The Last Summer at the Sea
Before the Secret Annex, before the fear, there was Zandvoort. During the summer of 1934, Anne and Margot Frank were sent to a special holiday house for children, where they saw the sea for the very first time. This wasn’t just a trip; it was a discovery of a new, boundless world—the crash of waves, the feel of sand, the endless horizon.
Edith Frank captured this moment beautifully in a letter, a snapshot of a mother’s pride and relief. While Anne was still recovering from an illness, she was thriving by the sea. Edith noted that her older daughter, Margot, was “tall, tanned and strong and has great joy in learning.” It’s a line that shows not just her physical health but a kind of vibrant happiness. The picture is of two girls, full of life, enjoying the sun and the freedom of the coast.
For years, this became a ritual. The Frank family regularly spent their holidays at Zandvoort aan Zee, building a library of cherished memories. These weren’t grand adventures, but simple moments of family and freedom—the kind of memories that anchor a person’s life.
But a silent shadow was already growing over these summers. Slowly, subtly, the freedom they took for granted began to be taken away. By 1941, the warmth of the sun and the feeling of the sand were no longer theirs to enjoy. Jews were forbidden to use the beach. The ocean, once a symbol of endless possibility, became a boundary they were no longer allowed to cross.
The story of the Franks at Zandvoort isn’t just a happy memory. It’s a reminder of how quickly ordinary joys can disappear. These are the moments we must remember—the laughter, the play, the simple privilege of standing by the sea. Because when we tell their story, we aren’t just remembering how their freedom ended. We are remembering what that freedom looked and felt like.
