Click this link to activate your account. After clicking this link, you will be logged in automatically. Happy Typing! Six went in… Anne Frank's The Diary of a Young Girl is among the most enduring documents of the twentieth century. Since its publication in 1947, it has been read by tens of millions of people all over the world. It remains a beloved and deeply admired testament to the indestructable nature of the human spirit. Restore in this Definitive Edition are diary entries that had been omitted from the original edition. These passages, which constitute 30 percent more material, reinforce the fact that Anne was first and foremost a teenage girl, not a remote and flawless symbol. She fretted about, and tried to copie with, her own emerging sexuality. Like many young girls, she often found herself in disagreement with her mother. And like any teenager, she veered between the carefree nature of a child and the full-fledged sorrow of an adult. Anne emerges more human, more vulnerable, and more vital than ever. Anne Frank and her family, fleeing the horrors of Nazi occupation, hid in the back of an Amsterdam warehouse for two years. She was thirteen when the family went into the Secret Annex, and in these pages she grows to be a young woman and a wise observer of human nature as well. With unusual insight, she reveals the relations between eight people living under extraordinary conditions, facing hunger, the ever-present threat of discovery and death, complete estrangement from the outside world, and above all, the boredom, the petty misunderstandings, and the frustrations of living under such unbearable strain, in such confined quarters. A timely story rediscovered by each new generation, The Diary of a Young Girl stands without peer. For both young readers and adults it continues to bring to life this young woman, time survived the worst horror of the modern world had seen and who remained triumphantly and heartbreakingly human throughout her ordeal. For those who know and love Anne Frank, The Definitive Edition is a chance to discover her anew. For readers who have not yet encountered her, this is the edition to cherish. forbidden to attend theaters, movies or any other forms of entertainment; Jews were forbidden to use swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic fields Jews were forbidden to go rowing; Jews were forbidden to take part in any athletic activity in public; Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their were required to attend Jewish schools, etc. You couldn't do this and you couldn't do that, but life went on. Jacque always said to me, I dare do anything anymore, In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so my birthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940 we didn't do much for my birthday either, since the fighting had just ended in Holland. Grandma died in January 1942. No one knows how often I think of her and still love her. This birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others, and Grandma's candle was lit along with the rest.The four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date of June 20, 1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary. Dearest Let me get started right away; it's nice and quiet now. Father and Mother are out and Margot has gone to play Ping-Pong with some other young people at her friend been playing a lot of Ping-Pong myself lately. So much that five of us girls have formed a club. It's called "The Little Dipper Minus Two.." Ilse Wagner has a Ping-Pong set, and the Wagners let us play in their big dining room whenever we want. Since we five Ping-Pong players like ice cream, especially in the summer, and since you get hot playing Ping-Pong, our games usually end with a visit to the nearest ice-cream parlor that allows Jews: either Oasis or Delphi. We've long since stopped hunting around for our purses or money most of the time it's so busy in Oasis that we manage to find a few generous young men of our acquaintance or an admirer to offer us more ice cream than we could eat in a week. You're probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such a tender school. As soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with me and we get to talking, only one came out.The Standedge Tunnel, the longest canal tunnel in England, has become one of the rural village of Marsden’s main tourist attractions. Now it’s also a crime scene. Six students went into the tunnel on a private boat. Two and a half hours later, the boat reappeared at the other end of the tunnel carrying only one of the students, Matthew. He had been knocked unconscious and has no memory of what took place in the tunnel. The police suspect he killed his friends, hid the bodies and later moved them to an undisclosed location. But sitting in a cell awaiting trial, Matthew maintains his innocence. When Matthew contacts a famous author asking him for help in return for information he claims to possess about the author’s long-lost wife, it’s an offer that can’t be refused. But before the author can prove Matthew’s innocence, he must first answer a far more unusual question: How did five bodies disappear into thin air? Chapter One Robin’s phone buzzed on the table and he looked up at the man standing over him apologetically. The man Robin with a blank expression, waiting for Robin to do his thing. Robin signed the book to a “Vivian,” writing his standard message and signing it with a quick flick of the wrist. He closed the hardback, sliding it back over to the man, who picked it up, grunted in something that resembled approval and made a break for the cashier. Robin hoped Vivian would appreciate his scrawl a little more. Suppressing a sigh, Robin looked down at his phone at the exact second it stopped buzzing. A bubble popped up on his locked screen indicating he had a missed call from an unknown number just before the display went to sleep. Probably just his sister using the surgery phone. He looked around. The signing event wasn’t going particularly well. Robin was sitting precisely in the center of Waterstones Angel Islington at a round table piled up with copies of Without Her. When he had first got there, thirty minutes previously, the stack had been ridiculously high. Now it was more realistic, but not because of sales. Robin had hidden most of the copies under the table, to make the pile seem less daunting. Still, though, people seemed to disperse when they saw him like paper clips flying away from the wrong side of a magnet. A plucky young Waterstones employee, who had introduced herself as Wren, came over with an enthusiastic bounce. She was full of energy, genuinely excited at the prospect of matching a good book with its owner. Robin wished he could summon up even half as much energy as her, but these days, his bones had started to creak, the gray flecks in his hair had turned into patches and he found himself out of breath with the mere prospect of a walk. Wrinkles had burrowed into his face in all the usual places and any spark of youth in his eyes had dimmed a long time ago. Often he wondered if Samantha would even recognize him anymore—if she walked into their flat tomorrow, she would shriek at the sight of the old man sitting on the sofa. Sometimes that thought made him laugh; sometimes it made him cry. “How’s it going? Wren said, looking at the care about his own imag he just didn’t want Wren to feel bad. It wasn’t Wren’s fault that Without Her was a hard sell. “It’s fine,” Robin said, not able to summon up a more positive adjective. His phone buzzed, and without looking away from Wren, he reached and declined the call. “Right,” Wren said, her eyes flitting from him to the phone and back, losing some of her smile. “Well, if you need anything, you know where I am. I’ll try and direct some people over if they look the type.” “Thank you,” Robin said, making up for Wren’s fading smile with one of his own. “That would be great.” As Wren turned away and made her way to the front of the shop, he wondered how she would pitch his book to any unfortunate passerby. It wasn’t exactly a rip-roaring tale. Robin knew that when he wrote it, and had been ready to deem the whole project a therapy exercise and lock it in a drawer, never to see it again. He still wished he had done that. But his twin sister, Emma, had persuaded him to give it to an agent and it had gone from there. “It’s so good, Robin. You just don’t see it. It’s the pain. The real, genuine pain of it. It’s sumptuous,” Stan Barrows said, when they had first met at his office. He had never heard pain described as sumptuous before, as though the old, smart gentleman was going to take his heartbreak and carve it up like a steak before his eyes. Robin didn’t like Barrows but the man had got him a good deal. And his freelance journalism had hit a brick wall. A new wave of journalists were coming to take all the articles away from older guys like kids who couldn’t remember a time without the internet, and could bash out an article and sell it before Robin could even fire up his word processor. He needed something. So he signed the contract for the book, trying to think Sam would approve. And eighteen months later, here Robin was, still not knowing if it had been the right thing to do. He picked up one of the hardbacks and looked at it. The cover was a pale tinge of blue, with four photos scattered across the background almost as though someone had thrown them. They overlapped, and in the spaces between, the title and his name were embossed in black letters. The topmost photo was of Samantha as a baby, six months old, sitting on a playmat with a toy Thomas the Tank Engine in her hands. The second was a photo of her in her school uniform on her first day of secondary school, looking apprehensive. The third photo was her graduation photo when she graduated from the University of Edinburgh