
Be not inhosÂpitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disÂguise.
More than a few visÂiÂtors to Paris’ fabled ShakeÂspeare & ComÂpaÂny bookÂshop assume that the quote they see paintÂed over an archÂway is attribÂutÂable to Yeats or ShakeÂspeare.
In fact, its author was George WhitÂman, the store’s late ownÂer, a grand “hobo advenÂturÂer” in his 20s who made such an impresÂsion that he spent the rest of his life welÂcomÂing travÂelÂers and encourÂagÂing young writÂers, who flocked to the shop. A great many became TumÂbleÂweeds, the nickÂname givÂen to those who tradÂed a few hours of volÂunÂteer work and a pledge to read a book a day in return for sparÂtan accomÂmoÂdaÂtion in the store itself.
In light of this genÂerosÂiÂty, Whitman’s 1960 letÂter to Anne Frank (1929–1945) is all the more movÂing.
One wonÂders what inspired him to write it. It’s a not an uncomÂmon impulse, but usuÂalÂly the authors are stuÂdents close to the same age as Anne was at the time of her death.
PerÂhaps it was an interÂacÂtion with a TumÂbleÂweed.
Had she surÂvived the horÂrors of the Nazi conÂcenÂtraÂtion camps that exterÂmiÂnatÂed all but one inhabÂiÂtant of the Secret Annex in which she penned her famous diary, she would have made a great one.
He refrained from menÂtionÂing his own serÂvice in World War II, posÂsiÂbly because he was postÂed to a remote weathÂer staÂtion in GreenÂland. Unlike othÂer AmerÂiÂcan vetÂerÂans, he hadÂn’t witÂnessed with his own eyes the sort of hell she endured. If he had, he might not have been able to address her with such iniÂtial lightÂness of tone.
One can’t help but think how delightÂed the ramÂbuncÂtious young teen would have been by his sense of humor, his descripÂtions of his bohemiÂan booklovers’ paradise—then called Le Mistral—and refÂerÂences to his dog, François VilÂlon, and cat, KitÂty, named in honÂor of Anne’s pet name for her diary.
His proÂfound obserÂvaÂtions on the imperÂmaÂnence of life and the polÂiÂtics of war conÂtinÂue to resÂonate deeply with those who read the letÂter as its intendÂed recipÂiÂents’ proxÂies:
Le MisÂtral
37 rue de la Bûcherie
Dear Anne Frank,
If I sent this letÂter to the post office it would no longer reach you because you have been blotÂted out from the uniÂverse. So I am writÂing an open letÂter to those who have read your diary and found a litÂtle sisÂter they have nevÂer seen who will nevÂer entireÂly disÂapÂpear from earth as long as we who are livÂing rememÂber her.
You wantÂed to come to Paris for a year to study the hisÂtoÂry of art and if you had, perÂhaps you might have wanÂdered down the quai Notre-Dame and disÂcovÂered a litÂtle bookÂstore beside the garÂden of Saint-Julien-le-PauÂvre. You know enough French to read the notice on the door—Chien aimable, Priere d’enÂtrÂer. The dog is not realÂly a dog at all but a poet called FranÂcois VilÂlon who has returned to the city he loved after many years of exile. He is sitÂting by the fire next to a kitÂten with a very unusuÂal name. You will be pleased to know she is called KitÂty after the imagÂiÂnary friend to whom you wrote the letÂters in your jourÂnal.
Here in our bookÂstore it is like a famÂiÂly where your ChiÂnese sisÂters and your brothÂers from all lands sit in the readÂing rooms and meet the Parisians or have tea with the writÂers from abroad who are invitÂed to live in our Guest House.
RememÂber how you worÂried about your inconÂsisÂtenÂcies, about your two selves—the gay flirÂtaÂtious superÂfiÂcial Anne that hid the quiÂet serene Anne who tried to love and underÂstand the world. We all of us have dual natures. We all wish for peace, yet in the name of self-defense we are workÂing toward self-oblitÂerÂaÂtion. We have built armaÂments more powÂerÂful than the total of all those used in all the wars in hisÂtoÂry. And if the milÂiÂtarists who disÂlike negoÂtiÂatÂing the minor difÂferÂences that sepÂaÂrate nations are not under the wise civilÂian authorÂiÂty they have the powÂer to write man’s tesÂtaÂment on a dead planÂet where radioacÂtive cities are surÂroundÂed by junÂgles of dying plants and poiÂsoÂnous weeds.
Since a nuclear could destroy half the world’s popÂuÂlaÂtion as well as the mateÂrÂiÂal basis of civÂiÂlizaÂtion, the SoviÂet GenÂerÂal NikoÂlai TalÂenÂsky conÂcludes that war is no longer conÂceivÂable for the soluÂtion of politÂiÂcal difÂferÂences.
A young girl’s dreams recordÂed in her diary from her thirÂteenth to her fifÂteenth birthÂday means more to us today than the labors of milÂlions of solÂdiers and thouÂsands of facÂtoÂries strivÂing for a thouÂsand-year Reich that lastÂed hardÂly more than ten years. The jourÂnal you hid so that no one would read it was left on the floor when the GerÂman police took you to the conÂcenÂtraÂtion camp and has now been read by milÂlions of peoÂple in 32 lanÂguages. When most peoÂple die they disÂapÂpear withÂout a trace, their thoughts forÂgotÂten, their aspiÂraÂtions unknown, but you have simÂply left your own famÂiÂly and become part of the famÂiÂly of man.
George WhitÂman
RelatÂed ConÂtent:
Watch the Only Known Footage of Anne Frank
Anne Frank’s Diary: From Reject Pile to BestÂseller
8‑Year-Old Anne Frank Plays in a SandÂbox on a SumÂmer Day, 1937
Ayun HalÂlÂiÂday is an author, illusÂtraÂtor, theÂater makÂer and Chief PriÂmaÂtolÂoÂgist of the East VilÂlage Inky zine. Join her in New York City this ThursÂday for NecroÂmancers of the PubÂlic Domain, in which a long neglectÂed book is reframed as a low budÂget variÂety show. FolÂlow her @AyunHalliday.












