While in Amsterdam my ten year-old son and I visit the secret annexe where Anne Frank, her family and four other Jewish people hid from the Nazis from July 1942 until August 1944. The rooms are part of the Anne Frank Museum in the city centre. I read Anne’s diary when I was at school and know her story well. I feel moved to be stepping in her space, the very place where she lived, dreamt, loved and wrote from the age of thirteen to fifteen, the age of my daughter now. The rooms in the secret annexe are empty but there are poignant signs left behind by Anne and the rest of the group. Anne’s bedroom wall is covered with pictures of film stars which she cut out of magazines and glued there. In the corner some pencil marks on the wall show where Anne’s mother, Edith, recorded the heights of her two daughters during their time in hiding. Progress through the annexe rooms is slow and silent as visitors inch their way along, absorbing everything.