.

On the last page of the collection was a photo of the bookcase. Hidden behind that bookcase were the stairs leading up to the annex. Otto Frank, Anne’s father, discovered Anne’s diary when he returned to the annex as the only survivor. 

The woman looked back up at the Banned Books sign, and her face crumpled with emotion. 

“It’s infuriating,” she said to herself as she stood alone. The horror of what Anne had endured and the unimaginable ending to her life was intensified by banning her precious words. Holding the book tightly, she ran into the corner of the store fighting back tears.

***

What’s happening, what’s happening? I was both comforted by being in the woman’s arms but also distraught at her despair. Finally, someone understood. My story needed to be told to the world, shouted from the rooftops. 

The woman stood in the corner, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed quietly. Minutes ticked by, and her sniffles decreased. She stood up tall and turned around.

Back to the banned books table we went, and I was returned to my pile.

No! I was devastated.

***

The woman took out her phone and stepped back to take a photo of the table and the many piles of books. Leaning in closer, she focused on the covers, snapping photo after photo of each book.

“I will not be silenced,” she said to a customer walking by. “I’m going to post this all over social media, so people are aware. They cannot censor me. I will not allow it.”

Putting her phone back into her purse, she stood quietly. She was contemplating. She was regaining her strength.

She picked up the diary, went down the escalator and proceeded to the register.

***

Later that night I sat on my new pile. I was not on the banned books table nor in the box heading to the incinerator. The pile I proudly sat upon was on the woman’s night table. 

It had been an exciting day as she showed me off to her husband and children, telling them about Anne and her family and the exhibit they would be visiting in the city. I was passed around, my pages turned carefully, and my cover treated gently. The black and white photos inside were studied in detail and discussed at length.

“I’m going to start reading this tonight,” the woman said to the young girl who looked to be about thirteen years old. “And when I’m done, I will lend it to you.”

I sat on my new table ready to tell Anne’s story.