Amsterdam has three main attractions: Rembrandt in the Rijksmuseum; hookers in windows; and Anne Frank in the attic. It’s a contradictory cultural compendium in a contradictory city. You walk past the office on the canal, above and behind which are the secret rooms the Frank family silently lived in for two years; beneath it is a long, silent line of American-Jewish students waiting to get in for half an hour’s empathy. And you know that somewhere down this street or the next one is the house of the person who betrayed the Franks. Unknown, unremarked, still secret, there is a room where someone sat and thought: “After lunch, I must pop down to the Gestapo and hand in that family in the attic.” The Dutch hid 30,000 Jews, most of whom survived the war, but handed over more than 100,000, most of whom didn’t.

The English translation of Anne Frank’s diary was published here in the 1950s. It made a modest impact and went out of print. It was in America and, oddly, Japan that it became iconic. In Germany, it was regularly accused of being a forgery; too well written for an adolescent, they said. Anne did rewrite it. She wanted to be a novelist, dreamt of it being published; after the war, her father censored it to take out the critical things she had said about her mother. After he died, they went back in.

The Diary of Anne Frank, Nicholas Crane’s Britannia, Antiques Roadshow, The Antiques Rogue Show – Times Online.