I’m re-reading The Diary of Anne Frank. In one entry, she describes the history and demise of her fountain pen, originally given to her at nine, when she was in bed with the flu. Now she’s 14 and it’s the pen that has been with her through the year and a half in the Annexe.
She’s sitting at the table with her dad and sister while they work on Latin. The fountain pen is also hanging out at the table. Anne’s rubbing beans, which, as she describes it, is the process of de-molding old beans. At a quarter to six, she sweeps the floor and throws the dirt and old beans into a newspaper and onto the fire.
The next morning, the pen’s clip was found among the ashes, but the gold nib was nowhere to be found.
"I have one consolation, although a slender one," she writes. "My fountain pen has been cremated, just what I want later."